“One of his intimate friends is a fellow by the name of Peter Ghent, who, though having a spotless record with the F.B.I., is one of our best men. He has taken on a two-year lease of Gary Brand’s house on Long Island, and is very well in with the smart set. Not unnaturally, he has the use of Brand’s fast motor launch, and frequently takes his friends on fishing trips as far afield as Cape Cod. Some of these trips are not quite so innocent as they may seem, however; and it is an easy matter to meet a flying boat some distance out to sea without giving rise to any suspicion whatever.
“Ghent, whom you will meet very shortly, trained with the General Electric Company for ten years, and has a sufficient working knowledge of electronics to have assimilated all the necessary technical knowhow to digest what Hugh Palate, Inventor and Traitor Extraordinary, had to tell him. And since the General Electric Company had no hand in the development of PERISCOPE, there is no way of linking him with Palate who was, of course, never seen anywhere near the Long Island residence. You will see from this that we have managed things quite well from the American end.”
“Most efficient,” I commented politely. “But where do I come in?”
“Your role is rather similar to the one you played in England, only with one big difference. You will still continue to be a thoroughly red herring — in every sense — but you will be very much wanted by the authorities. For one thing, you are about to become an Illegal Immigrant; but that is the least of your sins. For when it leaks out, as it will any moment, that you are an honourable representative of Moscow, and when it becomes known that you are at large in the United States (your photograph will appear in all the leading papers at a suitable moment) you will be very much a wanted man. Thus you will take all the credit for everything we have done. It might even be possible for us to make a return visit to the United States, if things work out as I hope and expect — all thanks to you.
“I hardly need tell you that any story you tell the F.B.I., if you should decide to go to them, is hardly likely to be credited. Who would doubt the loyalty of a man like Gary Brand, the top-drawer playboy, or any of his close friends — especially with a name like Ghent? Besides, an unpleasantly incriminating trail has already been laid for you which indicates your habits over the past few years ... you were not idle even when confined to the grounds of Murtha House, it transpires. Nobody will deny that you were ill — no doubt your mental illness was partly responsible for your unfortunate lapse — but your illness went deeper than people supposed. It turned your mind, in fact, against your own country. Natural enough, some will say; your last few shows failed dismally, you were desperately unhappy with an unsuitable woman, who will be forced to take the view herself that sickness had turned your head. She may well be the first to testify against you, for it was through her that you managed to cause the original digression we needed.
“Only too late will the F.B.I. discover that you were innocent; even if they ever find out at all. By that time it will have been possible for Ghent to disappear — YOU know how — and the house, which, by the way, is calledYankee’s Rest, will have been returned to its owner — after the laboratory built within it has been dismantled. To add to the local colour, you will have the greatest difficulty in obtaining the drug you require to maintain a normal life; so that even if you succeed in remaining uncaptured for any length of time, you will be forced to give yourself up in order to obtain it. When you do, of course, you will be virtually a raving maniac, which will not help your case. But by that time, I hope, you will have fulfilled the main object of your mission, the nature of which I am not prepared to tell you.”
It was so neat that I felt sick. Not being a brave man, I wished fervently that. I had not been so observant one lunchtime in a certain news theatre.
I knew where my one hope lay. Not in any ability of mine to convince the F.B.I. of what I knew to be the truth. Even without the influence of the late Senator McCarthy I knew how slim my chances were of that ...
No, everything depended upon whether Jill could be sufficiently illogical to disbelieve the case that had been built up against me. Whether she was in love, in fact ...
*
It was surprisingly cold when, just before dawn, the flying-boat touched down on coastal waters. The Atlantic was kind to us, and the surface was almost motionless; we might have been in an inland lake.
“It’s often like this here,” said Stutyen, conversationally, “which is why we chose it. Something to do with the Gulf Stream, I expect.”
“What do you do if it’s too rough?” I asked.
“We have an alternativerendezvous nearer the coast. It’s more dangerous of course. Particularly as we have to hang around to refuel from the launch. Ghent tells us by radio if the weather is too bad for a landing here. We have rather a neat scrambling device which makes radio communication completely safe from interception.”
The contracting metal of our two big motors clicked periodically as they cooled down. Fenton, his cigarette glowing at the end of that mammoth holder, stood gazing through the open door. Someone up front pulled a switch to raise the flaps, and the whine of the electro-hydraulic equipment seemed deafening. Then the sound abruptly ceased, as the two long aerofoils were raised flush with the wings.
“In five minutes the launch will be with us,” said Stutyen, “that is to say just ...” he consulted his watch, “... just three minutes ahead of schedule. I hope you’re impressed by our organization.”
“Admirable,” I agreed. “But what about coastal defence radar? Surely they can track you at this distance?”
“For the last hour we have been flying at a height of less than two hundred feet,” he said. “At such altitudes radar is most unreliable. A defect, I’m glad to say, from which PERISCOPE does not suffer.” Fie added: “We would be much more likely to be picked up by radar operating from ships; but according to our own equipment, there is nothing within range. Besides, in weather conditions like this it is very unlikely they would have their sets switched on.” He smiled at me like a patronizing uncle.
*
Peter Ghent looked as if he might have decorated many a tennis lawn. He was slim, quite good-looking, and not much over thirty. He had fair hair that was cut quite short, and a pale complexion. Here was the perfect personification of the American playboy, with only one difference: he had brains. At the moment he was wearing a pair of rough dungarees and a sweater, an attire he had no doubt changed into while on the launch; but he would have looked more at home in Florida-type beach-wear.
Even before the craft had come to a standstill, Ghent had jumped athletically aboard the flying boat and was greeting Stutyen enthusiastically. He almost completely ignored Fenton, and I began to wonder whether there could be anybody in the world who liked that frustrated actor.
“This is Mr. Cummings,” announced Stutyen politely.
Ghent looked me up and down, and for a moment I thought he was going to offer to shake hands. But he forgot his country-club manners for this particular meeting.
“Welcome to the United States of America,” he said sardonically. “Have you been here before?”
“Yes, but don’t let’s be melodramatic about it,” I said. “I’ve had enough of that from friend Fenton. Just do whatever you want to do, and get on with it.”
This sulky-mouthed individual did not address another word to me, but proceeded with the others to unload the crates on to the launch, and to refuel the aircraft.
It was at about this point that my stunned brain began to work properly again.
And the first question that came up on the agenda was: how much of what Stutyen and Fenton had told me was the truth?
These people were not amateurs — their organizing powers had proved that beyond any possible doubt. Therefore anything they did and said must be for a purpose.
Question: If they credited me with enough courage to go straight to the F.B.I., why risk giving me all the facts? I might even persuade the authorities that I was telling the truth
, in which case there would be tangible evidence to support me. For instance, even after Ghent had departed and covered his tracks, there might be things they’d overlooked — traces of aviation spirit in the launch, showing that it had been used as a tanker; some overlooked detail in the house — what was it called? —Yankee’s Rest.
On the other hand, if they let me loose before their arrangements were completed, I might lead the police to their very doorstep. However well they concealed their activities,why take the risk?
Knowing their mania — and a most successful mania, it seemed — for red herrings, it appeared likely that quite a few fresh ones had been filleted for my benefit. I had no idea what their purpose was, but one thing at least seemed probable. I knew enough of the truth to incriminate myself, but not enough to incriminatethem.
I did not doubt that PERISCOPE was what they said it was — or something very like it. And since whatever it was would soon be known to be missing (probably by now the hue and cry would be warming up nicely) there was no particular reason why they should conceal this part of it from me.
But the rest of their plan was probably quite different. And by the time I could start drivelling to the F.B.I. aboutYankee’s Rest, and the activities of the personal friends of a well-connected playboy, Stutyen could be getting on with the good work, with the police well and truly off the scent. (I was not to know at this stage just how tight a spot had thoughtfully been arranged for me.) When the police had discovered that my story aboutYankee’s Rest was complete fabrication, they would naturally suspect me all the more.
It was the Delanez technique all over again, in fact, but with a different twist. If I was right in my guesswork, the only mistake they had made was to try the same sort of trick twice on the same man. For I now had an idea how the minds of these gentlemen worked.
Peter Ghent. That probably wasn’t his real name then ...
*
It was just under an hour after the arrival of the launch that the work was completed. And we were hardly clear of the aircraft when the engines started and she turned into the wind and took off with a roar that shattered the uncanny silence of that still ocean.
Soon our own engines had burst into life, and just as the sun rose clear above the horizon we set course for the mainland.
“Can you steer a boat?” asked Peter Ghent.
“Probably,” I said.
“Be my guest!” he commanded laconically, handing over the wheel, “and keep on this compass heading. I have to go below for a few minutes. I wouldn’t try anything though; there is another compass down here, so if you change course I shall merely have to get all melodramatic. And you don’t like that, do you, Mr. Cummings?”
As he was waving a gun at me during this speech I decided I would do things his way, at any rate for the time being.
“That’s right,” I said.
As I steered I couldn’t help wondering what old Horrocks would think of my present occupation.
CHAPTER 11
THEHotel Ajax on West 45th Street is neither a flop-house nor a first-class hotel.
It is clean and well run, but not respectable. The telephone service is good, but the manager isn’t inquisitive ... except about whether you can pay your bill. The sheets are changed frequently, but the clients aren’t changed often enough. You can eat at a counter downstairs, though there isn’t a restaurant. There is, however, a bar; and since the hotel is only six Cadillac-lengths from Broadway, it has a pretty mixed clientele. Sometimes it’s a bit rough down there. In short, it’s a typical off-Broadway hotel, and there are scores like it.
A few days after my first introduction to the alleged Mr. Peter Ghent, I woke up in a small, three-cornered room to the sound of someone banging on the door. I had not the slightest recollection of how I got there.
In fact, there were quite a few gaps in my memory that left a lot of questions unanswered, dating from the time I woke up to find myself in a flying boat. The organization I was up against were pretty free with the hypodermic syringe, and whenever it was inconvenient for me to notice things they soon arranged that I didn’t notice anything whatever ... all of which, no doubt, contributed to the headache which seemed to be worse every time I woke up.
The banging on the door continued.
“Come in!” I yelled, and wished I hadn’t. My own voice seemed to resound through my brain as if it were Echo Valley, except each echo was louder than the one before.
“I came to see whether you were okay,” said the intruder. “You were out cold when your friends brought you in. That must have been one hell of a party, Mac. You should take more water with it.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Your friends said to tell you they paid your bill for a coupla days. After that you’re on your own.”
“Would you very much mind telling me where I am?” I asked.
“TheHotel Ajax, 45th Street. New York’s finest hotel,” he added sardonically, “except for about fifty better ones. And now let’s go for the jackpot question: how much dough you got?”
As far as I knew, I had none. But as a kind of reflex I searched my pockets. There were some notes in my breast pocket. I counted them. Four tens, a five and five one-dollar bills. They were all new notes.
“That’ll be okay,” he said. “I’ll have them send up some coffee; for brother, you really need it! He paused. “You’re a Limey, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hope you got more than fifty bucks. That’s about enough for a week in this town. You want to pay for the other five days? You get the room on the weekly deal then — 22.50. All food extra. See what I mean about the cash? Hotels don’t come much cheaper than this one.”
I handed him the balance. “I’ll take the weekly,” I said.
“All right-y,” he said. “Your receipt will be sent up later, Mr. Hedley.”
So I had a new name.Hedley. Until they found out who I really was ...
“Are you the manager?” I asked.
“Deputy manager. Abe Shapello. Big chief bottle-washer and chucker-out.”
“Well, Mr. Shapello, I’d be very grateful if you could get them to send up a paper — theTimes — and a London paper, if possible. Air Mail edition.”
“Mind if I say something?”
“Go ahead.”
“You don’t add up, Mr. Hedley. People who come in from the sort of party you must have been to don’t usually wake up demanding the London papers. Or did your party start in London, and you want to read about the first half?”
“In a way,” I agreed. “Is there a radio?”
“It’s right by you. Put a quarter in and it will play for an evening. I’ll have them send up the coffee and the papers.”
He threw me a final, curious look and left.
From the papers that arrived a few minutes later it was evident that the story hadn’t yet broken. Therefore, if the police already knew about me they were keeping it to themselves. Well, this would give me a little time. It would take them a few days to trace me to a New York hotel — unless Stutyen had already arranged for the information to be planted.
But I fancied it wouldn’t suit him to have me picked up as yet. Besides, my guess was that he had a use figured out for me that he hadn’t said anything about.
In my trouser pocket I had found some small change. I put a quarter in the radio and left it on one station, hoping sooner or later to hear a news bulletin. I had to find out what was known about me before I put into action the plan that was beginning to formulate in my mind.
On top of the radio was my room card. It just said: “Thomas A. Hedley, salesman; room 519.”
And Thomas A. Hedley. salesman, was conscious, for the first time, of the true peril of his position ...
My only chance seemed to me to lie in taking the boldest step: walking straight into police headquarters and telling them everything. But this was the course of action that Stutyen had anticipated. Yet if there was still nothing on me I might
stand a chance by getting in first. It all depended upon whether I was already suspected.
As it happened, I had not long to wait for the answer to this one. The radio, after offering to sell me a storm window (with a sewing machine thrown in, somewhat incongruously) burst forth with the news:
“It has just been announced from Washington that Joel Cummings, a Londoner, while acting as a spy for the Soviet Union, played a major part in stealing some highly secret equipment from the British Ministry of Supply. Joel Cummings, you may remember, is quite well known as a songwriter over here. In 1952 his showChicken for Dinner was a Broadway success. It seems that Mr. Cummings, unable to repeat his performance in New York, is now trying for Moscow! Stay on this station for further news about this latest sensational leak in British security.”
My hand was shaking when I switched off the radio. I felt bewildered and afraid. And I knew I had very little time. Not only had I the problem of clearing myself, but I had a responsibility; for I was the only person in the free world who knew the truth. And I still had to try to prevent PERISCOPE falling into alien hands.
The ‘frame’ was complete — perfect in every detail. And most of it I had neatly arranged for myself. All Stutyen had had to do was to twist things round a bit, to add the final knot in the noose. A few damning letters written on notepaper with theMurtha House letter heading, perhaps; some more stuff planted in my piano. I remembered what Fenton had said: something about Jill being the first to suspect ‘the horrible truth’. And supposing she didn’t believe it; would anyone listen to her, knowing her personal relationship with me?
Already the little hotel room felt like a prison. I felt that I had only to go out of room 519, down in the elevator and into the foyer, to be recognized and arrested. Yet I had to have the courage to carry out the plan that was vaguely forming in my mind. It was difficult to concentrate, for twinges of sheer panic kept clutching at my brain and freezing it between icy fingers of fear, so that I couldn’t think properly.
The Cummings Report Page 9
