‘Yes, what do you want? We don’t open till eleven.’
Devlin had unbuttoned his raincoat and she saw the dog collar. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. Conlon – Father Conlon.’
There was a chain round her neck and he saw the crucifix. Her attitude changed at once. ‘What can I do for you, Father?’
‘I knew I was going to be in the neighbourhood and a colleague asked me to look up a friend of his. Father confessor at St Mary’s Priory. Stupid of me, but I’ve forgotten his name.’
‘That would be Father Frank.’ She smiled. ‘Well, that’s what we call him. Father Frank Martin. He’s priest in charge at St Patrick’s down the road and he handles the Priory as well. God alone knows how he manages at his age. Has no help at all, but then there’s a war on I suppose.’
‘St Patrick’s, you say? God bless you,’ Devlin told her and went out.
There was nothing very remarkable about the church. It was late Victorian in architecture like most Catholic churches in England, built after changes in English law had legitimized that branch of the Christian religion.
It had the usual smells, candles, incense, religious images, the Stations of the Cross, things which, in spite of his Jesuit education, had never meant very much to Devlin. He sat down in a pew and after a while Father Martin came out of the sacristy and genuflected at the altar. The old man stayed on his knees praying and Devlin got up and left quietly.
Michael Ryan was a little over six feet and carried himself well for his sixty years. Sitting at the kitchen table he wore a black leather jacket and white scarf, a tweed cap beside him. He was drinking tea from a large mug Mary had given him.
‘Conlon, you say?’ He shook his head. ‘I never had a friend called Conlon. Come to think of it, I never had a friend who was a priest.’
There was a knock at the kitchen door. Mary went and opened it. Devlin stood there in the rain. ‘God bless all here,’ he said and stepped inside.
Ryan stared at him, frowning and then an expression of bewilderment appeared on his face. ‘Dear God in Heaven. It can’t be – Liam Devlin. It is you?’
He stood up and Devlin put his hands on his shoulders. ‘The years have been kind to you, Michael.’
‘But you, Liam, what have they done to you?’
‘Oh, don’t believe everything you see. I needed a change in appearance. A few years added on.’ He took his hat off and ran his fingers through the grey stubble. ‘The hair owes more to the chemical industry at the moment than it does to nature.’
‘Come in, man, come in.’ Ryan shut the door. ‘Are you on the run or what?’
‘Something like that. It needs explaining.’
Ryan said, ‘This is my niece, Mary. Remember my elder brother, Seamus? He that died in Mountjoy Prison.’
‘A good man on the worst of days,’ Devlin said.
‘Mary – this is my old friend Liam Devlin.’
The effect on the girl was quite extraordinary. It was as if a light had been turned on inside. There was a look on her face that was almost holy. ‘You are Liam Devlin? Sweet Mother of Jesus, I’ve heard of you ever since I was a little girl.’
‘Nothing bad, I hope,’ Devlin said.
‘Sit down – please. Will you have some tea? Have you had your breakfast?’
‘Come to think of it, I haven’t.’
‘I’ve got some eggs and there’s a little of Uncle Michael’s black-market bacon left. You can share it.’
While she busied herself at the stove Devlin took off his coat and sat opposite Ryan. ‘Have you a telephone here?’
‘Yes. In the hall.’
‘Good. I need to make a call later.’
‘What is it, Liam? Has the IRA decided to start up again in London?’
‘I’m not from the IRA this time,’ Devlin told him. ‘Not directly. To be frank, I’m from Berlin.’
Ryan said, ‘I’d heard the organization had had dealings with the Germans, but to what purpose, Liam? Are you telling me you actually approve of that lot?’
‘Nazi bastards most of them,’ Devlin said. ‘Not all, mind you. Their aim is to win the war, mine is a united Ireland. I’ve had the odd dealing with them, always for money, money paid into a Swiss account on behalf of the organization.’
‘And you’re here for them now? Why?’
‘British Intelligence have a man under guard not far from here at St Mary’s Priory. A Colonel Steiner. As it happens, he’s a good man and no Nazi. You’ll have to take my word for that. It also happens that the Germans want him back. That’s why I’m here.’
‘To break him out?’ Ryan shook his head. ‘There was never anyone else like you. A raving bloody lunatic.’
‘I’ll try not to involve you too much, but I do need a little help. Nothing too strenuous, I promise. I could ask you to do it for old times’ sake, but I won’t.’ Devlin picked up the case, put it on the table and opened it. He pushed the clothes out of the way, ran a finger round the bottom and pulled out the lining revealing the money he had carried in there. He took out a bundle of white five-pound notes and laid them on the table. ‘A thousand pounds, Michael.’
Ryan ran his fingers through his hair. ‘My God, Liam, what can I say?’
The girl put plates of egg and bacon in front of each of them. ‘You should be ashamed to take a penny piece after the stories you’ve told me about Mr Devlin. You should be happy to do it for nothing.’
‘Oh, what it is to be young.’ Devlin put an arm about her waist. ‘If only life were like that, but hang on to your dreams, girl.’ He turned to Ryan. ‘Well, Michael?’
‘Christ, Liam, you only live once, but to show I’m a weak man, I’ll take the thousand quid!’
‘First things first. Do you happen to have a gun about the place?’
‘A Luger pistol from before the war under the floorboards in my bedroom. Must have been there five years and the ammunition to go with it.’
‘I’ll check it over. Is it convenient for me to stay here? It won’t be for long.’
‘Fine. We’ve plenty of room.’
‘Transport. I saw your black cab outside. Is that it?’
‘No, I have a Ford van in the shed. I only use it now and then. It’s the petrol situation, you see.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll use your phone now if I may.’
‘Help yourself.’
Devlin closed the door and stood alone at the telephone. He rang directory enquiries and asked for the telephone number for Shaw Place. There was a delay of two or three minutes only and then the girl gave him the number and he wrote it down. He sat on a chair beside the phone, thinking about it for a while, then picked it up, dialled the operator and gave her the number.
After a while the phone was picked up at the other end and a woman’s voice said, ‘Charbury three-one-four.’
‘Would Sir Maxwell Shaw be at home?’
‘No, he isn’t. Who is this?’
Devlin decided to take a chance. Remembering from the file that she had reverted to using her maiden name years ago, he said, ‘Would that be Miss Lavinia Shaw?’
‘Yes it is. Who are you?’
Devlin said, ‘Does the Falcon still wait? It is now time to strike.’
The effect was immediate and dramatic. ‘Oh, my God!’ Lavinia Shaw said and then there was silence.
Devlin waited for a moment, then said, ‘Are you there, Miss Shaw?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘I must see you and your brother as soon as possible. It’s urgent.’
She said, ‘My brother’s in London. He had to see his solicitor. He’s staying at the Army and Navy Club. He told me he’d have lunch there and catch the train back this afternoon.’
‘Excellent. Get in touch with him and tell him to expect me. Let’s say two o’clock. Conlon – Major Harry Conlon.’
There was a pause. She said, ‘Is it coming?’
‘Is what coming, Miss Shaw?’
‘You know – the invasion.’
/> He stifled a strong desire to laugh. ‘We’ll speak again I’m sure after I’ve seen your brother.’
He went back to the kitchen where Ryan still sat at the table. The girl, washing dishes at the sink, said, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Every journey needs a first step.’ He picked up his case. ‘If you could show me my room. I need to change.’
She took him upstairs, led him into a back bedroom overlooking the river. Devlin unpacked his case, laid the uniform out on the bed. The Smith & Wesson he slipped under the mattress with the webbing belt and holster together with an ankle holster in leather which he also took from the case. He found the bathroom at the end of the corridor, had a quick shave and brushed his hair, then returned to the bedroom and changed.
He went downstairs fifteen minutes later resplendent in his uniform. ‘Jesus, Liam, I never thought I’d see the day,’ Ryan said.
‘You know the old saying, Michael,’ Devlin told him. ‘When you’re a fox with a pack on your tail you stand a better chance if you look like a hound.’ He turned to Mary and smiled. ‘And now, girl dear, another cup of tea would go down just fine.’
It was at that moment that the poor girl fell totally in love with him, what the French call coup de foudre, the thunderclap. She felt herself crimson and turned to the cooker. ‘Of course, Mr Devlin. I’ll make some fresh.’
To its members, the Army and Navy Club was simply known as the Rag. A great gloomy palazzo of a place in Venetian style and situated on Pall Mall. Its governing committee had been renowned since Victorian times for its leniency towards members disgraced or in trouble, and Sir Maxwell Shaw was a case in point. No one had seen the slightest necessity to blackball him over the business of his detection under Regulation 18B. He was, after all, an officer and a gentleman who had been both wounded and decorated for gallantry in the service of his country.
He sat in a comer of the morning room drinking the Scotch the waiter had brought in and thinking about Lavinia’s astonishing telephone call. Quite unbelievable that now, after so long, the summons should come. My God, but he was excited. Hadn’t felt such a charge in years.
He called for another Scotch and the same moment a porter approached him. ‘Your guest is here, Sir Maxwell.’
‘My guest?’
‘Major Conlon. Shall I show him in?’
‘Yes. Of course. At once, man.’
Shaw got to his feet, straightening his tie as the porter returned with Devlin who held out his hand and said cheerfully, ‘Harry Conlon. Nice to meet you, Sir Maxwell.’
Shaw was dumbfounded, not so much by the uniform, but by the dog collar. He shook hands as the waiter brought his glass of Scotch. ‘Would you like one of these, Major?’
‘No thanks.’ The waiter departed and Devlin sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘You look a little shaken, Sir Maxwell.’
‘Well goodness, man, of course I am. I mean, what is all this about? Who are you?’
‘Does the Falcon still wait?’ Devlin asked. ‘Because it is now time to strike.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘No buts, Sir Maxwell. You made a pledge a long time ago when Werner Keitel recruited you and your sister to, shall we say, the cause? Are you in or are you out? Where do you stand?’
‘You mean you’ve got work for me?’
‘There’s a job to be done.’
‘The invasion is finally coming?’
‘Not yet,’ Devlin said smoothly, ‘but soon. Are you with us?’
He’d been prepared to bring pressure to bear, but in the event, it was unnecessary. Shaw gulped down the whisky. ‘Of course I am. What do you require of me?’
‘Let’s take a little walk,’ Devlin said. ‘The park across the road will do fine.’
It had started to rain, bouncing from the windows. For a moment, there wasn’t a porter in the cloakroom. Shaw found his bowler hat, raincoat and umbrella. Amongst the jumble of coats there was a military trenchcoat. Devlin picked it up, followed him outside and put it on.
They went across to St James’s Park and walked along the side of the lake towards Buckingham Palace, Shaw with his umbrella up. After a while they moved into the shelter of some trees and Devlin lit a cigarette.
‘You want one of these things?’
‘Not at the moment. What is it you want me to do?’
‘Before the war your sister used to fly a Tiger Moth. Does she still have it?’
‘The RAF took it for training purposes in the winter of thirty-nine.’
‘She used a barn as a hangar. Is that still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the place she used to land and take off? The South Meadow, I think you called it? It’s not been ploughed up for the war effort or anything?’
‘No, all the land around Shaw Place, the land that used to be ours, is used for sheep grazing.’
‘And South Meadow is still yours?’
‘Of course. Is that important?’
‘You could say so. A plane from France will be dropping in and in the not too distant future.’
Shaw’s face became extremely animated. ‘Really? What for?’
‘To pick up me and another man. The less you know the better, but he’s important. Does any of this give you a problem?’
‘Good heavens, no. Glad to help, old man.’ Shaw frowned slightly. ‘You’re not German, I take it?’
‘Irish,’ Devlin told him. ‘But we’re on the same side. You were given a radio by Werner Keitel. Do you still have it?’
‘Ah, well, there you have me, old man. I’m afraid we don’t. You see, back in forty-one the government brought in this stupid regulation. I was in prison for a few months.’
‘I know about that.’
‘My sister, Lavinia, you know what women are like. She panicked. Thought the police might arrive and turn the house upside down. There’s a lot of marsh around our place, some of it bottomless. She threw the radio in, you see.’ He looked anxious. ‘Is this a problem, old man?’
‘Of a temporary nature only. You’re going back home today?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good. I’ll be in touch. Tomorrow or the next day.’ Devlin ground out his cigarette. ‘Jesus, the rain. That’s London for you. Never changes,’ and he walked away.
When he turned along the terrace at the side of the house at Cable Wharf, the rain was drifting across the river. There was an awning stretching from the cable of the motor boat over the cockpit. Mary Ryan sat under it, safe from the rain, reading a book.
‘Are you enjoying yourself down there?’ Devlin called.
‘I am. Uncle Michael’s in the kitchen. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, I’m fine at the moment.’
When Devlin went in, Ryan was sitting at the table. He’d covered it with newspaper and was stripping a Luger pistol, oil on his fingers. ‘God help me, Liam, I’ve forgotten how to do this.’
‘Give me a minute to change and I’ll handle it,’ Devlin told him.
He was back in five minutes wearing dark slacks and a black polo-neck sweater. He reached for the Luger parts and got to work oiling them, then putting the whole weapon together expertly.
‘Did it go well?’ Ryan asked.
‘If meeting a raving lunatic could ever go well, then yes,’ Devlin told him. ‘Michael, I’m dealing with an English aristocrat so totally out of his skull that he’s still eagerly awaiting a German invasion and that’s when he’s sober.’
He told Ryan about Shaw Place, Shaw and his sister. When he was finished, Ryan said, ‘They sound mad, the both of them.’
‘Yes, but the trouble is I need a radio and they haven’t got one.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I was thinking about the old days, when I came over to handle that active service unit. They got weapons and even explosives from underworld sources. Am I right?’
Ryan nodded. ‘That’s true.’
‘And you, Michael, as I r
ecall, were the man with the contacts.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Come off it, Michael. There’s a war on, black market in everything from petrol to cigarettes. Just the same in Berlin. Don’t tell me you aren’t in it up to your neck and you a London cabbie?’
‘All right,’ Ryan put up a hand defensively. ‘You want a radio, but the kind you want would have to be Army equipment.’
‘That’s right.’
‘It’s no good going to some back-street trader.’
There was a silence between them. Devlin broke the Luger down and wiped each piece carefully with a rag. ‘Then who would I go to?’
Ryan said, ‘There’s a fella called Carver – Jack Carver. Has a brother called Eric.’
‘What are they, black marketeers?’
‘Much more than that. Jack Carver’s probably the most powerful gangster in London these days. Anything, but anything that goes down, Carver gets a piece. Not just black market. Girls, gambling, protection. You name it.’
‘I used to know a fella in Dublin in the same line of work,’ Devlin said. ‘He wasn’t so bad.’
‘Jack Carver’s the original bastard and young Eric’s a toad. Every girl on the pavement is terrified of him.’
‘Do you tell me?’ Devlin said, ‘I’m surprised nobody’s stepped in here before now.’
‘It wasn’t New York gangsters who invented cementing dead bodies into new roadways,’ Ryan said. ‘Jack Carver patented that idea. He’s the one who supplied that active service unit with their guns and explosives back in thirty-six. If he had a grandmother he’d sell her to the Germans if he thought there was money in it.’
‘I’m frightened to death,’ Devlin said. ‘Well, Carver is the kind of man who can lay his hands on anything, so if I want a radio ...’
‘Exactly.’
‘Fine. Where do I find him?’
‘There’s a dance hall a couple of miles from here in Limehouse. It’s called the Astoria Ballroom. Carver owns it. Has a big apartment upstairs. He likes that. Convenient for his brother to pick up the girls.’
‘And himself, I suppose?’
‘You’d suppose wrong, Liam. Girls don’t interest him in the slightest.’
Eagle Has Flown, The Page 13
