by Mike Dorrell
‘Moulton?’ Sir Richard was looking in puzzlement at his former employee.
‘The chairman’s son,’ Dick Barton explained. ‘He was out there learning the business. He’s managing director now, I believe.’ Then, more directly: ‘May I use your phone?’
Without waiting for Sir Richard’s reply, Barton crossed the room, picked up the receiver, and began to dial.
Virginia turned to her father once again. There was an anxious look on her face. ‘What are we going to do about Rex?’
The industrialist was anxious to reassure his daughter. He’d already checked with the best authorities. ‘I’ve talked to Sir Barnett Friedmann about him. The well known physician. His opinion is that if we can keep him away from the odious stuff for two weeks ...’
Virginia interrupted eagerly: ‘He can be cured?’
‘As good as new, Friedmann said,’ the peer finished.
Then, as Dick Barton began to speak into the telephone, the conversation between Virginia and her father died away. No one in the well furnished room was indifferent to what information he might procure. It was a matter of life and death – of a nation.
‘Eddie?’ Barton asked calmly. ‘Have I dragged you from your slumbers? It’s Barton here – Dick Barton. Well enough, old son. You remember the raid on your bonded warehouse?’ There was a pause while he waited for the voice at the other end to answer. ‘Yes. When nothing appeared to be missing – right. Well something was missing – bales K26-K37.’ His voice grew more serious. ‘The miscreants substituted something very nasty for your doubtless excellent tobacco.’ He paused again. ‘Yes. I see. The whole consignment? Right. Thanks, Eddie.’
When he had replaced the telephone on the hook, Barton turned to the eagerly waiting group.
Sir Richard was the first to speak: ‘What news, Dick?’
Barton’s expression was grim. ‘Not so good, I’m afraid.’
‘What’s up, sir?’ Snowey asked.
‘That particular consignment of tobacco has passed through their factory already,’ the special agent replied flatly.
‘Och –’ Jock Anderson commented loudly. ‘That’s awful bad, sir.’
Dick Barton glanced at the still prone Rex Marley. He hadn’t moved from the couch since he’d been put there on arrival. ‘It’s none too bright, Jock, I grant you.’
‘Do they know what brand of cigarettes the stuff went into?’ Sir Richard asked.
Dick Barton now glanced questioningly at the peer. ‘They do – as a matter of fact – it’s their top selling cigarette – Golden Frond.
Sir Richard then strode over to the telephone and picked up the receiver. ‘I think we can do something about this,’ he muttered as he began to dial. Then, he spoke into the telephone. ‘Give me Sir John Reigh, please.’
Snowey White wondered what was going on. He looked across to where the governor was standing, but he seemed happy enough. Snowey shrugged his shoulders.
The next day, in the studio of Broadcasting House, a radio announcer sat at his desk as a special bulletin was brought in. The red light flashed. He looked down at the bulletin and began to read. It was a nationwide broadcast at peak listening time.
‘This is the BBC Home and Forces programme,’ the announcer said. ‘Here is the news. In a special warning today the police have asked the public to return to their retailer ...’
The airwaves hummed as the message was transmitted from relay station to relay station.
‘... Any packets of Golden Frond cigarettes which they may have purchased this morning ...’
In a perfectly ordinary room in a typical house in the North of England, a man put a cigarette in his mouth. Then, the warning continued on the radio.
‘... retailers have been authorised to refund the complete purchase price ...’
As the announcer’s voice crackled through the static, the man put down the box of matches he held in his hand. Then, he looked down at the packet of cigarettes he was still holding. The brand name was Golden Frond.
And, in a well to do, expensively furnished apartment in Kensington, a well dressed woman looked down at the packet of the same cigarettes that was lying next to the radio on a specially built comer shelf.
‘... this is due to a toxic substance having been introduced into a batch of the cigarettes by criminal elements.’
The woman turned the radio off and stared at her packet of Golden Frond.
At the same time, on a country road that eventually led to London, one of the army trucks from Llanechbrantiog quarry was flagged down at the barrier manned by the regular forces.
Dick Barton, standing at the side of the road with an army officer, smiled with satisfaction as a Black Maria reversed out of a side road up to the back of the army truck.
Two private soldiers and a sergeant ordered the occupants of the truck, a dozen Orientals from Hetherington’s private army, out of the vehicle. Then they made them discard their arms into a pile on the road.
As the Chinese were forced into the Black Maria, the Special Agent smiled once more.
It was exactly a fortnight later. Dick Barton, Jock, Snowey, Sir Richard and Virginia sat at a large table at the edge of the dance floor in the Mayfair club known as the Blue Parrot. On stage, a trio was playing, it was the same band that had been there on the previous occasion.
It was a happier event, this time, Dick Barton thought, as he finished telling the others about the way they had rounded up all Hetherington’s private army. ‘So that was the end of that little attempt at a coup d’état,’ he concluded.
Snowey looked across to his governor. ‘Blooming good job too, sir, if you ask me,’ he commented.
Sir Richard took another sip of his champagne. ‘That sort of thing won’t wash in this country, thank the lord,’ he said.
Virginia looked admiringly around the table. ‘Certainly not while there are fellows like Mr Barton, and Snowey about,’ she complimented them.
‘What about wee Jock Anderson?’ the mechanic asked with mock dismay.
Virginia laughed in reply. ‘And you, Jock, of course – I’m sorry.’
Sir Richard put down his glass and leant across the table. There was a sterner expression on his face. ‘But seriously,’ he began. ‘We may have won the war but there’s a new war to be fought now. The fight against complaisancy – the fight against immorality.’
‘And the war against evil men like Charles Hetherington,’ Virginia added excitedly.
‘Right,’ Snowey White agreed.
When Dick Barton spoke, it was with some deliberation. This had been a matter that had been on his mind for some time. ‘It’s odd – your average Englishman, well, he may be a bit stolid – a bit slow to take offence – not the cleverest johnny in the world – but there’s a streak of decency – just plain, ordinary decency – that runs right through him.’ He paused while the others listened closely. ‘I mean, he doesn’t believe that might is right or any of that nonsense but when his back’s to the wall he’ll fight like a tiger.’ The figure of Charles Hetherington, renegade M.P., crossed his mind. ‘But then again we seem to throw up occasionally, don’t we, the odd real bad hat. And when an Englishman goes to the bad it’s just about the rottenest sight you could hope not to see.’
‘I second that,’ Jock Anderson cut in quickly.
There was laughter all around the table.
Barton grinned at Jock: ‘Of course, a Scot never goes to the bad, I suppose.’
‘You’re darned right,’ Jock agreed.
It was Snowey White’s turn to comment: ‘Haggis-addicts one and all,’ he quipped.
When the laughter died down, Sir Richard turned towards the special agent. Once more, his tone was serious. ‘But what about you, Dick? That job’s still open for you, you know.’
The events concerned with the renegade Hetherington and the master criminal had decided Dick Barton in one direction. ‘I know sir, and don’t think I’m not grateful,’ he replied. ‘But ...’
Si
r Richard raised his hand. ‘ ’Nuff said, Dick.’
Then, there was a roll of drums and crash of cymbals from the stage. They all turned in that direction. Sam, the manager of the Blue Parrot, was standing at the microphone in the middle of a spotlight.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘It’s cabaret time at the Blue Parrot.’ He was looking much happier than he’d been the last time they’d met, Dick Barton thought. ‘And I’d like you to give an especially warm welcome to someone who’s now recovered from the serious illness that forced him to leave the stage at his last performance in our club,’ Sam continued. ‘That star of stage, screen and radio – Mr Rex Marley!’
The manager looked towards the wing, the trio struck up Rex Marley’s theme tune, and the crooner himself strode on to the stage. He was looking fit and happy, and very confident. The trio then swung into an up-tempo version of Blue Skies and Rex came in right on time. His singing was superb.
Dick Barton turned towards Virginia. ‘Well,’ he remarked. ‘Your brother’s really swinging tonight.’
Virginia glanced towards the stage, and then smiled at the Special Agent. She nodded and said: ‘Really cooking with gas.’
There were smiles of enjoyment all around the table. The atmosphere in the club was becoming excited. Virginia couldn’t help noticing that her father was tapping his foot under the table.
Some hours later, the floorshow had finished, the bar was shut and the club was getting ready to close. Waiters were moving around the room, upending chairs on to the tables. In the comer, Sam looked at his watch and then dimmed the lights. Dick Barton, Snowey and Jock were the only customers left. They weren’t eating. Or drinking. Or even smoking. They just didn’t want everything to end.
‘Hm,’ Dick Barton remarked after a while.
‘Aye,’ Jock said.
‘One for the road?’ Snowey suggested.
Jock Anderson shook his head. ‘I’ve a long walk home.’
Snowey looked quizzically at the Scotsman. ‘What’re you talking about?’
‘Walk?’ Dick Barton also thought it was odd.
‘I’ve missed my last bus,’ Jock explained.
Snowey leant back in his chair. ‘But from here to your place ... blimey mate. That’s not a walk, it’s a blooming safari.’
Jock glanced around the room, the manager was now obviously impatient for them to leave. He saw Sam look at his watch again. ‘It’s not so bad,’ Jock said after a while.
‘Nonsense,’ Dick Barton declared. ‘We’ll run you home in the car.’ He got up to go. Snowey and Jock followed.
The Riley Monaco went quietly through the London streets. It was late, there was no one about. The street lamps cast pools of light on the glistening road surface. It must have rained quite recently, Dick Barton thought as he drove in silence. From the back of the car, he heard Snowey yawn fitfully. Jock Anderson stirred in the passenger seat.
‘Funny,’ Jock said slowly. ‘You get caught up with people and all of a sudden-’ he snapped his fingers expressively. ‘That’s all.’
Dick Barton gave the Scots mechanic a quick glance. ‘It wasn’t all fun,’ he said.
‘You can say that again,’ Snowey agreed from the back of the car.
Jock shifted in his seat again. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘But somehow ... I don’t know. We were all in it together.’
‘Like the war,’ Snowey added.
There was silence for a while. ‘In a way that was the best thing about it,’ the Special Agent commented.
‘Right,’ Snowey said.
Barton glanced towards the others again. ‘How would you two feel about us sticking together?’
‘Man, I’d like that fine,’ Jock replied feelingly.
‘Me and all,’ said Snowey. ‘Doing what, though?’
‘Same sort of thing,’ Dick Barton turned a corner. He was now about three streets away from where Jock lived.
‘Getting decent types out of a hole. Fighting ... well, wrong. I’m willing to stake the rest of my gratuity on seeing how it works out.’
‘I’m with you,’ Jock said immediately. There was a smile on his face. He felt relieved.
‘You know me,’ Snowey chipped in. ‘Try anything once.’
‘Good show,’ said the special agent. ‘Then let’s meet and talk about it. My place. Say eleven ack emma.’
They were now at the comer of Jock’s street, Dick Barton slowed the Riley and brought it to a stop outside a tobacconist’s shop with the shutters up. Jock got out.
‘See you in the morning then,’ the mechanic said, as he closed the car door and began to walk towards his house. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘Not a bit. Goodnight.’ Dick Barton noticed that the Riley was idling evenly. A useful man, Jock, he thought.
‘Goodnight sir,’ Jock turned and lingered for a moment on the pavement. ‘Snowey.’
The ex-sergeant leant forward and called out of the window. ‘Jock,’ he acknowledged.
This time Jock began to walk without hesitation towards his house. Snowey watched him go. Dick Barton put the Riley into gear, and was about to move off again.
Suddenly, Snowey stiffened in his seat. ‘Hang about, sir,’ he said.
He pointed to further down the street. A girl wearing a raincoat and headscarf was waving at Jock.
‘Mr Anderson!’
Snowey and Dick Barton watched as Jock turned uncertainly towards the girl. It was obvious that he didn’t recognise her. But she continued to approach him, holding a piece of paper in her hand. Then, the shadowy figure of a man, dressed in a trenchcoat and trilby, broke from the darkness. The girl saw him and began to run. The man pursued her.
‘Come on,’ Dick Barton shouted. He and Snowey leapt out of the car as the man in the trenchcoat caught up with the girl, smashing her to the ground as he tried to prise the paper from her hand.
‘Here!’
Jock Anderson, realising that, whoever they both were, the man in the trenchcoat was obviously up to no good, began to run towards them.
The man looked up. Seeing three figures approach from two different directions, he gave up his attempt and began to run down the street.
‘Get him, Snowey!’
Snowey raced after the fleeing bully while Barton and Jock tended the unconscious girl. The Special Agent frowned as he bent over her. He never had liked a man who attacked women. He hoped the girl’s injury wasn’t too serious.
After a minute or so, Snowey White came back. He was panting. ‘Lost him,’ he said. ‘It’s a blooming rabbit warren down there.’
Barton indicated the unconscious girl. ‘She’ll live,’ he announced. Then, he turned to Jock. ‘Who is she?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ the mechanic admitted.
‘What’s that in her hand?’ Snowey asked.
Jock reached across, took the piece of paper that was still held in the unconscious girl’s hand, and smoothed it out. ‘Good God,’ he said slowly.
The special agent had no difficulty in recognising it. ‘It looks like half of a British Army of Occupation banknote,’ he said.
‘Funny money,’ Snowey White commented.
Then, they both watched as Jock Anderson reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He brought out his wallet, and from it, he extracted his own piece of paper. He placed it against the other half. It matched exactly.
‘All done by mirrors,’ Snowey continued.
Barton looked towards Jock once more. ‘What’s the story?’
Jock Anderson looked down at the girl, then at the matching pieces of paper. ‘George Cameron was my officer in the war. I saved his life once. He returned the compliment. When we were demobbed, we, like, tore this in half,’ he indicated the banknote. ‘If either of us ever got into trouble he’d only to send his half to the other ...’ Jock’s voice trailed off as he looked down at the girl again. He still didn’t recognise her.
‘Better get her under cover and let the quack have a look at that crack
on her napper,’ Snowey declared.
‘My landlady’d have kittens,’ Jock said.
But Dick Barton had already made up his mind, even though he didn’t know where all this might lead. ‘Let’s get her into the car,’ he said crisply.
Snowey smiled ruefully at his governor. ‘Another night on the couch for guess who?’
‘It looks like we’re back in business,’ Jock Anderson said as Dick Barton and Snowey began to carry the unconscious girl towards the Riley Monaco. He didn’t sound unhappy.
Why has George Cameron appealed to Jock for help?
Who is the mystery girl and who attacked her?
Now read The Mystery of the Missing Formula – the next novel in the Dick Barton – Special Agent – series.
