The Labyrinth Makers dda-1

by Anthony Price

  'Can I help you, sir?'

  The thick mousey hair of 25 years ago had thinned and retreated.

  The nose had reddened and sharpened and spidery gold spectacles sat on it now. The whole face had aged prematurely and less gracefully than Jones's, a sagging and unhealthy version of the filed photograph.

  'Are you two gentlemen together?'

  Odd how obscene the innocent statement sounded these days–a commentary on the times!

  'We are, Mr Morrison.'

  'Yes, sir. What can I do for you? We've got one of the finest ranges of models in Southern England. Planes, ships, cars, armoured vehicles, British and foreign. Working models too.'

  'Planes we're interested in, Mr Morrison.'

  Morrison was obviously trying to place them both, and having no success.

  'You're in luck, sir, then. We've just got the latest Airfix range in—'

  'Dakotas.'

  'Dakotas? Yes, we've got Dakotas.' The little man turned, scanned the shelves behind him and selected a box. 'This is by far the best dummy4

  Dakota model, sir. The Airfix one. It's been on the market for several years, but it's very popular. With alternative American wartime transfers, or Silver City civilian ones.'

  'We're after a Royal Air Force Dakota, Mr Morrison.' Roskill was joining the game now–a cat and mouse game when played like this, but one which might be over quicker this way.

  'Well, sir, in that case I should buy the Airfix model and then some RAF transfers separately.' Morrison shifted his glance from Audley to Roskill.

  'And you've got 3112 Squadron transfers?' Audley spoke this time, and the man's gaze came back to him.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  '3112, Squadron,' said Roskill. 36547–G for George. Pilot–Flight Lieutenant Steerforth, navigator–Flying Officer Maclean, second pilot–Warrant Officer Tierney. And radio operator–Sergeant Morrison.'

  Morrison looked from one to the other uneasily.

  'Who are you? What do you want?'

  'We don't actually want a Dakota, Mr Morrison. We've got the Dakota. We've got Steerforth. And now we've got you.'

  'Who are you?'

  'In fact there's only one more thing we want, Mr Morrison, and you are going to tell us all about it. With no lies this time.'

  Morrison took off his glasses and polished them furiously. Sweat glistened on the pouches under his eyes.

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  'Please tell me who you are,' he pleaded.

  Audley hated himself. 'We are not your old comrades, Mr Morrison,' he said brutally. 'And we've no time to waste arguing.

  You brought it in to Newton Chester.'

  Morrison's will crumbled like a piece of rotten wood.

  'I–yes,' he mumbled.

  Audley breathed out. Some men's defences could only be approached with all the precise formality and deliberation of an eighteenth century siege, with parallels and saps, gabions and fascines. Surrender was a mathematical certainty if the attacker had the force, the time and the patience. But others could be knocked off balance and taken by a coup de main before they could recollect their wits. Morrison was a weak man who had fallen to a crude surprise attack. A text book case.

  'What was it?'

  Morrison gestured unhappily. 'I don't know. I swear I don't know.

  He never told me.'

  ' Steerforth never told you.'

  The wretched man shied away from the name as though it would shrivel his tongue.

  'What did Steerforth tell you?'

  'It's such a long time ago–I don't remember.'

  'You're in trouble, Morrison. We know perfectly well that you haven't forgotten. You read about the Dakota in the papers a few days ago. You haven't forgotten.'

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  Morrison turned his head from side to side as though his collar was too tight.

  'I think he said it was–incredible. But he wouldn't say what it was.

  He just said it was worth the risk. He said it was priceless.'

  The words tumbled out now as though Morrison couldn't get rid of them fast enough.

  'And it was in the boxes.'

  Morrison nodded. 'I suppose so.'

  'How many boxes? Seven?'

  'I think so.'

  'Were they heavy?'

  'I don't know. He–Steerforth–and Tierney carried them aboard. I just kept a look-out.'

  That was all he was worth. Just a look-out man.

  The shop door-bell rang. Audley turned to find an entire family trooping in, breaking the spell utterly, destroying the illusion.

  Morrison sighed with relief.

  'What time do you close, Mr Morrison?'

  'Five-thirty.'

  'We'll be back at 5.25. We can take our time then. I know you can remember a great deal more if you try.'

  He turned to go, but the man's courage had risen in the presence of others.

  'I didn't catch your name, sir.'

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  Audley toyed with the idea of maintaining the element of uncertainty. But it would be embarrassing if Morrison then did the sensible thing and called the police. In any case, they had him now, and their official status would probably strengthen their hand rather than weaken it. He held his identification open for Morrison to see, just above the spotty face of the latest customer.

  'Until 5.25, then, Mr Morrison. Don't go away.'

  Outside the crowds seemed even thicker and more determined. The two small boys were still glued to the window, and one of them instantly buttonholed Roskill.

  'Mister. Wot's that one?'

  Roskill peered into the window again. 'Savoia-Marchetti SM 79,'

  he said shortly. 'Italian torpedo bomber.' Then he turned to Audley.

  'There's a tea shop over the road. We can wait there.'

  Audley nodded morosely. He had told Faith Jones he would be home by three, then by six. Now it would be more like seven. His quiet Saturday routine was totally dislocated. And Sunday would be equally ruined, since it was now clearly imperative to grill Tierney and the others as quickly as possible.

  Roskill was a man who put his stomach first, an old campaigner: he consumed a schoolboy's tea with relish before attempting to make serious conversation, while Audley toyed with a sickly cake.

  Finally he dusted off the crumbs, carefully wiped his fingers and grinned at Audley.

  'That was bad luck, just when you'd got him on toast. But I've got a tape of it in case he gets forgetful'–he patted his coat pocket–'or dummy4

  stubborn. Do you think he knows what it was?'

  Audley shrugged. It was quite possible that Steerforth had kept the nature of the cargo to himself, or shared the secret only with Tierney.

  'It isn't vital yet, anyway, Hugh. What we need is a line on the hiding place.'

  'Always supposing it's still there.'

  'It's there.' He had to keep on believing in that.

  'But they won't have the answer.'

  'They won't. But remember, they've never really thought of looking for it. If they're like Jones they'll have thought that Steerforth was alive, which meant there was no point in looking.'

  'How are they going to give us a line on the stuff then?'

  'It's the time factor, Hugh–they can narrow down the time factor for us. Remember the breakdown of Steerforth's movements in the file?'

  'You mean between the flight in on Tuesday and the flight back to Berlin on Friday?'

  Audley nodded. 'That's the crucial period, yes. They brought the boxes in on Tuesday evening. They got them off the plane somehow–we want to know how and where. There must have been a temporary hiding place then.'

  'Steerforth was duty officer from 08.30 on Wednesday to the same time on Thursday, wasn't he?'

  'Right. And he went to London all day Thursday with the navigator dummy4

  and Wojek the Pole. So he had just Tuesday and Thursday nights to shift the boxes, which didn't give him much scope, I'm hoping.'

  'And you really think we
stand a chance of tracking the stuff down?'

  'Depends on how much we can make people remember, Hugh. And whether we're lucky–as he was.'

  Roskill cocked an eyebrow. 'Steerforth was lucky?'

  'If I've got it worked out right he had to have one real piece of luck.

  Look at it this way: he takes over a cargo in Berlin to deliver to that Belgian Butler's looking for at the moment. He takes a look at it and decides to keep it for himself.

  'Now he's got two problems. First he's got to double-cross his employers so they won't come chasing him. He does that by pretending he can't bring the stuff out on the first trip and then by losing the aircraft, complete with a dummy cargo, on the second trip.

  'But he's also got the practical problem of finding somewhere to put the genuine cargo in the meantime. And he has to come up with the answer to that sometime during the flight back on Tuesday. The first problem sounds harder, but it wasn't really.

  They just had to get their stories right. They'd had to bale out once before, so they knew the drill. It was the second problem that was awkward.

  'It has to be some beautiful, simple, hiding place, because he hadn't time for anything elaborate. And that's where he was lucky, because it was so good that those boxes are almost certainly still where he put them.'

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  The traffic and the crowds had thinned appreciably when they left the tea shop. The pavement outside Morrison's Model Shop was empty.

  But when they were halfway across the road Roskill paused in mid-stride, cursed and accelerated.

  'I think the little bastard may have run out on us,' he exclaimed.

  Audley hurried after him. The blind on the shop door was pulled down, to reveal its 'Closed' legend, and the door itself was locked.

  Roskill looked up and down the street. 'These shops must have a back entrance,' he said. 'If you'll watch the front I'll try the back.'

  Audley settled down self-consciously in front of the window. At his eye-level it was clean, but lower down small dirty hands and runny noses had left a tide mark. The models on show were meticulously made; he could even see tiny pilots in the cockpits.

  Did Morrison spend his free evenings crouched over a desk with glue and tweezers and fine paint brushes? Or did the manufacturers have a staff of middle-aged women who spent their lives endlessly assembling their products to catch the imaginations of small boys?

  It seemed an age before the door rattled as Roskill unlocked it to let him in. He felt absurdly like a thief being admitted by his confederate–the more so because Roskill dropped the latch as soon as he was inside.

  'Has he gone?'

  Roskill shook his head and beckoned him.

  'No, he hasn't gone anywhere.'

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  Audley followed him through the shop into an untidy stockroom. A dingy office ahead was littered with invoices and printed lists which had overflowed an old roll-top desk: Morrison was an untidy businessman. But Roskill pointed to an open door on the left, leading to what was obviously a cellar beneath the shop.

  'He's down there. And he's dead.'

  Audley squeezed past a packing case and stared down the worn wooden staircase. A single naked bulb hung from a flex at the foot of the stairs, and Morrison lay in a heap directly beneath it. One of his legs rested awkwardly on the stairway, the trouser leg rucked up to reveal a pathetic expanse of white flesh. There was a hole in the sole of his shoe. Halfway up the stairs his glasses lay, unbroken. He had been a small man in life. Now he seemed even smaller.

  Audley felt a mixture of revulsion and relief. He had feared, or half-feared, a pointless suicide, for which he might have had to take some of the blame. This ridiculous accident would be less embarrassing, however inconvenient.

  'He fell down these stairs?'

  'Maybe.' Roskill looked at him coldly. 'And then again maybe not.'

  The hair on the back of Audley's neck prickled: that 'maybe not'

  was like a death sentence.

  'I took a very quick look at him. Just on the off-chance that he wasn't as dead as he looked,' said Roskill. 'He had a nosebleed before he ... fell down the stairs.'

  'Before?'

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  'He bled down his shirt. But you don't bleed down your shirt when you're falling downstairs. And you don't go to the cellar when your nose is bleeding — not when the washroom's out in the yard.'

  'Are you saying that someone killed him?'

  He stared down the staircase again, taking in the ancient, flaking whitewash on the walls and the dust-laden cobwebs hanging from rusty nails. It didn't make sense. Violence was rare because it almost always stirred up more trouble than it stifled. Nor was it the present Russian style, certainly not in England, where it was capable of launching a major scandal.

  But reason and instinct wouldn't raise Morrison from the dead. And there was no sweeping him under the carpet either.

  'All right, Hugh. We'll go by the book. I'll phone the police first.

  Then you phone the department. Tell the duty officer to warn Stocker. And when Butler phones in tell them to warn him too–if someone followed us down here they could be following him over there.'

  It was like a nightmare; bad enough to be pitched into the field, out of his depth–but worse to be involved in incomprehensible violence.

  'How much do you want the police to know?'

  'We've got to know how he died. But either way we shall have to get them to go easy on it — you better get Stocker on that. No doubt he'll know how to do it. And go through Morrison's pockets while I'm phoning–there might be something there.'

  He turned back to the faded black telephone in the untidy little dummy4

  office. The important thing now was to keep the initiative, to emulate Fred, whose dealings with the Special Branch were always conducted in a manner which left no doubt as to who was calling the tune.

  '. . . This is Dr D. L. Audley of the Ministry of Defence.' L'Etat, c'est moi. 'I am speaking from the Modeller's Shop in—' he stumbled for want of the address. But there it was on an old-fashioned letterhead. 'There seems to have been a fatal accident, but I'm not altogether satisfied with the circumstances.'

  That was the authentic Fred note: not so much an investigation as a consultation required. Just in time he remembered the final refinement: 'Kindly send a senior officer with your squad.'

  When Roskill took over the phone he went back into the shop, which was clean and cheerful compared with the stockroom. Just behind the counter was a low stool, with a small, smooth-edged hole in the linoleum below it–the hole Morrison had worn over hundreds of uneventful days, sitting waiting to sell models to small boys.

  Audley's brief flicker of self-satisfaction faded. No more pocket-warmed coins would cross this counter; the supermarket next door would inevitably take over.

  He'd met Morrison for five minutes and bullied the life out of him.

  Whatever the cause of death was, the guilt was his, and he'd compounded his crime by feeling nothing but distaste and annoyance for the inconvenient thing in the cellar.

  He looked down at the cutting Roskill had taken from the man's a dummy4

  wallet: ONE OF OUR AIRCRAFT IS FOUND. No one deserved to have his minor crimes come looking for him after half a lifetime, least of all a crime which had gained him nothing but a bad conscience. It was a poor recompense for Normandy, Arnhem and the Rhine, the days of fear and danger.

  There was a peremptory rap on the door, which caught him unprepared. He had expected to hear the familiar klaxon first.

  'Dr Audley? You put through an emergency call?'

  'I am Audley. I put through the call. Mr Morrison appears to have fallen down the stairs into the cellar–through there. He's dead.'

  He lead the party, which had shed a uniformed man at the door, through into the stockroom. Roskill, still busy on the phone, nodded to them without pausing in mid-sentence.

  The leading member of the squad peered down the staircase for a mo
ment, nodded to the other two men and turned back to Audley.

  He was a large man, taller even than Audley, with a mild, quizzical expression. He looked as if he had seen everything, heard everything, believed very little of it, and could no longer be surprised by anything.

  'I'm Detective Inspector Roberts, sir. Could I see your identification please?'

  Audley passed the folder over.

  'And this gentleman?'

  'Squadron Leader Roskill, my colleague.'

  'Might I ask who he is telephoning?'

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  'The Ministry.'

  'Are you here on official business, sir?'

  'We are.'

  'Might I know the nature of that business, sir?'

  'Mr Morrison was helping us with some information concerning a matter we are investigating, inspector. A matter falling under the Official Secrets Act. He was only marginally concerned with it.

  We spoke to him briefly early in the afternoon and arranged to see him again at 5.25, just before he closed. We found the shop locked, and Squadron Leader Roskill went round to the service entrance.

  He found the body at the bottom of the stairs.'

  Roberts nodded. 'You said in your message that you were not altogether satisfied with the circumstances here, sir. Could you tell me why?'

  Audley repeated what Roskill had said.

  'Inspector, there was no question of any proceedings against Mr Morrison. He was disturbed by our visit, but there was no reason why he should take his own life. If he wanted to, in any case, I don't think he would have used such a method. When I first saw him down there I thought it must have been an accident. I still think so.

  'But if there is any question of foul play it is of the very greatest importance that this is established quickly.'

  Roberts gave him an old-fashioned look.

  'Can you think of any reason–any reason that you can tell me–why anyone might harm Mr Morrison, sir?'

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  'Honestly, inspector–no. This sort of thing just doesn't happen. Not now–not here.'