The Shadow of Treason

by Edward Taylor

  ‘Well, take a good look at him now. You need to get to know the local villains, Thompson. They’re your stock in trade.’

  ‘He’s a villain, is he?’

  ‘If he hangs around with Reggie Paynter, he has to be. And he did a runner when we nabbed Reggie.’

  ‘So do we nick this bloke then?’

  ‘We can’t, we’ve got nothing on him yet, have we? Just note the face for your memory-book. There’ll be no arrests tonight, Thompson. Tonight we definitely follow Jane Hart.’

  But Jane Hart never appeared.

  At 10.30 the pianist emerged from the stage door, and for the next twenty minutes people were leaving: but not the girl they were looking for.

  Across the road, Sid Garrett was becoming frustrated and restless, looking at his watch and starting to pace up and down.

  By eleven o’clock, activity had ceased, and Bert was starting to close down for the night. Inspector Jessett gave an impatient snort, and made a decision.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to mess around a third night. Come on.’

  He strode across the road, with Thompson at his side, and reached the stage door just as Bert had it half shut.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Jessett. ‘We’re police.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘I need a word with you.’

  A few yards away, Garrett heard Jessett’s commanding voice and walked briskly off into the night, already planning his excuses for tomorrow.

  Bert reluctantly opened the door. ‘Blimey, so you’re a copper! And you was one of the blokes making trouble last night!’

  ‘That’s what coppers are for,’ said Jessett. ‘Has Miss Hart come out yet?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her, but she must have done. I just checked, and all the dressing rooms are empty. I’m locking up.’

  ‘Well, hold on a moment. Is there another way she could have come out?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. Some of them go out through the front of the theatre. It’s the quickest way to the tube.’

  Jessett sighed, cursed quietly, and growled at the constable. ‘You should have thought of that, Thompson. So we’re back tomorrow night, and next time we split up.’ He turned back to Bert. ‘Two things, my friend. First off, don’t tell Miss Hart we’ve been enquiring. It’s for her own good. Right?’

  ‘All right. If you say so.’

  ‘The other thing is, I have to change my plans for the morning. Mind if I use your phone? Police business.’

  Bert sniffed. ‘I suppose you’ll have to. Only be quick about it. My last train goes at 11.30.’

  Jessett picked up the receiver and dialled Tilfleet Police Station.

  ‘Leave your tuppence in the saucer,’ said Bert, putting on his coat.

  ‘Put tuppence in the saucer, Thompson,’ said the inspector, and then the phone was picked up at the other end.

  ‘Hello, Sergeant, Jessett here. I have to … What? … What?!’ As the voice continued at the other end, Jessett stood rigid, listening with a mixture of astonishment and dismay.

  Thompson hadn’t got two pennies, so he put a threepenny bit in the saucer, and made a note for his next expenses claim.

  At St Christopher’s School, the academic day had ended two hours ago, the last of the staff and pupils had departed, and the building had reverted to its evening function as the headquarters of the local Home Guard.

  In the playground, a row of sacks filled with straw stood ready for bayonet practice. Crude drawings of Hitler had been chalked on the sacks, to increase motivation. From the gym came the sound of men being drilled.

  In the room reserved for the commanding officer, Tilfleet Unit, Cedric Dean was about to embark on a tricky conversation. Dean was not in the Home Guard, and therefore not subject to the commanding officer’s authority. But, as he stood in front of the desk behind which the short man sat staring at him, he could not help being somewhat intimidated. He felt like a private charged with an offence, or a schoolboy up before his headmaster.

  It was a feeling he fought hard to resist. He had something he knew the short man wanted, and he was here to get himself the best possible deal. It wasn’t a good idea to let himself feel inferior.

  Captain Brigden spoke briskly. ‘My sergeant tells me you claim to have important information.’

  ‘More than information, Squire,’ said Dean. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘If you wish. But get to the point quickly. This is a training night. I’m short of time.’ Brigden resented having to deal with people like Dean. But if what the man had told the sergeant was true, he couldn’t afford not to.

  ‘Ta,’ said Dean. He pulled a chair from the side of the room and sat facing Brigden across the desk. ‘That’s more friendly, eh?’

  There was no reply from Brigden, who continued to stare at Dean, like a doctor inspecting an unpleasant specimen.

  Dean shifted on his seat, in a vain attempt to get more comfortable. Then he made his bid. ‘Yeah … well … the word in the street is, you’re after this bloke Webber, who’s been in all the papers. Right?’

  ‘Yes. We believe he has some property that was stolen from this office. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I know how to get hold of him.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He was at the pub, asking questions about Creeper Cooper. Someone put him on to me. He said his name was Craig and he wanted a load of whisky. He was wearing bins and a lot of stubble, but right off I knew it was Webber.’

  Brigden’s stare intensified. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m good on faces. It was Webber all right and, whatever he’s really after, it’s not booze. I reckon he’s looking to pin the Cooper job on someone else, and get himself off the hook.’

  ‘Never mind all that,’ snapped Brigden. ‘Did you find out where he’s hiding?’

  ‘I tried, but he wasn’t having any. Still, the point is, he wants something from me. He pretended it’s Scotch, so I went along with that. I said I’d get some stuff together and if he rings me tomorrow, I’ll tell him where to come.’

  ‘I see. So you’ll bring him somewhere where we can arrest him?’

  ‘That’s the idea, Squire. At a very reasonable price.’

  Brigden frowned. ‘There should be no question of money. Webber’s a wanted criminal. It’s your duty to hand him over to the authorities.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that would be the police, wouldn’t it? And I heard you want to get to him before the coppers do.’

  ‘As it happens, that is correct. The stolen item concerns an army operation. It’s not to be seen by any civilians, even the police.’

  ‘That’s up to you, Squire. None of my business. I’m just offering to give you Webber on a plate for five hundred quid. Cash down.’

  ‘What? Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not giving you five hundred pounds!’

  Dean waited in silence for a moment. Then he half rose, as if to leave. ‘Oh well … I heard you was offering five hundred. If I got it wrong, perhaps I should go to the police after all.’

  ‘Sit down!’ barked Brigden. ‘You realize that in half-a-minute I could have two men in here who’d beat the information out of you?’

  ‘I haven’t got any information, have I? Except what I already told you. And beating me up’s no good to you. You need me OK to take Webber’s call tomorrow and set him up for you.’

  Brigden scowled. ‘I’ll give you two hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Sorry, Squire, it has to be five hundred. Now.’

  ‘I’ll give you two hundred now, and three hundred when we’ve got Webber.’

  ‘No thanks. Once you get your hands on Webber, I got no protection. My life won’t be worth nothing. I could end up in a road accident, like that other bloke.’

  Inwardly, Brigden was shaken, but his manner remained stern. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Some of us can put two and two together, Squire.’

  ‘Well, don’t,’ said Brigden.
‘It could be dangerous.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I reckon. I’m planning to make myself scarce for a bit. So there it is. You give me the five hundred and tell me where you want Webber delivered. I set him up tomorrow when he rings. Then I’m off to Cornwall. Stay with a pal of mine. Are we on?’

  There was fury on Brigden’s face as he stood up and, for a moment, it seemed he might strike the other man. Instead, he went to the wall behind him and began turning a dial. There’d been recriminations after the theft from his locked drawer and a safe had been installed, in keeping with the traditional British stable-door policy.

  Brigden opened the door and took out the large brown envelope, in which he kept the cash to pay professional criminals. Rubber bands held five-pound notes together in wads of ten. He extracted ten of these, and threw them on the desk in front of Sniffer Dean.

  ‘If we haven’t got Webber in our hands in twenty-four hours,’ he said, ‘you will be dead. We have friends in Cornwall, and anywhere else you go.’

  And then he told Dean what to say to Webber when he phoned.

  8

  WESTLEY’S DEMEANOUR WAS authoritative and quietly confident, as if he already felt he held the reins of power.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, our day of action is imminent, and I think all our major plans are safely in place. Details that have yet to be filled in or changed will need to be dealt with today. Are there any matters that require clarification?’

  Ernest Cox raised a hand. ‘Can we take it that the top brass are not moving out of London?’

  ‘Yes. The Cabinet have now rejected that proposal. And, if they changed their minds, it would be too late. The necessary arrangements couldn’t be made before our takeover. So that’s one adjustment we don’t need to think about.’

  ‘Have the orders for extra supplies gone through?’ asked Denby.

  ‘Yes. All approved and delivered. There were hold-ups, as you know. But Neville Straker managed to clear away all the obstacles. So, thus far at least, he seems to be up to his job.’

  Westley cast a dark glance at Collis, who continued to study his notes.

  ‘Right,’ said Westley. ‘I take it each of you has brought final action plans from every unit commander in your area.’

  There were murmurs of assent, and rustling of papers.

  ‘Good. We’ll be going through them in detail shortly with our military commander, Major Fry. But, first, are there any other queries?’

  Charles Bell spoke. ‘I have a rather delicate point to make. And I do so only because I’m concerned for the reputation and image of our movement.’

  This sounded interesting. Eyes were raised from notes and focussed on Bell, who was suddenly the centre of attention.

  ‘I’m sure that concerns us all,’ said Westley. ‘You’d better tell us.’

  Bell’s quiet voice conveyed regret at a painful necessity. ‘I’d like to stress I make no moral judgments. I’m concerned only with the facts, and the effect they may have on our standing.’

  Westley’s voice was impatient. ‘Quite. And what are the facts?’

  ‘I learned yesterday from my contact in Fleet Street that the Sunday Pictorial is to run a scandal story on our friend Alfred Jupp here.’

  Jupp looked startled. He’d had no warning of this. But then Bell had never forgiven him for beating him to the presidency of the college Fabian Society. Jupp decided he’d better ask the question before somebody else did. He tried to sound casual.

  ‘What scandal is this?’

  ‘I don’t know how many scandals you’re involved in, Alfie,’ said Bell. ‘The one the paper’s on to is your mistress in Maida Vale. “Top MP Romps with Chorus Girl”, that sort of thing.’

  Westley was stern. ‘Is this really something we should spend our time on?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Bell. ‘I’m afraid a scandal like this could lose us public support just when we need it most. Alfie’s supposed to play a very public role, both in our takeover, and in our new administration. But, in these circumstances, it might be better for him to keep a low profile for a while.’

  Hugh Denby was angry. ‘I don’t know if this allegation is true or false, and I don’t care! Either way it’s nonsense! Many politicians have mistresses. Always have done. All French ministers keep young women, as a matter of course, except those who keep young men.’

  ‘That’s France,’ said Bell. ‘That’s why they crumbled in 1940.’

  ‘Let’s be practical,’ Westley commanded. ‘Does your contact expect the Pictorial to print the story this Sunday?’

  ‘No. Apparently they’re still gathering material.’

  ‘Then it doesn’t matter, does it? By Sunday week we’ll have control of the press. This article will never see the light of day. There’ll be no room in the new Britain for the smut and scandal of the capitalist press. Now let’s move on.’

  Jupp breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Robert,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Now then,’ said Westley, ‘are there any serious matters unresolved?’

  ‘I take it the missing Tilfleet logbook might still be regarded as serious?’ Bill Ford was not letting this one go. ‘Has there been any progress?’

  Westley smiled. ‘As it happens, I do have some good news to report on that matter. Our people on the ground are confident of apprehending the thief within the next twenty-four hours. Offering a reward to the underworld has borne fruit.’

  Vic Dudley was fretting. The morning newspaper was a vital part of his normal brunch routine, and today it hadn’t arrived. Vic was missing it. He always studied the Daily Mirror avidly at this time of day. Apart from the delights of Jane, Garth and the other comic strips, there was the fun of trawling through the news pages for items that could produce topical gags for his act. The great thing about topical gags was that they didn’t actually have to be very funny. It was better if they were, of course, but in fact audiences were so impressed by up-to-the-minute references that they applauded anyway.

  Jane, ever eager to help, had gone out to buy a paper at the newsagent’s round the corner. But in the meantime, Vic was short of reading matter. Luckily, both his guests ate cereals so that, as a last resort, Vic was able to peruse the information on the packets.

  Adam was knocking back his third mug of tea, and hoping it would finally wake him up.

  ‘Hey, Adam,’ said Vic, with sudden enthusiasm, ‘d’you know how they get Puffed Wheat to blow up that big?’

  ‘No,’ said Adam. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it.’

  ‘Well, you should,’ said Vic. ‘It’s very interesting. Modern technology. According to this, the wheat germs are put under enormous pressure, and then they’re fired from guns!’ He pondered briefly on this oddity, and then added, ‘I suppose that means conscientious objectors can’t eat them.’

  Adam rose from the table. ‘I think it’s time I rang this black market villain and got my instructions.’

  On his return from The Bull he had told Vic and Jane his story, over late-night coffee. Jane remained apprehensive, but accepted that this was a lead that had to be followed up. Vic had agreed, and was still hoping to reap some alcoholic benefit from the project.

  ‘Good luck, mate,’ he said, and read on.

  Adam left the kitchen and shut himself in the sitting room, to make his important call without interruption.

  Vic settled down to read several endorsements by leading sportsmen who attributed their success to regular intake of Puffed Wheat.

  And then Jane came rushing in, full of excitement. She thrust the Daily Mirror in front of Vic. ‘Look!’ she said. ‘Here on page three!’

  The headline leaped up at him. ‘East End Gangster Dies in Police Cell.’

  As Vic stared at the paper, words came bursting forth from Jane. ‘It’s Tilfleet again! What on earth’s going on? That’s three deaths! First poor Mark. Then Cooper. Now this!’

  Vic read the story with astonishment. A man called Reginald Paynter, who’d been arr
ested on a charge of robbery with violence, had indeed died in Tilfleet Police Station. He’d been found hanged in his cell, and was pronounced dead at the local hospital.

  Jane was unstoppable. ‘It’s incredible! I know about this man Paynter. George Fowler said he was involved in the Tilfleet black market. I told the police to go after him!’

  ‘Looks like they took your advice,’ Vic observed. He read aloud. ‘An enquiry will be started immediately. Unofficial sources say that Paynter, who had a long criminal record, is believed to have committed suicide.’

  ‘How could that happen in a police cell?’

  ‘Beats me,’ said Vic. ‘I thought when they locked people up, the rozzers took away their ties and belts and braces, anything they could use to top themselves.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps they forgot his bootlaces.’

  Adam came back from the sitting room. ‘I’ve got my orders,’ he announced.

  ‘Adam!’ cried Jane. ‘There’s been another death in Tilfleet! It’s in the paper! One of the men George told me about! You know, involved in black market at The Bull! The police arrested him, and now he’s been found dead in his cell!’

  ‘Wow!’ said Adam. ‘Things are hotting up! The whole business must be about black market feuds, like we thought. And, from what I just heard, I reckon there’s a Home Guard connection.’

  ‘The Home Guard?’ The new thought set Jane’s mind racing. She was recalling Mark Jefferson’s evening training sessions.

  ‘So what did your contact say?’ Vic asked.

  ‘I’m to go to this shed on the Essex marshes at two o’clock this afternoon. It’s near Chalksea station, just by a Home Guard firing range. That must be where they keep their dodgy goods.’

  Jane had gone pale. ‘Adam, this is getting too dangerous! I don’t want you going there!’

  ‘Nonsense, my darling,’ said Adam. ‘This is my chance to get in on the inside. I have to find out what happened to Cooper, remember? Clear myself of the murder charge. We agreed that’s what I should do.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. Go to the police and tell them everything!’

  ‘And end up dead in a cell? Oh no, I’m not giving up now, after all we’ve been through. Not just when I look like getting a break.’