by Nevil Shute
“Sir David will see me,” I said. “Here’s my card.”
He laughed pleasantly. “Not this afternoon, he won’t,” he remarked. “He’s not here.”
My patience began to wear a little thin. He stopped laughing when he caught my eye.
“My business is urgent,” I said. “If you can give me Major Norman’s private address I’ll go and see him there.”
He stiffened at once. “All business to be passed through the proper channels,” he said. “We don’t give no private addresses at the Yard. If you’ll tell me what it is you wants done I’ll see to it myself.”
He had my card on the table before him. “See here,” I said. “You see who I am?”
He took up the card in an enormous hand and spelled it out. “P. H. Stenning,” he said. It didn’t seem to convey much to him.
“Right,” I said. “You remember the Marazan murder. I’m the man who was on board the yacht when Compton, the convict, was shot. I’ve some urgent information about that to tell Major Norman. That’s my business.”
He looked terribly worried. “I don’t rightly know what to do about that,” he said. “Did you want to make a statement?”
“I can tell you what you’re going to do,” I said tersely. “You’re going to give me Major Norman’s address. If you don’t I shall go and see Sir David Carter. I can get his address out of Who’s Who. I tell you, this matter is urgent.”
He moved ponderously to the door. “What you want to do, sir,” he said definitely, “is to make a statement.” I realized that he was about to summon witnesses.
I stopped him. “I’m going to do nothing of the sort,” I said. “I’ve got valuable information about the murder of Mr Compton. If you’ll give me Major Norman’s address I’ll go and see him now. Otherwise I shall walk straight out and go to Sir David Carter’s house. I must see one or other of them today.”
He capitulated, and in five minutes I was on my way to Charing Cross, bound for Chislehurst. I reached the house at about half past seven. It stood back a little from the road, a small house with a large garden. I asked for Major Norman at the door, and was shown into a morning-room to wait.
The room opened on to the lawn. It was getting on for dinnertime, but there was a game of tennis going on on the lawn, two men and two girls. I saw the maid go out and speak to one of the girls.
She turned to the others. “We’ll have to chuck it,” she cried. “There’s a bloke come to see Reggie.” I learned later that she was his wife.
They gathered together on the court; I recognized Norman as he was putting on his coat. “About time we stopped, anyway,” said the other man. “I could do with a bath, and the odd spot of dinner.”
“Bags I first go at the bath,” said the other girl.
I had to pinch myself to realize that I was awake. It all seemed incredibly remote from the violent business that I had come upon. It seemed a shame to break in on Norman in this quiet suburban atmosphere with a talk of dope and murder. I could see Norman whispering with his wife, and as he broke away from the group she called after him that there was plenty of supper. He came up the window and entered the room.
“Good evening, Captain Stenning,” he said. “I hope this doesn’t mean that you’ve been having trouble with the Italians.”
I laughed shortly. “No,” I said. “It means they’re going to have trouble with me.”
He slipped into a chair, and it was half an hour before we stirred. I told him everything that had happened in Italy, and I told him as much as I could remember about Leglia’s talk about Fascismo. He listened attentively, making very little comment till I had done.
At the end he remained staring into the sunlit garden.
“Marazan again,” he muttered. “On the 16th.” He turned to me. “You surprise me very much, Captain Stenning,” he said.
I nodded. “I know. At the same time, it seems quite likely that he should try it again. It means that the place is an integral part of the whole scheme, that the success of running a cargo depends on the use of Marazan. I take it that it’s true that there is no guard there?”
He nodded absently. “There is no guard. I didn’t mean that when I said that you surprised me. By going to Italy you ran a very grave risk.”
He eyed me steadily for a moment, and then laughed. “As you know.”
“I was well protected,” I remarked.
“That’s obvious,” he said drily. “This friend of yours, the Duke of Estalebona, did you say? ...”
I nodded. “You’d better make some inquiries about him, to satisfy yourself,” I said. “But you’ll find him all right.”
He sat drumming with his fingers on the arm of his chair for a minute. Then he got up.
“If you’ll stay and have dinner with us,” he said, “I’ll come up to Town with you afterwards. Good.” He stood in the window for a moment rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“It’s a better line than we’ve been able to strike,” he said at last. “We’ve not been able to do much up to date.”
We went up to Town together after dinner; I parted from him at Charing Cross with an appointment to meet him and Sir David Carter at the Yard at eleven o’clock next morning — Sunday. I got back to my flat in Maida Vale at about half past ten, and I must say I wasn’t sorry to be back. I was relieved that I had managed to see Norman. At the back of my mind had been the disturbing thought that if Mattani had got to hear that I had been in Italy, it was to his interest to prevent me getting to Norman with my news. It had not been altogether a sincere devotion to duty that had made me eager to see Norman at the first possible moment. Till my tale was told I could only regard myself as a possible target for people to shoot at, or to hit on the head with something blunt. Now that anxiety was removed. If Mattani was clever enough to find out that I had been to Italy, he was probably clever enough to find out that I had already seen Norman — in which case there was no longer any point in hitting me on the head.
In the morning I went to the Yard again.
I never felt quite at my ease with Sir David Carter. He was one of those men like Morris, keen and efficient, but with an air that rather kept one at a distance. I could see from his manner that the old man must have a bitter tongue when he was roused, and it was pretty evident that Norman had had some of it in his time. And yet there was some stuff in Norman — as we saw later.
Sir David greeted me with a sort of old-fashioned courtesy that made me rather ill at ease. “Major Norman tells me that you have been in Italy, Captain Stenning. I should be greatly interested in your account.”
He turned to Norman. “It would be better if Captain Stenning told us his story again from the beginning,” he said. “You had better make a few notes.”
Norman sat down at a table with a writing-pad, and I started in and told my story again, from the time I left Scotland Yard till I returned to England. Sir David sat as he had sat before, his chair tilted back behind the desk, staring motionless at the ceiling. It was very quiet in the office. It was a Sunday morning and there was no traffic in the streets outside to disturb us; for what seemed a long time my voice was the only sound in the room. I had no interruptions from Norman. Now and again I was aware that he was writing rapidly; then for a time he would sit still. At last I had finished. Norman glanced at his chief, took up his notes and asked me half a dozen questions — dates, times, and names of people.
At the end, Sir David stirred and sat up. “A most capable piece of work,” he said gravely. “One point. This friend of yours, da Leglia—”
Norman got up from the table and passed his chief a slip of paper. “I think this covers him, sir.”
Sir David ran an eye down it. “The Earl of Rennel,” he muttered. “The Italian Embassy.... You are in touch with the Consul?”
“There has been hardly time for a reply yet, sir.”
Sir David laid the paper on his desk. When next he spoke it was to me.
“As you see,” he said slowly, “this m
atter of Baron Mattani is extending into a wider field than the extradition of a suspected murderer. I am sure, Captain Stenning, that you will see the necessity for the greatest discretion?”
I said that I quite understood that.
There was a long silence, till suddenly he sat up in his chair and began to ask me questions about the note that I had found in my bed at Exeter. I had to go over the whole of that incident again, and at the end there was another pause.
Presently he laid off on another tack. It was rather like watching the hounds working a covert.
“Major Norman,” he said, “from your memory of the dangerous drug cases, can you locate any steady and considerable source of supply other than through Asiatics?”
Norman wrinkled his brows. “There are always a number of cases where the origin is evident,” he said slowly. “Cases in which a Lascar brings over a parcel of the drug in the forepeak of his ship. Of the cases where the origin is obscure, I can remember very few cases where the origin has been non-Asiatic. That is to say, the stuff is generally traceable to some Chinaman who cannot be identified. I can remember very few obscure European cases.”
“Verify that,” said Sir David. “It is possible that the Chinaman takes rather more blame than he deserves.”
“They would have to have a clearing-house,” said Norman. “It would be reasonable for that to be Chinese.”
Sir David glanced at him. “There has been no indication of that up to date?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“There must be a clearing-house for the division and distribution of the drug. There may be two or three.”
There was a long silence. An omnibus or two went rumbling down Whitehall. In a side street near at hand, close below the window of the office, some wandering violinist struck up the Caprice Viennoise. The prologue over, he launched into the melody; it rose and swelled about us till it drowned my thoughts, till I could recall nothing but the details of that stage tragedy that had been set to the music by a great actor. I glanced at the others. Norman was worried by it; I saw him glancing irritably at the window. The Chief sat as he had sat before, motionless, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. Presently the air drew to its sobbing, tremulous end. Sir David sat up.
“At one time,” he said, half to himself and half, I think, to me, “I considered Kreisler’s reputation to be misplaced.”
He leaned forward upon his desk and began to talk. In a moment I saw how far ahead of ours his mind had been working. “With the information supplied by Captain Stenning,” he said, “we stand a very fair chance of detaining the vessel that brings the drug to the Scillies — unless, of course, she lies-to to dispatch her launch at a point beyond the three-mile limit. We should be able to detain the launch with tolerable certainty. We might even be able to secure the aeroplane, and so to solve the problem of her identity. From all these sources it should be possible to obtain sufficient convictions to prevent the possibility of any further cargoes being smuggled in this way. At the same time, it seems to me to be extremely doubtful whether we should be able to break up the organization in England — the clearing-house. Frankly, I do not consider it likely that we should secure either the ship or the aeroplane. There remains the motor-launch. Is the launch alone worth securing?”
He shifted his position. “It might be. The possession of the launch would certainly strengthen our demand for the extradition of Baron Mattani from Italy. It might or might not lead to further evidence with regard to the murder of Compton. It would be unlikely to lead to evidence concerning the clearing-house. Consider. The men taken in the launch in all probability will be entirely Italians — Fascists, no doubt. For them to give information would mean that their return to Italy would be impossible, considering the position held by Mattani. I doubt if we could get much evidence from the capture of the launch.”
I cleared my throat. “The aeroplane would probably tell us something, if we could get hold of that.”
Sir David stared straight ahead of him at the desk. “Would it tell us very much about the clearing-house?” he inquired. “I rather doubt it. Suppose we were to capture the aeroplane at the same moment as the launch. We should then have the launch, the launch’s crew, the aeroplane, and the pilot of the aeroplane. I think the only one of those who would be capable of giving us any information about the clearing-house would be the pilot of the aeroplane.”
“Very likely the pilot would know nothing about the clearing-house,” said Norman, “unless he had a financial interest in the cargo. His business would be to fly the machine. In any case, it’s not likely that he would give evidence.”
Sir David was pursuing his own line of thought. “I put the dispersal of the clearing-house as our primary object,” he said at last. “It is not going to be very difficult, I think, to put an end to this particular mode of smuggling. The capture of the launch, for example, would give such diplomatic leverage to the Foreign Office that I doubt if Mattani would be in a position to carry on — for the moment. But if the organization in this country remains untouched, then in three or four months’ time we shall have the whole trouble repeating, with a different method of introducing the drug into the country.”
He paused. “I should consider no scheme of operations satisfactory that left out the clearing-house.”
I turned to Norman. “I don’t know how you work these things. But do you see much chance of getting a line on to the clearing-house before the 16th?”
He shook his head. “There’s only a week to do it in,” he protested. “Frankly, I know nothing about them yet. It’s possible that one of the men here may have information that will put us on the right track, or we might have a bit of sheer luck — such as a conviction for disposal. Failing that, I should begin working it on the elimination and inquiry lines. We might get on to them within the week, but I shouldn’t say it’s hopeful.”
“I see,” I said slowly. “Then the only other line to them is through the aeroplane.”
Sir David nodded. “The aeroplane might be the means of putting us in touch with the clearing-house,” he said. “Wherever it lands, it must be met by the agents.”
“They meet it in cars,” I said. “The landing-place is changed from trip to trip.”
“That makes it rather difficult,” said Norman quietly.
It certainly did. For a moment it seemed as if we had run up against a brick wall. We just sat for a bit, looking helpless.
“There’d be one way of doing it,” I said at last. “Let the aeroplane get away with its load, and follow it in another machine. That seems to be about the only way of getting in touch with the clearing-house — unless you can do it by your usual methods.”
The Chief eyed me for a moment. “I know very little about aeroplanes,” he said, “but I imagine that there would be considerable practical difficulties in doing that, Captain Stenning.”
I considered for a moment. “It would be damn hard,” I said. “I think it might be done.” I was thinking rapidly. “We should have the hell of a job to get in touch with the seaplane without being spotted. That’s the first thing. But if we could do that — assume that we can do that ... I think we can limit her possible landing-places to one or two definite areas, and I think we can make a pretty good shot as to how she gets there.”
I paused to collect my ideas. “You see, we know this much. We know that she leaves the Scillies an hour or so before dawn, and we know that she flies well inland, and lands her cargo in the early morning. We don’t know where she lands. Well, first of all, as regards her range. I don’t believe she cruises at a greater speed than eighty-five — she’d be an exceptional amphibian if she did. I don’t suppose she refuels at the Scillies; it would complicate things and keep her there too long. It’s the hell of a job filling up a seaplane, you know. I don’t suppose she carries more than five hours’ fuel at the outside. And so I think we can put down the extreme range from the Scillies as two hundred miles, or more likely a hundred a
nd fifty — to allow for headwinds.”
They were listening to me intently now. I asked for a map and they produced a large atlas; I opened it at a plate of Devon, Cornwall, and the Scillies.
“First of all, about the possible landing grounds,” I said. “We want a place fairly remote from the sea. It must provide a really long run — at least half a mile of smooth, level grass for an amphibian with a heavy load. It must be in a very desolate neighbourhood. I don’t know if you’ve ever made a forced landing in ordinary country? No — of course you haven’t. But the excitement it causes is tremendous; the whole countryside seems to hear of it in an hour or two. It’s the children that do it, of course. Even at that hour in the morning, a landing in ordinary farmland would be bound to attract notice.”
I stared at the map. “Anyway,” I said, “there’s nowhere in Cornwall. It might be possible to work it all right on Dartmoor or Exmoor.”
“They’d go farther inland,” said Norman. “What about Salisbury Plain?”
I turned up another map. “It’s a bit far,” I said. “But it would be quite possible, and much more central for the disposal of the stuff. But anyway, the point that I’m making now is that they’ve got to fly beyond Cornwall — probably a long way beyond. Now ... I’ll tell you what I should do if I was making that flight.”
I paused again. “Starting, say, one hour before dawn, I’d make the shortest sea passage possible. I’d have the wind up of my engine conking miles out at sea. That is, I’d make straight for Land’s End. That’s about thirty miles or so. It would still be dark when I got there. I’d fly along the coast then — no matter where I was going to. It’s easy to follow the coastline in the dark, for one thing, and at night — on the whole — I’d rather risk a forced landing on sea than on land. I should have to fly pretty low to see where I was — probably under two thousand feet.”
