“I’d rather be a free fool than a dog that serves a rabid master.”
The smile had gone from Hart’s face, and Max knew he was heading into dangerous waters. Still, something in him didn’t want to back down, not in front of a snivelling maniac.
And all this while, streams of people had passed within a few feet of them, going to the station, leaving the station. Porters with barrows of luggage and trolleys of sacked mail, cab drivers collecting fares, depositing fares, fathers and mothers and children and businessmen and workmen and young lovers going on holiday. All of them passed by and knew nothing of the fearful and desperate situation that was uncoiling. A situation that would have consequences for decades to come.
“Germany doesn’t want to be an enemy of England’s,” Hart said. “We respect the English. I’m half-English myself.”
“But only the respectable half.”
Hart tried again to smile. He was attempting to use reason and cordiality to win Max over, but that last comment had hit home, as Max saw in the twitching of Hart’s eye. And Max knew, now, that therein lay the anger and hatred, and the need to dominate for people like Hart. It was the mental sickness of the envious and spiteful. They were the characteristics evident in Iago and Richard III and the Lucifer of Paradise Lost, but without their wit and charm and intelligence. Hart was nothing more than an empty shell of malice.
“Mr Dalton,” Hart said darkly, “give me that case and we can continue to be friends, our countries will continue to be friends. Our ambition is not to take anything from you. Your empire is yours, we allow that. Allow us to create our own empire, a Greater Reich.”
“And enslave foreign peoples?”
“They’re not people,” Hart said, his face now contorted with fury, with hatred, “they’re Untermenschen. The Soviets, the Poles, you would choose them over us?”
“I’d choose obsolescence over you. I’d rather we lost our empire and became an insignificant, powerless group of islands just so long as we did it fighting you and all those like you.”
Hart pushed the gun into Max’s gut, and pushed so that it hurt to breathe. Still Max didn’t retreat. Instead, he met Hart’s furious gaze with his own cold fury, his eyes locking with Hart’s, watching as the venom in Hart’s blood moved and pushed. Max was compelling his own murder, he knew that.
“You British will never understand. Our Germany will never be defeated,” Hart said as he crumpled, unaccountably, to the floor.
Max blinked and stood still, unable to comprehend what had just happened. One second he was expecting to be shot through the stomach, and the next he was standing over Hart’s body.
Then he realised he’d heard a small pop, and he became aware of the motionless people, the gasps and horrified looks. He heard a car door open and he glanced over to see two men emerge from a black sedan.
Sergeant Pierce holstered his pistol and buttoned his jacket. Inspector Longford was behind him, crossing the street.
“What are you doing here?” Max said when the detectives had arrived on the scene, moving people away from the body of Hart.
“Well, sir,” Longford said, “you can thank Mr Churchill for that. He felt you might be in danger and contacted our Commissioner, who sent us, seeing as we were already acquainted with the case.”
“Look, there’s not enough time to explain things,” Max said. “I need you to do three things for me, and I need them done very urgently.”
“Just tell us what to do, sir,” Longford said.
“First, I need you to take me to The Lion pub. I believe you know it.”
Chapter Fifty
As soon as Max got home, Martha, without saying a word, walked to him and wrapped him in her arms. She rested her cheek on his chest and said, “You’re safe. Thank God you’re safe.”
Max kissed the top of his wife’s head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I was scared, Max. I… I read what you did for Palgrave.”
Max looked over at the book he’d left open. It was now closed. “Everything’s fine,” he said.
“I was scared,” Martha was saying. “I was scared you were going to do something.”
After a moment, Max realised that she was weeping, very quietly. “It’s all right,” he said.
Flora and Eric, who had been in the kitchen making tea, came into the room and, observing the scene, decided it was time for them to leave. Eric made a presentation of the Webley revolver to Max, who said,“I knew I could count on you.”
Eric left beaming, as did Flora.
Martha, who had now composed herself sufficiently and was seated, said, “What happened?”
“Hold on, darling,” Max said.
He then went into the bedroom and unearthed an old shoebox, which he brought into the sitting room.
“What’s that?” Martha said, dabbing her eyes with a small handkerchief.
“Mementoes, photos, that sort of thing.”
After a few minutes of riffling, he held up a small photograph and said, “Got it.”
“What?”
“The answers, Martha. These are the answers.”
Next, he went into his study and came back with a pencil and a piece of paper. He scribbled on the paper.
“What are you doing, darling?”
“Making a list. I have a compulsion to summon everyone to the library and explain the plot.”
“We don’t have a library,” Martha said.
“Well, I’ll send Flora to get one.”
Chapter Fifty-One
The Lion was closed, and a simple handwritten sign on the door read ‘Private Function’. That was an understatement, but adequate. Since the pub was a small place and only had one room, all the tables had been moved to the cellar, and the chairs arranged in a large semicircle facing the bar, against which Max was leaning back, a smouldering cigarette between his fingers and both elbows on the counter. Now and then he took a sip from a glass of water, which was on the counter to his left.
He was wearing a single-breasted grey pin-striped suit from Savile Row. It was his best one, because this was the most important speech he would ever have to make. Beneath his jacket he wore a shirt so white it dazzled and, to top it all off, he was wearing his Guards tie and tie pin.
Martha was sitting on the chair closest to Max, to his right. She was wearing a pale grey Schiaparelli two-piece, the jacket and skirt so slim that it made her seem more ethereal than usual. She sat, as she sometimes did, with her ankles back and her knees together but angled to one side. It was elegant in extremis and Max wondered how it was that she didn’t sprain something.
It was a bright spring morning. Sunlight shot through the dirty windows, lit patches of the sawdust-covered floor and lacerated the clouds of cigarette smoke.
The first to arrive was Alwyn Frost, who greeted Martha and Max coolly before hanging his chesterfield on the Victorian coat stand. He unpeeled his leather gloves, slipped them in the pocket of the coat, then removed his bowler and placed that on one of the eight hooks at the top of the stand.
Only after Frost had done all that did he nod to Jack Connor, who was standing behind the bar, over to the left side. Max, who’d watched Frost’s act with growing annoyance, wanted to walk over and tip the whole coat stand over.
“Why are we meeting in a public house?” Frost said.
“Because we don’t have a library,” Martha said.
Frost then went and sat as far away from everyone as possible, which was in the centre of the semicircle.
Next came Mr Bacon, who chose to sit beside Martha, placing his briefcase on the floor between his feet.
Flora and Eric turned up together, followed shortly by Inspector Longford and Sergeant Pierce. Both couples sat in the chairs next to Mr Bacon. Flora moved her chair closer to Eric, and further from Longford. Pierce was now seated next to Frost, and i
ntroduced himself to that man, receiving a curt nod in return.
Longford was still sporting a bandaged head, but had somehow managed to squeeze it inside his hat, which he removed and placed on his lap. Martha smiled sheepishly at him and received a raised eyebrow in reply.
Tony Lindsey himself had collected Lilly Burton and Mrs Rice from the station, and now brought them in and walked them to their seats, which were in a corner, away from the door, directly opposite Martha. Lindsey then seated himself next to Mrs Rice, took out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette and relaxed into his seat, his ankles crossed, as if he were at the pictures.
Lilly Burton was very pale and nervous. She licked her lips and clutched her hands in her lap. Jack Connor noticed this and brought her out a glass of brandy.
“Get this down your neck,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear about your loss. Yours too, Mrs Rice.”
Mrs Burton thanked him and sipped the drink. Mrs Rice failed to even acknowledge Connor.
Churchill arrived next, a cigar clenched in his mouth and a homburg crammed on his round head. He viewed those present, then made for the bar in the manner of a bull charging the matador. Jack, who, as far as Max was aware, had never been nervous in his life, stood upright and said, “What would I… I mean, what can I get you, sir?”
“I’ll have a glass of your brandy, if I may.”
“It’s not the best quality.”
“That’s fine. The best drink in bad company is far worse.”
Jack reached below the counter for the brandy, took a large wine glass from the shelf behind him, dusted it and poured the drink. He handed it to Churchill, saying, “On the house, sir.”
Churchill nodded his thanks, lifted the glass, gazed for a moment at the picture of the black boxer behind the bar and said, “Hmm.”
He took his drink and his cigar and sat heavily next to Frost, who ignored him.
The last person to arrive was General Monroe, who strode in and glared at everyone, especially Max and Churchill.
“Winston,” he said, “what are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I expect – defending the realm.”
The general then took the final seat, which placed him with Lindsey on his right and Churchill on his left.
Once all but he and Connor were seated, Max introduced each person individually, ending with Martha, “The most glorious wife, and a damned good detective.”
Alwyn Frost, always ready to pour cold water on warm feelings, said, “Is it necessary to have Mr Connor here? We are talking about issues of national security.”
“Good point, Alwyn,” Max said. “First, Jack’s a material witness. Second, he, at least, didn’t bring a Gestapo agent to our flat for dinner.”
Here, Frost drew in a long breath, stared sternly at Max and went very slightly white.
“Third,” Max was saying, “this is his pub. And, finally, Jack is as good a Briton as I’ve ever known and I see no reason why he shouldn’t be here.”
“Quite right, young man,” Churchill said. “And may I add to Mr Connor that I have heard of him, and his… uh… illustrious forebear, the great Tom Molineaux.”
Max glanced at Connor and was amazed to see that the huge man’s eyes were glistening.
“On the issue of security,” Lindsey said casually, “I must remind everyone that they’re party to information covered by the Official Secrets Act. No chat about this, please.”
Then Lindsey nodded to Max, who killed his cigarette, pushed himself away from the bar and said, “Now I’ll begin.”
“Begin what?” General Monroe said.
“A story, sir. The most important story you’ll ever hear.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
“I’ll begin by explaining why Sergeant Dan Burton and Major Frederick Rice became involved, and how they met their deaths.”
Here, everyone in the room glanced at Lilly Burton and Mrs Rice. Lilly Burton was silent, a small lace handkerchief to one eye. Mrs Rice stared white-faced at a point on the carpet while her hands trembled in her lap.
There was silence for a few seconds, in honour of their suffering.
“There was a man called John Crawford,” Max said quietly. “He was a Special Branch detective who had the routine job of keeping an eye on potentially dangerous political elements. Part of his work was to speak to informants and receive from them any intelligence, which could then be reported back to his superiors for further investigation, if necessary.”
Here, Max glanced at Inspector Longford and Sergeant Pierce.
“Inspector, I understand you’ve spoken to your colleagues at the Branch?”
“That’s correct, Mr Dalton,” Longford said as he took a notebook from his pocket and opened it. “And I’ve learned the following: On Wednesday March 18th, Detective Crawford was scheduled to meet one of his informants, a man named Ralph Hall; a cab driver by trade and a known member of Mosley’s Blackshirt group. No trace of Ralph Hall has been found and he is considered a missing person, most likely deceased.”
This was too much for Mrs Rice, who sobbed loudly. “I don’t understand all this,” she said. “I don’t understand what Mosley and all that has to do with my husband.”
It was Sergeant Pierce who went to her aid. He rose, walked over to her and knelt down. “We are very sorry, madam. Would you prefer to wait in our car?”
After a moment, Mrs Rice sniffled and wiped her tears away with the lace handkerchief that Lilly Burton had handed her. “I’m all right, now. Really, I’m all right. Please, I want to know what happened.”
Jack, having brought over a brandy, handed it to Pierce, who gave it to Mrs Rice. She sipped the drink, nodding to Pierce. He returned to his seat. Again, a hush descended on the room.
Then the inspector cleared his throat. “Referring to Detective Crawford, he telephoned his office Wednesday afternoon to say he had vital information that he had to follow up, and that he was going to see Mr Rice and Mr Burton.”
“Mrs Rice,” Max said, “did your husband receive a telephone call late on Wednesday afternoon?”
“Yes. About four in the afternoon.”
“That telephone call was from Detective Crawford,” Max said. “What I believe happened was this: Crawford met his informant, Ralph Hall, who, as Inspector Longford mentioned, was a member of the Blackshirts. Hall told Crawford about a job he’d done a month or so earlier – the murder of a man in Swindon. I suspect the killers used Hall as a driver. He owned his own cab, which would allow them to conceal their movements. Then Ralph Hall had been told to do another job and had been given two more names and addresses – those of Major Frederick Rice and Sergeant Daniel Burton.”
Max paused again, allowing the information to filter through his audience, most especially Lilly Burton and Mrs Rice. When it was clear that those two ladies were fine, he continued. “Hall knew it would be a similar job, ie murder. Losing his nerve, he’d called Detective Crawford and arranged to meet him near Enfield. It was about then that Crawford disappeared. But I’ll come back to that. Shortly after that call from Crawford, Rice went to Wisbech to see Dan Burton. Lilly, Lindsey showed you a photograph of Major Rice earlier, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. He’s the one who came to our house on Wednesday night.”
“Thank you. And first thing the next day – Thursday – Dan Burton left his home and arrived at a hotel in Peterborough where Rice was waiting for him. Crawford was also registered in that hotel.”
Here, Max slowly took his cigarette case from his right jacket pocket, put a cigarette between his lips and took his lighter from his left pocket. He held it up to the cigarette, but paused. It was a silver, engine-turned Dunhill number given to him by Martha the previous Christmas. On one side was a small clock. On the other was a cartouche with an inscription, which read: All my love, M.
It was odd. He’d never really t
hought about the lighter that much. It was nice, certainly, and he’d liked it and had thanked Martha, of course. But now, holding it in his hand, he thought it one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. It was elegant and practical. It was slim with beautiful lines. He looked up at Martha and saw her looking at him as if she knew exactly what was going through his mind. Perhaps she did. She smiled slightly, almost shyly.
Finally, aware that everyone was waiting for him, Max lit his cigarette, sucked down a lungful of smoke and said, “You know, I don’t think I realised until just now how important Martha has been to working out what happened. A few days ago, when we knew nothing of Crawford, Martha and I wondered why he’d want to meet Burton and Rice, and why they’d felt it necessary to book a hotel room. And then Martha mentioned something about Burton’s clothes. Lilly, can you remember what Dan wore?”
“They were his best clothes, sir. His Sunday suit. And he wore his Guards cufflinks.”
“Would he often have worn those things?”
“No, sir. Never, except for special occasions. Weddings and such. And church, I suppose, although he didn’t go to church often.”
“Right,” Max said. “It was Martha who suggested that Burton’s dress was akin to a woman wearing her best frock and diamond brooch, which reminded me of the last time I’d worn my Guards tie and tie pin – these very ones, in fact. I’d worn them to a job interview because I wanted to be smart and to impress my interviewer. When Lindsey told me Crawford had been a Special Branch detective, it all made sense. He was going to interview Rice and Burton, question them about something, but something unspecific, which is why Rice booked the rooms – because, as Martha mentioned to me, they didn’t know what they were looking for. That is partially correct. They didn’t know specifically what it was, because they didn’t know what I now do. But they knew approximately what it was. I know this because I saw a book at Rice’s that had been opened at a certain page and on which he’d made annotations. But I’ll come back to that. So, Rice and Burton were in the hotel in Peterborough, prepared to give their testimonies to Crawford.”
Murder Under A Green Sea Page 23