The Man Who Played Trains: The gripping new thriller from the author of Playpits Park

by Richard Whittle

  ‘It’s not all rust,’ Kalman continued. ‘They used bronze or gunmetal for some of the fittings and that don’t corrode. You know what other metal don’t corrode, Spargo?’

  Spargo knew what was coming. Gold doesn’t corrode. People kill for gold.

  ‘And that’s pewter.’ Kalman reached down to the carrier bag, looked around the room to see he wasn’t being watched and brought up a dish made of dull, silvery metal. Instinctively Spargo took it. The dish was bigger than a dinner plate and had a deep, broad rim. Though its underside was heavily pitted the plate had been cleaned with care. By Kalman, Spargo supposed.

  ‘There’s more where that came from,’ Kalman said. ‘A lot more.’

  ‘Are you saying the sub was carrying cargo?’

  He had heard of pewter being recovered from ancient wooden wrecks in the Mediterranean, but not from German U-boats in the North Sea. Old pewter goods were valuable, but nowhere near as valuable as gold. Even if the boat had been stuffed full of pewter, its value wouldn’t cover Kalman’s diving costs.

  ‘Not a cargo,’ Kalman said. ‘A forty-eight piece dinner service. What do you think of that, a goddamn dinner service!’

  Spargo shook his head. Managed to smile.

  ‘So the crew ate off pewter?’

  ‘No way. They ate off china plates, same as you and me. It’s still there. Broken crockery everywhere. You’re darned right though, pewter’s not what these trust guys are after. Now don’t you ask me what it is they are after, because I do not know the answer to that question, it is none of my business. I’m getting paid for identifying the sub and telling them what’s inside it.’

  ‘What else did you find?’

  ‘We found jack shit, nothing. Whole game’s been about nothing. Not only did the old tub have no deck gun, no torpedoes, it had no anti-aircraft gun on the bridge. What the hell use is a sub with no tubes? Hell, Spargo, that was what they were made for!’

  ‘Did the trust think it was carrying gold? Is that what you think?’

  ‘No, Spargo, that is not what I think. I did gold last year though, not for these guys but for a load of Greeks. Dived the Mediterranean Sea for an Italian corvette sunk in the nineteen-forties, supposed to have carried gold bullion but we found nothing, not so much as one ounce of the damn stuff after four month’s work. Somebody had already got to it.’

  ‘Either that or they were sold a pig in a poke.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Someone paid good money for false information.’

  ‘You mean it was all bullshit? Yes, I guess so.’

  Kalman took the pewter plate from Spargo and set it down on the table. He pointed to marks of the rim.

  ‘See that? See those two shields? They are on every piece.’

  He shoved breakfast crockery aside and slid the plate back to Spargo. Though the rim of the plate had been engraved, the markings were spoiled by fine pitting. The shields Kalman referred to sat side by side, tilted towards each other so they touched at the top.

  ‘Who do you suppose owned it?’ Kalman asked.

  Spargo shook his head. Didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

  ‘I said they weren’t looking for gold, Spargo,’ Kalman continued. ‘But there is gold.’ He put the plate back in the carrier bag and rummaged around for more, like a lucky dip. ‘What do you make of this?’

  He passed something under the table. Spargo took it, held it furtively and looked down at it. It was heavy for its size, and though it was damaged by corrosion it was clear to him he was holding what was once a cigarette lighter. It was the kind fuelled by petrol – a long-gone wick ignited by a flint and striker wheel. All that was left was its body, now a black shell. Despite what Kalman said it was not gold. Gold does not tarnish or corrode. This was tarnished.

  ‘Found it near the engines in what had once been a grease-pot. I guess it had fallen into it. Turn it over, Spargo. Take a look.’

  Spargo turned it. Saw a small gold eagle inlaid in its side. Not the brutal, angular Nazi eagle but one much more pleasant, the tips of its wings swept back as if caught by the wind. The blackened body of the lighter was silver, it had to be. Nobody would fix such an exquisite gold object to any other metal, except possibly platinum. But it wasn’t platinum; unlike silver, platinum doesn’t discolour.

  Spargo hefted it in his hand. Held history. Wondered who in a naval ship might have owned such a thing.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, stroking the gold with his fingertips.

  He wasn’t much of a one for trinkets but this one was special. For a second or two he knew how Jez felt when she was young, the years he’d jokingly called her crystal phase, the years when she believed crystals had magical powers. She had spent time gazing at them, stroking them.

  He tried to analyse his feelings. He remembered the times he was underground in Zambia, the rare times when miners broke open chunks of rock and revealed vughs – voids lined with perfectly formed crystals. Not gold, but chalcopyrite, the stuff they mined every day in amorphous masses of brass-coloured rock. All that rock, so much dross concealing such beautiful things.

  Spargo held out the lighter to Kalman. Kalman waved it away.

  ‘Hey, looks like you fell in love with the thing. You keep it, Spargo.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  Spargo turned the lighter over in his hands and fondled it, stroking the gold eagle with the tip of his thumb, feeling the contours of its sharp-pointed wings. He placed it on the table and flicked it gently with his finger. It slid across and jammed under Kalman’s plate.

  ‘What’s up, Spargo? Scared you’ll get gunned down by the revenue men?’ He said it loudly and gave a short laugh. He reached down again and pulled something else from his bag.

  This time the object thrust at Spargo was a pewter beer stein. Its hinged lid was missing. Like the plate, parts of the stein were pitted by corrosion. Spargo commented that it had no engraved shields and tried handing it back. Kalman wouldn’t take it. Told Spargo to look inside it. Spargo looked. The bottom of the stein was made of glass. An attempt had been made to clean it but it was permanently stained. To show willing he held it up and looked at the ceiling light through it.’

  ‘What do you make of it, Spargo?’

  Spargo made nothing of anything. The glass was too dark. He chose a brighter ceiling light and saw the glass was engraved with the Third Reich eagle, its wings spread, its head turned to one side and a swastika gripped in its claws. Around the circumference of the glass disc were marks that at first glance Spargo thought were small scratches. He rotated the stein and realised they were not scratches, but letters:

  Kapitänleutnant Theodor Volker

  Hands shaking, Spargo put down the stein. Kalman regarded him anxiously, doing his head tilt thing.

  ‘You okay? You look sick.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ For good measure he added another lie, ‘Went for a run this morning. Not used to it.’

  ‘Get yourself fit, Spargo. Get out and exercise.’

  Spargo smiled. ‘It’s time I left. I’ve got a long drive.’ He started to rise from his chair but Kalman waved him down.

  ‘I need a favour, Spargo. You travel, you know the hassle of going through customs. Pewter’s not that valuable but by the time I’ve paid duty, well, heck!’

  Spargo tensed. Sure he didn’t want to hear what was coming next he again rose to leave.

  ‘I really must – ’

  ‘Spargo, hear me out, okay? I need to sell the stuff here, in Scotland. It’s easy to carry dollars or your British pounds.’

  ‘What exactly are you asking?’

  Anything even remotely illegal would be out of the question, he was in more than enough trouble already. Kalman’s hand returned to the bag and emerged, not with more pewter as Spargo feared, but with a folded sheet of paper torn from a pad. He flattened it out on the table to reveal a list of addresses, one in London, others in Newcastle, Glasgow and Leith. None of them was complete. In each case either
a name, postcode or house number was missing. All phone numbers had been scratched through with a ball pen.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Spargo, I wouldn’t ask anything unlawful. The stuff is from international waters. I found it. It’s mine.’

  ‘Your clients might think otherwise.’

  ‘Things are okay with them. I told them I’d found a pewter dinner service and they told me exactly what I could do with it – they are not polite guys, Spargo.’ He looked down at the paper. ‘Friend of mine gave me this list. It’s people who deal with stuff like this.’

  ‘It’s called receiving.’

  ‘Hell, Spargo! No it is not. It belongs to our clients and they do not want this stuff. I have called these telephone numbers. That one...’ he said, pointing, ‘is a bakery in some place called Calne. Where the hell is Calne? That near here?’

  ‘Down south. Wiltshire, I think.’

  ‘Wilt-Shire. Okay. This one here, Glasgow, I was planning to visit. Can’t now, not with the Posi-Three ready to sail.’

  Spargo’s gaze travelled rapidly down the list.

  ‘That last one’s not right,’ he said. ‘It should be road, not street. There’s no such place as Easter Street in Edinburgh.’

  Kalman became animated. He waved the list in the air.

  ‘Hey, Spargo! You live in Edinburgh, that right? Well now, Spargo…’

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  GÖRING’S TRAIN LEAVES Friedrichswalde on time and heads south. Theo, travelling away from the Reichsmarschall, knows his greatest fear is unfounded. Whatever it is Walter is doing it is not a plot to kill or abduct the man. Leaving his cabin he finds Walter slouched in an armchair in Göring’s salon, smoking a cigarette, his feet up on a table. Theo moves to the window, chooses a seat and then changes his mind. Moves to a spot where he cannot be seen from outside.

  ‘We are travelling south,’ he says. ‘Are we returning to Berlin?’

  ‘We go around it.’

  ‘What if the tracks have been bombed?’

  ‘If they have been bombed, they will be repaired.’

  ‘Just for us?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘And then?’

  Walter sighs. ‘Don’t you ever stop? Perhaps I made a mistake after all. Why can’t you simply take orders like everyone else?’

  ‘I want to know where we are going. Are we going to Berchtesgaden?’

  ‘I told you, the shelter there is not yet complete. Part of our cargo will go to Schloss Veldenstein – the castle - the others will go to Munich.’

  ‘You said the treasures would not be moved there until things got bad.’

  ‘How much worse do you think they can get?’

  Soon they are moved from the salon, politely and respectfully, by an old man in a rail supervisor’s black trousers with a side-stripe of red. His cap is so covered with braid it would have better suited an admiral. He accompanies them to the command carriage where they sit down in upholstered, leather chairs.

  A film of ice is growing on the outside of the windows, a pattern of crystals that creeps slowly upwards. Walter tells the man to turn up the heating, also to find a steward to bring coffee.

  Footsteps bring the steward, also the Luftwaffe lieutenant who supervised loading. The steward pours coffee while the officer speaks quietly to Walter. When both men leave, Theo resumes his questions.

  ‘You said things are bad. How bad? Is my son in danger?’

  Walter laughs. ‘From the British and Americans? I doubt it. You should fear the Soviets. They are animals, they will flood across Germany and drive out these cocksure western troops. They will not stop at Germany, they will soon rule Europe. The British will regret the day they did not join our struggle.’

  ‘If that is all true, why are we bothering to move these treasures?’

  The train stops unexpectedly with a clatter of buffers. The coffee in Theo’s cup slops down his jacket. As he flicks it with his fingers to remove it he hears doors slamming and men running. Moving to the window he sees troops with rifles and rapid-fire guns. They are everywhere, out on the rail tracks and up on the roof.

  Then, suddenly, all is quiet. Walter looks at his watch. ‘Twenty-three seconds. Impressive, but not good enough.’

  ‘What is happening? All this to protect a few pictures.’

  ‘No, all this to protect our Hermann. It makes no difference whether he is on the train or not. Is it not better than having the men sitting on their arses, playing card games?

  ‘That was a drill?’

  ‘That was a drill.’

  ‘You could have warned me.’

  ‘I wanted to see your face.’

  ‘Is it permitted to smoke in here?’

  ‘Do you mean are you permitted to smoke? Of course. It is a railway carriage, not a submarine.’

  One of the locomotives gives a short toot. It is echoed by the other loco’s whistle and the troops move again, the sound of boots on the carriage roof and the staccato slam of doors. Soon the train is moving again, slowly.

  ‘Do they do that every time we stop?’

  ‘It is not usual for us to stop. Our train has priority over all others.’ He nods at the window. ‘You see?’

  A train has stopped in a siding to let them pass. Its carriages are packed with troops, its flatbed trucks piled with vehicles. There are trucks, troop carriers, ambulances and armoured cars.

  ‘We get priority? Over military trains?’

  ‘You have so much to learn, Theodor.’

  Theo returns to his compartment, opens the top of his kitbag, shoves his arm down inside through tightly rolled clothes and fishes for the canvas wallet with his pipes and tobacco.

  Ignoring his own lighter he searches for the one Göring gave him. He finds it, and holding it upright he tests it by pressing down on the thumb-catch. The wick cover lifts and the wick ignites. He lets it burn, attracted to the brightness of the small, clean white flame. Good lighter fuel is available, it seems. But only to some.

  Staring at the flame he ponders on the futility of war. In the long term, even the victors are losers. He ponders too on the mining man he knew, Sam Spargo, wondering if he too has swapped his overalls for a military uniform and, if that is so, would they be obliged to shoot each other dead if they ever met? And what has he, Theodor Volker, done with his life? You can stencil icons of sunken ships on your conning tower but you can’t stencil the dead. There is not enough room.

  He fumbles with his tobacco pouch and opens it, nips a wedge of tobacco between finger and thumb, packs his pipe, flicks the lighter again and sucks the flame down to the tobacco. Returning to the command carriage he sits close to Walter, who has upended his briefcase and tipped its contents onto a table. Theatrically he sniffs the air.

  ‘Your tobacco smells like dried pig shit.’

  ‘It’s not such a bad smoke.’

  ‘You can get some decent stuff later.’

  ‘From where? You said the train won’t be stopping.’

  ‘It won’t be.’

  Questioning Walter about such things isn’t worth the effort so he sits back and draws on his pipe. Tries too hard to relax. Realising the pipe has gone out he prods the tobacco with a pencil. Gives up and puts the pipe down.

  Walter speaks but doesn’t look up. ‘Dried pig shit doesn’t burn well.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘None of this is new, you do realise that?’

  ‘What isn’t new?’

  ‘Transporting paintings. Göring has been doing it for years. He has been sending them to Switzerland through diplomatic channels. He has a network of dealers and agents, not just throughout Greater Germany but also Spain, Italy and Switzerland.’

  ‘You told me that. Are these the companies you were telling me about?’

  ‘These companies are different, they are owned by the SS. Göring is not part of that, he has agents, not companies.’

  ‘You said he was a collector. Why should he want to sell things
?’

  ‘He sells stuff he’s not supposed to have. The art Adolf calls degenerate.’

  ‘I thought that had all been destroyed.’

  ‘You thought wrong. Elsewhere in the world these are tradable assets. Göring uses them to obtain more desirable pieces.’

  Theo examines his fingernails. He can’t remember a time when they looked so clean, his mother would have been proud of him. His father would have accused him of not working for a living.

  ‘Are we carrying stuff to be sold? Are we using a train and troops to profit the Reichsmarschall? Does the Führer know he does this?’

  ‘The paintings that go to Munich will probably end up in Zurich. That’s Switzerland, in case you don’t know where things are on land.’

  ‘I know where Switzerland is.’

  Walter reaches out, takes a cigarette from a silver box on a side table and puts it between his lips. ‘Give me a light.’

  Theo, without thinking, takes Göring’s lighter and flicks up a flame. Walter snatches the lighter from him.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘From the Reichsmarschall. I offered him a light but my own lighter had no petrol. He gave me his.’

  Walter nods, seems satisfied. He inspects the lighter, lights his cigarette with it and hands it back.

  ‘Our Hermann likes to give presents, though not usually to officers as junior as you. You must have made an impression on him. It’s a valuable piece, take care of it. As I was saying, the paintings for Munich will be sent to Zurich by diplomatic bag. They end up – via our embassy – with a character called Mendl who transfers them to the vaults of the Schweizer Bank. Göring is trying to get everything transferred from there to Spain. It is not proving easy.’

  ‘How do you know these things?’

  ‘I have told you. It is my job to know.’

  ‘Are we are going to Munich as well as to Schloss Veldenstein? You and me, I mean.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘My son is near Munich. Can I visit him?’