Blackstone and the Endgame

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Go on,’ Todd said.

  ‘This is a picture of Max,’ Ellie said, showing him the photograph they had found in the government warehouse.

  ‘How do you know it’s him?’ Todd asked.

  ‘I know it because Sergeant Patterson and I found the attaché case that was taken from Sam Blackstone at the docks, hidden in his lodgings.’

  ‘You had no right to be there,’ Todd said. ‘You have no official standing at all.’

  ‘The truth is the truth – whoever finds it,’ Ellie said. ‘And now we come to the part where I offer you the opportunity to do the decent thing. I want you to use your influence to gain access to a bank account.’

  ‘Whose bank account?’ Todd asked.

  ‘His,’ Ellie said, showing him the photograph she had bought from the seaside photographer for a guinea.

  The train that pulled into Hamburg Central Station in the early afternoon was carrying mostly agricultural produce from the occupied Belgian territories, but one of the trucks – though not listed on the manifold as such – had been set aside for a variety of artistic objects which certain high-ranking German officers had decided would be much happier in Germany, in the homes of those same officers, than they could ever have been in Belgium.

  The objects were all in packing cases, and the porters had been cautioned that this particular ‘agricultural produce’ was extremely delicate – and, indeed, might even shatter – so special care should be taken when unloading it.

  It therefore came as something of a surprise to the two porters entrusted with the task to hear a furious banging noise coming from inside one of the longer, thinner cases.

  ‘I didn’t know cabbages could kick,’ said one of the porters, a man not famed for his intellect.

  The other porter grinned. ‘That’s not cabbages,’ he said. ‘It’s onions. Belgian onions are well known for being fierce.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ the first porter asked.

  The second porter sighed. ‘It’s not a vegetable at all,’ he explained. ‘It’s either a man or an animal – and I’d put my money on a man.’

  ‘Should we open it?’ the first porter asked.

  ‘It might be a good idea,’ the second porter agreed.

  It was a sturdy packing case, very well put-together, and it was two minutes before the porters had removed enough nails to be able to remove the lid.

  ‘It is a man,’ said the first porter, looking down into the case.

  It was indeed, the second porter agreed, and a man who had been bound and gagged with the same thoroughness that had gone into the construction of his container.

  The porters lifted the man out of the case, cut through his bonds and removed his gag.

  ‘Who are you?’ the second porter asked.

  ‘My name is Karl Hansen, and I am a Norwegian citizen,’ the man was just about able to croak.

  Superintendent Brigham had never seen either of the two inspectors before, and when they arrived at his office unannounced – and said they wanted to question him – his instinctive reaction was outrage.

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but I’ll have your jobs for this,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no need for you to make this any harder than it has to be, sir,’ the taller of the two detectives said calmly. ‘We have been ordered to ask you some questions, and that is what we intend to do.’

  ‘On whose authority was that order issued?’ Brigham demanded.

  ‘Our superintendent—’

  ‘Your superintendent! Good God, man, I’m a superintendent, too. It says so on the door!’

  ‘The order was given to us by our superintendent, but it came down from the commissioner himself,’ the shorter inspector said.

  It was a routine check, Brigham told himself – a random audit. He was being questioned, but it could just as easily have been any other superintendent in the Yard, and there was absolutely nothing to be worried about.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, in a bored, long-suffering way. ‘Let’s just get this over with.’

  ‘Do you know this man, sir?’ asked the taller inspector, placing a photograph on his desk.

  Oh my God, Brigham thought, looking down in horror at it.

  Oh, sweet Jesus, no!

  How, in God’s name, had they ever got their hands on a photograph of Karl?

  ‘I’ve never seen him in my life,’ he said shakily.

  ‘His name is Max Schneider, and he is the man who escaped with twenty-four thousand pounds of government money,’ the inspector said.

  ‘But he … he can’t be Max,’ Brigham gasped.

  ‘Now isn’t that interesting?’ the inspector said. ‘You claim to have no idea who he is – you’ve never seen him before in your life – and yet you’re certain he can’t be Max.’

  ‘Have you checked your bank account recently, sir?’ the shorter inspector asked.

  ‘No, but I don’t see—’ Brigham said.

  ‘We have,’ the taller inspector interrupted.

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘And we discovered that you’re five thousand pounds richer than you were a month ago.’

  ‘I … I’ve never put five thousand pounds – or anything close to it – into my account,’ Brigham protested.

  ‘We know you didn’t put the money into your account,’ the shorter inspector agreed. ‘But somebody certainly did. And can you guess who that somebody might be?’

  It couldn’t have been Karl, Brigham thought. Karl had never so much as had a sniff of five thousand pounds in his entire life.

  Unless … unless Karl really was Max.

  He should confess now, while there was still a chance he would be believed, he told himself.

  But he knew that he simply couldn’t do it – knew that the shame of being thought a robber was nothing to the shame that would be heaped on him if he told the truth.

  ‘We asked you if you had any idea where the money came from, sir,’ the shorter inspector asked.

  ‘No doubt you think it was this Max who paid the money into my account,’ Brigham said, making one last desperate attempt to bluff his way out.

  ‘We do,’ the inspector confirmed.

  ‘But why would this man – who I’ve never met – have given me five thousand pounds.’

  ‘Perhaps we should show him the other photograph now,’ the taller inspector suggested to the shorter one.

  ‘Yes, that would be a good idea,’ the shorter inspector confirmed.

  The taller inspector placed the photograph on Brigham’s desk.

  The superintendent recognized the location – it was the promenade at Brighton.

  There were two men in the photograph. They were walking side by side, and it was obvious that they were together. One of those men was Karl – and the other was himself.

  White’s had been founded by an Italian immigrant called Francesco Bianco in 1693. Its original purpose was to serve hot chocolate (then a great luxury), but it soon evolved into a gentlemen’s club. The club offered men of quality two things they could not find elsewhere. The first was absolute escape from the company of women (wives and mistresses included). The second was the opportunity to squander their fortunes on the gaming tables.

  The club moved from Chesterfield Street to much grander premises on St James’s Street in 1778. But the spirit of the club was unchanged, and it was from his seat in the bow window of the new club that Lord Alvanley once bet a fellow member three thousand pounds that the raindrop he had selected would reach the bottom of the window pane before the other man’s fancy.

  The three men meeting in the club’s dining room were all members, and they might even have described themselves as friends, but there was certainly no atmosphere of bonhomie that evening.

  ‘Well, you certainly managed to get yourselves into a fine pickle,’ said Courtney Hartington, who’d arranged the meeting.

  The other two men – the Metropolitan Police Commissioner and the Permanent Secretary at the
Home Office – exchanged nervous glances.

  ‘I wouldn’t have phrased it quite like that,’ the Permanent Secretary said cautiously.

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Hartington asked, with a note of surprise in his voice that fooled no one. ‘The head of the Special Branch is caught red-handed – in collusion with a German spy – stealing money from His Majesty’s Government, and you wouldn’t call it a pickle?’

  ‘It is certainly something of an embarrassment,’ the Permanent Secretary admitted.

  ‘I should think it will be more than an embarrassment when it comes to court,’ Hartington said. ‘It will be a full-blown scandal. The press will have a field day.’

  ‘We … er … are not anticipating it ever coming to court,’ the Permanent Secretary said. ‘Max and his associates have escaped – and most of the money has disappeared with them. All we are left with is Superintendent Brigham, and there seems little point in putting him on trial.’

  ‘You were happy enough to put my clients on trial,’ Courtney Hartington pointed out.

  ‘Your clients?’ the Permanent Secretary repeated. ‘Did I hear you say your clients?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the plural?’

  ‘That is what an “s” added to the end of a noun is normally meant to indicate,’ Hartington agreed.

  ‘So who are your clients?’

  ‘Didn’t I say? They’re Archie Patterson and Sam Blackstone.’

  ‘But how can Blackstone be your client, when no one even knows where he is?’ the Commissioner asked.

  ‘I do know where he is – he’s in Russia,’ Hartington said. ‘But to get back to the point, you were quite happy to put him on trial, weren’t you?’

  ‘We thought he was guilty,’ the Commissioner said defensively.

  ‘Whereas you know that Superintendent Brigham is guilty,’ Hartington countered.

  ‘It wouldn’t have looked good for the Yard to have Blackstone standing in the dock,’ the Commissioner said. ‘It never looks good to have a bad apple on public display – but, when all is said and done, he is a mere detective inspector. If the head of Special Branch were standing in that same dock, it would do irreparable damage to our reputation.’

  ‘So what will happen to Brigham?’ Hartington asked. ‘Will he retire due to ill health?’

  ‘That is the plan – and we hope we can rely on you giving that plan your full support,’ the Permanent Secretary said.

  Hartington nodded gravely. ‘Of course you can. I’ve had my bit of fun, teasing you over different treatment for different people – wicked of me, I know, though I just couldn’t resist it – but I never really meant to oppose you in the matter. We are, after all, members of the same club – and I’m not just referring to this building.’

  The Permanent Secretary nodded. ‘As members of the establishment, it is our duty to stick together.’

  ‘Just as a matter of interest, what will happen to Blackstone?’ Hartington asked.

  ‘Since you seem to know how to contact him, you may tell him that the charges have been dropped and he may return to England,’ the Permanent Secretary said.

  ‘And Patterson?’

  ‘Patterson is more of a problem. He is, after all, guilty as charged, so he must stand trial.’

  ‘Oh dear, that does make things rather difficult,’ Hartington said, shaking his head.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, imagine me questioning him in the witness box …’

  ‘Surely, you’ll be briefing a barrister to conduct the defence, won’t you?’ the Permanent Secretary asked.

  ‘Not in this particular case, no. I’ve promised Archie Patterson that I’ll conduct it myself,’ Hartington lied. ‘And I have a perfect right to do so under English law, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ the Permanent Secretary agreed. ‘But even so—’

  ‘Now, where was I?’ Hartington interrupted. He grabbed the lapels of his jacket, as if he was already in court. ‘I will ask my client something like, “Why did you hold up the Black Maria and free Sam Blackstone?” And he will say, “I did it because I knew he was innocent.” I will give a disapproving frown, as though he’s said something I’ve told him not to say under any circumstances – that’s an old barristers’ trick, by the way, and it always works on juries.’

  ‘Now look here, Courtney—’ the Permanent Secretary said.

  ‘Then, with the frown still on my lips, I’ll say, “You mean, you thought he was innocent?” And what else can he reply but, “No, at the time I only knew in my heart he was innocent, and now I have the proof.” “Proof?” I’ll ask. “What proof?” “We now know who the real guilty party is,” Patterson will say. And then he’ll probably name him.’

  ‘You don’t have to adopt that line of questioning at all,’ the Permanent Secretary said.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Hartington said, sounding shocked. ‘It’s my sworn duty to defend my client to the best of my ability.’

  ‘The judge will know the right thing to do,’ the Permanent Secretary said firmly. ‘He’ll put a stop to that line of questioning before Patterson even gets close to naming Brigham.’

  ‘I should hope he would,’ Hartington replied. ‘As you said earlier, we in the establishment must stick together, and I’ll certainly be delighted if he prevents me from doing a duty that I will be finding personally distasteful.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then.’

  ‘But say that someone – one of my juniors, or one of the clerks – is outraged by what he sees as a distortion of British justice, and decides to leak Brigham’s name to the gutter press. There are such people around, you know – people who, for some peculiar reason of their own, seem to regard the truth as paramount.’

  ‘That sounded like a threat,’ the Commissioner growled.

  ‘It is certainly threatening,’ Hartington agreed, ‘but let me just say that if such information were released, it would have nothing to do with me, since, as I said earlier, I am completely on your side.’

  ‘Is there any way out of this dilemma we seem to be facing?’ asked the Permanent Secretary, who regarded Machiavelli as light bedtime reading.

  ‘Yes,’ Hartington replied, ‘and it’s really quite a simple one.’

  ‘Then let’s hear it,’ the Permanent Secretary said, with a hint of resignation in his voice.

  ‘We all know that the man who held up the Black Maria had the same build as Patterson, that he was wearing an overcoat identical to the one Patterson habitually wears, and that the sergeant is devoted to Blackstone and would do anything to save him,’ Hartington said.

  ‘Which would seem to make a cast-iron case against him,’ the Commissioner pointed out.

  ‘It would indeed, except that the man who held up the Black Maria had a pronounced limp, and Patterson doesn’t,’ Hartington said.

  ‘There’s nothing in the witness statements about him having a pronounced limp,’ the Commissioner retorted.

  ‘Not at the moment there isn’t – but there could be,’ Hartington said. ‘And since, having ruled Patterson out, you’re never likely to find the real culprit, those witness statements will never actually come under close scrutiny.’

  ‘That’s blackmail,’ the commissioner said.

  ‘I prefer to think of it as negotiation,’ Hartington replied.

  ‘If we drop all charges against Patterson, can we assume we’ll hear no more of this?’ the Permanent Secretary asked.

  ‘I’d certainly be happy with that,’ Hartington agreed. ‘And I’m more than confident that I could sell the idea to my clients – Inspector Patterson and Superintendent Blackstone.’

  ‘Sell it to whom?’ the Commissioner exploded. ‘If you think – for a minute – that I’ll stand by while—’

  ‘Shut up, Roger!’ the Permanent Secretary hissed. He turned his attention to Hartington. ‘I’m sure, Courtney, that Inspector Patterson and Superintendent Blackstone will be more than happy with the arrangement.’
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br />   Max could not complain about the treatment that was meted out to him by the porters in the hours following his rescue. They had given him food, and they had given him water. They had allowed him to wash and provided him with a set of overalls to replace the once-immaculate suit that he had managed to soil during the journey. Yet, for all their kindness, they still made it quite clear to him that he could not leave the station without permission – and that that permission could only be granted by the man in charge.

  It was seven o’clock in the evening before Max was finally shown into the station master’s office. The station master himself was a square-shouldered, balding man with a large moustache. A large portrait was hanging on the wall behind him, and but for the brass plaque that said it was of Otto von Bismarck, Max might have taken it for a picture of the station master himself.

  ‘You did not have permission to arrive at my station in a packing case,’ the station master said. ‘Would you care to explain how it came about?’

  Max laughed with what he hoped sounded like bitter irony.

  ‘I wish I could,’ he said. ‘The last thing I remember before waking up in the packing case was eating a meal in one of Oslo’s best restaurants.’

  ‘One of Oslo’s best restaurants,’ the station master repeated. ‘Yes, my men told me you claim to be a Norwegian.’

  ‘I am a Norwegian. My name is Karl Hansen.’

  ‘You speak very good German for an alien.’

  ‘I’ve been taking lessons.’

  ‘I have a problem,’ the station master admitted. ‘You say you are Karl Hansen, and I want to believe you. Unfortunately, the packing case in which you were discovered also contained a packet of documents which identify you as Max Schneider.’

  Whoever had kidnapped him must have taken the documents from his room at the hotel, Max thought – and he cursed himself for not having burned the papers years earlier.

  ‘Max is a friend of mine,’ he said. ‘I was looking after those documents for him.’

  ‘It appears from the documents that this Max Schneider was born right here in Hamburg, twenty-six years ago,’ the station master said. ‘How old are you, Mr Hansen?’