by Seb Spence
The smile faded, and she looked at him sadly and nodded. “He’s been like this ever since his wife died.”
“He certainly seems well oiled today.”
“It’s so vexing. If our train had been on time, he would not have got in with those two sailors and wouldn’t be in such a state.”
There was another pause, and then she went on: “Is there something wrong with your leg? You seem to be walking with a limp”
Barton looked at her questioningly. “Did you not hear I was in an accident? I was knocked over by a van and got a broken leg in the process. Bronx tried to contact you about it. He phoned your home but there was no answer, presumably because your father’s not there anymore, so he left a message for you at the Silver Masque Club.”
“I never got a message about you being in an accident. When did it happen?”
“Way back in February. It was the day you and I were supposed to meet at the corner of Green Park.”
Grace looked puzzled. “Green Park?”
“Remember the night we had the row in the club? You rang up Bronx later and asked him to tell me to meet you at the corner of Green Park, by the Ritz.”
“It must have been somebody else: I never rang you that night.”
“Are you sure? Bronx said the woman spoke with a slight Irish accent. You’re the only person I know who fits the bill.”
“I’m absolutely certain it wasn’t me.”
“Then who could it have been?” Barton did not get a chance to reflect on this question, for Miller and Bronx came out of the waiting room at that point and headed down the platform towards them.
“Need to get something out of the trunk, Grace,” Miller declared. “I want to show our naval friends the ‘cigarette case’ illusion.”
Grace stood up and went over to the trunk. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Roy. The train could come at any minute.”
“Won’t take a moment, dear girl.” And with that, he took a key out of his pocket and held it up. “Professor Mufti will say the magic words and the cave of wonders will open.” He had obviously had another few swigs of rum since Barton had left the waiting room, and it took him several attempts to get the key in the lock. “I think it’s in one of the lower drawers,” he said, swinging the two halves of the trunk apart so that it stood wide open. Hunkering down, he pulled out the second lowest drawer on the left, which came out with some difficulty. “Damn drawers, always sticking,” he complained.
Barton happened to glance at Grace: she was biting her lip and staring apprehensively down at Miller, who seemed to be having trouble finding what he was looking for. He continued to squat down in front of the lower drawers, and Barton noticed he was starting to sway to and fro slightly. Suddenly, Miller began to fall backwards. He stretched out his hands and grabbed the handles of the two second lowest drawers to steady himself, but it was no use: he fell right back onto the platform, pulling out both of the drawers and scattering their contents.
“Whoops!” he said, propping himself up on his elbows and surveying the pile of conjuring paraphernalia strewn in front of the trunk. Balls, cups, cards, handcuffs, lengths of rope, coloured scarves and a dozen other items lay scattered on the platform. As Miller made no attempt to get up, Bronx helped him to his feet and took him over to the bench, where he sat down in a drunken stupor and immediately began to doze off. Meanwhile, Barton, crouching in front of the trunk, started to gather up the spilled items and put them back in the drawers.
“Don’t worry, I can do that,” Grace said, moving quickly round to help. “Please just leave it to me. I know where everything goes.” Barton stopped to let her take over and was about to stand up, when he happened to glance into the trunk and notice part of what appeared to be a small, slim, leather suitcase in a wooden frame; it was suspended at the back of the trunk, behind where the left drawer had been.
“Wait a minute, what’s this?” he said and began to pull out the bottommost left drawer.
“It’s just one of the tricks,” Grace blurted. “Don’t touch it, you’ll wreck the mechanism.” But Barton ignored her and continued pulling out the drawer. As he did so the case in its frame moved smoothly across to the right-hand side of the trunk.
Barton pulled out the remaining bottom drawer, so that all four of the lower drawers were removed. The whole of the leather case was now visible. “Bronx, come over here and see this,” Barton said. “It’s ingenious: at the back of the drawers there’s a four inch deep space with a frame in it. If you remove a drawer on one side, the frame moves to the other side, so whatever is in the frame is concealed behind the drawers that haven’t been removed. You’d never catch sight of the frame and what’s in it unless you happened to take out a drawer form both sides at the same time. No wonder I never spotted it when I searched the trunk at the Alhambra. The reason the lower drawers are stiff to open is that you’re shifting the frame across as you pull them out.”
The leather case was held in the frame by four catches – one along each side – which could be swivelled round to release it. Barton rotated the catches and extracted the case: it was small, about twelve by eighteen inches and less than four inches in depth.
“Let’s open it up, shall we?” he said, looking at Grace, who was staring back uneasily at him. “I think I can guess what’s in it, though.” He opened the latches and threw back the lid to reveal, as he had expected, a miniature radio transmitter. “Morse key, headphones, antenna wire, frequency dial. All very neat, I have to say.” He examined the lettering on a valve that was visible and read it out: “‘Telefunken G. m. b. H.’. So I’m guessing this was made in Germany.” Barton looked across at Miller seated on the bench, with his head slumped forward on his chest, asleep. “I have a feeling this isn’t Roy’s: I doubt he would ever be sober long enough to send a Morse message.” He turned to Grace: “This is your set Grace. What’s it doing here?”
She did not reply but began to look about her as if she were seeking an escape route. People nearby on the platform were staring at them.
“I’m sorry Grace, but I’m going to have to report this. Stay with her Bronx, I’m going to phone Colonel Minton.”
“Wait Frank!” Grace implored. “Don’t do it – you don’t know what you’re getting involved in.”
Barton ignored her and, taking the transmitter with him, went off in search of a phone. Intercepting a porter further down the platform, he told him he needed to contact the authorities urgently and asked if there was a phone he could use. The porter replied that if it was an emergency, he could use the one in the Stationmaster’s office and led him there. However, they found that someone had beaten them to it, for a captain from a bomb disposal unit was already making a call. It seemed to Barton that he was fated always to have to wait to use a phone; why could he never find one that was free?
Barton was reluctant to interrupt the captain, who seemed to have a crisis of his own on his hands, and so waited outside the office with the porter. The stationmaster himself appeared shortly. “Is he still on the phone?” he said, addressing the porter.
“Yes, and this officer needs to use it too.”
The stationmaster glared at Barton. “My office isn’t a public call box, you know.”
“It’s urgent, I’m afraid,” Barton replied. “I need to call MI5.”
“MI5, eh? I suppose I’ll have to let you use it then.”
“What’s the emergency with the bomb disposal man?”
“He’s trying to track down a lorry – full of specialist equipment – that was due to pick him up here. He’s ringing round all the other stations in the area to see if it’s gone to the wrong one.”
“Why is this so pressing?”
“There was another big raid on Birmingham last Friday – Brum’s just fifty miles north west of here. It seems one of the bombers ran into trouble on the way to the target and jettisoned its bomb load not far from where we are. All bar one of them exploded harmlessly in fields, but a 250 kg bomb with a d
elayed-action fuse has embedded itself in a railway embankment. It buried itself so deep that a day went by before it was spotted. The captain is racing against the clock to get there before the bomb goes off, but he can’t do anything without the equipment on the lorry.”
“I see. I suppose we’ll have to be patient then.”
#
It was fifteen minutes before Barton was able to use the phone, but even then his problems were not over. Lines to London were busy and it was a further ten minutes before he was put through to Minton’s office. The phone was answered by one of his staff, who said Minton had gone out to a meeting and was unlikely to be available for several hours. Barton rang off and replaced the receiver. How frustrating, he thought. He would now have to take Grace and Miller back to The Star Hotel to wait until the Colonel could be contacted.
Almost thirty minutes had elapsed by the time he returned to the platform. As he walked towards the spot where he had left Grace and Bronx, he could see that they were no longer there, so he looked in at the window of the waiting room: Bronx was standing over Miller, who was now back in his seat next to the two Naval ratings, but there was no sign of Grace. Seeing him at the window, Bronx came out.
“Where’s Grace? You haven’t let her go?” Barton asked, alarmed.
“Don’t panic, Barton. Of course not; she’s in the porters’ room. Miller woke up and started creating because he thought he’d missed his train. I had to put Grace somewhere while I calmed him down.”
“I hope you’ve left someone guarding her.”
“No need. I took the precaution of shackling her to the radiator using some handcuffs that were in that trunk.”
They reached the porters’ room and Barton swung open the door: there was no one inside. A pair of handcuffs was dangling from the inlet pipe to the lone radiator, and at the far side of the room a table with a chair placed on it had been positioned immediately below one of the skylights, which was wide open. Grace had made her escape.
“Let’s review, Moncur,” Barton said tetchily, “this woman is handcuffed inside a cabinet of knives twice a day, six days a week and manages to get out every time. So what makes you think handcuffing her to a radiator pipe is going to detain her?”
“I put them on her very securely,” Bronx responded defensively. “They were tight around her wrist. There was no way she could slip her hand out.”
“They were trick handcuffs, Moncur. There’ll be a concealed lever or button that you can press to open them up.”
“Oh, right! That’s how it’s done, eh? I thought that in the act it was just that they weren’t put on tight.”
“Minton is not going to be happy when he hears about this. What a mess!”
“Well, at least when the Special Branch arrive here they can pick up Miller and his box of tricks.”
“Special Branch aren’t coming – I couldn’t speak to Minton; he’s going to be uncontactable for several hours.”
“What are we going to do, then?”
“Wait until we can report to the Colonel.”
“We can’t wait that long. We must call the local police now and get them on the job, otherwise we’ll be giving Miss Harrison a massive head start.”
His friend did not respond.
Moncur continued in a softer tone. “You know we have to do it, Barton. It’s the only option if we want to stand a chance of bringing her in.”
Barton exhaled. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’d better go and phone them.”
#
A quarter of an hour later, a police van pulled up in front of the station, and three constables and two plain-clothes officers got out. Barton met them in the booking hall and then, after handing over the transmitter, led them to Miller, who had fallen asleep again in the waiting room. One of the CID men, an inspector, shook Miller awake and told him he was being taken into custody as a possible suspect. Drowsy and befuddled with drink, Miller made no protest and was helped out to the van by one of the constables.
Barton told the inspector where they could find the trunk and the other luggage Miller and Grace were travelling with. The man got his constables to load it all into the van, and then told Barton they would be heading back to Northampton Police HQ and that he and Moncur should follow on in their car.
At the police station, Barton was questioned about Grace for several hours, not because they suspected him of anything, but because they wanted as much information on her as possible. Moncur was also interrogated, though the police found there was not much he could add to Barton’s account. Miller had his fingerprints taken but was judged to be unfit for questioning in his current state and was allowed to sleep off the effects of the rum. Just before leaving the police station later in the afternoon, Barton learnt that none of Miller’s prints had been found on the transmitter, which seemed to confirm his view that the conjuror was not involved with the gang.
It was nearly five o’clock when Barton and Moncur returned to The Star Hotel. As there was no one at reception when they arrived back, they just took their keys from the rack of pigeonholes behind the desk and went up to their rooms. Barton was in a depressed mood: although he felt he had done his duty, he regretted that he had had to inform on Grace. He wondered what would happen to her now: on the run from the police, she would be hunted down and perhaps injured – or worse – while being pursued. It did not bear thinking about.
On entering his room he was surprised to find two men in dark suits already inside. One, a man with a girlish face and thick lips, was lolling on a chair, and the other, who had the face of a boxer, was lying stretched out on the bed, with his hands clasped behind his head. They seemed vaguely familiar to Barton; suddenly, he remembered he had seen them at the Silver Masque Club the night he had had the row with Grace.
“Ah! Pilot Officer Barton!” the man on the chair said, smirking. “At last! We’ve been waiting for you for some time. You’re Minton’s man, I believe?”
“What if I am, and anyway, who the devil are you?” Barton retorted, angry at the intrusion.
“No need to get upset, Barton. We’re on your side – we’re with Military Intelligence. My name’s Cheyne.” He extended his hand in the direction of the recumbent figure on the bed, who continued to lie there without changing position. “And my colleague, here, is Mr Maxwell.”
“Really?” Barton said sceptically. “Which department are you with?”
“MI18”
“There’s no such department.”
“In a way, I’m pleased to hear you say that,” the man replied in an amused tone. “It shows how well we’re keeping the secret. We don’t publicize ourselves, you know, Barton – you won’t find advertisements in the newspapers saying ‘Come to MI18 for all your counter-espionage needs’.”
The man on the bed grinned.
“Get out or I’ll call the police,” Barton ordered.
Ignoring the threat, Cheyne continued: “Enough chit-chat then, let’s get down to business. The fact is, Pilot Officer, that we’re in the middle of a very delicate intelligence operation at the moment, and you’re queering it for us. Miss Harrison is working for our department. Consequently, as you can imagine, I was dismayed to receive a phone call from her earlier this afternoon to say that her cover had been blown by an acquaintance she’d run into, and as a result her transmitter had been taken from her. After dealing with you, I’ll have to call in on the Northampton C.I.D. and persuade them to call off their search for Miss Harrison and return the transmitter to us. You’re making a lot of extra work for me, Pilot Officer.”
Barton was silent as he digested this information, so Cheyne continued. “We will also be taking this music case,” he said, picking it up from the chair where it was lying. “Miss Harrison needs it.” Barton’s instinct was to wrench it from him, but he managed to control himself. Although he felt he could take on Cheyne, he doubted if he could overpower Maxwell too.
“Incidentally,” Cheyne went on with a mischievous look, “we’ve come acr
oss you before, haven’t we? It was at that sordid little club in Mayfair. We saw Miss Harrison give you the brush-off there in no uncertain manner. It was actually the following day that we recruited her, but that’s another story. The fact is, your interference is putting Miss Harrison’s life in danger and, more importantly, it’s jeopardising our whole undertaking. Miss Harrison asked us not to be too hard on you, so we’re simply going to insist – very politely – that you discontinue your investigation. In short, you must bow out of the Cobalt case.”
Although Barton was relieved to hear that Grace was not, after all, working for the Germans, he was suspicious. He had taken an instant dislike to the man and replied with some hostility, “How do I know this is true? You could all be in it together.”
“Call Colonel Minton. He was briefed about the situation at a meeting earlier this afternoon.”
Barton wondered if that was the meeting Minton was at when he phoned his office from the station. “Very well, I will call him – right now.” He waited though, thinking that if Cheyne were bluffing, the man would try to persuade him it was not really necessary to call straightaway. But Cheyne just stared at him in silence, grinning. Barton left the pair in the room and went down to the public phone in the foyer.
He got through immediately and this time the phone was answered by Minton himself.
“Barton, where have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you all afternoon.”
“I’ve had an eventful day; I can give you a full report later. The reason I’m phoning is that there are two men in my hotel room claiming to be from MI18 – Cheyne and Maxwell. They’re basically telling me to stop investigating the case. They say you can confirm what’s going on.”
“There won’t be any need for a report later: I’m afraid they’re right – we’re off the case,” Minton said, sounding weary. “We’ve been wasting our time. It seems that another part of Military Intelligence have had an interest in Cobalt for a while. They’ve had her and her associates under surveillance since January.”
