And then, as I sat thinking out my first move, I noticed a brief story headed – ARMS WORKS MANAGER MISSING. It was the name Calboyd in the opening sentence that caught my eye. Mr Sefton Raikes, works manager of the Calboyd Diesel Company, had apparently left the works on Thursday evening as usual by car and had not been seen since. A section of the canal had been dragged without success and the whole length of road between the works and his home had been thoroughly searched. Both the car and its owner had simply disappeared. And then followed a significant paragraph. ‘Anxiety is being felt by those who were closely associated with him in his work. It is believed that he was opposed to the policy of the directors. His plans for the production of a special type of diesel engine had been repeatedly overridden by the board. His assistant, Mr West, has told the police that he had been depressed and very worried during the past few weeks.’
Thursday evening! My thoughts had immediately switched to a lonely beach somewhere near Bude, where the wreckage of a car had been found on Friday. It seemed too improbable that there should be any connection. Yet a body, which certainly was not mine, had been found in that car. It had to be someone’s body and if Raikes had been giving trouble, they would be killing two birds with one stone. But that implied that there was something like revolt brewing among the technical staff at Calboyds. I got up in some excitement. ‘Could I have the City page a minute?’ I asked.
The old man, who was now sitting with the paper on his knee, staring into the fire, looked round and then handed me the whole paper. I ran through it quickly and found the page I wanted. I could have shouted for joy, for there, right across the top of the page, was the headline – ARE CALBOYD SHARES TOO HIGH? And below, I read – ‘Calboyds received a sharp jolt on Friday. Throughout the week these shares had been steadily rising to a peak of 52s 6d. On Friday they opened at this figure, but by midday they had reacted Is. By the 3 o’clock close they had slumped to 45s. to the accompaniment of ugly rumours about the prospects of the expected Government contract.’ There followed a discussion of the merits of the shares with information about the expected contract. And then came this sentence: ‘The fall in the shares is being attributed in some quarters to the disappearance of Mr Sefton Raikes, the works manager. It is said that there have been considerable differences between the company’s executive and the board. There are apparently some grounds for this rumour and until the matter has been cleared up, I should advise investors to keep clear of these shares.’
I put the paper down on the table. My mind was made up. The first thing to do was to get hold of David. That wire he had sent from Oldham must have meant something. He may even have talked to Raikes on the eve of his disappearance. If he had discovered something concrete about Calboyds, we might even be able to write up a really hot story about the company. There was Jim Fisher of the Evening Record. I knew him. He’d jump at it, if he thought there was a chance of getting away with it without a big libel suit. I went upstairs and got my old coat. ‘What time will you be ready to go over to the wharf?’ I asked the old man when I returned to the kitchen.
‘Better say ’alf-past two,’ he grunted sleepily. ‘We’ll just catch the tide before she turns.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back at two-thirty.’ And I hurried through the empty dining-room and out into Wapping High. The sun was shining, but the air was raw, with a cold wind that swept in gusts across the dusty cobbles. I made straight for Tower Hill. Thence down Eastcheap to Cannon Street, where I picked up a bus which took me to Charing Cross. And as I slid through the empty Sunday streets of London with the warm sunshine on my neck, I found myself thinking of Freya and wondering whether she had been worried at my absence. It was a silly thought, but I remembered her lovely face puckered as she smiled at me over her glass on our evening out together, and I thought how nice it would be to have her anxious for me.
At Charing Cross station I felt myself far enough from Wapping to go into a call box. I dialled TER-minus 6795, and almost immediately there was a gabble of barely intelligible English over the wire. I asked for David, but was told that he was not in. I asked for Freya and was told she, too, ‘no home.’ In desperation I asked for Mrs Lawrence. ‘Och, it’s you, is it, Mr Kilmartin? Wherever have ye been? The young lady was fair worrit to death when ye didna come home.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was – er – unavoidably detained. Are Mr Shiel and Miss Smith both out?’
‘Aye, and I’m worrit aboot them myself. Young Mr Shiel, he got back on Saturday morning at about seven. He’d travelled all night, and he was that excited, Mr Kilmartin. But then he found that you hadn’t come home, and he and the young lady left hurriedly in a taxi. They looked terrible anxious. They didna come back last night and I havena seen them since.’
‘Did they say where they were going?’
‘No. But they were in an awful hurry.’
‘All right. Don’t you worry, Mrs Lawrence. I’ll find them.’ I rang off. For a moment after I had replaced the receiver I just stood there in a daze. I was thinking of Freya, and there was a horrible clutching fear at my heart. It was then that I realised consciously for the first time that I was in love with her. The realisation of it did me good. I had never allowed myself any illusions. I allowed myself none now. When a confirmed bachelor of forty-two finds himself in love with a girl of twenty-six – yes, subconsciously I had even made a note of her age, based on what Schmidt had told me – there is only one thing for him to do, and that is to realise his folly and face up to it. I faced up to it then and the knowledge that I was being a fool cleared my brain.
There could only be one explanation of their failure to return. If trouble were brewing up at Oldham, the probability was that Sedel had men up there. One of them must have recognised David and followed him back to London. What he and Freya had dashed off for in such a hurry, I did not know. Perhaps they had gone to see Crisham? No, that was hardly likely, for it was on a Saturday evening that I had spoken to Crisham over the phone and he had given no indication that he had seen them. But whatever they had been up to, they had not returned to the digs. Either they had discovered they were being followed and had gone somewhere else for the night, or they had been picked up by Sedel’s gang. And of the two possibilities, I feared the latter, for I thought it possible that David might have made straight for his godfather, Sir Geoffrey Carr. Sedel would not like that. I looked up the number in the telephone directory, but when I got through, his butler informed me that Sir Geoffrey was out.
I hesitated. If there were trouble at Calboyds and if David had seen Carr, then things might be coming to a head. But I knew enough about the workings of the official mind to know that, even if David had seen his godfather and had been able to convince him of the seriousness of the situation, there was little likelihood of action being taken before the Thirlmere sailed. In any case, David knew nothing about either Marburg or the Thirlmere. He would not be able to tell them where to find the engine. It was up to me. And I decided upon the bold course. I rang Jim Fisher. At first he was dubious of my identity. But when I repeated in some detail conversations we had had at various times and I had tossed him the bait of a good story, he seemed convinced and agreed to see me.
I must admit that, as I took the bus up Kingsway to Russell Square, I was sorry that Fisher was not the editor of a daily paper. On the other hand, evening paper editors, especially now that the sales had fallen off so badly, are always more inclined to take chances. Anyway, he was the only editor I knew well. He opened the door of his flat to me himself. His small restless eyes took in every detail of my appearance. Then he suddenly grinned and held out his hand. ‘Glad to see you, Andrew,’ he said.
‘So you agree to my identity?’ I said, as I shook his hand.
He gave me a quick glance. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Anyone who was trying to impersonate you wouldn’t be fool enough to come along in that fantastic rigout. Have a whisky? And now let’s hear your story.’
So I let him have it a
s briefly as possible. When I had finished he looked glum. ‘My God!’ he said morosely. ‘What a story! Man, there’s enough there to provide a splash for every day of the week. If we could use it,’ he added dourly.
‘Good God, Jim!’ I said. ‘At least you can have a crack at Calboyds.’
‘Aye, that’s what young Shiel wanted me to do.’
‘Shiel!’ I cried. ‘Why, he’s the fellow I mentioned, who had gone up to have a look at Calboyds.’
‘Aye. Well, he’s come down with a fine tale. If the blighter had given it to me exclusive, I might have done something about it. But he told me he was giving it to every editor he knew in the Street.’
‘Had he got a girl with him?’ I asked eagerly.
‘No.’ He glanced at me. ‘Why, has he got the Schmidt girl in tow?’
‘Evidently not,’ I said, a trifle sharply. ‘Anyway, what’s his story?’
‘There’s trouble brewing up at the Calboyd works. Apparently the board has been unlucky enough to pick executives who think more of their country than they do of their firm. Anyway, under the leadership of this fellow Raikes, who is missing, they went in a deputation to the directors two weeks ago. Apparently one of them has produced an engine that gives a good deal better performance than the much-vaunted Dragon, which is the one chosen by the Air Ministry for mass production. The deputation pointed out that the Dragon was not the best diesel engine the country could produce. It seems that not only is there this engine, which one of their own number has designed, but they recently tested, without the knowledge of the directors, an engine taken from a new type of German bomber, and found it definitely superior to the Dragon. They suggested that the board should offer the Air Ministry a new and superior engine. The suggestion was refused on the grounds that it would all take time and what they were interested in was getting the contract. Since then Raikes has disappeared and the whole of the technical staff is in a ferment.’
‘Will any of this get into print?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, I think so.’ He crossed over to his desk and came back with a telegram. ‘As soon as Shiel had given me his story, I sent one of our men straight off to Oldham. Here’s his initial report.’
He handed me the telegram. It read: INFORMATION OKAY STOP TECHNICAL STAFF MET TODAY THREATEN STRIKE STOP NO NEWS RAIKES STOP FULL STORY FOLLOWING – MELLERS.
‘How many papers will print the story tomorrow morning?’ I asked.
‘Every one that Shiel has been to. It just can’t be hushed up. Most of the others, too, will have something from their Manchester correspondents following the fall in Calboyd shares on Friday.’
‘Fine!’ I said. I was filled with a sudden sense of elation. If pressure were brought to bear by the press, it was just possible that the Government might be forced to act. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You’ll want a follow-up to that story. Why not use some of what I’ve told you?’
‘See here, Andrew,’ Fisher said, ‘there is a limit. Calboyds is one thing, but Marburg is quite another. I haven’t doubted you, which is more than most men would have done. Your story is fantastic enough to be true. But I’m not running my head into a noose. This engine you speak of may be all Schmidt says it is. On the other hand, it may not. You yourself don’t know. You haven’t tested it. I don’t know. And I’m certainly not going to pretend I do.’
‘I quite understand how you feel about Marburg,’ I said. ‘As for the engine, I agree with you – I haven’t the faintest idea what its performance really is. All I know is that Nazi agents find it worth their while to go out after him. And that’s good enough for me.’ I leaned towards him. ‘What’s your splash tomorrow? If the dailies are going to run Calboyds, you’ve got to have some sort of a follow-up, if you’re to sell your paper. I suggest you send a man to Bude. Get a detailed description of the missing Raikes, and I’ve got a hunch that he’ll be able to identify the body that is supposed to be mine. If he can, then there’s your story. Trouble at Calboyds – Raikes, the ringleader, killed – Body mistaken for that of Andrew Kilmartin – Then my story. You can churn the stuff out in relays all through the day.’
‘If this body proves to be Raikes’s,’ he murmured doubtfully.
‘Even if it doesn’t, you’ve still got my story. I was news yesterday.’ I saw his hesitation. ‘Look here, Fisher,’ I said. ‘I brought you this story, because I know you. If you don’t want it, say so. I haven’t too much time to spare. And if you don’t want it, maybe the Globe would take it.’
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute. Who said I didn’t want it? I’m only chewing over it, old boy.’ Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind. He took a notebook from his desk and seated himself in an easy-chair by the fire. ‘All right, let’s have it in detail, roughly as you think it ought to appear. Only don’t go too fast because my shorthand isn’t what it used to be.’
I glanced at my watch. It was past one. ‘Perhaps if I could have a few sandwiches or something,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get over to the Thirlmere service. I’m meeting an old fellow down at Wapping at two-thirty who is going to row me across to the neighbouring wharf.’
Fisher rang the bell by the fireplace. ‘Well, I can help you there,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an invitation card. I wasn’t sending anyone, so there it is, if you want it. You’re about my height. I can rig you out in a suit.’ The door opened and a manservant appeared. ‘Light lunch for two at about one-thirty, Parkes. And put out some clothes of mine suitable for this gentleman to wear as a representative of the press. Now,’ he said, as the manservant closed the door, ‘go ahead.’
CHAPTER NINE
THE MUNITION SHIP THIRLMERE
Wilson’s Wren Wharf is on the south side of the river, in Rotherhithe. My taxi set me down in a narrow, dusty street lined with warehouses. On a week-day, I had no doubt, the street would have been full of the movement of wagons and vans as the hand-cranes loaded the contents of the warehouses for transport. But now the cranes were folded back against the blackened brick of the buildings, which ran, uniform in height and appearance, the whole length of the street. In the bright wintry sunshine the place presented an appearance of desolation that the gleaming line of parked cars only served to accentuate.
It was just on three as I walked through the archway beneath one of the warehouses and caught my first glimpse of the Thirlmere, her superstructure and funnels towering over the concrete wharf. Iron-barred gates guarded the entrance to the wharf and here my pass was scrutinised. There were several policemen standing about, but I could see no one who was likely to recognise me. I was passed through in the wake of a party of three, whom I judged by their conversation at the gates to be industrialists. All were dressed in sporting clothes – probably they had spent the morning playing golf. Dressed as I was in an old tweed suit of Fisher’s, this was to my advantage, and, as I crossed the wharf, I closed the distance, so that, as I climbed the gangway to the deck of the Thirlmere, I was close behind them. It was well that I did so. At the head of the gangway two volunteers for Finland stood guard with fixed bayonets. They were dressed in mufti, but wore armlets. As I stepped on to the deck of the ship, my eyes, which I had kept lowered, noticed the hand of the left-hand guard as it held his rifle. Across the knuckles ran a thin white scar. For a second my heart leapt to my throat. I expected to hear the rattle of the rifle being raised and the sound of a challenge. Then I was walking along the deck in the wake of the three industrialists, who were talking audibly of Russia, and I knew that my fears had been groundless. Dressed in brown tweeds with a virulent yellow tie and a green pork-pie hat, it was hardly to be expected that a fellow who had seen me only three times in his life, and always in the sober garb of my profession, should recognise me. Besides, when I had shaved, I had left my upper lip. My beard is of the fast-growing variety, and though I had only been without a shave for just over fifty hours, my moustache was already quite a healthy one. At the same time, I had allowed myself rather long side pieces and had acquired a pair of glasses.
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p; The Thirlmere was a Norwegian ship designed specifically for the transport of locomotives and railway rolling stock. Doubtless she had been chosen for this particular job because she was a handy vessel for a difficult cargo. But I fancied there was another reason also. She had the necessary winch gear for loading and unloading under her own steam locomotives weighing many tons. If necessary, she would be able to unload the Calboyd torpedo boat at sea. I could see no sign of this boat as I came on board. But I noticed that a cradle had been rigged up at the after end of the big well deck, and presumed that the boat had still to come aboard. Flat against the poop stood the great girder to which rolling stock was slung, and beneath it, on the well deck, eight tanks were parked shoulder to shoulder, and lashed down with thick wire hawsers. They were coated thick with grease to protect them against the salt spray. About a dozen more stood on the wharf. Presumably they had been left until after the service, so that there was room to hold the ceremony in the well deck.
It was in this deep well deck that the crowd was gathering, facing for’ard towards the bridge. Before mingling with it, I glanced quickly towards the neighbouring wharf. Two black figures were seated on the base of one of the cranes and an empty rowing boat bobbed at the foot of a wooden ladder. I felt a twinge of conscience. Beyond the Percivale Banana Company’s wharf the river curved away towards Limehouse Reach, a broad expanse of sluggish water lined with empty wharves. No traffic moved and few ships were berthed along the huddled banks. Only barges jostled each other as they strained to the turning tide.
The Trojan Horse Page 17
