by Seb Spence
“Alright, I’ll make an exception!” she said, smiling at them and taking what looked like a folded theatre programme out of her evening bag. “What shall I write?”
The one with the bandaged hands replied enthusiastically, “How about ‘To Buster with love from Vivian Adair – thanks for a wonderful night’?”
The woman laughed. “What would your mother say?” she bantered as she began to write on the programme, using the other pilot’s back to lean on.
As he walked by them, Barton looked at her face: it was a face that was difficult not to stare at – very beautiful, with delicate features and green eyes. There was a light dusting of freckles over her slim, straight nose. She looked up momentarily from signing the programme and smiled at Barton, as if she was expecting him to gush and ask for an autograph too. He probably would have done if he had known her, but Barton had no idea who she was. He had never heard of Vivian Adair. Looking into the green eyes, he felt there was a certain coldness and detachment in them that contradicted the smile, as if this were a regular chore she had to perform.
#
On entering the clubroom, he found the place in full swing. It was even busier than the previous night, and he was lucky to get the last available table, once again at the back, near the bar. The crowd was essentially the same as the night before, although the faces were different: off-duty officers, men in dinner jackets, women in their evening finery. Tonight, half a dozen officers in olive green uniforms – Americans, Barton surmised – occupied the round table that was reserved for the important guests, the one in the middle of the room, near the dance floor. He wondered if they were attached to the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, which was not far away. There were three women with them and a man in evening dress. One of the women was seated between two of the officers at the far side of the table, and Barton had an unobstructed view of the three of them, for the two seats at the nearer side were vacant. The woman was talking animatedly, first to one and then to the other. Whatever it was she was saying, she seemed to be keeping them amused.
The programme of entertainment was the same as on the night before. Barton was not interested in watching the acts again and, as he had done most of the previous evening, he spent his time looking round the room, observing the clientele and hoping to spot Grace. There were some strange characters in the place tonight. A few tables away from him at the back were two men in dinner jackets. One was young, with dark, wavy hair, thick lips and an effeminate looking face. The other was a balding, heavily built man in his thirties; he had a broken nose and Barton wondered if he might be a boxer. On a stand by their table was an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it. Once or twice Barton noticed the dark-haired man glancing across at him. Something about the pair made him feel uncomfortable.
As he looked around the clubroom once more for Grace, his attention was drawn to a rather striking couple that had just entered and were being lead by the maitre d’ towards the table with the Americans. The man he recognised straightaway as the one with the mole on his neck who had spoken to him at the bar the previous evening. Tonight he was all dressed up in white tie and tails, complete with boutonniere. He was accompanied by the attractive blonde who Barton had passed outside, near the cloakroom. Her escort had probably been in the men’s room when Barton arrived, and she must have been waiting for him in the corridor.
On reaching the centre table, they were greeted enthusiastically by the company there. The men stood up and the couple were introduced to everyone. As he waited while the maitre d’ seated his woman companion, the man with the mole glanced around the room, smiling congenially. However, he stopped his sweep of the room when his gaze alighted on Barton; he regarded him momentarily and then turned and sat down. The two newcomers were seated with their backs towards him, so Barton was unable to see fully their interactions with the others. He turned away from them and continued his exercise in mass observation.
At the table with the supposed boxer, the effeminate-looking man filled their glasses with the last of the champagne and then inverted the bottle in the ice bucket. The boxer picked up his glass and swigged down the contents in a single go, as if he were drinking tap water to slake a thirst. The man then turned his attention to the floorshow. Without taking his eyes off the dancers, who were at that point going through one of their routines, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. A waiter brought a new bottle of champagne and removed the empty one.
Once again, when the jazz singer went for her break, Grace entered the clubroom with the owner, who led her over to the table with the Americans. The man with the mole stood up and offered her his chair, pulling up another for himself, so that Grace was seated between him and the blonde woman, with her back towards Barton. The three of them sat conversing and laughing for several minutes, and then the man turned round and looked towards Barton. Without taking his eyes off Barton, he leaned towards Grace and said something to her. He must have been making some comment about him, for she then turned round and looked towards him too. Once again, the smile slipped away from her face and was replaced by an angry stare. She said something to the man and then got up and walked purposefully over to Barton’s table. This did not look good, Barton thought, and he braced himself for the storm.
Arriving at the table, she began to berate him: “What are you doing here? Are you following me? How dare you!” She was clearly furious.
Barton sat in silence, looking guilty. There was nothing he could say in his defence – after all, he had been following her. It was apparent to him that in coming to the club he had somehow touched a raw nerve in Grace.
“Leave now or I’ll have you thrown out,” she commanded.
Barton looked round. People at the nearby tables were staring at them. Even the boxer and his effeminate-looking companion several tables away were looking over: the latter was grinning and shaking his head in mock disapproval.
“I’m sorry Grace, I only wanted to–” he began, in an attempt to apologise and explain, but was interrupted.
“Just go!”
Barton got up and went to the exit. He looked round as he reached the door and saw Grace staring grimly after him. He left the club and headed straight back to Stanmore.
#
As Elliott watched the little drama unfold at the back of the clubroom, he realised that his decision not to kill the RAF man had been short sighted. The man could well become a nuisance, he thought, and resolved to settle the problem of the airman once and for all.
5.
Saturday, 1st February, 1941: London
Since the rift with Grace, Barton had gone over the embarrassing scene at the Silver Masque Club many times in his mind, but could not see what he had done to trigger such a furious response from her. He realised he had clearly upset her by going to the club, but he could not fathom why. It took him a few weeks to get over their break-up, and during most of this period he had been morose and distant, much to the annoyance of Moncur.
Eventually, however, the gloom began to lift and his thoughts turned once more to the Cobalt case. He felt that although Grace might no longer be on speaking terms with him, there was no reason why he should not contact Miller and ask for his help in the effort to track down Cobalt. Accordingly, on the Saturday evening three weeks after his first visit, he returned to the variety theatre in Camden where Miller and Grace were performing. Intentionally, he arrived there just before eight o’clock: by that time, he hoped, Grace would have left for her job at the club but, with luck, Miller would still be sober enough to discuss his proposal.
A look of annoyance on his face, the stage doorman glared at Barton as he approached.
“I’ve come to see Mr Miller, again, please,” Barton requested politely, trying to be as pleasant as possible.
With a malicious smile, the man pointed to a copy of the current playbill pinned to a noticeboard on the wall opposite his box. Barton looked down the list of acts and noticed that a strip of paper had been pasted over Professo
r Prospero’s entry. It read: ‘Vera and her amazing performing poodles – canine entertainment.’
“What’s happened to Mr Miller and his assistant?” Barton enquired anxiously, worried that they might have been victims of a raid.
“Your friend Mr Miller fell over drunk on stage last week, that’s what ‘appened. He was so pissed he couldn’t get up again. He’s bin given the boot and good riddance too, in my opinion.”
“Do you have an address where I could contact him?”
The doorman exhaled loudly. “Never a moment’s bloody peace.” Taking a ledger from a shelf at the back of his box he opened it up and began flicking through the pages. “There yer are,” he said, holding it open towards Barton and pointing to an entry. “He’s staying at digs in Bloomsbury, assuming he hasn’t been booted out of them as well by now.”
Barton jotted down the address, thanked the man and left swiftly to find a cab. However, his exertions turned out to be wasted. On going to the lodging house, he learnt from the landlady that Miller had departed the previous week without leaving a forwarding address. Barton now saw no alternative to contacting Grace if he wanted to find Miller. He was not looking forward to the meeting but felt it was unavoidable. He took a cab to the Silver Masque Club.
#
Once over the threshold, Barton made straight for the inner door. As he crossed the foyer he flashed his membership card towards the self-important receptionist who, as always, was at his station behind the desk.
“One moment, sir. I’m afraid you can’t go in,” the man at the desk declared. The uniformed doorman moved in front of the double doors to block Barton’s path.
“Yes, I can,” Barton retorted, “I’m a member.”
“I’m afraid your membership has been revoked, sir.”
“Revoked? By whom?”
“We’ve had a complaint from one of the artistes, sir – she said you’d been annoying her.”
“But this is important. I must speak with Miss Harrison.”
“Miss Harrison was quite adamant that she did not want any further communication with you.”
“Can I leave her a message, then?”
“She said no communication at all, sir.”
“It would just be a note asking for someone’s address.”
“It would be pointless leaving it, sir,” the man smiled, “I would only put it in the bin after you left.”
Barton could see it was a waste of time arguing with him.
“Alright then, if my membership has been revoked, I’d like the bulk of my fee returned.”
“Regrettably, sir, membership fees are non-refundable – this is clearly stated in the club rules. I believe I gave you a copy when you joined.”
Barton did not remonstrate further but walked out, angry and aggrieved.
As soon as he left, the man behind the desk consulted the list of members’ details he kept handy then picked up the phone and dialled a Tottenham number. “Hello, sir, this is the Silver Masque Club. You asked me to ring you if that RAF man who bothered Miss Harrison returned. Well he was here just now asking to see Miss Harrison. I sent him away.”
“Thank you for letting me know; that’s been very useful,” Elliott responded at the other end and then put down the receiver. So, as he had predicted, the RAF man was becoming a nuisance. He would have to get Lukasz to deal with him. Staring down at the phone, he remained lost in thought for a while. Yes, Lukasz could do it, and Joan could help set the trap – she had a talent for accents.
#
Arriving back at his billet in Stanmore, Barton was surprised to find Bronx there. Moncur was supposed to be out on a date, but instead he was sitting by the gas fire in the living room, staring down dejectedly at the glowing elements. He had opened up a tin of pink salmon and was eating it out of the can with a spoon.
“I thought you were going out with your FANY girlfriend tonight,” Barton remarked, throwing his raincoat and cap onto the sofa.
“I did go in to meet her,” Bronx responded, looking up, “but we had a row. We’ve broken up, so I’m back early.”
“And I assume that you are tucking into that tin of salmon by way of consoling yourself?”
“That’s about it. Want some?” Moncur held the can out towards Barton.
“I think I’ll forego; I’m not in the mood for epicurean delights. My evening has not been very successful either. I haven’t been able to contact Miller. He’s been sacked and has gone off without leaving a forwarding address. I’ve also been black-balled by that odious Silver Masque Club. They’re keeping my membership fee as well.”
“Ouch! That’s harsh!”
“So, tell me, what was the quarrel with your girlfriend about?”
“It was about the Alvis, actually. I decided not to take it into town – didn’t want to risk it again in the blackout. Turns out this FANY was counting on me bringing the car so that at the end of the evening I could drive her to some country house in Surrey that she’s been invited to by one of her girlfriends. She was fuming when I turned up without it and stormed off. Women are so secretive and calculating.”
Barton nodded, by way of commiseration. Perhaps Bronx was right, he mused, thinking of Grace.
“Ah yes, women – that reminds me,” he continued, “you had a phone call about half an hour ago. Some woman rang – she didn’t give her name but said she was a friend of yours and you’d know who it was. She wants you to meet her at the corner of Green Park, near the Ritz, at 3pm tomorrow if you can make it. I think it’s your friend the magician’s assistant – she had a slight Irish accent.”
Barton’s face brightened. Yes, it was surely Grace, he thought, perhaps wanting to offer an olive branch. “You’re probably right; the Ritz isn’t far from the Silver Masque Club. She maybe rehearses there on Sunday afternoons.”
“What does she actually do at this club?” Bronx enquired.
“Not entirely sure, to be honest,” Barton replied absently, his mind occupied with the immediate problem. “Damn thing is, I’m on duty tomorrow – I’ll have to wangle the afternoon off somehow.”
“Just tell your CO you’ve been called away to your Air Ministry project again. Problem solved!”
“You’re a bad influence on me, Moncur.”
6.
Sunday, 2nd February, 1941: Mayfair, London
It was a miserable afternoon, but despite the wintry weather, Barton was in a buoyant mood when he arrived at the appointed meeting place at Green Park. He was optimistic that a reconciliation was in the offing, for why else would Grace have asked to meet with him? Keen to see her again, he arrived ten minutes early and stood cheerfully in the freezing wind, watching the activity along Piccadilly. There were a number of cars parked along the kerb, but he did not pay them particular attention; he did not notice, especially, the nondescript blue van parked further down the street.
By 4pm there was still no sign of Grace and after an hour of exposure to icy gusts and intermittent sleet, Barton’s good mood had ebbed somewhat. Grace was not the sort of girl to make an appointment and then break it for no good reason. It occurred to him that maybe she had been held up in rehearsals at the Silver Masque Club, or perhaps she was coming up from Bramlington and her train had been delayed. He wondered whether he should stay and wait for her, or go off to find her, and if the latter, where should he go? After vacillating for a few minutes, he decided to set off for the club and see if she was there. He walked down Piccadilly, past the blue van, and crossed over to go down one of the side streets. His mind was focussed on the expected conversation with Grace, and he was paying little attention to what was going on about him. He was vaguely aware of the van’s engine starting as he walked by but took no notice.
He was just walking by a tobacconist’s shop about half way down the side street when he heard a woman somewhere nearby shout “Watch out!” He looked over to the opposite pavement and saw a Wren pointing to something behind him further down the street, and at the same moment, he becam
e aware of an approaching noise. Looking round, he saw a blue van had mounted the pavement and was bearing down on him at speed. He made to jump back and flatten himself against the shop front, but it was too late.
7.
Monday, 3rd February, 1941: Tottenham, North London
For the period of their run at the London theatres, Elliott had rented a large Victorian detached house in Tottenham. Though not the most fashionable of areas, it was relatively safe from the bombing: he had chosen the location himself, based on a Luftwaffe target map of London that he had been shown. Standing in front of the fireplace in the spacious, high-ceilinged lounge, Elliott smiled benignly round the assembled company seated in an arc about him. All nine members of the group were present, including Vivian Adair, who was lounging on a sofa and staring impassively at Elliott. Hugo DaSilva leaned forward in the armchair he was sitting in and looked expectantly towards him, sensing that he was about to make a speech.
“Friends,” Elliott began, “I have asked you here tonight to apprise you of the latest developments. Within the last few days, I have spoken in person with a courier from Abwehrstelle Hamburg. He arrived recently at the Spanish Embassy and was sent expressly to pass on a message to us. The information relayed to me was deemed to be of such a sensitive nature that it could not be transmitted by radio. There were two items.
“The first is that at a meeting last October the Fuhrer issued an order postponing the invasion of Britain indefinitely. It seems he has turned his attention to more important targets, and as far as Britain is concerned, the plan is now that it will be brought to its knees by the stranglehold of our submarine blockade. As a result, the daily bombing of London is likely to cease at some point within the next few months.
“Given that plans for an invasion of Britain have been shelved, our priorities have changed. Gathering data on bomb damage and information in support of the invasion is now of secondary importance. For that reason, we will be moving out of the capital. Currently, we are booked up for London venues for the next three months. I intend to use this time to recruit new members to the group and prepare for our next mission. We will therefore honour those bookings, but after the last one, at the end of April, we will be taking the show on tour. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to the provinces.
