by Hall, Ian
An entire week of humdrum passed by like a simmering toothache.
Don’t get me wrong, it sure beat getting hit on the head by a stray bullet’s ricochet, but after the previous month’s excitement, office life did feel very ordinary. Each day I expected some street kid to arrive in my office, announce the HB code that Ivanhoe and I worked from, and give me the message to add to my stories, or whisk me away to a meeting.
When the next Monday passed without incident, I mentioned the absence of messages to Alice.
“Eh, I’m not meant to tell you,” She glanced at the glass window in our closed door. “You know, we’re not meant to know more than we have to, and all that.”
“Aye, I know.” I’d broken the rule so often, it almost felt meaningless. “And?”
“Well, all the messages from the organization are now being handled by the Classifieds.”
“What?” The Classifieds were The Scotsman’s daily advertisements by the people of Edinburgh and the surrounding counties; lost and found, items wanted or for sale, people looking for love, that kind of thing. “That makes sense.” I said. And I meant it. The Classified messages went uncensored, were short and to the point; the perfect place to deliver and receive illicit mail. And of course, with Alice being the head of the cell within The Scotsman, it made sense she knew things that I didn’t; I simply didn’t need to know.
Until my curiosity got the better of me, that is, and placed my life in further jeopardy.
“Do you feel better now?” Alice asked.
I nodded, getting back to my story with gusto. “Aye, thank you, Miss Howes.” I bit my lip, wondering what kind of expression was aimed my way for my impudence.
Half an hour later, I pushed the paper away. “Finished,” I announced.
“The radio station piece?”
“Aye, it took far longer than I thought.” My head was full of the story, although I couldn’t write about the undercover work Alice had done, the gall of the Germans just to slow-release the anti-Semitic messages. I hoped to wean Frances from their airwaves, yet knew now that after our tour I’d cemented her as a fan.
That evening we sat in the Golf Tavern, me nursing my latest warm beer, Alice swirling the remains of her Pernod, an aniseed drink she’d taken a shine to. I didn’t like the smell of it, but it sure made kissing her more interesting.
It also hid any other smells, and that intrigued me. After seeing her light up a cigarette when I tailed her last month, I wondered what the secret smoking habit was all about.
The bar wasn’t busy, and I soon noticed a boy going round the tables selling golf balls. “Penny for four,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes never lifting off the floor. Of course, he ended up at our table. “Penny for four,” As before his head remained low, but his eyes fixed mine, and I saw excitement, vigor and eagerness. “Hi-Bees forever.”
To my total shame, I actually looked at my jacket for signs that I supported Hibernian, the team he referred to. “What?”
“Hi-Bees.”
Agh! The HB code. “Aye?”
“Buy some.”
“Of course.” I fished in my pocket, found a penny, and slipped it into his waiting hand.
He deposited four balls in my hand, not the best quality, but certainly worth having for a penny. It was only when he turned to leave that I saw the tiny sliver of paper in the center of the balls.
Leamington Walk
I crumpled it immediately, popped it into my mouth, and with a last swig of my extremely flat beer, swallowed it, washing it down easily. “I’ll be back in a wee while.”
Leamington Walk is one of the pathways through the Meadows and Links, running along the south side. In the evening, with its line of old oak trees, it’s a dark place, not a site to linger on.
I tossed one of the balls onto the grass and started to kick it, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. It was now so dark; you really couldn’t see to play golf properly, so the Links were quiet. When I got close to the Walk, my target became more obvious. Tall, a fedora pulled over his eyes, hands in his pockets, cigarette dangling precariously out the corner of his mouth.
“Good evening, Balfour,” I said with a smile. Carrying the code name from R. L. Stevenson’s Kidnapped character, Balfour had carried me up the stairs when I’d been shot; I still owed him for that.
“Biggles,”
“What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“The Boss wants to see you.”
Ivanhoe. I nodded. “When?”
“Tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
“How bloody early?” I knew I sounded miffed.
“Not too bad. Eight. University Admissions Dept.”
Now that ball had a bit of a spin to it. “Admissions?” Balfour nodded. “Are you sure?”
He nodded again. “Sure as eggs are eggs.”
“Okay,” I turned to leave.
“Oh, and Biggles?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t want tailed on this one.” He tapped the side of his nose.
I wandered off back across the Links. I don’t want tailed on this one. Okay, so this was not one of my usual journeys to the University, and I had to use evasion skills. But the way he’d said it made me think a little harder. I arrived in the Golf to see Alice at the bar, talking to the only other woman in the place, Dottie Simpson, the wife of the owner.
“Hi Dotts,” I gave her a smile.
“Why if it isn’t little Jamie Baird.”
I full expected the old embarrassing, ‘I knew him when he was… knee-high… blah’ routine, so cut her off before she could think. “Any word from Tony?”
She shook her head, the smile dropped for a moment. “No, nothing since Ullapool.”
Many of the embarked men who’d fled from the west coast had left letters to their families which were eventually delivered by an already under pressure Royal Mail. “I’m sorry.”
“How about your Dad?”
“Nah, Dad could be anywhere now. It’s been almost a year since his last letter.”
So we did the neutral thing, we chatted about life, I told her of the Lorne sausage escapade, and I drank another beer.
The next morning, as Alice strolled to the back of the tram to get a seat, I stood by the conductor, keeping my voice low. “One to the Mile, one to Nicholson Street.”
Fifteen minutes later as Alice stood to get off the tram, I stayed seated. “I’ve got work to do.”
She nodded and moved off up the swaying aisle. She didn’t look up as the tram took away, but there had been an instant, just as I’d spoke, that she’d shown me something… I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it sure looked like annoyance, anger; her nose looked out of joint.
Putting Alice’s emotions behind me I got off at Nicholson Square, and doubled back immediately, making for Marshall Street to Potterrow. The streets were busy with the usual morning bustle, but I was certain no one had followed. Nevertheless I stopped in front of a couple of shops, looked at the reflections in the windows, did my due diligence, then popped back up to South College Street, entering the University by the Edinburgh Law School entrance.
I stood inside for a moment, lurking in the shadows, just making sure, when a movement in a doorway opposite caught my eye. The flash of a match, the first blue smoke of a cigarette; Alice’s face under a red hat. Where the heck had she got a red hat from? And to make matters worse, how the heck had she caught up with me so easily? When she’d got off the tram, I’d left her half a mile behind, and the trams didn’t run that slow.
I walked back outside, determined to find out what she was up to. As I crossed the street, a man joined her, and they embraced.
God dammit!
My fury rose in seconds, my pulse racing. Only when I’d almost reached the opposite pavement did I notice her long skirt. Alice had worn a dress. The woman blew smoke up into the air, and I saw a flash of freckles, a stranger’s eyes.
Luckily neither of the couple h
ad noticed me approach, engrossed in their own meeting.
I turned on a sixpence, berating myself for my folly, wondering what the heck had gotten into me. Not only had I deceived myself, I’d given myself away to anyone watching.
I turned along the pavement, did a half loop of the building, and eventually entered under the archway on West College Street. I now was late for my meeting, but at least I’d made up for any earlier mistakes.
By the time I got to Admissions, it was ten past eight. I half expected Ivanhoe to be gone, but there he was, quite the picture, sitting in the office sipping a cup of tea, dressed in a very nice business suit. He waved me inside. “That’s my partner,” he announced to the secretary. “We can go in now.”
The Director of Admissions sitting behind his desk was a portly balding man called Walter Douglas. I’d met him only once.
Thankfully Ivanhoe handled the whole interview.
“I’ve been told categorically that your male attendees have decreased in number.”
Edinburgh University’s Churchill lookalike squirmed uncontrollably in his large basket seat. “I’m not absolutely sure if that’s any of your business, Mister…?”
“You have my card.”
Douglas leaned forward over his desk, squinting at the business card in front of him. “Mortimer.”
“Andrew Mortimer, Assistant to the Director of the Scottish Education Department. Argyle House.” He leaned forward on his seat. “I know for a fact, the figures are falling. I want details, written details and I want them now.”
“And why can’t this be done through the proper channels?”
“Because we don’t want any physical evidence for others to get their hands on.”
That spooked him. “You mean…?”
“Let’s just leave it at that.” Ivanhoe said. “Loose lips and all.”
“Yes,” Even I could see that Douglas was coming round. “When do you want such a list?”
“This is my assistant.” Ivanhoe swept his hand towards me. “He will collect the collated data and bring it to me. Now remember, we need names, addresses, and the date when they ceased attending classes.”
“For the whole university?”
Ivanhoe nodded. “The whole shooting match, but remember, only my assistant gets the information; not the other fellows, no matter how well they dress. Are we clear on this?”
“I understand you fully, Mr. Mortimer.”
“I hope you do, Mr. Douglas. Once the figures are in, we want to be the only body having a complete picture of the problem.”
“The Department can rely on me, Mr. Mortimer. Of that you can be assured.”
“When can I send the young man round?”
“Oh I’m quite certain we can have the information by the end of the week…”
“The end of the day, excellent!” Ivanhoe waved Douglas’s protests away like flies. “That’s settled. David, will pick them up from your secretary tonight.” Ivanhoe stood, then loomed over the still blustering Douglas’s desk, shook hands, and we left. As we passed through the secretary’s station, Ivanhoe reiterated his instructions to her.
Once out in the corridors, we walked towards the main door. “Whatever she gives you, hold it in your left hand. LEFT hand, okay?”
I nodded. “Got it. Left hand.”
“Once you’re outside, someone will snatch it from you, don’t pay them any notice.” And with his final words, he veered away, obviously intending exiting the building at a different door from me.
The Diminishing Labour Force
“I don’t get it.” I said, slightly confused. Ivanhoe seemed to be deliberately dodging the issue. “If they’re not getting to Canada, then where are they disappearing to?”
Ivanhoe shrugged. “That’s just the point, James, as far as our figures are concerned, and I’ve had a good chat with Canada over this, there’s not a significant number of men getting out of the country. Certainly not the eight to ten percent stated in the University reports.”
He’d talked to Canada. Ivanhoe went up in my estimations at that exact moment. I’d often wondered if he was at the top of the organization’s tree in Scotland. Then he goes on to say he’s chatted with Canada. Hmm. “Then where are they going?”
“That, Old boy, is the big question.” We stood in the foyer of the Warrender Swimming Baths, the smell of chlorine wafting through from the pool beyond.
Last night, as I’d walked from the University’s Admissions Department, blue folder in my hand, I’d been swept up in a bunch of boys, kicking a football along the busy pavement. Right enough, as they passed, the report was snatched out of my loose grip, never to be seen again.
Ivanhoe rubbed his stubbled chin, glanced at the door, then back at the pool. “Because if they’re not going to Canada, they where else could they be going to?”
“It must be organized.” I surmised. “For eight percent of the student body in Scotland to disappear, there must be someone at the bottom of it. And remember there’s been men going from the paper too.”
“Over ten thousand men? That takes more than organization, it takes money.”
“And transport, don’t forget transport.” I said, feeling I’d hit on a vein. “Men are being taken from Scotland, put in planes, boats, trucks. You can’t do that without some kind of infrastructure.”
“And who has got such an infrastructure?”
We both said it at the same time. “The Germans.”
“Okay, it’s time to up the ante. Ask questions at the University.” Ivanhoe said sharply. “Be as open as you like. Tell everyone you want to join up.”
And that would take socializing, and that took money. I didn’t want to, but my hand was forced; I was almost broke. “Eh, boss, I need a favor.”
I could see he was itching to leave, get the new investigation under way. “Anything,”
“Well, you know, this spy business doesn’t exactly pay much, and…”
He held his hand up. “Dear boy, you’ve only got to ask.” He fished in his jacket inside pocket. “How much do you need?”
Suddenly put on the spot, I became totally dumbstruck. “I don’t know…”
He handed me a bunch of notes, screwed them into my jacket pocket and walked away. “Next time, don’t be so bashful.”
Ivanhoe was gone in minutes, muttering about setting watch on railway yards, truck depots, and docks.
I set forth in the direction of the University. Once on the street, I carefully examined the notes he’d given me. Twelve pounds. I’d been handed three weeks wages, and he hadn’t batted an eyelid.
Once inside the university Union Bar I began openly asking questions, even considering offering a small reward for information. “I’m going to run away,” I said more than once that day. “Join up. I’m getting sick of sitting around doing nothing.”
I spent a few bob buying beer, and had a few myself.
Only after the wildest drinking session in months did I get my clue.
A small shabbily-printed business card. On closer inspection it looked more of a rubber stamp than a printed job.
Want to make a difference?
Join up. 031 225 4672.
But by this time I was more than three sheets to the wind. I hit the streets, my mind reeling, and I know for a fact I staggered as I tried to walk, I could feel myself doing so. This was no way to return home, and I’m glad my sense of self-preservation kicked in.
I hung around outside the apartment for a few minutes, then tossed a couple of pebbles at Alice’s window. In seconds she was leaning out. “What’s going on?”
To be honest, I’m not sure I said anything at all. The next thing I knew, she was with me, arm in arm, and we were heading to the Hotel.
I don’t remember much of that night, but I do remember showing her the card.
When I woke, she was gone, my mouth felt like a dry river bed, and the first lights of dawn were shooting into the room like darts. I looked at my precious Omega watch; 7.34.
I hadn’t been awake for more than five minutes, when the door opened. Alice, with a thermos flask, and a square folded greaseproof-paper package that could only contain sandwiches. I opened the wrapping as she poured a cup of tea from the flask.
Luncheon meat, with broon sauce; wonderful. I devoured them, ravenous from the previous evening’s drinking, the flavors dancing in my palate like fireworks.
“Did you stay the night?” I asked, my mouth still full.
“No,” she shook her head, her expression scolding. “Just long enough to get you to sleep. Then I got back to the apartment, and told Mum what was going on.” She sat on the bed beside me, and gave me a very cold stare. “I told her you were out on a job! Okay?”
“Thank you,” I felt rather meek; so much for the brilliant master-spy. “Did I tell you anything last night?”
“Tell me anything!” she gave a laugh as she poured a second cup of tea. “You sang like a bloody canary. Good job it was me, not some German floosy.”
Oh, and now I felt totally useless.
“You talked about men going to Canada, and how Ivanhoe had talked to Canada. You said that more than once. And you gave me this.” She held the card in the air between us. “You said you were going to join up. I kept it just in case you phoned the number drunk.”
Despite her berating me, I did feel better for the food and drink. “I’m not joining up. I actually was on an assignment last night.”
“Ivanhoe told you to get drunk?”
I shook my head, and immediately regretted the action. “No, but I did get that card; that’s our first clue to the disappearing men.”
She stood up. “Go home, James. Get a change of clothes, you look terrible, and get to work. I’ll go straight there, and cover for you for an hour or so. And I’ll put the books in the window to get the card to Ivanhoe.”
Yes, because Biggles the master-spy was hung-over, incapable of thinking that far ahead, and had gotten so drunk the night before that he could have jeopardized the mission. I determined to limit my intake in future.
“Yes dear,” I mumbled. Even after the sandwiches I was still hungry, and I knew Crawfords the Bakers would be getting a visit on the way to the office.