by Seb Spence
“Well, what do we do now?” Moncur asked eagerly.
Certain that Bronx could be trusted, Barton chose not to hold out on him.
“Listen Moncur, I know that woman – it’s Grace Harrison.”
“You’re joking! Not your friend, the magician’s assistant?”
“Yes, the same. So you’ll have to follow her by yourself – she’ll recognise me instantly if she spots me. On the way here, we passed a phone box near the town centre. I’ll use it to call Minton and then wait for you back at the car.”
“I see your point. I’d better be off then.” He made to go, but Barton grasped his arm to detain him. “Be careful, Bronx. Don’t take any risks, OK? We don’t want another fatality.”
#
Barton waited a while to give them a good head start, and then, in a solemn mood, he headed back to the car. As he walked along, he began to think about what he would say to Minton. He was reluctant to hand the case over to the professionals completely: for one thing, he and Bronx would want to be there when they put the cuffs on the people who had murdered GK. But more than that, he was worried by Grace’s apparent connection with the gang; he could not believe she was a Nazi sympathiser and felt there must be some mitigating reason why she had got mixed up with these people. He was conscious that, by revealing Grace’s involvement to Minton, he could be putting a noose around her neck.
He needed to know more about what was going on, and for this he needed time – a day or two should be enough. However, he realised he had to tell Minton something about what they had found, not least because they would need his help. For a start, Bronx would have to be excused duties so that he could assist, and he himself would need permission to quit the hospital.
Reaching the phone box they had passed earlier, he found it was occupied by an army corporal and had to wait outside for a few minutes. During the wait he finalised what he would say to Minton. He would tell him simply that he thought he was on to a good lead and needed some time to check it out. He decided to say nothing about following Joan Wilks, or about Grace’s pickup.
He got through straightaway and was greeted with a now familiar voice.
“Crystal Palace Centre, Minton speaking.” He was not surprised to find that Minton was still at work in his office at the refugee centre. He seemed to spend his life there.
“Hello, it’s Frank Barton.”
“Ah, Barton – how’s the leg?”
“Improving rapidly, thanks. I’m walking without a stick now, and I expect in a week or two it’ll be back to normal. The reason I’m phoning is that I’d like to follow up a possible lead I’ve found on Cobalt’s cell.”
“What’s the lead?”
Barton realised that the next part would be tricky. He needed to give Minton sufficient information to get him interested but not to make it sound so definite that he’d be sending the Special Branch in immediately.
“There’s a theatre company called the Kingsmead Players who are currently putting on a farce at the Lyceum in Northampton. The names of a few of the cast members are similar to those of the people who duped Lucy Walker. It’s not much of a lead, but it’s worth checking out.”
“I daresay the similarities will turn out to be coincidental, but if you want to pursue it, go ahead. The trail at this end has gone completely cold. There’s nothing to report. GC&CS have not been able to crack their code yet.”
“I’ll need to spend a few days in Northampton while I make enquiries. I think we’re going to have to play the Air Ministry card again before the hospital staff will give me permission to leave.”
“Alright, I’ll arrange for the hospital to be contacted.”
“I’d also like to take an RAF colleague with me, partly because there’s safety in numbers, but also because I’ll need transport and this fellow has a car.”
“Is this your friend Moncur? I trust you haven’t already told him about the operation we’re running?”
“Moncur is completely trustworthy, sir. I’ve known him for many years.”
Minton sounded a little testy. “I now see it was a mistake not getting you to sign the Official Secrets Act when I took you on. I cannot emphasize too strongly the necessity to restrict the flow of information to only those who need to know. Well, I expect the damage is already done, so yes, I agree to his involvement. But mind, Barton, don’t tell anyone else about this. Phone me tomorrow evening with a report on what you’ve found.”
Barton was not pleased with the reprimand, but overall he was happy with the way the call had gone: he had won himself at least one more day before the Special Branch got involved, and he had arranged for himself and Bronx to be freed for the investigation. He had also given Minton sufficient information so that if anything happened to them, the Colonel would be able to track the gang down himself.
He set off for the car and began to formulate the next part of his plan: what to do about Grace Harrison.
#
Bronx returned to the car just before 8 o’clock and seemed very pleased with himself. “Mission accomplished,” he announced, passing Barton a slip of paper with an address written on it. “That’s the location of a boarding house she went to after she left the park. I assume she’s staying there. Just as she arrived, a man came out and stopped to speak to her. They seemed to know each other and he stood waiting on the pavement when she went in. He was a tall, thin fellow with black, Brylcreemed hair.”
“That was probably Roy Miller, the other half of the magic act.”
“Yes, that fits. Anyway, a few minutes later she came out again – without the music case – and set off with the man, so I followed them both. They walked to a variety theatre about ten minutes away – the Alhambra – and went in at the stage door. I guess that’s where they’re performing. After they’d gone in, I popped to the box office and got a flier,” he finished, handing Barton a folded sheet. Barton opened it up and scanned down the acts but did not see theirs. There was, however, a ‘Professor Ali Mufti and Scheherazade: amazing illusions from the orient’. It occurred to Barton that after the drunken debacle in London, Miller had perhaps decided to change the name of the act. If it was them, they seemed to be doing well, for they had moved several places up the bill since Camden. Barton wondered why Miller always had to go by the title “Professor”.
“You’ve done extremely well, Bronx. We’re making progress now. I’ve spoken to Minton and he’s going to get you excused from your duties so that you can come back up tomorrow and continue assisting.”
“What about Special Branch, is he not sending them?”
Barton chose his word’s carefully: he did not want to lie to his friend but was reluctant to tell him he had not passed on the full story to Minton.
“For the time being, Minton’s happy for us to make further enquiries, but I expect he’ll call in the Branch in a day or two.”
Bronx seemed satisfied with the answer. “So what’s next?”
“Tomorrow we pay a visit to the Alhambra to see Professor Ali Mufti and Scheherezade.”
#
Following Dinger’s escape route in reverse, Barton arrived back on the ward shortly before lights out. He was relieved to find that the nurses and medics had not missed him. Dinger greeted him warmly and was eager to know how things had gone and, in particular, what he had thought of ‘Affairs and Graces’.
The pair were in the middle of discussing the play when a nurse came up. “Pilot Officer Barton, you’ve just had an urgent telephone message from the Air Ministry. You have to report to them tomorrow morning. They’re sending a Flight Lieutenant Moncur to pick you up at 10am. They said you might be away for a few days.”
As the nurse went away, Dinger winked at him. “Air Ministry business, eh? You sly dog, Barton. Why didn’t I think of a wheeze like that?”
3.
Saturday, 17th May, 1941: Northampton
Bronx arrived promptly at 10am, and they left immediately for Northampton. Once arrived, they went to a small hot
el – The Star – near the town centre and booked into two single rooms. It was a comfortable hotel by wartime standards but not luxurious. They changed out of their RAF uniforms into suits, had a lunch of sorts in the dining room and then set off to the Alhambra for the afternoon performance.
It was nearly a full house. Although the quality of the acts was somewhat variable, the audience seemed appreciative: it was Saturday afternoon and they were determined to enjoy themselves. ‘Professor Ali Mufti and Scheherazade’ was the penultimate turn in the first half of the show. Roy Miller came on stage attired in his customary tuxedo, but on his head he now wore a pink turban with a large, red, fake jewel at the front. Grace was dressed up as an Arabian dancer, with bare midriff and legs clearly visible through the diaphanous blue chiffon trousers she was wearing. The act was much improved since Barton had seen it previously: the tricks were more complex and impressive, and the pair were using more elaborate props. They had expanded the theme of inept magician and competent assistant, so that Grace was now doing a lot more of the tricks.
The climax of the act was an illusion in which Grace was handcuffed inside an upright cabinet with numerous blades fixed to the rear wall and the inside of the door. Trying to sound sinister, Miller announced to the audience: “Princess Scheherazade has been captured by the evil vizier, who intends to kill her in the Iron Maiden. Can she possibly survive?” He closed the door of the cabinet on her and, for good measure, ran several swords through the walls from side to side. But of course, when the door was opened, the cabinet was empty, and Grace then appeared in a puff of smoke at the other side of the stage. The act went down very well with the audience, and there was warm applause when it finished.
At the interval, Barton and Bronx left and waited in the Alvis, which they had managed to park across the road from the theatre. The stage door at the Alhambra was on a cul-de-sac that ran down one side of the building. Just after 5 o’clock, Grace and Miller appeared together at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. They stood there for a few seconds conversing and then set off in opposite directions, Grace walking by the front of the theatre.
“Come on,” Barton urged, “let’s see what she has to say about yesterday’s music-case episode.”
“What about Miller?”
“Don’t worry about him. I expect he’s just going to the nearest pub.”
They got out of the car and crossed the road towards her. Hearing the car doors close, Grace looked over absently in the direction of the sound. It was clear to Barton that she recognised him at once, but she did not stop. She stared at him for several seconds then looked away and, walking on, stared ahead fixedly, ignoring them. She would have passed by without acknowledging them at all had they not stepped onto the pavement in front of her, blocking her path.
“What do you want?” she said angrily, glaring at Barton. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to see you again.”
“Hello Grace. We’d like to have a chat with you about something important.”
“I’ve nothing to say to you.”
“We want to talk about the music case.”
She paused momentarily before responding. “What music case?”
“The one you collected in the park yesterday evening. There’s no point in denying it. We both saw you make the pickup – we were in the bushes opposite the doorway.” Remembering to introduce his friend, Barton added, “This is Bronx Moncur, by the way.”
Grace glowered from one to the other.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, now will you let me by.”
“No, Grace, we need to talk. Either we do it now, or I get the police, and you can explain to them what you were doing. I suggest we go back into your dressing room and discuss things there.”
Grace looked resentfully at him for a few seconds, and then her mood seemed to change from anger to indifference.
She shrugged. “Fine, if you want to talk we can go inside, but you’re wasting your time.”
Grace got them by the stage doorman, explaining that they were acquaintances of hers, and led them to the small dressing room she shared with Roy Miller. She pulled out the wooden chair she used at the dressing table and sat on it, but did not invite her visitors to sit down.
“Well, what is it?” she demanded in a defiant tone.
“We saw your act just now,” Barton began, “it’s improved a lot since I saw you last. It must have taken a fair injection of cash to buy all those new props and costumes. Where did Miller get the money from?”
“I don’t know, I’m just his assistant. Maybe it was from his savings; he’s been in this game for a while now.”
“I doubt if Roy has any savings. I expect he drinks his way through all the money he makes. Anyway, moving on to a more pressing topic, what do you know about the woman who dropped off the case that you picked up?”
“What woman?”
“So you’re saying you don’t know who left the case?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“OK, tell us how you came to be carrying the case when you left the building.”
“I found it in the stall. I assumed someone had left it there by accident and picked it up in order to hand it in to the park keeper.”
“The case was well hidden behind the cistern; you couldn’t have found it unless you knew to look there.”
“There was a corner of it sticking out. I just happened to notice it as I was leaving.”
“There was no corner sticking out,” Barton declared, although he realised he had been in such a rush to replace it, she might be telling the truth. “I’m pretty sure it was fully hidden; I put it there myself.”
A mischievous smile came to her lips. “Is this what you do in your spare time when you’re not following me – hide things in ladies lavatories?”
Bronx sniggered. “She’s got a point, Barton.”
Barton ignored the interruption. “What did you do with the case?”
“It’s back at the boarding house where I’m staying.”
“I thought you said you were going to hand it in to the park keeper.”
“I couldn’t find a keeper, and I didn’t have time to go to a police station with it – I had to get to the Alhambra for our evening performance.”
Barton could see he was getting nowhere with this line of questioning. Quick-witted and articulate, she was able to come up with an immediate and convincing response to all his questions, not that he believed any of what she was saying. He decided on a different tack.
“Where are the props for the show?”
A look of apprehension momentarily flitted across her face. “Why do you want to know?”
“I want to examine them.”
“What for?”
“A radio transmitter for a kick-off.”
“Why would I have a transmitter?”
“Oh, I don’t know – perhaps because it’s the sort of thing a German agent might have.”
Grace ignored the sarcasm. “I can’t let you look at the gear for the act – Roy doesn’t like anyone touching his props. Some of the mechanisms are very delicate. Besides, he doesn’t want people to know how he does his illusions.”
“Either you take me now to where the props are stored or else I get the police to come here and inspect them.”
“All right!” she said in exasperation. “I’ll show you the props, but it won’t get you anywhere.”
She led them to a basement room where all the props for the current show were stored. Together, the two men set about examining them thoroughly. In particular, they searched very carefully the cabinet that was used for the finale as it was one of the few items of sufficient size to conceal a transmitter. A large, black, wooden trunk that was used to transport the smaller items and the costumes also came in for careful scrutiny. It stood on end and was designed to be used as a travelling wardrobe, its two halves swinging open sideways. It was secured with a sturdy padlock, and Barton had to ask Grace to unlock it. The right
-hand half had eight small drawers arranged in two columns of four. Barton took out each drawer in turn, examined the contents and then checked that there was no hidden compartment behind the drawer.
“You should get Miller to wax the runners for these lower drawers: they’re a bit stiff,” he remarked to Grace, but she ignored him.
The drawers themselves were filled with small props and a variety of conjuror’s tricks; some were partitioned inside to hold smaller items like packs of cards and coloured scarves. Whatever else you might have said about Miller, it seemed that he liked to have his kit well organised.
The other half of the trunk had padded inner sides and a rail at the top on which some costumes and Miller’s spare tuxedo were hanging. Barton again spent some time examining this other half, looking for false sides or hidden compartments where incriminating items such as money or weapons might be concealed.
As the search proceeded, Grace looked on stonily, her arms folded in front of her. After twenty minutes of painstaking investigation Barton and Bronx had discovered nothing.
“Satisfied?” she snapped.
“Not yet,” Barton replied. “There’s maybe nothing here, but we need to check your room at the boarding house.”
“Well good luck with that! The landlady doesn’t allow her female guests to have gentlemen callers in their rooms, under any circumstances. She enforces the rule strictly, so I’m warning you now, you won’t be able to talk her into letting you into my room.”
“In that case you’ll have to tell us how we can sneak in; otherwise we’ll have to get the police to make a call.”
“Oh! For God’s sake!”
“I’m serious, Grace. We need to go there now.”
Grace exhaled and thought for a moment. “She goes out after tea every evening at six to take food to her mother who lives round the corner. She’s usually back by 6.30. Her husband always has a nap while she’s out.”
