The Labyrinth Makers

by Anthony Price

  Audley wasn't sure that he approved the way she was setting the pace of their relationship, even if it was one of the logical outcomes of emancipation. But he knew equally well that with a pace maker one either keeps up or drops out of the race altogether.

  'With a double bed,' he added in what he hoped sounded an equally casual tone. If Richardson too was required to report back on his progress, then he might as well have something to enliven his report.

  It wasn't until they were settled into the Rover that Faith spoke again.

  'I suppose I was out of line there?' she said, with a suggestion of truculence rather than apology in the question. 'Not in front of the help? You didn't like it much?'

  Audley could think of no suitable reply, short of admitting that he was old-fashioned, but she didn't wait for one anyway.

  'Well, I didn't like what happened in that bar very much either,' she continued. 'I didn't like you very much. I didn't even like myself.'

  He tried to concentrate on his driving; the Rover's transmission was automatic and his unoccupied left foot seemed unnaturally large.

  'Actually I thought you were hamming it a bit at first. I expected him to laugh in your face any minute. Or sock you, even though you were twice as big. But then you started to gloat–and it wasn't funny then. It was nasty!'

  Audley's left foot shrank back to its normal size as he saw the truth of it, and the chasm. He was not suited to this kind of work; not because he was too soft-hearted, as he had cretinously believed, but because with a little practice he could grow to like it too much. He'd been lucky with Morrison and Tierney–forgetting Jones and the police inspector. But when he'd learnt more he wouldn't need such luck …

  'I just don't know what sort of man you are! I've seen a gentle side–Mrs Clark's side. And a diffident side. And Daddy said you were very clever. And that nice man Roskill thinks the world of you–and so does Richardson, and he'd never even met you! But I think there could be a dark side I wouldn't like.'

  Damn her, thought Audley. She was fogging the issue when there were things, other things, he ought to be worrying about. Except that in the long run they might be less important things.

  'You still asked for a double room,' he said cruelly.

  She shook her head.

  'That wasn't just for you, David. It was for the Bull.'

  'For the Bull?'

  'That's not quite fair on you–it's only a hotel to you. You can't know about it.'

  'You've been there?'

  'Been there?' She sighed. 'No, I've never been there, not in the flesh. But it's part of my family history–I've heard them all talk of it. Grandmother used to tell me how they all met there. It was the squadron pub–"See you at the Bull" was their good luck saying! It was his special place–Johnnie Steerforth's pub. He met Mother there before I was born; I think he met her there the very first time. And Daddy met her there afterwards, my step-father, I mean. It was the only place …'

  She left the sentence unfinished and Audley writhed inwardly. He couldn't have known, and she was honest and had conceded it. But he could hardly have been more hamhanded in his egotistical misconstruction. Among all those ghosts of the living and the dead she didn't wish to be alone. Again it had been the need rather than the man, he told himself sadly.

  'I'm sorry. I've been rather thick, haven't I?' he confessed heavily. 'We can go somewhere else. Or you can. In fact you could easily go home–you've done your part better than I deserve.'

  'Do you want me to go home?'

  'It's not for me to say. You've earned the right to decide that for yourself, I think.'

  She laughed. 'I'm not just a camp-follower any more then?'

  'Faith, you know damn well you were never just a camp-follower.' Audley nerved himself to abase his pride. 'If you want me to say whether I want you to go to the Bull to share a double bed with me in a double room, the answer is "yes", as you know very well. For me it would be a pleasure–and a privilege.

  'And as to that dark side of mine — the answer is "yes" to that too. I think there's a KGB man inside me trying to get out. And maybe that's another reason why you should stick around: we can both try to keep him in check now we've spotted him. At least until I can get back to my old job where he doesn't have any chances!'

  She put her hand softly on his arm.

  'Poor David! Things are complicated enough for you without a KGB girl of your own to watch your KGB man! I haven't even been straight with you, either. I do want to go to the Bull with you very much. I think I'd like to get the Bull out of my system and you into it. And I want to find Schliemann's treasure!'

  'Steerforth's treasure now. It'll always be his treasure as well now, whether we find it or not.'

  'But David — do you really think you can find it?'

  He shrugged. 'The Russians think we can, Faith. And we're the first people to look for it, after all. So given time maybe we can. Tierney's given us a good start, anyway –better than I expected.'

  'He has? Honestly, I couldn't quite see what you were driving at. I mean, it doesn't matter where it was put at first. It's where it ended up, and that could be — just anywhere.'

  'Oh, no, it couldn't. Your daddy was an extremely resourceful character, but he wasn't a miracle worker.'

  'I still don't see—'

  'Time, love! Time and trust and opportunity. I haven't been trying to find the treasure so far–I've been trying to find what the limiting factors were.

  'He didn't trust Tierney, and if he didn't trust Tierney he didn't trust anyone. So he shifted the treasure from the safe deposit hut by himself. And he did it that same night–he told Tierney it was put away safely next day. But he couldn't drive, so there's a physical limit to where he could manhandle it.

  'There was the trolley.'

  'Even with the trolley it can't be very far away from the hut. There has to be a place of some sort–he'd never leave it just lying about.'

  'He'd get the place ready in advance then.'

  Audley shook his head.

  'I'm betting he didn't know in advance he was going to hijack the cargo. So it had to be a ready-made hiding place, and at the same time somewhere it could stay safely for a long time–twenty-four years, in fact.'

  Faith frowned. 'I think you're assuming a lot, David. He could have had a place ready for what's-his-name, the Belgian, to collect the stuff–a hole in the ground would do perfectly.'

  'Fortunately holes in the ground are the one thing we don't have to worry about. If I thought it was under the ground I wouldn't bother to look — we'd need a regiment of Royal Engineers, mine detectors and God knows what else before we could think of tackling holes in the ground!'

  'Well, it's the traditional place for buried treasure, and I still think it's the most obvious place,' said Faith, somewhat nettled. 'I don't see why you're so sure of yourself.'

  Audley checked himself from another scornful reply, aware suddenly that he was close to selling the lion's skin before he had killed it.

  'It's traditional, Faith,' he conceded seriously. 'But England isn't a desert island. People have an inconvenient habit of noticing large, convenient holes dug in the ground, as quite a few murderers have discovered to their cost. They notice them after they've been filled in, too. In fact there's only one place where a hole isn't suspicious, and that's in a churchyard!'

  She turned towards him eagerly, but he cut her off with a shake of the head.

  'Unfortunately Newton Chester churchyard is all of three miles from the airfield, on the other side of the village. Too far away to trundle a trolley two or three times without being seen or heard. And frankly I can't see your father settling down with pick and shovel either, not to that extent: it would have to be a big, deep hole, a grave-sized one. And that takes quite a lot of digging, even if he had time–which I still don't think he had.'

  Faith nodded thoughtfully. 'You've made your point, David. But if it's not under ground, it's above ground. And that seems even more unlikely–unl
ess it's in that castle Tierney mentioned.'

  'That's a possibility, certainly. But I don't think there's much point in discussing possibilities until we see the place. As I said, I've been after the limiting factors. In any case, we've got one more job before Newton Chester. We've still got to see Maclean.'

  'Maclean? He was–the navigator, wasn't he?'

  'He was the navigator, yes.'

  'But we're not going to do another tough act for him, I hope–I don't think I've got the stamina!'

  Audley smiled. 'I don't think it would be very wise to attempt that act on a respectable citizen like Mr Maclean.'

  Faith sighed with relief. 'Thank Christ there was one respectable member of the crew! I was beginning to get a jaundiced view of the air force. But then I suppose if anyone has to be steady and reliable it would be the navigator. Sort of father figure, like Captain Cook!'

  Like most women she was prone to subjective judgments, reflected Audley: her step-father had been a navigator. But it was reassuring to find such a mundane flaw in her character; in some other respects she was formidable enough to be Jones's true daughter.

  'I don't think your father's crew was very unusual–or unusually bad, come to that, Faith. Morrison was the weakling and Tierney was a potential crook, but they did their jobs perfectly well. They helped to win the war so people like me could come and hound them in peace years afterwards. Their generation did something big — which is more than mine has done.'

  'And my father?'

  'Same thing, love–only more so! Don't go drooping through life thinking he was just a villain. In some ways he was quite a man. He won his DFC fair and square.'

  'Don't I know it! It was Grandmother's favourite bed-time story. So he was a war-hero. It's just that now I don't think he would have been a peace-hero.'

  'Maybe not. But there were plenty like him—'

  "A daring pilot in extremity …

  But for a calm unfit."

  You shouldn't be sad, then. You've been damned lucky!'

  'Lucky?' Faith sounded bitter.

  'Every one of you! You got a good step-father out of the deal. And your mother has a good husband.'

  'And my father and his crew–were they lucky?'

  'They were luckier still. Your father went out quickly just when he thought he was home and dry and the others saved their skins.'

  'And lost their treasure!'

  'But that was the luckiest thing of all–for them. You don't think they'd really have got away with it, do you? More likely it would have been their death sentence.'

  'But you said — you've implied, anyway — that it was a marvellous plan?'

  'So it was. But it had one terrible flaw they didn't know about–the flaw you've forgotten about and I still don't understand. They'd got Panin after them!'

  'Panin–ugh!' Faith shivered. 'Every time you mention him it gives me the shakes–is he some kind of bogeyman?'

  Audley shrugged. 'I wish I knew. But I know the Russians never gave up looking for that Dakota, so the odds are they'd have been on your father the moment he tried to dispose of his loot. And judging by what they did to Bloch they wouldn't have been gentle.'

  She stared down at her feet miserably, and Audley cursed his runaway tongue, so proud of itself. He had set out to cheer her up and he had only reminded her of the real reason for this ridiculous treasure hunt. For a time he had almost forgotten it himself.

  It was his turn to put a reassuring hand on her arm now.

  'Never mind, Faith love. You don't have to meet the bogeyman on Tuesday. And you should get on splendidly with Maclean.'

  She turned to him in surprise. 'Panin's coming here–to England?'

  'You don't have to meet him.'

  'Don't have to? I want to! The only way to deal with nightmares is to get them out into daylight–and I don't believe he can really be so awful, not if he thinks the treasure's worth his precious time.'

  She was an innocent really, as so many of her kind were innocents. Always trying to transpose their safe, cosy world with that other, very different one: brave old Uncle Joe, puffing his pipe; cuddly Mr Kruschev, dandling his grandchildren on his knee; mild, worried-looking Mr Kosygin, playing the dove to Brezhnev's hawk. But he had to accept her jibe–it would only frighten her to point out that the worst nightmares were those which refused to dissolve in the morning sun.

  'Besides, if he's such a big wheel it would be an experience to meet him. I've never met anyone really important!'

  Audley felt another surge of affection for her: she was quite a girl. And it could do no harm, provided she held her tongue. It might even be an advantage, for equally Nikolai Andrievitch Panin would probably never have met anyone like her. She might put him off his stroke, if only just a little.

  'Very well, then, Faith. You shall meet him. But I still think you'll find Maclean more congenial.'

  'Just because he's honest? I don't even see why you're interested in him. Tierney said he had no part in anything.'

  'That doesn't mean he was blind or deaf. He was still one of the crew, and because he wasn't interested in making his fortune that way, your father just might have been more talkative with him. Besides, he was with him for one whole day between the trips–he went to London with him and Wojek on the Thursday. That was the day your book on Troy was bought, I've no doubt.'

  'How on earth do you know so much about what they did?'

  'It's all in the original investigation file. Our people were trying to find out what your father had done that made his plane so interesting to the Russians. They didn't find out, of course, but they managed a pretty detailed breakdown of his movements. And some shrewd character assessments, too.'

  Butler had originally described the file as an assembly of non-information. And so it was, to the extent that it had failed to provide any conclusive answers. But like an old but painstaking geological survey it contained a wealth of information which became useful in the light of further knowledge.

  'And as for Maclean being up your street–does Wadham Hill Comprehensive School mean anything to you?'

  Faith raised her eyebrows. 'Wadham Hill? Isn't that the one that got the spectacular Oxbridge results?'

  Audley nodded. 'I thought it might ring a bell with you. There was an article on it in one of the colour supplements, and it made the popular press too. One in the eye for the grammar schools. And all thanks to James W. Maclean–or "Big Jim" as he's known to his pupils. The papers liked that fine!'

  'And that's our Maclean?'

  'The same. Headmaster of Wadham Hill and sometime Flying Officer of 3112 Squadron. If we're nice to him perhaps he'll offer you a job sometime.'

  'To Steerforth's daughter? I should doubt that–unless he's got a special remedial class for budding criminal scientists! I think I'll be plain Miss Jones to him.'

  'You'll never be plain Miss Jones. But never mind–it's his memories we're after, not his professional approval. Always supposing he's available; it occurs to me that it may be his half-term too.'

  XI

  But James Maclean was available. He received them readily and courteously in the immaculate study of his home which overlooked the equally immaculate glass and concrete campus of Wadham Hill. It had been his boast, Audley remembered now, that as a headmaster he was ready to meet anybody at any time–the colour supplement had made much of that.

  But the 'Big Jim' nickname was puzzling. Clearly it didn't stem from size, either literally or by schoolboy mversion; Maclean was a neat, compact, average-looking man. Or perhaps it was a case of inversion, with the rough-hewn name contrasting with the man's intellectual precision–a compliment to the personality lurking beneath the neutral surface. There must certainly have been a measure of respect between him and Steerforth for him to have stood aloof from the hijacking without arousing ill-will.

  Maclean came round his desk to meet them. 'Dr Audley–Miss Jones–your card says "Ministry of Defence", and I must admit that I'm curious to learn what your
Ministry wants with me on a Sunday. I thought at first it might concern the Combined Cadet Force, but neither of you has the Cadet look!'

  Maclean smiled as his eyes came to rest on Faith, but when she failed to return the smile the twinkle of good humour was replaced by a more speculative look.

  'It's good of you to spare us the time, headmaster,' said Audley, reaching into his pocket for his identification. Maclean studied the little folder carefully, nodded and returned it without comment.

  'We're hoping you may be able to help us with information about something which happened rather a long time ago. It concerns Flight Lieutenant John Steerforth–you were his navigator during the war.'

  Maclean stared at Audley steadily, with a slight crease of surprise wrinkling his forehead.

  'John Steerforth!' he said, repeating the name and savouring it as though it had a special taste. 'It's a very long time since I've heard that name. But I remember him, of course. As you say, I was his navigator. What do you want to know about him? He's been dead twenty years or more–he was killed just after the war. We had engine failure flying back from Berlin. We baled out, but Steerforth stayed with the plane until too late–that was the presumption, anyway.'

  'You remember him well?'

  'Do I remember him well? I knew him very well once, certainly. John Steerforth! It wasn't John, actually–it was always Johnnie–Johnnie Steerforth! As a matter of fact I've been reminded of him off and on down the years a number of times.'

  'How was that?'

  'By boys who were like him. Not the same–no one's the same. But the same type, the Steerforth type. And oddly enough I don't mean the Johnnie Steerforth type, either; I mean the original "J. Steerforth"–David Copperfield's Steerforth. It's a curious coincidence. The Steerforths of this world can be useful in the right settings and dangerous in the wrong ones. Good in war, because they enjoy taking risks. The trouble starts when there aren't any risks to be taken.'