The Aquila Project (5 page)

Well, now she knew all about this man Anders Grunwalski – or, at least, as much as Jack chose to tell her. She knew about the dramatic attempt to blow up the new bridge on its opening day, and how her splendid fiancé had helped to thwart the bomber’s plans.

It had been a lovely, exhilarating afternoon out, the kind of treat that Jack loved to provide for her. But oh! She missed the thrill of adventure, the curious satisfaction of flirting with danger, that elevated above the commonplace her rather dull life as an
expert needlewoman at Watts & Co in Westminster. Perhaps one day Colonel Kershaw—? Well, she would wait in patience for the time when, once again, perhaps, she would be called upon to play the part of an unsung heroine!

As Arnold Box turned out of Maiden Lane into Sherry Wine Court he saw a crowd of excited men and women gathered around the door of Peter Rosanski’s shop. They spoke in a
high-toned
chatter, and in a language that he assumed to be Polish, but even at a distance Box could detect the signs of fear and anger in the general cacophony.

At the end of the court two vehicles stood, their horses chafing nervously at the bits. One was a Metropolitan Police ambulance. The other was an empty civilian hearse, looking bleak and mournful without its usual adornment of feathers. A police sergeant and a number of constables were busying themselves around the vehicles. What had happened? Was Peter Rosanski injured, or dead?

Box shouldered his way through the crowd, and crossed the threshold of the shop.

It was a bizarre scene that met his eyes. Peter Rosanski lay on a stretcher which had been placed on the floor in front of the counter and, at the moment of Box’s entrance, an undertaker, watched by his silent assistant, had just finished composing the dead man’s limbs. A dark patch of blood on Rosanski’s waistcoat told Box that the old man had been stabbed under the ribs. His fierce moustache still bristled, seemingly in defiance of his fate, but his open eyes were incurious, as though the events of this world no longer interested him.

Standing patiently beside the body was a tall, strong man clad in a blood-covered butcher’s apron. The very air around him smelt of blood. He was a stout man, with a double chin and a shining bald head. In his right hand he held a butcher’s cleaver, and in his left, a bloodstained steak knife.

For one chilling moment Box thought that he was looking at the murderer of Peter Rosanski, but then the bead curtain at the back of the shop parted, and a uniformed police inspector came out into the dim room. The inspector peered short-sightedly at Box for a moment, and then greeted him by name.

‘Detective Inspector Box? You got here quickly, didn’t you? This murder’s not half an hour old. You won’t remember me, I expect. Inspector Pollard, “E” Division. We worked together once, about four years ago, when we brought in Killer Shelmerdine at Hackney. This is a shocking business, Mr Box. Poor old Peter Rosanski never harmed a soul.’

Box glanced at the counter, where a few jars of sweets and pickles were displayed for sale. Written in chalk across the counter in bold capital letters was a foreign word: ZDRAJCA.

‘I wonder what that means, Mr Pollard?’ asked Box. Before the inspector could reply, the man in the butcher’s apron burst into speech.

‘That word is Polish, and it means renegade, traitor. It was written there on the counter by the scum who stabbed him in the ribs – a mean little runt of a man, like a weasel, a rat-faced man…. I tell you, Policeman, Peter Rosanski was no traitor. He was a good man, who loved living here in England. He loved the Queen, and this country that had adopted him – adopted all of us who live in this court. Well, rat-face has my mark upon him, and you will put him where he belongs – on the gallows.’

‘You did well, Mr Aaronson,’ said Inspector Pollard. ‘I’ll want to ask you a few questions later, but for the moment you’d better go back to your shop. It’s getting a bit crowded in here.’

The big butcher nodded, and turned on his heel. They could all hear the crescendo of voices as he made his way back to his premises across the court. The undertaker, who had been showing signs of restlessness, motioned to the silent figure on the stretcher.

‘Is it in order for us to take the deceased away now, Mr
Pollard? Perhaps you’d care to step into the back room until we’ve placed him in the coffin? Then we’ll be on our way to Horseferry Road.’

As Box and Pollard walked towards the beaded curtain at the back of the shop, Box saw the plain black coffin that the
undertakers
must have brought with them. Only that morning, the man who was destined to occupy it had been in vigorous life. Murder was a foul business.

‘We have an arrangement with them,’ said Inspector Pollard, as they had entered the sparsely furnished back room. ‘The
undertakers
, I mean. It’s more dignified to have people taken away in a hearse than bundled into a closed hand-ambulance or a cart.’

‘I saw a police ambulance standing beside the hearse at the top of the court,’ said Box. ‘Who was the ambulance for? Have you caught the villain already?’

‘Yes, we have, so, thank goodness, it’s an open and shut case. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. Rosanski was stabbed under the ribs with a steak knife. The police surgeon, who’s been and gone, says that his heart was ruptured, and that he died instantly. This murder was the work of a professional assassin, Mr Box. It would have been quick, and very effective. There’s not much blood to be seen, because bleeding in this case would have been internal, so the surgeon said.’

‘What happened exactly, Mr Pollard?’

‘Just before Monsieur Rosanski shut up shop, our butcher friend, Mr Aaronson glanced across the court from his shop, and saw the weasel-faced man running down the steps, bloody
steak-knife
in hand. Aaronson rushed out and tackled him.’

‘That was brave of him. Not many men would tackle an armed killer.’

‘No, they wouldn’t. But our killer had met his match in Mr Aaronson. The man snarled at him and tried to stab him with the steak-knife. Aaronson chopped him in the arm with his meat cleaver, and that put the man well and truly out of action.
Somebody had already run to fetch us, and we were here within minutes. The killer’s under restraint in the police ambulance, which I telegraphed to be sent here from Carter Street. Poor Rosanski will be on his way to Horseferry Road mortuary by now. As I said, it’s an open and shut case.’

‘Did you establish the identity of the killer? Another Pole, I expect, if he called poor Rosanski a traitor.’

‘Well, Mr Box, I recognized him as soon as I saw him lying on the cobbles, bleeding like a pig, with Aaronson standing guard over him with that fearsome cleaver of his. But he’s not a Pole; he’s a German, Oscar Schumann by name, who’s been suspected of more than one killing on our patch over the years. Well, we’ve got him this time. I don’t know what his motive was, but I expect we’ll get it out of him.’

‘Why did he write that Polish word on the counter?’

‘I reckon that was a blind, Mr Box. When we searched him, we found a piece of paper in his pocket with that word printed on it. ZDRAJCA. It beats me how these Poles manage to pronounce some of their words.’

‘You think he had that paper to remind him how to spell the word when he came to write it on the counter?’

‘I do. He wasn’t meant to get caught, you see. If he hadn’t been caught, we’d have thought it was some kind of Polish vendetta being worked out. We’ve had things of that sort happening round here before. Of course, he could have been hired by one or other of the Polish factions to carry out the assassination. We’ll see. Do you want to be associated with this case, Mr Box?’

‘I don’t think so, Mr Pollard. It’s obviously a divisional matter, and my business with Monsieur Rosanski was nothing to do with vendettas. It was something arising from an incident that occurred at Tower Bridge yesterday. Perhaps you’d send me a note at the Rents in a couple of days’ time, to tell me how you’ve got on.’

‘As you please, Mr Box. I’ll just straighten things up here, and make all safe, and then I’ll get back to Bow Street. I was supposed
to be off at three. Maybe, later, I’ll be able to salvage what’s left of Sunday, and get back home to my family.’

When Box arrived at King James’s Rents just before eight o’clock on Monday morning, the frock-coated figure of Superintendent Mackharness appeared at the top of the stairs. He greeted Box with his usual morning ritual.

‘Up here, Box, if you please. I shan’t keep you more than a minute.’

Box joined his superior officer in the mildewed office on the first floor. Mackharness picked up a folded letter from his desk, and flicked it open with one of his stubby fingers.

‘Now, Box, I found a note from the assistant commissioner waiting for me here this morning. It tells us that a Mr Hugo Lang, assistant secretary of the Geological Society, has definite
information
about Grunwalski, which he is anxious to impart to us. He has asked for you by name. The society has its premises in Burlington House, on the north side of Piccadilly. This Mr Lang is available this morning, at any time between nine and ten o’clock. Go there, will you, Box, and see what this man can tell us.’

‘The Geological Society?’

‘Yes, Box, it means having to do with rocks and stones – that kind of thing. Oh, and while you’re here, I brought you and Sergeant Knollys a little memento of Saturday’s doings. The
official
doings, I mean.’

Mackharness handed Box two attractively coloured programmes, souvenirs of the opening of Tower Bridge. The covers showed three fine photographs of the new structure, together with portraits of the Prince and Princess of Wales. It was a kindly gesture from a man whose normal mien was stiff, rigorously formal, and rather forbidding.

‘Well, thank you very much, sir,’ said Box. ‘That’s most kind of you, and most appreciated. Did you have a good day on Saturday, sir?’

‘A most gratifying day, thank you, Box. I spent most of it in the company of my friend Lord Maurice Vale Rose, a man who keeps a splendid table, and an even more splendid cellar. Anyway, get down there now, will you? The Geological Society, in Burlington House.’

A
S
A
RNOLD
B
OX
crossed the dusty carriageway of Piccadilly, an elderly, pink-faced man who had been standing under the grand archway of Burlington House, came down the steps to greet him.

‘Inspector Box? I am Hugo Lang. It’s very good of you to come to see us at such short notice. Let me conduct you to our offices in the east wing.’

Box followed Lang up a marble staircase and along a carpeted corridor. They passed through a deserted library, and then through a long storeroom, its shelves bulging with sheaves of yellowing papers tied up into bundles.

Box knew by now whom he would find when they reached journey’s end. A man would be waiting to talk to him, and they would greet each other by a familiar verbal ritual. The outcome of their interview would be some kind of enlightenment, and almost inevitably an invitation to put himself into danger.

Hugo Lang stopped at a door in the corner of the room, knocked, and motioned Box to enter. He did so and, as the door was closed behind him, he heard a key on the outside turn quietly in the lock.

Yes; there he was, sitting at a plain deal table in the window, looking out at the tranquil gardens beyond the courtyard, a slight, sandy-haired man in his late forties or early fifties, with a mild face and an almost apologetic air about him. He was dressed very
formally in a morning coat, complemented by a white waistcoat and dark silk cravat. A tall silk hat, in which he had deposited a pair of black suede gloves, stood on the table beside an ebony walking-cane. The man spoke, and the well-known ritual began.

‘Good morning, Mr Box.’

‘Good morning, Colonel Kershaw. So it’s like that, is it?’

‘Yes, Box, it’s like that.’ His voice, as always on these occasions, held a tone of sardonic weariness.

This would be the fourth time, Box mused, that
Lieutenant-Colonel
Sir Adrian Kershaw, RA, Knight Commander of the Bath, had begun the process of luring him away from his police work at Scotland Yard and into the perilous subtleties of secret
intelligence
. Colonel Kershaw was one of the powers behind the Throne. He was rightly feared by his enemies; but it was perhaps more significant that he was feared, too, by his friends.

‘Will you smoke a cigar with me, Mr Box?’

‘I will, sir.’

Kershaw offered Box his cigar case. Three slim cigars reposed in the case, and beside them a tightly rolled spill of paper tied neatly with twine. Box took a cigar, and with it the spill of paper, which he placed without comment in a pocket. He knew what it was, and there was no call for either man to comment on it.

‘The time has come, Mr Box,’ said Kershaw, when their cigars were lit, ‘for me to tell you some things that you need to know about Saturday’s events at Tower Bridge, and what followed them. I should imagine that you’ve been working in the dark since then.’

‘When you say events, sir—’

‘When I say events, Mr Box, I mean not only the apparent attempt by Anders Grunwalski to blow up the bridge, but also the murder yesterday of Mr Peter Rosanski in Sherry Wine Court. The two things are linked, as I expect you realize.’

‘Anything that you can tell me about Anders Grunwalski will be very welcome, sir,’ said Box. ‘Is he a lone wolf, seeking vengeance on society for some imaginary slight, or is he part of a
conspiracy? And, perhaps of more immediate concern, where is he now? To my way of thinking, those two questions require urgent answers.’

Colonel Kershaw sighed, and his eyes narrowed.

‘I don’t know
where
he is, Box,’ he said. ‘I wish I did. We’ll talk about that aspect of the affair in a minute. As for Anders Grunwalski himself – well, he is neither a conspirator nor a lone wolf. Anders Grunwalski is one of
my
people.’

Box searched for something pertinent to say. Kershaw remained as still as ever. He was looking slightly shamefaced and abashed, as though he had just owned up to a lapse of taste. He drew on his cigar, waiting for Box to speak.

‘One of
your
people?’ said Box, finding his voice at last. ‘Did you—’

Colonel Kershaw held up a hand to stem Box’s projected flow of speech.

‘No, Box, I did
not
dynamite a police station in order to set Grunwalski free! I could have easily arranged for his release from custody by less spectacular means. I’ve no idea
who
blew up the police station in Weavers’ Lane in order to get Grunwalski out. And I’ve no idea where they’ve taken him. Do you want to hear more?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Box replied. ‘I very much want to hear more.’

Box’s daily work was fraught with dangers, but there was something especially thrilling about Colonel Kershaw’s
invitations
to co-operate with him. This man, the head of secret intelligence, often held the whole safety of the nation in his hands. He was answerable only to the Queen, who would place the great organs of the State at his command when the need arose. And it was this man who, on certain occasions, had sought the help of Box, a mere Scotland Yard detective inspector, to be his companion on adventures that could affect the very peace and prosperity of Europe.

‘Well done, Box,’ said Kershaw. ‘I knew that I could rely upon
you. If you and I have to follow the chase wherever it takes us, you can rest assured that your way will be smoothed for you at Scotland Yard. But first, let me tell you about Grunwalski.

‘Anders Grunwalski is a former officer in the Rifle Brigade, or the City of London Regiment, as it’s often called. He’s a champion shot with pistol and rifle, and with many trophies to prove it.’

‘And he’s one of your people?’

‘He is. I lured him away from Hounslow Barracks two years ago, and employed him very effectively to quell the
French-inspired
mutiny aboard HMS
Dagmar
in Portsmouth harbour. You may remember that business? The Fusiliers wanted him back after that, but I wouldn’t give him up. I kept him as one of my people.’

‘I’d no idea that you were involved in the HMS
Dagmar
affair,’ said Box. ‘As I recall, the mutiny was fomented by the second mate, a man called Freeman, who had forged links with the European socialist movements. When he realized that his position was hopeless, he shot himself on the bridge of the
Dagmar,
in full view of the mutineers, and that was the end of the mutiny.’

‘Well, that’s the effect we hoped to achieve, Box. In fact, Freeman was shot dead by Grunwalski, who was posted on the roof of one of the dockside buildings. Now, you’re to keep that to yourself, Box, do you hear? You look shocked, but there are times when these things have to be done. There was far more to that affair of the
Dagmar
than a mere mutiny.’

Box said nothing. He knew that preserving the safety of Britain and its peoples required a special type of patriotic duty.

‘At the age of twenty,’ Kershaw continued, ‘Grunwalski
distinguished
himself in the Afghan War, and was mentioned in despatches. He’s thirty-five now. He’s of Polish origin, but his family have been British subjects for generations.’

Colonel Kershaw reached into his pocket and produced a small photograph, which he handed to Box. It showed a young,
clean-shaven
man in military uniform, with the flame-crowned badges
of the Royal Fusiliers on the collar. The stern face revealed nothing of the man himself, but Box recognized the likeness: it was the same man as the one in Superintendent Mackharness’s photograph – the terrorist on the bridge.

‘That’s Grunwalski as he really is,’ said Kershaw, ‘and in a moment I’ll tell you what he was doing on Tower Bridge last Saturday, and why he brought with him a carefully doctored and harmless bomb. But first, Box, I must give you a broader picture of what this business is about.’

Colonel Kershaw stubbed out his cigar in a Benares brass vase, and carefully unfolded a great map of Europe, which he spread out across the table.

‘Let us look for a moment at this political map of Europe, which I have brought here especially to show you. How would you describe the proportions of that map, Mr Box? Incidentally, it’s a German map, and the man who made it sees Europe through German eyes.’

‘Well, sir,’ said Box, ‘I’d say that the map-maker has shown all the major lands of Europe as being crushed up together to the west of the Continent in a dangerous kind of huddle, with Kaiser William’s Germany at its centre…. There’s France, tinted a nice pale buff, rubbing shoulders with the German Reich; and there’s Austria-Hungary, crowding up against Germany’s flank. And what’s that little country, penning Germany in to the south? Switzerland. Yes, sir, they’re all huddled together, and the German Reich in particular looks as though it might explode at any moment to find itself more living-space!’

‘Excellent, Box!’ cried Kershaw. ‘Really, you ought to have been a political strategist. You’ve read the past history of Europe in those remarks of yours – and, who knows, you may have seen the future as well. Now cast your eyes beyond the eastern borders of Germany and Austria. What do you see?’

The Empire of Russia…. A vast, seemingly boundless land, which the cartographer had tinted a sober greenish grey; a land
that stretched down from the Arctic seas to the borders of the Turkish Empire. Far away to the east, at the farthest extent of its Siberian lands, its thriving modern port of Vladivostok extended beyond the landmass of China, and faced the burgeoning islands of the Empire of Japan.

‘I can see Russia, sir,’ Box replied. ‘Rather a large kind of place, isn’t it? It’s practically falling off the map at the right-hand edge. No lack of living-space there!’

‘As you say, Box, it’s a large kind of place. And if you look back again to the west, at that part of the vast expanse of green bordering on Germany, you’ll see what was once Poland, a mere name on a map – “Polen” in the German language – without boundaries or identity of its own. Poland, at this moment in history, is simply a part of Russia, and the Tsar no longer bothers to call himself King of Poland. The same depressing reality applies to Finland, and Lithuania, and other little Baltic states whose names are now almost forgotten.’

Box recalled the words of Peter Rosanski, spoken on the previous day, hours before his murder: ‘There is no such place as Poland! It’s a political fiction…. Poland is simply part of Russia, and the so-called “King of Poland” is the Tsar Alexander III. Any other view of the thing is mere romantic fantasy.’

‘Poland was a great power, once,’ Kershaw continued, ‘
instrumental
in driving the Turk away from the gates of Vienna. But that was centuries in the past. Just on a hundred years ago, in 1794, Prussia and Russia divided Poland between them, awarding part of it to Austria, in order to maintain the balance of power. From that moment Poland ceased to exist.’

‘I seem to remember being told at school that Napoleon did something about Poland,’ said Box.

‘He did. In 1807 Napoleon created the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, but that disappeared in 1815. Despite various abortive risings, and much bravery from the Polish remnant, the country suffered from weak and badly trained armies, which made it an
easy candidate for partition. The nation of Poland no longer exists. At the present time, it is merely long-annexed parts of Russia, Prussia, and Austria. A dead land, Box, with no hope of resurrection.’

‘Very interesting, sir,’ said Box. Almost despite himself, he added, ‘Very educational.’ Colonel Kershaw smiled.

‘Yes, Mr Box,’ he said, ‘I expect you’re wondering what all this history has got to be with the business in hand. Well, let me tell you without more ado. I had a man permanently posted in the town of Memel, a place that just manages to cling on to the German shore facing the Eastern Sea. From there, it’s literally five minutes’ walk into Russia.

‘In March this year, this man of mine reported that an elusive group of Polish nationalists had come into being in Warsaw, a group dedicated to the recreation of a Polish kingdom by means of terror and coercion. They had found willing allies in the German city of Danzig, and in other formerly Polish towns in Russia and Austria. My man informed me that this group was assembling a team of seasoned anarchists to launch some kind of assault on an unnamed head of state that would plunge Europe into war—’

‘What would be the good of that, sir? How could a European war benefit the Poles?’

‘Well, you see, Mr Box, the “unnamed head of state” in this context could only be the Tsar, because if the Tsar was to be
assassinated
, and the assassins were seen to be Poles, then the Russians would send a vast punitive expedition to teach its Polish subjects a lesson. But any such massing of Russian troops so near the borders of Germany would send the Kaiser into one of his
panic-rages
, and very soon there would be what are euphemistically called “military exercises” in the region of Breslau and Posen. It would lead to war between Prussia and Russia – do you want me to go on? You’ve heard all this kind of thing before, when you and I were involved in the Hansa Protocol affair and its very dramatic aftermath.’

‘Please go on, sir,’ said Box. ‘You have the gift of what I call the larger vision, and it will do no harm to share part of the vision with me.’

‘Very well. And I appreciate your remarks about my vision, Box. I need at all times to see the many machinations behind the external scene in Europe, and deal with what I see in the only ways that I know. I value you for your objectivity, and your ability to see details that a man of my stamp lacks. But let me continue.

‘I say there would be a war between Russia and Prussia. Now, in 1888, the Grand Duke Nicholas of Russia visited Paris, and began there a process that has led to what they call an
entente
cordiale
, which is, in fact, a military and economic alliance. Last year, 1893, there was a secret military convention between France and Russia, in which each country guaranteed the other’s borders. If Germany were the aggressor, the French guaranteed 1,300,000 troops to rebuff her, and Russia would throw 700,000 men into the field. So you can see, can’t you, what would happen if the Russians sent an aggressive force to the German border as a result of this Polish adventure?’