by John Creasey
‘The one telling me to come here to see you?’ he asked. ‘No. I’d scrapped it after making a note of the day and time. I don’t think there was anything linking me with Brett or with you, for that matter. But the little tyke was obviously looking for something, wasn’t he?’ Brian lit a cigarette and contemplated Drusilla thoughtfully. ‘Very odd, Sap! I don’t know that I like it.’
‘I wouldn’t call it a polished performance,’ admitted Palfrey thoughtfully, ‘but he’s trying. What’s his game?’
Drusilla, who had been washing up the cups and saucers, came in from the other room and asked with some thoughtfulness: ‘What would we do if we wanted to find out what our opposite numbers in Germany were planning? We would know that there was little chance of finding anything written down,’ said Drusilla, ‘but we might try to make the other side think we were looking for just that. Then if we had them off their guard we would try something else. Supposing we knew where they were likely to meet? What would we do?’
‘We might try to listen in,’ submitted Stefan.
‘Ye-es,’ said Palfrey. ‘We might try to listen in, but not by eavesdropping in the normal way. We’d hardly expect to have much luck at key-holes.’ Palfrey slapped his hand against his thigh and moved swiftly to Drusilla and squeezed her about the waist.
‘Carpets,’ said Palfrey, turning abruptly to a corner of the room. ‘Floor-boards. Dictaphones. Yes, ’Silla?’
‘Of course, it might be a waste of time,’ said Drusilla dubiously, ‘but it’s worth trying.’
Palfrey was on his knees pulling at the carpet; it came up easily from one corner. Stefan and Drusilla stepped to the doorway so that the carpet could be pulled further up, Palfrey squeezed against the wall, treading on bare boards, then folded the carpet back from the corner. Stefan and Drusilla watched, eager-eyed, but it was Palfrey who first saw the traces of sawdust and two newly-sawn boards. Stefan drew a knife from his pocket and handed it to Palfrey as the latter tried to prise the sawn boards up with his fingers.
Beneath they saw the complicated coils and wires of what Palfrey immediately took to be part of a dictaphone. He did not pull it up at once but traced one strand of cable to the wainscoting: it ran along a gap between two boards for a short distance, then close against the wainscoting, protected from casual discovery by the carpet which fitted flush against the wall. It continued beneath the desk where a small instrument, like a miniature microphone, was neatly fitted.
He turned to the instrument in the floor, bent down and picked up two cylinders which were nearly a foot long and about two inches in diameter; they were made of a material that looked like shellac. ‘Very, very nicely done!’ said Stefan, still softly. ‘He came in, moved the carpet, perhaps took other cylinders away, and certainly left these here. He would not need to take very long.’
‘We should have thought of it before,’ said Drusilla quietly. ‘Sap, did you say much in this room before we came back this morning?’
‘I was alone,’ Palfrey reminded her. ‘I certainly didn’t say anything on the telephone, except talk to you. We kept off the subject that matters.’ He smiled a little vacantly. ‘One subject that matters, anyhow! He didn’t get much from the other cylinders but he would have had plenty from these. I wonder where we can get them played back to us?’
‘The Marquis will know,’ said Stefan.
When it was finished – it just included Brian’s arrival, then the second cylinder ran out – the Marquis stopped the machine and said quietly: ‘Yes, it’s a good thing you found it. But I don’t think any immediate harm has been done as far as you’re concerned. Have you laid your plans yet?’
‘I’d thought of doing it in easy stages,’ said Palfrey after some reflection. ‘For a start, go to Oslo to try to get Raffleck. We can get back to England from Oslo without a lot of trouble; then over to Copenhagen. There’s only Raffleck mentioned in Oslo,’ added Palfrey. ‘Is there anyone else there?’
‘You might be able to find out more when you arrive,’ said the Marquis. ‘We’ve no mention of anyone outstanding who would be willing to come. But it is those who are not there who matter most. When will you be ready to go?’
‘It depends on Conroy,’ said Palfrey.
‘I’ve heard that he’s on the way from Lisbon now,’ Brett told him, ‘so he will be here today. The day after tomorrow, do you think? Thursday?’
‘Thursday,’ agreed Palfrey.
Thursday was suddenly the only day that mattered in the whole of the future.
Chapter Three
On Foreign Soil
The night was dark but for the stars, which were hidden in places by a thin mist of cloud drifting lazily across the heavens. The engines of the aircraft which carried Palfrey, Drusilla and Brian Debenham seemed very loud in the confines of the small cabin, where they squeezed close together.
They had been flying for a little over two hours.
To Palfrey, glad of the fur-lined jacket, knee-breeches and boots which he was wearing, as well as of the cap with ear-flaps which seemed to keep the whole of his face warm, the past few hours were like a distant dream. For nearly forty-eight hours ‘Thursday’ had seemed far away and he had been impatient to start. He knew that the others had felt the same.
They had decided that Stefan and Conroy – the American had arrived, as the Marquis had prophesied – should go by a slightly different route, but also by air. They had started half an hour later than Palfrey’s little party, after planning to join forces at the extreme end of the Rokn fjord.
The uncanniness of the journey was made the greater because there were no lights on the aircraft and none at sea, not even to outline the coastline of Norway. They flew through blackness towards blackness, and there seemed neither beginning nor end to the journey.
Only once had there been any illumination.
Then, far to the east, they had seen the glow of fires, and even fancied that they had seen the bursts of bombs. A bellow on the intercom had been translated by Palfrey as: ‘Wilhelmshaven’s having it,’ a casual comment which gave him further indications of the quiet normalcy with which these men of the air regarded the bombing of the Great Reich. The glow had faded, and then they had seemed to be amid a greater darkness, relieved only by the glow from the stars and the illuminated dial of Palfrey’s wrist watch; the latter indicated that it was nearly twelve o’clock; they were due to cross a promontory of the Rokn fjord at twelve o’clock precisely. Then they would ‘land’ on a tiny bay near Koni and would be met by a small rowing-boat manned by a Norwegian who would be collaborating in such an undertaking for a hundredth time—according to the Marquis.
To Palfrey, the most surprising thing was the assurance with which it was all carried out.
No one had the slightest doubt that they would reach Norway safely and launch their effort without serious trouble. The journey across country would be more difficult, but Rokn had been chosen as the easiest place from which to start. It was about one hundred and fifty miles across country to Oslo, nearly twice as far by rail, as great a distance by road. Next to that assurance, Palfrey found it most difficult to realise that a few hours’ flying took them from the safety of the British Isles to the dangers of the continent; he had made a similar journey a hundred times, yet the vague astonishment always returned.
His watch said twelve o’clock.
There was a crackle as the intercom woke to life before a shadowy figure scrambled down from the pilot’s cabin and a combined earand-mouthpiece was thrust into Palfrey’s hand. The face of the messenger was just a pale blur against the darkness; his fur-clad body hid a patch of stars which had shone through one of the small windows.
‘Pilot speaking,’ crackled the intercom. ‘We’ve made landfall, sir. We’ll be ready in five minutes. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes!’ Palfrey said. ‘And you’re ten seconds late.’
The pilot chuckled then asked whether there were any special instructions. Palfrey said that there were not.
> ‘Right, sir! We’ll land as gently as we can, and the boat will take about five minutes to reach us.’
The man sitting in the bows of the little rowing boat bent to his oars and pulled sturdily; Palfrey was vaguely surprised that they managed to go so fast. They could see the outlines of the Catalina that had brought them thus far, getting further and further away, until suddenly it was lost to sight.
They did hear the roar of the engines when at last the pilot took off from the water, but it was so far away that it seemed part of some other world. The regular dipping of the oars in the water and the ripple against the side of the boat were the only sounds for some time.
The man at the oars whispered at last, but only to say: ‘No spikking, please!’
He stopped rowing. Only the gentle lapping against the side of the boat made any noise at all. But then they heard other sounds, of voices travelling across the water. Suddenly the blackness was broken by the bright beam of a torch shining from the shore. Its whiteness made the water look like black oil, revealing the gentle waves as they lolloped along after each other. The voices, now discernibly German, continued for some minutes; then they stopped as abruptly as the torch was switched off.
Palfrey fancied that he could hear footsteps.
They sat in silence for a long time; then the oarsman broke the spell. There was a laughing note in his voice, as if he relished what had happened.
‘It is now safe,’ he said, ‘they will not come again for an hour. You are ready, gentlemen?’
‘When you are,’ said Palfrey, his voice as low-pitched as the other’s.
‘That is good. We shall go ashore. There you will be guided by my good friend, Olaf. You will be safe with him. He will take you where you can rest for the night. Please, no noise at all, no noise.’
He began to row again; the fact that he made so little sound with the oars was uncanny. Suddenly the keel scraped against the bottom and the boat swayed, then kept still.
Out of the darkness a man’s voice, lighter and more youthful than the oarsman’s, called: ‘It is Olaf here.’
Palfrey waded ashore.
It was very shallow for some distance and the going was heavy, but at last he stepped out of the water on to silver sand which showed light even in the darkness. They could only see Olaf as a shadow, but there was a friendly heartiness in his low-pitched, youthful voice. He gripped Drusilla’s arm and led the way. Palfrey and Brian followed, making little sound on the sand. Then they stopped, for Olaf gave a whispered order. A moment later they went on again, but now they were walking either on rock or a made-up road; it did not last for long.
Twice within the next few minutes Palfrey saw a chink of light, once he heard a raucous voice and the tinkling of a piano badly out of tune. The sounds and the lights faded; soon he fancied that they were then walking on grass.
It was cold, although it had been hot when they had left England; he shivered once or twice, but the walking soon made him warm. There seemed no end to it, but the smooth rhythm of their progress was not broken; Olaf gave the impression that he could see in the dark. He did not once falter although they walked for the better part of an hour.
Then the Norwegian stopped.
‘Wait here, please,’ he said.
He left them straining their eyes to see where he was going. Palfrey thought he saw the squat outlines of a hut and was sure that he heard a tapping noise.
Then Olaf returned, appearing in front of them silently and making Drusilla start; Palfrey felt her move against him.
‘It is safe,’ said Olaf; like the oarsman’s, his voice seemed to hold a stifled laughter, as if he were enthralled by what he was doing, and highly delighted. He took Drusilla’s gloved hand and led her across the grass until the outlines of a small cabin were no longer imaginary, but real. One by one, guided by Olaf, they stepped over the threshold. Their guide followed them and closed the door.
Only then did someone inside strike a match.
The glow was bright enough to make Palfrey blink, but by the time an oil lamp was lighted his eyes were accustomed to it, and he saw practically everything that there was to see in a single glimpse. It was a larger room than he had expected, built of logs, with a table and several chairs and stools. A fireplace at one side without a fire, but with what seemed to be a large black tin over the hearth itself. A dresser with little crockery, two pictures – one of King Haakon, one of Christ upon the Cross. The simplicity of the little shack took on a deeper import because of those two signs of faith – both in the living monarch and in the spiritual guide.
By the table stood a tall, grave-faced man.
The lamplight shone upon his long features and full lips. His hair was over-long and his face very pale, but in spite of his gravity there was a smile in his eyes. He looked at Drusilla as she took off her furlined hat.
Palfrey saw him start and heard Olaf exclaim in Norwegian: ‘A woman! It is a woman!’
Drusilla smiled; her cheeks were glowing and her eyes very bright. The grave-faced man looked as surprised as Olaf sounded, but Palfrey broke the ensuing silence, introduced Drusilla, Brian and himself. The grave-faced man smiled more widely, and loosened the muffler about his neck. For the first time Palfrey saw the clerical collar he was wearing.
‘I am Pastor Martin,’ he said simply. ‘You know Olaf now, of course.’ Olaf beamed; he was little more than a boy, a sturdy youth with a head of fair, curly hair, thin-faced and with a hungry look about him, yet with laughter in his eyes. ‘Olaf is very thorough, my friends. You are safe for the start of your journey. The Lord is good!’
Palfrey said: ‘Yes. And you!’
‘We do the obvious thing,’ said the pastor with a faint smile. ‘But now you will want food and drink. Then you will need to sleep for the rest of the night. In the morning we shall have a guide ready to take you across country to Valle—there is a cart going there with a load of swedes. It will be easy.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to travel by night?’ Palfrey asked.
Drusilla was sitting on one of the plain wooden chairs and pushing her fingers through her hair. Olaf stood over the black tin box on the hearth, wearing thick gloves. He raised the box and revealed a small fire beneath; the box was an oven from which he took a large, steaming dish.
‘No,’ answered the pastor calmly. ‘All who travel by night are suspect, for there is a curfew. By day, the fools think, no one will dare to travel so it is safe. There is no alarm tonight, gentlemen, or we would have heard of it by now. Your aeroplane was doubtless heard, but there are many planes near here, for mines are laid almost every night.’
Olaf ladled vegetable stew into dishes which were all cracked; two were badly chipped. There were wooden spoons, roughly carved out of soft wood. Everything gave an impression of hardship and improvisation; and the pastor and Olaf ate hungrily, Olaf making no attempt to disguise it. Palfrey saw appreciatively that Drusilla and Brian, like himself, refused a second helping, although for his part he could have eaten it. The pastor pressed them but submitted to their refusal. Olaf cleared away the pots and spoons and went into another room; they heard the splashing of water and the clinking of pottery.
Pastor Martin lit a long, large-bowled pipe; the smell which came from it was not foul but was certainly not of tobacco. He smiled at Palfrey’s curious expression. ‘It is dried weed, of course, we are used to nothing different now. There is no tobacco for Norwegians.’ He looked bitter in spite of his smile. ‘I must ask you this,’ he said slowly, ‘even though you cannot know. Will it be long before you come?’ He looked intently at Palfrey, his eyes seemed very large, wide-set and almost fanatical; his voice was tense. ‘We have borne the burden for so long. There are times when I wonder whether my people can stand it for much longer, although they have performed miracles of endurance.’
Palfrey said: ‘You’ve heard this so often, you won’t find it easy to believe. But we won’t be long now.’ He spoke from conviction rather than knowledge and wondered
whether he was right to do anything which might raise the pastor’s hopes. The pastor smiled and said quietly: ‘You will be no longer than you can help, I know that. Now—Olaf will be in soon, and he would be delighted to hear of some of the things happening in England. He is young, and he has a great faith in the English—they are almost his gods!’
‘Young pagan!’ Palfrey smiled. ‘We’ll try not to disappoint him. But before he comes—’ He paused. ‘There have been some disappearances recently—from Oslo mostly, I think—countrymen of yours who were relatively free but have now gone.’ Martin said quietly: ‘I know, my friend.’
‘Have you any idea where they have gone?’
‘None at all,’ the other said sadly. ‘They have just disappeared. We had hoped that they were safe, but—’ He shrugged and broke off, giving Palfrey to understand more clearly how deeply the thing affected him, as well as confirming that the Marquis’s information was sound.
After talking to Olaf, who listened with glowing eyes, they went to their beds. Pastor Martin led them into a small room where there were several straw palliasses. They had a candle for light.
‘You may sleep in safety and comfort,’ Martin assured them. ‘Goodnight, please!’ said Olaf, from the door. They called goodnight. When the door closed they regarded one another in strained silence until Brian exclaimed: ‘Why is it that we never get used to it? The more we see the worse it gets!’
‘The longer it lasts the worse it is,’ said Palfrey quietly. ‘At least we’re doing all we can.’
It was a platitude which had little effect on Brian. All of them lay awake – they had not removed their clothes – close together on three of the palliasses. Palfrey thought that Brian went to sleep first, although Drusilla was soon breathing deeply and evenly.
Then he, too, slept.
For the next twenty-four hours he had an increasing feeling of frustration and impotency.
The friendly folk he met, all risking their lives and yet all absolutely trustworthy and prepared to sacrifice every comfort and possession to help the English, were all sad-eyed; all seemed driven by an inward urge which was stronger even than their physical powers. Pastor Martin typified them. Made hard by constant labour, even the poor food which they were allowed by their German masters did not seem to seriously affect their strength. Amongst themselves and with the English party they were cheerful and eager, but when others were seen standing in small groups – always broken up by shouts from Nazi soldiers, once by a thump across the shoulders of a man who must have been nearly seventy – they were outwardly sullen and inwardly raging.
