He spoke of Elise with an anxiety which for him was unusual and said that I would need her assuming I got away to any secure future. He doesn’t grasp my position – death, back to gaol or for all my life on the run. Of the three I honestly prefer the first. What use am I to a woman or a woman to me?
I replied that if I allowed myself to look forward at all I wanted no sort of tie.
‘She’d be disappointed to hear that,’ he said.
‘Romantic fascination, Mick. In normal times I might respond. She’s a lovely thing.’
‘You haven’t?’
‘No. Why this sudden interest?’
‘Friendship.’
‘She’d be more suited to you.’
‘To me? Well, she doesn’t know it.’
It was the slight bitterness in his voice which at last made me understand the full extent of his loyalty.
‘Are you that fond of her, Mick?’
‘I always have been.’
‘And no jealousy?’
‘Not while I thought you and Clotilde were fixed up. But the last weeks with Elise here and Elise there and me knowing dam’ well that you were using her but not why – well, jealousy I wouldn’t like to call it that, Gil. Sadness, more like. The two people I. …’
He became incoherent with good north country embarrassment and we let it go at that. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to lay off my supposed affairs of the heart.
‘Clotilde, you know. She’d do a lot for you.’
‘She might have the decency to make it an easy death.’
‘When I saw her with Rex she believed you were just going your own way and not a serious danger.’
‘She’s got enough evidence.’
‘Not for her, I reckon. You know what some women are. If you can’t do wrong for ’em, then you can’t do wrong.’
I remember writing something in this diary to the effect that when a man and a woman have worked closely together and meet in new and less businesslike circumstances, curiosity might well lead them to bed. I never thought she could be fulfilling more than curiosity. Yet I do recall that unexpected tenderness. It could be that in all our other transactions she had been proudly withholding herself, duty and discipline being emphasised for her own benefit rather than mine. I had always felt that her command manner was overdone and supposed that she wished to show herself as militant and efficient as any mere male partisan. I was stupid. She was so sure of her quality – and so were the rest of us – that she had no need for that muscular mentality and must have known it.
I asked Mick if he had really any solid reason for his belief.
‘Just a dirty mind, Gil. But Elise was very sure. She said Clotilde was never natural with you.’
The processes of human intelligence are odd. Sometimes I think the subconscious is a far better planner than the reasoning conscious. At this moment, out of any context, a remark of Sir Frederick came flooding back into memory:
I should not let him go and I should choose for him a London prison.
He underrated Magma. Partisans are expendable and we all know it. But Clotilde? If they thought the Government had got her, wouldn’t they put off the explosion? But the Government would not have her. I would. And then I could count on misunderstandings, bargaining, delay till the position was clarified. If they intended to use the bomb anyway they could very well wait some days in order to get Clotilde back – as was done for her before and now with a far more credible threat.
I told Mick that Elise should remain in her hotel where she would be safe for a day or two and that he was to keep in daily touch with me and with her.
Had he noticed a telephone in Clotilde’s flat, I asked him. Yes, there was one. That is essential, though I am not yet sure how it is going to be used. Above all it is essential that I leave convincing evidence that the police have arrested her.
God, I am contemplating the very depths of dishonour! But time, time, time – I must have time.
September 6th
I have taken a cautious look at Onslow Mews, a small opening of Onslow Street in Fulham, about fifty yards deep and lined by private garages, one of which, at the bottom end, has been converted to the tiny maisonette which contains Clotilde. It is cleverly selected for her, without inquisitive and inconvenient neighbours, and allows me to devise a plan which in theory will work provided the timing is not too wildly out and there are no unforeseeable accidents. Success also depends on whether the telephone number through which, as Group Commander, I could reach Rex in the evening is still in use. Mick, being only a cell leader, does not know it.
According to Mick’s account of his interview with the pair, Clotilde opposed any drastic measures against me until I was given a chance to explain. It will seem to Rex quite likely that we have been lovers and thus believable that I – in spite of being a traitor and possibly a secret police agent – should warn her through him as soon as I learned that Special Branch or the Anti-Terrorist Squad had found and identified her.
Now I have to work this out on paper. I can only get in touch with Rex at 6.30 in the evening. The dialling code shows that he is then standing by a telephone in Clerkenwell. The number cannot be that of his house or business; otherwise any of the Group Commanders whom he handles would be able to discover his true name.
Very well. At 6.30 I warn Rex that he should tell Clotilde to get out of her flat and stay out. He is bound to act on that, but he will want to confirm that the police have in fact raided Onslow Mews. He must do that himself, for he has no time to pass orders down to a cell, and anyway they are already dispersed. By taxi or Underground it will take him at least thirty-five minutes to get from Clerkenwell to Fulham.
By that time there will be police cars in the mews and lights on in the flat while it is being thoroughly searched. What Rex, arriving as a casual onlooker, can ask without arousing suspicion is very limited: ‘what’s up, constable?’ or ‘any luck?’ And the police reply will be noncommittal as it always is – more than usually so, considering that the raid is top secret. I can take it that the entrance to the mews will be blocked and therefore – unless someone is trapped inside while garaging his car – there should be no independent witness who can say whether a police car did or did not drive away with a woman.
It’s a gamble, a reckless gamble. But the probabilities are that Rex is going to be left in suspense; and when no news at all comes in from Clotilde during the night he must assume that the police have got her.
I’ll put through the call to Assistant Commissioner Farquhar immediately after telephoning Rex. Assuming he has given orders that any anonymous communication to him is to be taken seriously – and I’ll bet he has – his men will be on the spot and in force within ten minutes, or at any rate well before Rex arrives.
Now for Clotilde. She bolts at once when Rex warns her and Mick picks her up smartly outside the mews. If she is out when Rex calls and returns later she will really be arrested. Another gamble! I have no way of ensuring that she will be in. Neither Mick nor I know her number or the name in which she has rented the flat.
I may improve on my message to Scotland Yard, but something like this, I think, will do:
Urgent for Assistant Commissioner Farquhar, Special Branch. Take it down now because I am not going to hang about for you to trace where this call is coming from. My letter of Sept. 3rd to Farquhar is proof of bona fides. If you raid immediately you will find Miss Alexandra Baratov probably with others at 2 Onslow Mews. She was arrested on June 28th and later released in consequence of a threat of which we both know.
Mick’s car is a station wagon. We can hide Clotilde fairly well under blankets and rugs whereas a woman bound and gagged in an ordinary back seat must be noticed by some passer-by. It’s a pity that I cannot put her to sleep. When Herbert Johnson vanished into limbo he carried nothing but a suitcase and himself to Ealing. In any case I never possessed any drugs to be administered orally or by injection; they could be obtained, if judged necessary for any op
eration, by a Group Commander from committee stores.
However, I do not think Mick should pick her up in the estate car. A folding bed will be in it, blankets, a Primus stove, a basket of food and drink. All that invites too much curiosity. It will seem more natural if she is rescued in my own car, empty, casual, very ordinary and just right for a short run to safety.
All very tentative. I wonder how I shall look back on this so-called planning.
September 8th
Yesterday evening I left Mick’s estate car in a nearby car park and put through my two telephone messages from a box only a minute’s walk from Onslow Mews. In speaking to Rex I invented a convincing detail telling him that his tame assassin had been careless enough to make a note of Clotilde’s address and that the police had found it. Myself I did not know where Clotilde was and could not warn her that her retreat was likely to be raided at any moment if it had not been done already. He never questioned my information and tried to keep me talking. I cut him off and got through to Scotland Yard.
Meanwhile Mick had parked my car round two corners from Onslow Street. Five minutes later we were both hanging around on the pavement with the entrance to the little cobbled mews between us. The long street of four-storey brick houses turned into flats was typical of London. There were no shops handy, no pub and nothing in which one could reasonably show an interest; so we could not idle plausibly. Any experienced detective would have spotted us at once. We kept moving back and forth with pedestrians going out for a meal or returning from work. Time went past, and still no Clotilde. A car drove into the mews, and three minutes later a young man came out on foot. He was too short for Clotilde but Mick and I both converged on him to have a closer look. The ten minutes I had allowed for police to arrive were nearly up. I dared not enter the mews myself or allow Mick to do so in case we were trapped there and held for questioning.
It was an agony of frustration strolling up and down that damned dead street among damned dead people who would probably be both if I were unable to get hold of Clotilde. I assumed that Rex had smelt a rat. But even if he had he could not take the risk of refusing to telephone her. I wondered if he had laid on some unknown operation with some unknown Group Commander. But help might not arrive in time and he must know it.
Nearly twenty minutes had gone by when from the direction of the Cromwell Road I heard the siren of a police car tearing through traffic and I began to walk away. Then Mick signalled to me and at last I saw Clotilde stride very fast out of the mews, look round and cross the road. She had had no time for any attempt at disguise. She was dressed for the house in blue velvet trousers and a low-cut evening sweater with her fair hair loose on her shoulders – a most obvious Alexandra Baratov answering to perfection the description of the young woman who had appeared in court and been mysteriously released. Mick closed in on her and the pair were safely round the corner just before the first car arrived. The duty officer who took down my message must either have been sceptical or had temporary difficulty in contacting anyone of high enough rank to understand its importance.
With Mick and Clotilde safely away I recovered the estate car and set off for the rendezvous. In spite of success, my confidence was shattered. Far too much had depended on luck. Driving out of London I was desperately aware that we had had too little time to plan and none to reconnoitre. The whole pretended rescue seemed amateurish and inefficient. But so it had to be until we reached the ruined cottage which Sir Frederick had shown me.
Clotilde would expect a short journey within London, not a gangster’s drive into the country. As soon as her relief had worn off she was bound to see that the operation did not bear the typical Magma hall mark – quiet, unobtrusive, every move carefully worked out. With this in mind I had plotted a steady route to the northwest which should not give her any impression of panic or of a search for solitude since it ran from string to string of suburban towns and villages and took suddenly to wilder country where she could be quickly overpowered. Chesham, I remembered, about filled the bill. On the way there Mick was to say that he had been ordered – but how? – to take her straight to the Committee and that she would change cars outside Chesham. It was possible. Both she and I accepted that the committee might meet anywhere but did not expect to know all the possible places. In present circumstances a house at a safe distance from London would appear very natural.
Our rendezvous was to be in Pednor Bottom, a lane running from Chesham up one of the remoter Chiltern valleys. I had arranged with Mick that he was to drive slowly so that I could get there before him and choose a safe spot. There were no turnings and he could not miss me. But from that point on we should have to play it by ear.
I drove along Pednor Bottom soon after eight in the falling dusk. The long, straight lane was much as it appeared on the map. On the crests, both sides of the narrow valley, lights twinkled from houses rather too close for comfort. There was hardly any traffic, but enough to impress on me that whatever we did would have to be done fast. A belt of trees on the left of the road promised to be useful if we had to hide a helpless Clotilde in a hurry. I parked in a gateway on the right where I was partly off the road and Mick could see me clearly as he approached.
He arrived ten minutes later and pulled up under the trees well behind me, wisely leaving the engine running. I walked back to the car and opened the door for Clotilde. She got out with a little exclamation of surprise, apparently pleased.
‘You ran that close, Clotilde,’ I said. ‘You must have been glad to see Mick.’
‘Yes. I was drying my hair and I let the telephone ring,’ she replied calmly.
I did not question this. I was too fascinated by the fact that history could be affected by a woman refusing to answer the telephone because she was drying her hair. How well Clotilde knew me!
‘Lucky that Rex tried again!’
‘And then he had no time to say anything but: “run”!’
I was satisfied and relieved that as yet there was no need for violence. We could carry on with our plan of continuing with both cars so that Mick would return in his own and mine be left somewhere safe, not too far from the cottage.
‘I’ll drive with Gil now,’ she said. ‘God, I’m such a mess!’
She began to walk towards the estate car, then stopped in the beam of Mick’s headlights, drew a compact from her handbag and looked in the mirror. She put back the compact and her hand returned from the bag with a .32 automatic. My position was hopeless – not near enough for attack, not far enough away for her to miss. She made me clasp my hands behind my head and ordered me to walk across the road to the edge of the deep ditch on that side.
This was death and I knew it. She had had her orders, been convinced by the evidence and would obey. I felt that one way or another I deserved what was coming to me and tried – this is true and I am amazed at it – to concentrate on some great pleasure that I could carry with me if there was any.
I heard Mick start like a banger and was kissed by the breath of the bullet just under my ear. She turned, fired again and shattered the windscreen but missed Mick. Then he was on her as she jumped sideways and ran for the shelter of the estate car. He swerved and the right wing caught her and flung her into the hedge. He slewed back across the lane in an almost impossible effort to miss the estate car but did miss it and finished up with my car on its side and the bonnet stove in against a tree.
Two distant headlights were approaching from Chesham. We picked up Clotilde and her gun, laid her in the back of the estate car and were away before the oncoming driver could catch sight of our number. I sat in the back, holding her steady. She was unconscious. Mouth and cheek were bleeding. Right shoulder had taken a battering and was scored by the hawthorn, but the arm did not seem to be broken.
‘Why the devil didn’t she hold up both of us while she could?’ I asked.
‘I persuaded her that I was sent by you. I’ve never been told that you are no longer my Group Commander,’ Mick explained. ‘I know you are u
nder some kind of cloud, but that’s all.’
‘She didn’t show any suspicion?’
‘No. A bit of luck for us, I thought. It looked as if we could drive over half England with her saying: thank you very much.’
I saw now that she had talked to Rex till the very last moment – a long conversation in which he had said in effect ‘I told you so’ and ordered her to do a better job than Vladimir. I was a fool to have embroidered my conversation with Rex by that bit about Clotilde’s address being found on Vladimir’s body. It was proof positive that I was in communication with the police.
It was a vile order to have given her, but I suppose she was able to take refuge in that military restraint which she had shown in all her earlier dealings with her favourite cell leader. One must remember, too, that she was fanatically proud and that I had been grossly unfaithful to her trust in me.
As soon as we were clear of the Chilterns, Mick stopped and I arranged seat cushions to make her as comfortable as I could while Mick boiled a kettle for hot tea. She came round and her colour improved. She was in no condition to move or yell but it now seemed that she was out of danger from serious shock.
An hour and a half later we were beneath Pen Hill and on a passable track with plenty of cover on both sides. In the darkness it took me some time to find the right route through the trees to the open, and even then it was hard to pick up the irregular outline of the ruin. That cottage had existence without presence.
After transporting the stores we carried Clotilde on the folding bed and took her down the steps to the well cellar. Cold and damp it was below ground on a September night, but at least we could safely show a light. When Mick left we arranged that he should park the car at any handy village lower down the valley and come back on foot early in the afternoon which would give me time to get in touch with the reverend baronet and to go to work on Clotilde.
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