Our Friends in Berlin

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘Bravo,’ said Traherne, squinting at him. ‘Seems you’re in the wrong business! But it must have taken a while to put the plan together?’

  ‘A bit of legwork,’ he admitted. ‘But once I was on the trail I rather enjoyed it – the imposture, I mean.’

  Traherne nodded, scrutinising him. ‘I’m sure you did. One other thing – your manager here said that you pursued the plan entirely on the q.t. He didn’t know about it, nor did any of the staff. Why’s that?’

  Eaves paused, and gave a quick backward glance to check they weren’t overheard. ‘I couldn’t rule out the possibility that the forger had an inside man. If I’d shared my suspicion I might have been playing into an accomplice’s hands. So I kept the thing strictly to myself. It’s safer.’

  Something twitched in Traherne’s expression. Again he nodded, seeming to approve, and might have spoken had not Hoyle intruded his tubby frame between them.

  ‘Capital work, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ve saved me and your bank a small fortune.’

  Eaves returned a polite smile. ‘Just doing my job, sir.’

  ‘Sounds more like you were doing someone else’s job,’ murmured Traherne, with a sidelong look at Bowman. A look passed between Traherne and Hoyle, who then consulted his pocket watch. ‘Better get back to the House. May I drop you somewhere, Philip?’

  The meeting was over; the bank’s unlikely hero had been saluted; now they were back to work. Feeling little sense of triumph, Eaves returned to his desk. He’d been told to expect a letter of commendation from the board, and that, apparently, would be his lot. But he was not aggrieved. He had undertaken his bit of crime-busting because the prospect had intrigued him, not because he sought any personal advantage. The thrill of running the culprit to earth was reward enough.

  He had taken his seat when Belton leaned in, his expression ablaze with curiosity. ‘So – what was that about?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Most of the time they were talking about golf.’

  ‘Golf? Why did they need you?’

  Eaves spread his palms. ‘Dunno. I thought they were perhaps going to ask me to make up a four. But they didn’t.’

  Belton’s frown deepened. ‘What the – I never knew you played golf.’

  ‘I don’t,’ he replied, and laughed, and returned to his work as if there had been no interruption at all.

  One Saturday a few weeks later Eaves was just finishing a breakfast egg when his mother brought in the post from the hall. She handed him a letter that carried the unmistakable stamp of officialdom: the name and address had been typed, and the postmark announced it had been sent from London S.W. This, he supposed, would be the board’s promised expression of gratitude.

  24 May 1935

  Dear Mr Eaves,

  I had the pleasure of being introduced to you some weeks ago at Euston Road. Your sleuthing impressed us all mightily, of course, and had circumstances allowed I would have liked to talk more. May we do so anyway at a time of your convenience? I have a proposition that may be of interest.

  If you’d be kind enough to write, or else telephone me on the number written here, we can arrange a meeting.

  Sincerely yours,

  Philip Traherne

  Eaves called to mind his correspondent. Traherne had been the youngest of the visitors that day, the dapper one; he’d also had the nicest manners. A varsity chap, he imagined, at ease in the world of influence. But he couldn’t recall what he actually did at the bank.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ asked his mother, drying her hands on a tea towel.

  He shook his head. ‘Just a letter from a bigwig at the bank.’

  ‘Oh. I hope they’re offering you a promotion.’

  ‘Unlikely. And even if they did, I’m not sure I’d want it.’

  His mother paused, frowned, seemed about to speak. Instead she continued with her kitchen chores, as if she saw no use in remonstrating with someone so determinedly eccentric.

  Eaves had never been inside a members’ club before. The Nines, in Mayfair, had been founded by Dickens, Thackeray and others of note, and prided itself on a reputation for raffishness. It was generally thought more relaxed than the other gentlemen’s establishments that clustered around Pall Mall and St James’s. Women were known to have dined there.

  On arriving he was directed up the balustraded staircase, peered at by former grandees of the club from inside their gilt frames. In one of the upper rooms he spotted him, lounging on a chesterfield, absorbed in The Times.

  ‘Hullo there,’ Traherne called, on seeing his guest, and slowly put the paper aside. ‘Just been reading the latest on the Rattenbury trial. Something irresistible about a murder case.’

  ‘My mother would agree with you. She’s talked of little else for days.’

  ‘Rum show, isn’t it? I suppose it’s the age difference between the lady and her, um, paramour that has outraged people. If it was the other way round, and she was eighteen – well, no one would bat an eyelid.’

  Eaves gave a conceding nod. ‘It is unusual. But I don’t think that will condemn her.’

  ‘Oh – what will then?’

  ‘I think it’s more likely the fact she was sharing her bed with a servant – in this country that’s unforgivable.’

  Traherne mused on this for a moment, his expression gradually breaking into a wry smile. ‘You could be right,’ he said. He then handed Eaves a lunch menu, and turned the talk to other matters – horse racing, summer holidays, a new exhibition of paintings he had just seen. It seemed to Eaves that this man had quite a lot of leisure, and money, to spare. A waiter arrived with their drinks, and Traherne raised his glass in cheery invitation.

  ‘Here’s how. Talking of holidays, I gather you’re keen on Germany – hiking in the Alps and so on.’

  Eaves wondered how he had ‘gathered’ this. Bowman wouldn’t have known, because they had never exchanged so much as a sliver of small talk with one another. And he didn’t recall mentioning it at their meeting a few weeks ago. But yes, he admitted, he liked Germany and had made a habit of holidaying there after the war. Traherne knew the country a little himself, having visited Berlin with friends in the late 1920s – the old days of the Weimar.

  ‘We won’t see their like again,’ he added with a half-laugh. ‘What do you make of Herr Hitler and his rearmament?’

  ‘Somewhat alarming,’ said Eaves. ‘If it continues at this rate –’ Traherne cocked his head, eagerly expectant. ‘… I think it will be hard to avoid a war.’

  He leaned back in his chair, enjoying the company but not entirely sure as to what he was doing there. He couldn’t tell why this well-connected stranger should be interested in his thoughts on Nazi Germany, or on anything else, come to that. Traherne lit a cigarette, shook out the match and observed him through a cloud of smoke.

  ‘How’s your German? Did you know the language already?’

  ‘I learned it at school,’ said Eaves. ‘I’m reasonably fluent … Mr Traherne, d’you mind my asking – what do you do at the bank?’

  He gave a puzzled smile. ‘The bank? I don’t work at the bank. Roland – that is, Mr Hoyle – well, I’m his godson. He and my father were in the Guards together.’

  ‘So, um, why have you invited me here?’

  ‘Ah. Well. My godfather happened to tip me the wink about a fiendish case of fraud at his bank, and how an employee had taken it upon himself to catch the culprit by an equally fiendish method of his own. I was fascinated – who wouldn’t be? – and when Roland was invited by the chairman to meet this amateur detective he suggested I came along. You see, I work in a business that’s always looking to recruit such people.’

  ‘You run a detective agency?’

  Traherne laughed. ‘Not exactly. I work for a government department. A question for you: who do you suppose keeps this nation of ours safe from harm?’

  ‘The police?’

  Traherne pulled an ambiguous expression. ‘The police are there to contain crime and enforce the
law. But they are not equipped to take on the larger enemy – the malign forces who would subvert the body politic and bring the country to its knees. No police force could offer that level of protection. It is a job that demands enormous reserves of patience and watchfulness, because the enemy is often invisible, and his means indecipherable. We fight them, as the poet had it, “as on a darkling plain”.’

  ‘The job you’re describing,’ said Eaves cautiously, ‘sounds like, pardon me, a spy.’

  ‘Rather a tainted word, that. It conjures up a glamorous subfusc world – cobbled alleyways, furtive assignments, coded messages. That’s not really us.’

  ‘Then what would you call it – the thing you do?’

  ‘Intelligence,’ he shrugged. ‘Just that. In this country, at present, there is a burgeoning support for Germany – I mean, for the way they run things there. Submission to an absolute leader. Control by a one-party state and the outlawing of opposition. And, of course, a programme of social and racial discrimination. Now, one may argue that such a regime could never win the popular vote here. But five years ago that’s what they thought in Germany, too. A nation can lose its head just like an individual.’

  A brief silence fell between them, interrupted by the discreet background hum of other conversation. Eaves wasn’t sure if he was meant to speak, and as he hesitated Traherne resumed in his assured, even tone.

  ‘The threat comes from a hard core of right-wing fanatics, principally the British Union, though there are others. Our department, known as the Section, aims to neutralise that threat. Not by force – that would be to lend them credibility – but by a process of infiltration. When I heard about your subterfuge at the bank I thought, that might be the chap for us. So we began running some background checks.’

  A sudden jolt of excitement – or dread – lurched within Eaves. Was this the way it happened? ‘I’m flattered, but what I did wasn’t really that amazing. I’m not trying to be modest. Catching out a petty criminal isn’t on a par with what I assume would be, well, a full-time job.’

  ‘You are being modest. In any case it wasn’t just the skill of your imposture that set you apart. It was your discretion. Most people, even if they were clever enough to devise such a trap, wouldn’t be able to resist letting others in on their secret. They would need encouragement, or admiration, or perhaps advice. You didn’t. You kept mum with colleagues, superiors, and I fancy you didn’t confide in friends, either. Am I right?’

  ‘I don’t have that many friends.’

  Traherne nodded. ‘There’s a woman, though, isn’t there? Jane. Been seeing her for a few years. Surely you mentioned the thing to her?’

  ‘How did you know about Jane?’

  ‘Like I said, we’ve done our research.’

  He gave Traherne a level look. ‘If I did have a secret, then the last person in the world I’d confide it to would be someone I held dear.’

  ‘I see. So this woman – you love her?’

  ‘I thought you said you’d done the research.’

  Traherne laughed. ‘You’re a natural.’

  He explained what the life would entail. An absolute commitment to long hours of surveillance, and to the monkish regime of sifting information. As well as a steady nerve, an ability to improvise would be invaluable. He would be trained up, of course, schooled in the techniques of counter-espionage – he had already demonstrated a ‘theatrical flair’ in winning an enemy’s confidence. They would even teach him how to use a revolver.

  ‘Think you’ve got it in you to kill a man?’

  Eaves tucked in his chin. ‘Who did you have in mind?’ he said with a quick laugh. He thought Traherne might meet his facetiousness in the same spirit, but he only stared back at him, expressionless. An answer was required. And at that moment he knew they were serious.

  The following Saturday he was back at Haywards Heath station waiting for the London train. Having commuted Monday to Friday he would rather have stayed at home in Wivelsfield. His father needed help repairing some rotten frames in the greenhouse, and he liked pottering about of a weekend, reading, or doing the crossword with his mother. But Jane, just finished with a job that had lasted weeks and many late nights, had pleaded for him to come up to town. He knew it would be bad form to refuse.

  As he stepped onto the platform at Victoria he saw her waiting just beyond the ticket collection. Hard to miss her, actually, for she was wearing one of her brightest outfits, a turquoise summer dress and a silly hat in pillar-box red. Her girlish love of colour had always touched him, the way it expressed something bold yet guileless in her personality. She worked in the copywriting department of an advertising agency, which he supposed was just as well – she couldn’t have got away with dressing like that in an ordinary job. They had met nearly three years before. Someone he knew from Cambridge had invited him to a party in Battersea. It was held at a flat, heaving with people when he arrived. He’d been staring out through the French windows at the massed black trees fronting the park when someone who’d been dancing rather close bumped into him and sent his drink flying. ‘Gosh, I’m most awfully sorry,’ she said, and in her fluster introduced herself as Jane Temple. He spent the first few minutes of their conversation feeling beer soak through his sleeve. They had been together ever since.

  Jane gave a little jump on catching sight of him, waving as if he’d been gone for years; he acknowledged her with an awkward sort of half-salute.

  ‘It feels such ages since I saw you,’ she cried gaily, throwing her arms about him. Her friendly, wide-hipped figure pushed against his. ‘Have you missed me?’

  ‘No more than I would my ears.’ Her momentary confusion as she searched for the compliment in his irony made him laugh. ‘Of course I missed you. You’re looking nice.’ She seemed pleased at that.

  They walked out of the station hand in hand, past ranks of growling taxis and shoals of day trippers. The early-June weather had begun rather sullen, but this morning showed promise in the soft air and intermittent spangles of sunlight amid the clouds. They walked through the stuccoed maze of Belgravia and into Hyde Park, the Serpentine glittering in the distance. The grass was springy beneath their feet. Jane was running on with the story of their most recent client, a company that made household cleaning fluids.

  ‘The agency had been sticking with this line “You can be sure with Bagshaw”, which I thought sounded terrible. Nobody else would say anything, so I gave it a bit of thought and came up with “Bagshaw’s is the stuff to give it a buff”. And they all loved it – made it the campaign slogan!’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Eaves, smiling. ‘They should give you a pay rise.’

  Jane made a doubtful moue. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. But once we knew that Bagshaw’s were pleased the staff raised a cheer and sang “For she’s a jolly good fellow”! Even Hodge cracked a smile.’ Hodge was her boss, and the subject of frequent arias of complaint.

  ‘How long have you been there now?’

  ‘Eight years. And in all that time they’ve never given me an extra farthing. Same with Doreen. She reckons it’s cos we’re women and we won’t make a fuss.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time you did,’ he said. ‘How is Doreen, by the way?’ He knew of her only from Jane’s accounts of her forlorn love life.

  ‘Oh. Soldiering on. She said something to me the other day – to get the best out of a love affair one should never ask for more passion than the loved one is capable of giving.’ Jane’s tone was so thoughtful as she reported this that it caused Eaves to slow, and turn. He found her gaze fixed upon him.

  He tilted his head in a ruminative way. ‘Interesting. But not as snappy as the stuff to give it a buff.’

  She laughed, and swung her hand at him playfully. His flippancy had got him out of a corner. But he felt the danger still, hovering like a storm cloud just out of his vision. They walked on through the park, stopping briefly to listen to someone harangue the crowd at Hyde Park Corner about freedom of speech. Among the listeners were a
trio of young men, unremarkable but for the black uniform they wore. Eaves looked around to check whether anyone else was giving them the eye. When he mentioned them to Jane a few minutes later she looked at him blankly: Blackshirts? She hadn’t even noticed them.

  They got a bus along Oxford Street and had lunch at the Lyons on Tottenham Court Road. Jane debated as to whether they should see a film or go to the Emlyn Williams play at the Duchess. The mood between them was fine until talk turned to the visit of the bank’s chairman and his friends. What had happened since? Eaves thought for a moment.

  ‘Oh, I was invited by one of them to his club, somewhere in Mayfair. He wanted to chat about … various things.’

  ‘A club in Mayfair …’ Jane bugged her eyes in a show of curiosity. ‘So what were these “various things” you talked about?’

  He stirred his tea again, wondering how vague he could keep it. ‘Well, he was interested to know how I, erm, brought him down. The fraudster. To be honest, there wasn’t a great deal more I could say.’

  Across the table, Jane was frowning her puzzlement. ‘But he must have asked to meet you for a reason. What does this chap do again?’

  ‘He works in some government department, not sure what.’

  ‘Why won’t you –’ she began, then dialled her tone down to something less peevish. ‘I get the impression – as usual – you’re jolly reluctant to tell me things. Why? Do I seem such a gossip to you?’ He shook his head, not saying anything; he didn’t want to make a wrong move. Eventually, Jane spoke again, in a different voice. ‘I always believed that if you loved someone, you had to trust them, too. The one would follow the other. But with you … I don’t know.’

  Love. Trust. This was the sort of conversation he dreaded. He wasn’t good at it, and in any case regarded it as wrong to burden another person with that much feeling. It was too great a responsibility. But Jane’s inquisitive blue gaze did not soften, and he perceived the obligation to answer.