“Kent too?” Max said. “God.”
Martha moved closer to her husband and put his hand into hers. “Three out of fourteen dead,” she said. “Isn’t that rather extraordinary, Mr Bacon?”
“I think it’s uncommon.”
“And two of the deaths were violent,” Max said.
Mr Bacon replaced the documents in his briefcase, which he put under his arm. He removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “That is more unusual, sir. Especially when you consider the recent death of Mr Burton. That makes four from your company, Mr Dalton, that we know of.”
“Is it enough to go to Longford with?” Martha said.
“In itself, no. But we have been investigating the events of Friday night ourselves. Just an hour ago, I received a telegram in answer to one I despatched yesterday. It was from a tobacconist called Barnes who has a stand along Surrey Street. You’re a regular customer, I believe, sir?”
“I know Mr Barnes. I often buy smokes there when I’m going past.”
“Well, he clearly remembers you, sir. You bought a packet of cigarettes from him just a few minutes after Mr Burton left The Lion public house.”
“How does that help us?” Max said. “It’s not an alibi. I could’ve killed Burton and then gone for cigarettes.”
“It’s not an alibi, sir, no. It’s his description of you that helps us.”
“And what’s that?” Martha said.
“I won’t use his words, Mrs Shearer, if you don’t mind. To paraphrase, he said Mr Dalton was so intoxicated that he could hardly stand. In fact, sir, he remembers you walking into a lamp post.”
“I thought I felt a bump on my head.”
Mr Bacon was frowning. He said, “I think we have enough to go and see Inspector Longford. I suggest nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Shall I meet you outside Scotland Yard at ten to?”
Max nodded, but wasn’t paying much attention. “Mr Bacon,” he said, “would you tell me again the names of the men from my company who had died?”
“Certainly, sir. William Halford, Clive Ward and Alan Kent.”
“And Burton makes four.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And they were in your company?” Martha said.
“More than that, they were all in my platoon.”
“How many men are in a platoon, sir?” Mr Bacon said quickly.
“It depends. But, on the whole, between thirty and forty, each commanded by a subaltern like me.”
“So, if we consider that, perhaps, three-quarters of your platoon survived the war, that leaves, at most, thirty men.”
“Thirty men,” Max said. “And four of them dead in the last two years.”
“And the ways they died,” Martha said. “All suddenly: heart attack, suicide, motorcycle crash and murder.”
Mr Bacon looked from Martha to Max, his expression sombre. “Now, that does seem extraordinary.”
After Martha had thanked Mr Bacon and shown him out, she turned and looked at Max with dread in her heart. “Max?” she said. “Those men in your platoon. It’s too much to be a coincidence, isn’t it? And Burton too?”
“Yes.”
“So why are you still alive, Max? Why you and not those men? There must be a reason. After all, if you had been a target, they could’ve killed you at any time. My God, they could’ve got you when they got Burton.”
“Yes.”
Max stared into empty space. This upset Martha, who knew it was that sadness again, washing over him, travelling from a deep part of the sea or, perhaps, from far back in the past.
“Perhaps it’s not by accident,” Martha said. “Perhaps you weren’t on the list.”
“What list?” Max said, only now looking at Martha.
“Well, the death list.”
Chapter Forty-One
Inspector Longford had a bandage wrapped around his head when Max, Martha and Harold Bacon were admitted to his office.
Once Mr Bacon had presented his evidence, Longford agreed to release Max, for the time being, at least. “Don’t leave London again,” he said. “And tell me first if you find anything else.”
He was more reluctant to drop the aggravated battery charge against Martha, but she told a story of how a wife had to believe in her husband’s honour, and how she had a duty to defend that honour, no matter what. Then she appealed to the inspector’s innate duty to defend an emotionally upset and vulnerable woman. Then she cried.
Logically, Martha’s argument had holes, and nobody could have called her vulnerable, but her delivery was such that every man in the room melted with a desire to protect her.
The consequence of this was that Max and Martha were able to return to their flat. The inspector even laid on a car for them.
As soon as they got back to the flat, Eric and Flora arrived. Eric, determined that he wouldn’t leave Flora unprotected, had brought her from her parents’ house and had walked her up to the flat. He’d then stayed for a cup of tea and a few biscuits.
There was another knock on the door. Max and Martha looked at each other, each thinking the same thing: here’s Longford again.
Max waved Flora to sit back down.
But it wasn’t Longford. Not this time. It was Mr Hart, Alwyn Frost’s friend from the dinner party. Then Max remembered that Hart had wanted to pop by some time, to discuss Napoleon or something. Max sighed with relief, and started to tell Hart that this wasn’t a good time.
Instead, Hart pushed past him and, immediately upon doing so, removed a gun from his pocket and levelled it at Max. “I am sorry about this, Mr Dalton,” Hart said, not looking at all sorry.
Two men followed him through the door. One was tall and thin, with a dangerous angular look to his face. The second man, also holding a pistol, was thickset with pale hair and a paler face. Eric looked at them and knew immediately who they were.
“They’ve come to take Flora,” he cried, jumping up.
The fat man knocked Eric back with a backhanded swipe that cut Eric’s lip.
Hart glanced at Eric, then at Flora and Martha, finally resting back on Max. “I had hoped that I would be able to explain the situation to you and get your cooperation but, after dining here, I saw that your views wouldn’t allow you to… uh… reason with me.”
“Reason with you?” Martha said. “What are you talking about? Who are you? And these… these hooligans, who are they?”
Max had moved backwards and was now standing next to Martha. He put a hand on her arm and said to Hart, “So that was the reason you invited yourself to our dinner?”
“What’s happening, Max?” Martha said.
“It seems that Mr Hart here is in league with these two men who, I assume, are the ones who tried to break in a few days ago. Right, Eric?”
“That’s ’em,” Eric said, his face red and fierce.
“And Frost,” Max said to Hart, “is he a part of this?”
“Frost’s a fool,”Hart said. “Most of the British government are fools. I learned, of course, that Frost knew you and your wife. Once we’d identified a suitable liaison, it was only a matter of gaining his confidence and infiltrating your little party. I simply met him in his club and started talking with him. As soon as I mentioned my interest in the history of the Napoleonic wars, he mentioned you.”
“You met him in his club?” Martha said, incredulously.
“Yes. We have influential friends in England. It wasn’t difficult to get into one of your gentleman’s clubs. Of course, that alone meant that Frost would trust me. You are blind, you people. We are fighting a war and you are playing cricket and drinking tea.”
“I think I can guess who you are, Mr Hart.”
“Really?” Hart said, a small patronising smile on his small patronising face. “I’d be most impressed if you could. After all, none of your… authoritie
s have identified me.”
“You’re Gestapo,” Max said, “or some sort of ridiculous equivalent.”
Hart’s patronising smile fell away. In its place was the truth of the man. His eyelids lowered, his mouth spread wide and his lips thinned into a kind of snarl. “What makes you say that?” he said.
“It was what you said at the dinner party. And how you behaved. I hadn’t thought anything of it until this moment, but now they fall into place. All that stuff about race and how our ancestry makes us what we are.”
“Many people have the same feelings. Mrs Dunaway, as I recall, in particular.”
“Mrs Dunaway’s an idiot. Besides, she was plastered and only spewed generalities. You were specific – how important the Anglo-Saxon stock is – and, what’s more, you actually seemed to ardently believe it all.”
“Of course.”
“Next,” Max said pointedly, “you didn’t know anything about leg theory. Only a European or someone from the Americas would’ve failed to know about that. But you spoke with an English accent, so I have to wonder where you could’ve been in ’33 to have missed the controversy. Certainly not in an empire country. Thirty-three was the year Hitler assumed complete power, wasn’t it? Then there was that joke Lindsey cracked about the SS uniforms. Mrs Dunaway thought it amusing, even Frost smiled, and he has absolutely no sense of humour. But you seemed… uncomfortable.”
Hart was quiet for a moment. He glanced at the thin man and at the stocky man, and Max realised he’d made a terrible mistake. Hart nodded to the thin man, who removed coils of rope from his jacket pocket. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to tie you all up,” Hart said. “Anyone resisting will be shot.”
Nobody moved, nobody uttered a sound. What had been a frightening situation had become, now, terrifying. Max was making quick mental calculations, but Hart and the fat man with the gun were too far away to jump. They’d get one or two shots away, and Max couldn’t risk that. He glanced at Eric and saw that he was thinking the same thing. If they could coordinate a move…
“My friend here is a dead shot,” Hart said, knowing what the men would be thinking.
Meanwhile, the thin man had left the room and returned with two dining chairs. He hoisted Eric first, pushed him down and, with swift and efficient moves, tied his wrists together, behind his back, securing the binding to the slats at the back of the chair.
When all four of them were tied, Hart put his gun back into his jacket pocket.
“What now?” Martha said. “Are you going to rob us?”
“No,” Hart said. Turning to Max, he added, “I want to know what your friend Burton told you, Mr Dalton, and what he gave you.”
The implications of this scenario were only now becoming evident to Max, and he felt a cold panic begin to move through his blood and bones.
Hart tilted his head at the tall, gaunt man. “This is Wilhelm,” he said. “He works for me. He likes his work, and he’s very good at it, but he doesn’t understand English too well. So, if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll tell him to cut off someone’s fingers, then their toes, and he won’t stop until I tell him to.”
Max muttered something. Hart said, “What did you say?”
Max muttered something again, and when Hart went in close to hear, Max moved his head back and, with all his force, butted Hart on the nose.
Hart fell back with a shriek, holding his nose with both hands while blood poured out.
Wilhelm made a move towards Max, but Hart held up one bloody hand. “Nein!”
“Good shot, Max,” Martha said.
“I was merely illustrating the dangers of leg theory.”
After a few minutes, Hart was able to stand, most of the blood now having been soaked up by handkerchiefs. “I’m going to make someone suffer for that, Mr Dalton. But not you.”
“All right,” Max said. “I’ll tell you what I know if you let the others go now.”
Hart smiled. “You don’t understand, Mr Dalton. You will all soon have your throats cut. The choice you have is whether you’re all tortured first.”
“That’s not a fair choice,” Martha said, apparently more annoyed by the lack of sportsmanship than by their impending murders.
Flora, straining at her ties, glared at Hart. “I know a few people in the East End who’d like to meet you lot,” she said. “And some of ’em is Jewish.”
Hart watched her coolly for a few seconds. Then he turned back to Max and said, “We’ll start with the maid, I think.”
At this, Flora’s face went white. She tried to speak, but the terror inside was too large. She instinctively looked at Eric, who was struggling with all his energy to free his wrists from their binding. The effort only made the rope tighter.
“Ten fingers, and ten toes,” Hart was saying. “One at a time.”
“I’ll cut your bleedin’ head off,” Eric shouted. “One at a time.”
“Well said, Eric,” Martha said.
“Listen,” Max said, “There’s nothing I can tell you. Honestly. I met Burton, but I was drunk. I can’t remember what he told me, and he didn’t give me anything.”
“Well then…”
Hart glanced at Wilhelm, and said, “Das Dienstmädchen.”
Wilhelm reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which had been knotted in the centre. Flora fought hard, but couldn’t stop the gag being stuffed into her mouth and tied around the back of her head. Then Wilhelm removed his flick knife. Without any passing expression on his face, he pressed the button and the blade shot out, gleaming beautifully in the light. He turned Flora’s chair around so that everyone could see her tied hands. Then Wilhelm caught her small right finger in his wiry hand and put the blade to it.
“No,” Eric cried.
Then the blade sliced slowly into Flora’s finger, and bright crimson liquid, which seemed too red to be blood, seeped out over her white skin as she writhed in agony, her screams sounding throaty, crackled by the gag.
Then the blade stopped its progress, and Wilhelm froze, and everyone looked to the door where an unseen hand knocked on its wood and a voice said, “Hello?”
Martha opened her eyes wide and thought, Thank God. It’s Lindsey.
Max rolled his eyes and thought, Oh, no. It’s Lindsey.
Everyone waited, silently, except poor Flora, who was sobbing.
Then Hart made a sign to his two men, and they dragged the tied prisoners away from the line of sight of someone at the door. To the fat one, he said, “Anyone makes a noise, shoot them in the knee, and I’ll take care of this person.”
Hart then put his hand in his jacket pocket, held his gun there, and went to open the door.
“It is,” Lindsey’s voice said. “I thought so. I was down the road in that little pub. Can’t recall the name. Anyway, I look up and see you and think, ‘Hello, that’s old Hart. Must be popping in to see Max.’ He is here, isn’t he? I say, what happened to your nose?”
Max heard Hart say, “Are you alone, Mr Lindsey?”
“All alone, old boy. Mind if I come in? Is Martha here?”
Max sighed and waited for Lindsey to join them. Martha desperately wanted to shout a warning, but that would’ve certainly condemned Lindsey to death.
Lindsey walked in and stopped short when he saw the scene.
Then he did something odd. He walked up to the fat man, reached into his jacket pocket, removed a small pistol and shot the fat man through the eye.
The crack of the gun made everyone jump, and thereafter they were so stunned by this surreal action that they simply stared. All, that is, except the fat man, who dropped down dead.
Lindsey then turned and aimed at Hart, who fumbled with his gun. Lindsey fired and missed and fired again, but by this time Wilhelm had made a dash for the door, and Hart decided to follow him. Lindsey sent a few rounds in th
at direction, but they’d escaped.
Lindsey strode to the window and looked down. After a moment, they all heard shouts from the street, and police whistles, and what sounded to Martha like the crackling of a log fire. Max, though, knew what the sound was.
Lindsey slipped his pistol into a shoulder holster, turned to the stupefied people in the flat and smiled. “Right, then. Let’s get Flora’s wound sorted out, then I’ll make us all a cup of tea. After that, we’d better have a chat. You two have been pretty busy, I understand.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“Of course,” Max was saying, “I suspected there was something off about him, even at the dinner party.”
“You did?” Martha said. “You seemed quite pleased when he asked you about your books.”
“That was a ploy,” Max said.
“A ploy? A ploy to get him here, tie us up and threaten us with torture and death?”
“Uh…”
“Very clever.”
All five of them were now in the sitting room drinking things considerably stronger than tea. Two Special Branch policemen were outside, and a few more were by the building’s front and back entrances, all of them armed.
Wilhelm was dead, but Hart had escaped in a waiting car.
“Damned annoying,” Lindsey said.
Flora’s finger was dressed, and would survive intact, albeit with a deep scar. Eric sat close by, on the sofa, determined never again to allow anyone to try to take her. Max had explained to him the real purpose of Hart’s intrusion but Eric was convinced they’d been after Flora.
“Still, it’s funny,” Martha said. “Mr Hart seemed such a nice old thing.”
“Front,” Lindsey said.
“Yes,” Max said. “I think that was what I found most strange at the dinner party, that he could seem so harmless and yet have these poisonous ideas about ancestry and race. That’s the thing with these fanatics – all fanatics, they can try to pretend to be something other than they are, but they can’t quite pull it off, they can’t hide their beliefs because that’s what makes them function. It’s their Achilles heel.”
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