Maggie frowned. ‘That wasn’t very nice, Alfie! What’s come over you?’
‘Sorry, it couldn’t be helped. I’ll explain later…. Blast! It’s engaged!’
‘Serves you right,’ said his lover.
And then the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Maggie.
‘Just a minute,’ said Jupp, his brain racing.
But Maggie had already opened the door, and two burly men were barging in. ‘Police!’ said the first man. ‘I’m Inspector Collins and this is Sergeant Digby.’
Maggie wasn’t surprised: this was what she’d been expecting, and she was ready. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said brightly. ‘Is it about that Peeping Tom I reported last week?’
‘No, miss, we don’t know anything about that. We’re here to arrest this man. Adam Webber, I must ask you to come with us to the police station.’
The MP was astounded: he hadn’t foreseen this one. ‘Don’t be a fool, man! I’m not Webber!’
And, indeed, he didn’t look much like Adam’s picture in the papers. But the visitors were men whose perusal of the newspapers was normally confined to the strip cartoons. They rarely reached the news pages. They’d been told to grab the man at 9 Rochester Court, and that’s what they were going to do.
‘We’ll sort that out at the station, shall we?’ The first man gripped Jupp’s arm.
Jupp was in a quandary. How much could he say in front of Maggie, without revealing things she mustn’t know? He decided to keep it simple. ‘I don’t believe you’re the police,’ he said. ‘Prove your identity.’
‘Right, son, you asked for it!’ The second man reached inside his jacket and brought out a truncheon.
‘No!’ screamed Jupp. ‘There’s no need for that!’
Maggie was aghast. ‘Let him go!’ she cried. ‘He’s not the man you want!’
The second man picked her up, threw her into the bedroom, and shut the door. Then, as Jupp protested, he hit him with the truncheon and grabbed his other arm.
‘Go easy with that!’ said the first man. ‘He’s got questions to answer.’
Then the two men supported their semi-conscious captive out through the door and down the stairs.
‘The spokesman added that the German counter-attack had been repulsed, and Allied Forces were again advancing on all fronts.’
Having rounded up the day’s war news, the BBC announcer’s voice changed gear slightly as, after a short pause, he moved on to domestic items.
‘It’s been confirmed that the man who died in London’s St James’s Park yesterday was killed by a single bullet fired at long range. It’s now thought that the shot may have come from an upper window or roof of an adjoining building. Police ask anyone who noticed anything unusual in the area to contact them on Whitehall 1212. That number again, Whitehall 1212.
‘The victim has been identified as a senior civil servant, Martin John Hunter, who worked in Whitehall. Mr Hunter, who was forty-two, had a long and distinguished career in public service—’
‘Turn it off, George,’ said Emily Hart. ‘I don’t really get on with that chap Pickles.’
Traditionally, the BBC News had always been read by gentlemen with English public school accents. But, as a sign of national solidarity in wartime, the BBC was now employing a few announcers with regional accents. The most notable of these was the North Country actor Wilfred Pickles, who delivered his lines in broad Yorkshire tones.
It was known that BBC announcers wore dinner jackets when broadcasting in the evening, even though they weren’t seen by the listeners. In contrast, Pickles sounded as if he were wearing tweeds and cloth cap. Mrs Hart did not approve.
‘I think he’s all right,’ said George. ‘Makes a nice change from all those posh voices.’
‘Posh voices are what you want on the news,’ Mrs Hart declared. ‘They make you feel safer. Specially when the news is bad.’
‘But it’s not so bad these days, is it? Except for that poor devil in the park.’
‘Well, just remember Dunkirk and the Blitz. I was less worried if Alvar Lidell or Bruce Belfrage was on. No matter how bad the war was going, you felt it would turn out all right in the end, cos the right people were in charge.’
‘Well, now things are better, we can have a bit more variety, can’t we?’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Mrs Hart. ‘I think the people who had to read all the bad news should be allowed to carry on and do the good news. And that murder wouldn’t have sounded so bad if it had been Alvar Lidell telling us.’
Letting his employer have the final word, as always, George switched off the radio. Then he began to voice his thoughts on the murder in the park.
‘I reckon the Germans got that bloke,’ he observed. ‘Senior civil servant. He was probably one of Mr Churchill’s top men.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past them,’ Mrs Hart agreed. At the end of the day, she was relaxing with hot cocoa, and a copy of Picture Post.
‘They got agents everywhere, them Nazis,’ said George. ‘That’s what I said to Millie yesterday. She was telling Mr Hardstaff about her boyfriend being in France with the army. In the lounge, in front of other people! I said, “Careless talk costs lives, my girl!” Them Nazis got agents everywhere.’
‘Not among our guests, I hope.’
‘You never know, do you? That Mr Donner, his name could be German, couldn’t it? Them Jerries are always shouting “Donner and Blitzen”!’
Mrs Hart looked up from her magazine. ‘Have you repaired that shelf in Miss Jane’s room yet?’ she enquired. The end upright had come off, and the vertical books were kept upright only by a pile of horizontal volumes at the end. It was very untidy.
‘Not yet,’ said George. ‘I was all day fixing the boiler, wasn’t I?’
‘Ah yes, of course.’ Mrs Hart was conciliatory: boilers were more important than shelves. ‘Have another one?’ She pushed towards him the precious tin of chocolate biscuits her cousin had sent from Australia. George took one, and Mrs Hart replaced the lid firmly.
‘Course, it didn’t have to be a high building,’ George resumed. ‘That bloke could have been shot from one of them big cranes you see these days. Or the Germans could have used a balloon.’
‘If there’d been a balloon, the police would have noticed,’ Mrs Hart objected.
‘The police don’t always notice everything,’ said George darkly. ‘But I do. I spotted an envelope in Adam Webber’s drawer that was addressed to ‘Adam Carr’. D’you think I should tell the inspector?’
Maggie was breathless as she came into the dressing room and shut the door behind her. ‘I got your message,’ she puffed. ‘Sorry I couldn’t take the call, I was in the bath.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Jane, who was sitting alone in front of the mirror, working on her eyebrows. ‘I couldn’t say much to your gentleman on the phone. But I thought if we both got here early, we could have a chat before the others get in.’
‘Good idea,’ said Maggie. ‘So here I am.’ She sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘And the first question is, did you two find somewhere to stay last night?’
‘Yes, we took your advice. We’re at Vic’s.’
‘Good old Vic, I knew he wouldn’t let you down. Does he know it’s Adam Webber with you?’
‘I don’t know. Like you, he didn’t ask. I just said we had nowhere to stay, and that was it. When did you guess who my friend was, by the way?’
‘About five minutes after we met.’
‘I thought so. Well, thanks for not letting it put you off.’
‘Honey, I don’t know what this business is all about,’ said Maggie. ‘But I do know a good man when I see one. Adam wouldn’t kill anyone. Well, not unless they had it coming. Is Vic in yet?’
‘Yes, we came in together. He was meeting a writer in his dressing room. Listen, I want to know what happened last night, after we got out.’
‘It was weird. Alfie was ages coming back and then he was a bag of ner
ves.’
‘Had he tipped off the police?’
‘He must have done, but he didn’t say. He was talking about the chemist. Then, when he found you and Adam were gone, he went crackers. But he still didn’t say he knew who Adam was.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he really went to the chemist.’
‘No, of course he knew. Just listen to the rest of it. He was all agitato, wanting to make a phone call, only it was engaged. And then you’ll never guess what happened!’
‘Did the police come?’
‘Yes, they did! And they arrested Alfie!’
‘They arrested your gentleman?’
‘That’s right! Cos he was the only bloke in the flat, wasn’t he? So they thought he must be the one they’d been sent to nick!’
‘I suppose it was quite funny really.’
‘Alfie didn’t think so. Very tough they were, too. One of them grabbed me and threw me in the bedroom.’
‘That could have been fun.’
‘Well, it wasn’t. He hurt my arm and then he shut the door on me, and I heard them roughing up poor Alfie. When I came out, they’d taken him away.’
‘I’m afraid Adam hit a policeman on Southend Pier. They were probably getting their own back.’
‘Alfie thought they weren’t real police when they burst in. But when he came back he said they were.’
‘How long did they keep him?’
‘He was gone about an hour, then he turned up with a bruise on the side of his head. He said they’d apologized for the mistake. But he was still thinking of making a complaint. You know, about police brutality.’
‘Did he admit he’d tipped them off?’
‘Yes, when he finally got back. It seems at first he just thought it was Adam but he felt he should call the police just in case.’
‘Thank God you guessed what he was up to!’
‘Funny, he didn’t let on when he first got back; he was fussing about waiting at the chemist’s. He says he still wasn’t sure, and didn’t want egg on his face.’
‘So he got a bang on the head instead.’
‘Anyway, when he got back from the rozzers, he said it definitely was Adam Webber – they’d shown him more pictures. He told me I’d been hiding a criminal in his flat.’
‘Was he very angry?’
‘He was at first. But I convinced him I really thought he was just your soldier boyfriend.’
‘So you got your night out after all?’
‘Eventually. Of course, he pretended he was still cross, so he had an excuse to give me a good spanking. He always feels better after that. And then, after a bit, we went to Silvio’s.’
‘A bit of what?’
‘Well, you know how one thing leads to the other. It was nearly 10.30 when we got to the club. But we had a great time – he spent nearly twenty quid!’
Having finished her story, Maggie stubbed out her cigarette and looked intently at Jane. ‘Listen, honey, tell me to mind my own business if you like, but I have to ask. What are you planning to do now?’
‘Vic says we can stay with him for a week or two.’
‘Good. I expect he’s glad of the company – he’s between girlfriends. But I meant what are you going to do about Adam? He can’t hide for ever.’
Jane sighed. ‘I don’t know, Maggie, I really don’t. I want him to give himself up and let the police sort things out. But he won’t.’
‘Why not? Like I said, I’m sure he’s not a murderer.’
‘I know for a fact he’s not a murderer. But … well … there are some other things that could get him into trouble. Nothing wicked, I promise you.’ There was a brief knock at the door, and Vic Dudley came straight in.
‘Do you mind?’ exclaimed Maggie. ‘We might have had no clothes on!’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Vic. ‘But it’s not my lucky week. I should have known. Yesterday I bought a suit with two pairs of trousers and burned a hole in the jacket. Listen, I want to try out some new gags on you.’
‘I hope they’re better than that one,’ said Maggie.
‘They’re all winners,’ said Vic. ‘Get these.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Fellow stopped me in the street today. He said, “I’ve seen you on the wireless. Why aren’t you in the army?” I said, “With a war on? You think I’m crazy?”
‘Actually, the fact is, I failed my medical. Not enough blood in my alcohol stream. And they didn’t like the look of my alimentary canal. I think it had a barge on it. Anyway, it’s true, they wouldn’t take me.
‘Even today I need check-ups. Last week I had these tests. When I went back for the results, the doctor said, “There’s good news and bad news.” I said, “Better tell me the bad news first.” He said, “You’ve only got a month to live.” What a shock! I tried to be brave, I said, “Well, what’s the good news?” He said, “I made it with that new receptionist last night.”
‘He could see I was upset. He said, “Don’t worry, that was a joke.”
‘I said, “Could you come to the Windmill and explain to the audience?”’
‘You may need him to do that,’ said Maggie. She lit another cigarette.
The short man had missed last night’s shambles. He’d been in Bristol, arranging a fatal accident. Now he was back, and holding an inquest.
‘Bloody fools!’ he said. ‘You managed to mistake a middle-aged pen-pusher for a young bruiser! The brute who saw off Cregan and Clark and knocked out a policeman! Crass stupidity! It’s incredible!’
Reggie Paynter’s fists tightened. He didn’t like being talked to like this. One day he was going to hit the short man extremely hard. Several times. But not yet. These people paid good money. And he knew they had some ruthless men behind them. He clenched his fists, and let Sid Garrett do the talking.
‘No one give us a picture of the bastard, did they?’ Garrett protested. ‘Your number two just said there was a bloke called Webber in Maida Vale giving you trouble. We was to go to his flat, make out we was coppers, and bring him here. That’s what we did.’
‘But you must have known what Webber looks like! You haven’t been living up a mountain, have you? You’ve seen his picture in the papers!’
‘I don’t bother with papers,’ said Garrett. ‘Anyway, there was no other geezer around. We brought back the only bloke who was there.’
The short man sighed. Then he opened a drawer and picked up a bunch of newspaper cuttings. He gave one to each of them, and they peered at the grainy photographs.
‘That’s Adam Webber. It’s vital we take him before the police do.’
‘The coppers are after him too?’
‘Good God, you have been living up a mountain! It’s not just been in the papers, man, it’s been all over the radio! Every day! The police want Webber for murder. We want him because he has a notebook that could make trouble for us. Our people are now offering five hundred pounds to anyone who can get him into our hands.’
Garrett whistled. ‘A monkey! Strewth! Just tell us where he is now and we’ll bring him in double-quick!’
The short man’s voice rose. ‘We don’t know where he is now! We had this chance last night, and you blew it! He’s hiding somewhere else now!’
‘So how do we find him?’
‘Through his girl. We now know for sure he’s with the young woman from the Cavendish. They were together at Mr Ju—’ He corrected himself. ‘At the Maida Vale flat. And they left together. Find the girl and we’ll find Webber.’
‘OK, how do we find the girl then?’
‘She’s a dancer at the Windmill Theatre. You see the show there and, at the end, you watch for her at the stage door and follow her home.’
‘How do we know which is her?’
‘Her name’s Jane Hart. You buy a programme, then you’ll know what she looks like when she comes on. You can read, I take it?’
6
VIC DUDLEY’S RENTED flat in Notting Hill was functional rather than luxurious but at least it did have two bed
rooms, as well as a sitting room and kitchen. Vic’s first two years in show business had been a struggle. But now Windmill wages and radio fees had brought a measure of prosperity. There was a radiogram, with a stack of dance-band records. Vic had bought a rather stylish electric heater to augment the gas fire. And there was a fridge, to keep the beer bottles cold.
Adam had stayed warm and comfortable all day but boredom had been a problem. It was a working day for Jane. And comedians at the Windmill worked every day. So Vic and Jane had gone off together to the theatre after the three of them shared a late brunch.
Vic had offered his large collection of men’s magazines to keep Adam amused and for a while it did. He’d chuckled at the jokes and light-hearted articles in Lilliput, Men Only and London Opinion, admired their occasional, rather demure, black-and-white pictures of naked ladies, and failed to finish several crossword puzzles. By late afternoon Adam was feeling the need for more positive activity. He studied himself in the mirror. His facial hair had grown quickly, and could almost be regarded as moustache and sideburns, with the beginnings of a beard around his chin. Every day he’d practised wearing the glasses and found they did little to impair his vision. He was starting to feel he could venture into the outside world without being instantly recognized.
He sat down with pencil and paper and began to list all the things that needed thinking about: Cooper, The Bull, black market activities, and the thugs’ interest in a blue notebook, which must surely be the one he’d taken from Jefferson’s room.
Then he saw that it was six o’clock: time for the news. He wondered if he’d hear an explanation of last night’s alarms. There’d been two big blasts in London for the first time in many months and this morning had brought much speculation. Were the Germans about to launch a new bombing campaign? A last-ditch attempt to turn the tide?
Adam switched on the radio and found that the news had already started. It was not good news, but the announcer’s voice was calm and reassuring.
‘It’s now been confirmed that the two explosions in the Greater London area last night were the result of enemy action. Two high-explosive rockets had been fired from enemy territory across the English Channel.
The Shadow of Treason Page 10
