by Paul Somers
Bello:
hidden talent rediscovered!
Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.
At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.
We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.
About Bello:
www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello
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Contents
Paul Somers
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Paul Somers
Operation Piracy
Paul Somers
Paul Somers is the pen name of Paul Winterton (1908–2001). He was born in Leicester and educated at the Hulme Grammar School, Manchester and Purley County School, Surrey, after which he took a degree in Economics at London University. He was on the staff of The Economist for four years, and then worked for fourteen years for the London News Chronicle as reporter, leader writer and foreign correspondent. He was assigned to Moscow from 1942–5, where he was also the correspondent of the BBC’s Overseas Service.
After the war he turned to full-time writing of detective and adventure novels and produced more than forty-five books. His work was serialized, televised, broadcast, filmed and translated into some twenty languages. He is noted for his varied and unusual backgrounds – which have included Russia, newspaper offices, the West Indies, ocean sailing, the Australian outback, politics, mountaineering and forestry – and for never repeating a plot.
Paul Winterton was a founder member and first joint secretary of the Crime Writers’ Association.
Chapter One
That morning there was an unaccustomed air of lethargy about the office of the London Daily Record. A mid-August heat wave had just started, and at ten past eleven when I arrived the thermometer by the commissionaire’s box was already registering in the upper seventies. Normally there would have been a sprinkling of callers by now, but to-day the visitors’ benches were empty. Sergeant Stubbins, the most correct of commissionaires, had discarded his ribboned jacket and was sitting back in his shirt sleeves reading the Record’s sports page. He gave me a limp nod as I entered and handed me the key of the Reporters’ Room, which meant I was the first arrival. I took the lift up. The Reporters’ Room smelt of stale smoke and dust. I flung all the windows wide open and switched on the big electric fan that hung from the ceiling and went into the News Room to say “Good morning” to Blair, the News Editor.
Blair enjoyed heat, and he seemed in an amiable mood. I didn’t need to ask him if there was anything doing, because there obviously wasn’t. The small pile of agency copy that had accumulated during the night had already been sorted and dealt with. The tape machines were silent. The copy boy, whose job it was to tear off the tape, was reading a comic. Blair’s secretary was cleaning the letters of his typewriter. Blair himself had his black box out, a sure sign that the news front was lifeless. The black box contained dossiers on old story possibilities that hadn’t matured, and when Blair couldn’t find anything else for his reporters to do he’d pass them around and get us to bring the inquiries up to date. He was thoughtfully sifting through them now. Martin, a Jekyll-and-Hyde character who was sometimes a reporter and sometimes a Deputy Assistant News Editor, was at the other side of the desk, quietly perusing the latest batch of entries for the Record’s silly-season competition—“What would you do if you had £5,000?” It was all very peaceful—like the eye of a hurricane.
As I returned to the Reporters’ Room, Jack Lawson came in. Lawson was one of the Crime Reporters—a slim, pale, jaunty man of thirty or so. He said, “Morning, old boy—bloody hot, isn’t it?” and took a letter from his pigeon hole. He glanced at the hand-writing, winced, and tore it up without opening it. “Women!” he said. Lawson was always having woman-trouble. He tossed the bits into a waste basket and went into the News Room to report.
Smee was the next to arrive. Smee was a big, shambling man, flat-footed and fifty-ish. He looked, in Lawson’s phrase, like “a worn-out cop”. On a story, he was plodding and competent. In the office he had a perpetually hurt expression, like an animal that has been kicked around a lot and doesn’t know why. He muttered something about the heat, stuck his head in the News Room door, withdrew it quickly in case someone should give him a job, and walked over to his desk.
I said, “What was Hatcher so mad about last night, Bill? You seemed to be having a frightful row.” Hatcher was the Night News Editor, a bullying type with a barrack room manner.
“He tried to make out I was late back from supper,” Smee said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “He’s always after me for something. I’ll get that bastard one of these days, you see if I don’t.” He opened a drawer, and took out the sheaf of papers and the bottles of coloured inks that he used for his complicated racing system and started to work on it. He looked happier at once.
Lawson returned, glanced at the duty list, said, “Why is it we always have a high-powered staff on when there’s no news?” and sat down to do his expenses.
After a moment or two, Hunt came in. Hunt was the Chief Reporter—a handsome, middle-aged, immaculately-dressed man, confident and ebullient.
“There’s a woman at the front box with a pram, asking for Mr. Lawson,” he said, looking as pleased with himself as though he’d just made the crack for the first time. He opened the News Room door, called “’ Morning, Blair!” in an off-hand way and went to his desk. He took a clothes brush from a drawer and began to brush his impeccable trouser bottoms.
Lawson said, “Your turn to buy the coffee, Fred.”
“I bought it yesterday,” Hunt said indignantly. “Smee’ll buy it—he’s always in the money.”
“I haven’t had anything come up for days,” Smee said.
“Well, there’s nothing like a generous action to bring you luck. Come on, Smee, do your stuff—I’ll have mine black.”
Smee made a vaguely grumbling noise, reached for the desk telephone, and dialled the canteen for four coffees.
Hunt looked over Lawson’s shoulder, studying his expenses sheet. “‘Hospitality, £47s. 6d.’”, he read out, and gave a loud guffaw. “You’d better watch your step, Jack. The Editor’s started an economy drive.”
“What, again?” Lawson said, tapping away.
“This time it’s serious. Didn’t you hear about Ridley?”
“No.”
“Why, he had Ridley on the mat yesterday and made him explain each item in detail. Slashed everything to ribbons, I’m told.”
“Really?” Lawson said, looking worried.
“That’s right,” Hunt said, enjoying himself. “Even scored out ‘Glass of milk, 5d.’ Said he didn’t believe Ridley had ever had a glass of milk in his life.”
“Good lord!” Lawson pondered. “Oh, well—better play it safe, I suppose.” He began tapping again. I joined Hunt behind him. He’d stru
ck out the item £4 7s. 6d. and substituted £2 10s. 8d. “Pity they can’t trust us,” he said.
The News Room door suddenly opened with a bang and the copy boy came out, whistling shrilly between his teeth, and dumped an enormous pile of competition entries in front of Smee. “Mr. Blair says you’re to pick the winner,” he said with a grin, and departed.
Hunt said, “What would you do with £5,000, Smee?”
“He’d hire a couple of assassins to slit Hatcher’s throat,” Lawson said.
Smee looked disgustedly at the pile of papers. “You know, I read through three hundred of these bloody things yesterday.”
“You read them!” Lawson said, in a shocked tone. “Haven’t you ever heard of automation, old boy? Look, let me show you.” He left his typewriter, picked up the pile of papers, stood on a chair, and held them under the electric fan. For a moment he and Smee were lost sight of in a whirl of flying entries. When only one paper was left, Lawson stepped down. “Here’s the winner—Mrs. Stokes of Dartford. Good for her!” He put it on Smee’s desk. “You’ve got to keep abreast of the times, old boy—no good living in the past.”
“Now I’ve got to pick them all up,” Smee grumbled.
Hunt said, “Well, you young fellows can stew here all day if you like, but I’m going to find myself a nice out-of-town job. Something by the sea.” He opened a copy of a south coast local paper and began to study it.
Presently the boy came out again and gave me a visitor’s slip from the front box. A “Miss P. Bellamy” wished to see the Editor about a story. I went down to the box. An attractive young woman was waiting on one of the leather seats. She looked the sort of girl who might have a good story. I hoped she had, because I could certainly use one. I glanced at Sergeant Stubbins, who gave a warning headshake. I approached Miss Bellamy and said the Editor was busy, and could I help. She gave me a card, and explained that she was in tele-pathic communication with the planet Venus and had learned some Venusian tunes which she’d like us to publish. I said we never published music, but she said these were quite exceptional tunes and she was sure we’d like them. She put a hand on my arm and came close to me and began to hum a tune that sounded to me like the Blue Danube, gazing all the time into my eyes. It took me about five minutes to get rid of her, and by the time I got back to the Reporters’ Room the day seemed hotter than ever.
Lawson looked up from his typewriter. “What was she like, old boy?”
“Dotty, I’m afraid.” I showed him the card.
“‘The Girl from Venus,’” he read out. “H’m!—sounds promising. Telephone number, too.” He slipped the card into his pocket.
After a moment or two the waitress came in with the coffee. Her name was Mabel, and she had the sort of figure that looks good even in uniform. She’d only been working for the Record for three days.
Hunt said, “Getting used to things here, Mabel?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said.
“Shaping up nicely, I’d say,” Lawson said.
“Very nicely,” Hunt agreed.
“What do you think, Fred?—36-24-35?”
“You’ve got a nerve,” Mabel said, and distributed the cups.
“If you have any trouble with these reporters,” Hunt said, “just come to me.”
The outer door banged again as the copy boy re-emerged to tell Lawson that Blair wanted him. Lawson disappeared into the News Room. When he came out he looked distinctly peeved.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“The Editor wants a round-up on vice in the West End,” he said. “A round-up!—and eighty-five in the shade. Wants it to-day, too.”
“Oh, well,” I said, “you’ll only have to reminisce a bit.”
“Very funny, old boy. Anyway, here’s something to take the smile off your face. With Blair’s love.” He threw a bundle of papers from the black box on to my typewriter.
I picked up the top one. It was yellow with age, and the corners were dog-eared and frayed. I knew its contents by heart. A chap named Fowler had been planning a treasure-hunting expedition to the Sargasso Sea in a ketch, as far back as 1954, but he’d never got around to starting. The top paper of the dossier was filled with one-line memos by different reporters—“No date yet”—“No decision taken yet”—“Fowler says he’ll ring us when he has anything”—all initialled. I went to one of the phone booths ranged along the wall and put in a call to Fowler. It was stifling in the box, even with the door open. There was no reply, and I went back to my desk.
As I sat down, Hunt suddenly gave a satisfied exclamation and looked up from his paper. “Now here’s a good story,” he said. “Camber, Sussex. Just the place for a hot day, too.”
“Someone seen a mermaid?” Lawson said hopefully.
“Strange marks in the sand. A complete circle, as though a body had been dragged around, but no footmarks leading to it.”
“Probably the Loch Ness Monster come south,” Lawson said. “I bet you can’t sell that one to Blair.”
“What do you bet?”
“Glass of milk, old boy.”
“Done!” Hunt got up and took his paper into the News Room. The talk behind the glass partition soon grew lively. Hunt was a redoubtable arguer when he wanted something, and he wanted a day by the sea very badly. I could see Blair grinning. There were no flies on Blair, and of course he always had his way in the end. To-day, though, he was in a mellow mood and open to persuasion. Ten minutes passed. Then Hunt came out and picked up his hat.
“You owe me a glass of milk, Jock,” he said. “So long—I’ll think of you poor devils toiling over your grubby slips of paper while I’m having a swim.” He went out.
“Well, what do you know!” Lawson said. “The things he gets away with! Makes your blood boil.”
“Mine’s already boiled dry,” I said.
For a moment Lawson gazed thoughtfully out of the window. Then he closed his desk. “I think I’ll go along to the Yard and get the latest dope,” he said. “Anything’s better than staying in this oven. See you on the ice!” He went out, too.
I picked up another black box dossier. It was about a man who’d learned from a planchette that he’d die before September, and had believed it. The top page was covered with memos saying. “Still alive”, with signatures and dates.
I sighed, and looked at Smee. He’d retrieved most of the competition entries from the floor and had begun to read through them. As far as jobs were concerned I thought he had the edge on me, but it was very moot. The day seemed to hold little promise for either of us.
Then, suddenly, there was an eruption in the News Room. I could hear Blair talking agitatedly to Martin. His relaxed air had quite vanished. After a moment he came bustling out with a bit of copy in his hand. He was a short, square, very powerful man, and he bore down on me like a bulldozer.
“Curtis,” he said, “will you get down to Falmouth right away?” He thrust the copy into my hands. It was an agency flash, and it said: BRUCE ATTWOOD’S YACHT WANDERER PUT BACK HERE EARLY TO-DAY AFTER BEING SUBJECTED ARMED ATTACK ON HIGH SEAS.
“Good lord!” I said.
“It may be some publicity hoax,” Blair said, “but we can’t take a chance. If it’s true, it sounds like the story of the year.”
Chapter Two
I grabbed a time-table and looked up the trains from Paddington. The eleven-thirty had gone, and the one-thirty wouldn’t get me down much before nine. I could do it more quickly by car, I decided, and that way I wouldn’t have any transport difficulties when I got there. I drew twenty pounds from the cashier, collected my Riley from the office garage, and was away just before noon.
The journey was uneventful, but gruelling. I knew I had to step on it if I was going to get a story back to the paper that night, and I gave the Riley all she’d got, which was plenty. The A 30 highway was fairly busy with holiday traffic, but it wasn’t like a week-end, and with only a couple of brief stops for snacks at roadside cafés I managed to keep up an average of for
ty and still live.
On the way down, I mentally pieced together what I knew of Bruce Attwood. It amounted to quite a bit, for his name was a household word all over the country and hardly a week went by without his activities making headlines. He was a business man and a reputed millionaire—a flamboyant, larger-than-life character who enjoyed being discussed by the newspapers and had never been known to turn a reporter away without an interview. He had a very attractive wife named Charmian, a former model much younger than himself, on whom he doted to the point of making a public exhibition of himself. In his eyes she could do no wrong—there’d been an incident a few months back, I recalled, when he’d got into trouble for punching the driver of a car that she’d crashed into from behind because she wasn’t looking. Charmian was even more flamboyant than he was. I associated her in my mind exclusively with lavish parties, champagne, jewels and clothes. There was one particular interview I remembered, when she’d told some newspaperman that what she stood up in was worth £70,000. She and her husband did a good deal of cruising in their Luxury yacht Wanderer and according to a gossip paragraph I’d read a day or two before, they’d been about to sail to the Mediterranean in her, with guests, to attend some festival at Cannes. It was a most promising background for a story, and the nearer I got to Cornwall the more excited I felt about my assignment.
I reached Falmouth just before eight. Even at that hour, the grey, granite town was packed with holiday-makers, blocking the pavements, gazing into shop windows, milling around in cars. The car park in the main square was full and it took me a little time to find an empty bit of kerb. Then a passer-by directed me to the harbour, and I slung my binoculars over my shoulder and walked quickly through the square to the Prince of Wales Pier.
One glance at the scene there was enough to tell me the story was no hoax. The pier was crowded with eager sightseers, all looking and pointing in the same direction. A police radio car was parked just outside the turnstiles, and there were more uniformed policemen on the pier itself. I paid my threepence and squeezed through the throng. I couldn’t get to the railing, but my extra inches gave me a good view over the heads of the crowd. There was a fine expanse of sheltered blue water, with attractive hills half a mile ahead across the estuary. To the right, I could see docks and some large oil tankers and the channel out to the Carrick Roads. The yacht anchorage lay to the left, well off the fairway. There were boats there of every description, scores of them—dinghies and half-decked day-sailers, sloops and ketches, “fifty-fifties” and cabin cruisers, some at mooring buoys and some at anchor. A few of them were expensive-looking jobs, but only one really stood out—a very smart, white-hulled motor ship of perhaps a hundred and fifty tons, which I hadn’t a doubt was Wanderer. A couple of launches were tied up alongside her gangway, and one of them looked like a police boat. I turned my glasses on the yacht but I couldn’t see any movement aboard her. All the movement came from the dozen or so rowing boats manoeuvring slowly around her, some of them occupied by men with cameras. It looked as though the local reporters were still waiting for a break. I’d obviously have to get out there myself, but first I wanted to pick up what information I could ashore.
