The Trojan Horse (21 page)

There it was in a banner head right across the front page. MYSTERY OF FAMOUS K.C. – ANDREW KILMARTIN KILLED IN CAR SMASH – IMPOSTER RINGS UP YARD. That final head explained Crisham's attitude and the arrival of the squad car so clearly. I glanced quickly through the story. Apparently the wreckage of a car had been discovered at a lonely part of the coast near Bude called Strangler's Beach. The car had been hired at Launceston late on Thursday and had been discovered by a shepherd on the Friday at the foot of a four-hundred-foot
cliff. The body had been identified that morning as mine.

The subtlety of it was terrifying. As the story pointed out, I had left my rooms in the Temple on Tuesday for a short holiday in the West Country. My normal haunts had not seen me since. And then at the bottom of the page was a cross head – MYSTERY OF YARD PHONE CALLS. Doubtless Sedel, with his knowledge of Fleet Street, had provided that part of the story.

It had all been planned prior to their picking me up at the Wendover. But even now that I had escaped, their plans stood them in good stead. I dared not go to the police, for by the time I had proved my identity, the engine might have left the country. And even if I went straight to Crisham or to the Chief Commissioner, whom I knew slightly, and showed them, by my knowledge of what had passed at certain private conversations I had had with them, that I was not an imposter, would they believe what I had to say about Marburg, or even what I could tell them about Calboyds? They might believe my story of the sewers, but for the rest, they would shake their heads and say that the experience had upset me and that what I needed was a rest. That statement I had signed the previous night had done its work. The suggestion of mental derangement had been sown. And that seed would still be there, even when Crisham knew that it was not an imposter who had phoned him. Whatever I did, I faced a blank wall, because of the time factor. According to Sedel, the engine was due to leave in
three days' time now. That meant Monday. Two days in which first to prove my identity and then to prove that one of the biggest banking figures in the country was a Nazi.

The impossibility of it swept over me, and suddenly I knew how deadly tired I was. I peered back across the cobbled roadway. The police car was still there and behind it loomed the grey, imposing bulk of the Tower. Presumably they were making inquiries. I turned at right angles and hurried down Royal Mint Street. Exhaustion made that hunted sensation strong in me, and almost in a daze I made my way back, through the squalid streets that skirt the docks, to Alf's Dining Rooms. I had no plan. All I knew was that I must get some rest. They had thought me a criminal and had helped me. I felt I should be safe with them.

It was half-past six when I dragged myself wearily into the eating-house. It was almost dark. One or two customers were seated at the tables, eating. They glanced up at my entrance, but without curiosity. I saw them in a kind of haze. I was suddenly very near collapse. The girl, with her hair tidied and a clean apron, was serving. I went through into the kitchen. Neither the old man nor his wife showed any sign of surprise at my return. And when I asked if they had a room to spare, where I could rest the night, the old woman took me upstairs to a little room with an iron bedstead and a lace-trimmed window that looked out across a huddle of chimney pots to the river. She placed a board of three-ply over the window before switching on the light.

I don't remember taking off my clothes or removing the board from the window. All I remember is the momentary joy of the cold sheets against my tired body and the restfulness of a bed.

And then daylight was flooding in through the window and there was the sound of movement in the house. I climbed out of bed. The events of the previous day seemed like a nightmare. But the stiffness of my joints bore witness to their reality. And then I saw the sun was high over the river and I looked at my watch. It was eleven-thirty. I remembered then how much I had to do.

I washed myself quickly in cold water and hurried into my clothes. Down in the kitchen I found the old woman just beginning the day's cooking. It was Sunday and the joint was standing floured upon the table. Her husband was sitting by the fire, his feet in a pair of old carpet slippers and a dirty clay pipe in his mouth. He was reading the
News of the Globe
. He looked up as I came in, peering at me over the top of a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. But he made no comment, so I said, ‘You should have woken me up.'

But the old woman smiled and shook her head. ‘A nice lie in is what yer needed,' she said.

‘That's right,' the old man nodded. ‘A nice lie in. That's wot I tells the missis.'

The old woman put the joint in the oven and then set about getting my breakfast. And all the time the old man was reading out scraps of news from the paper. I sat by the fire and tried to think out my next
move. The events of the past two days seemed strangely remote. But I knew that I had made progress. I had discovered that Max Sedel was a Nazi agent, and that he had a number of agents working under him. I had discovered that he was closely connected with the dummy Calboyd shareholders, who controlled, presumably through the directors nominated by them, the policy of Calboyds. I was reasonably certain that he had murdered one of these shareholders. Above all, I had found out who controlled these dummy shareholders. But had I? I had been so certain about it when in that vault. But now I was not certain. It seemed so utterly fantastic. True, Sedel had not denied it. In fact, he had said, ‘So you know all our little secrets.' But then he might have been just leading me on. And if I myself were not certain, then how could I expect to convince the authorities. It seemed so absurd that a man like Marburg should be a traitor to the country of his adoption. What had he to gain out of it? I had suggested to myself power. And, as a capitalist, why should the man work for the downfall of England, which was the stronghold of capitalism?

Then my breakfast was brought to me and for a while I forgot my problems in the joys of bacon and eggs. But when I had taken the edge off my appetite, my mind returned to the problem. Now that I was fed, my mind seemed more inclined to deal with realities. I found myself dismissing the problem of Marburg and concentrating on the question of the engine. Marburg could wait. The engine could not. But though I
racked my brains till my head ached, I could not see how I was to prevent it from leaving the country. Quite apart from the time I should inevitably waste in convincing some responsible person of my identity, I did not know where the engine was or how they intended to smuggle it out of the country.

And then there occurred one of those incredible strokes of luck that made life so incomprehensible. My mind, browsing over my problems, occasionally caught isolated scraps of the news that the old man was reading out to his wife. And suddenly my mind fastened on the name of Marburg. I looked up from my bread and marmalade. ‘What did you say?' I asked.

‘Eh?' The old man looked quite startled, for it was the first word I had uttered since I had been given my breakfast, and I had spoken somewhat peremptorily.

‘What was that bit you were reading out about Marburg?' I asked.

‘D'yer mean this about the bankers sending a boat-load of munitions to Finland? A feller called Marburg organised it, so the paper says. They're 'olding a service on board this afternoon. There you are. Read it for yourself.' And he handed me a page of the paper.

I seized it and spread it out on the table beside my plate. A sudden wild hope made the blood beat in my temples. I found the story. It was headed – BANKER SENDS MUNITIONS TO FINLAND. My eye ran rapidly down the column. The fight for democracy … Moral obligation to help … Service of
dedication to be held at 3 p.m. this afternoon on board the
Thirlmere
, which is lying at the Wilson's Wren Wharf … Baron Ferdinand Marburg, who raised the fund, will be present at the simple little ceremony. Many bankers and industrialists who subscribed will also be present… Finland's gratitude for this generous gesture was expressed yesterday by … The precious cargo is valued at close on £100,000.' Ah, here it was! ‘The cargo consists of 25 of the latest British fighter planes … tanks … hand-grenades … anti-tank guns … and—' So I had been right! ‘And one of the latest Calboyd naval torpedo craft as supplied to the Royal Navy.'

I sat back in my chair. The audacity of the scheme took my breath away. I could not but feel admiration for the fellow. It was so perfect. Elementary, of course. It was one of the first things I had been taught when I went into the Intelligence over twenty-five years ago. A clever agent always puts himself in the most obvious place. But there are ways and ways of carrying out that fundamental precept. Marburg chose to do it in the grand manner. And for the first time since I left the Wendover Hotel in a deed-box, I felt elated. Sedel I knew for a secret agent who would stop at nothing. To me he was a rat whom I would avoid like the plague. I hate brute force. I always have done. Probably because as a barrister my weapon has always been my brain. Marburg I could understand. He fought with my weapons. And I could have laughed with the sheer excitement of it.

It may seem strange that I no longer had any
doubts about Marburg. But that column was like a sign from heaven. The whole thing fitted too well. What a way to take an engine out of the country! Put it in a torpedo boat and ship it out of the country, together with a stack of other munitions for Finland, with the Government's blessing, a dedication service and – I glanced down the column again. Yes, there it was. ‘The
Thirlmere
will have a British naval escort as far as Norwegian territorial waters.' Perfect! And all those lovely munitions, paid for by Britain's bankers and industrialists – where were they bound for?

In my mind's eye I saw the British naval escort of two destroyers, perhaps, swing in a wide arc as they turned for home. And the
Thirlmere
, instead of keeping inside territorial waters, would turn away to the south as soon as they were out of sight. And then over the horizon would come German warships. Not only would Marburg be delivering to Germany an engine that would give her superiority in the air, but with it, as a kind of garnish, a shipload of munitions.

And what the devil was I to do about it? The thought had a dampening effect on my spirits. Somehow the
Thirlmere
had to be prevented from reaching Germany. But how?

I turned to the old man, who was now reading the history of a divorce case to his wife. ‘I'd like to attend this service,' I said, interrupting him. ‘But I suppose the wharf will be closed to the public?'

He took off his glasses and peered at me out of his pale blue eyes. ‘Well, wot d'yer think? D'yer expect them to invite every bloody communist in the East
End to their little do? Anyway, there's plenty more places in the world besides Finland. Wot yer want to do – volunteer? Bloody poor look out, if yer ask me. So don't say Alf 'Iggins didn't warn yer. Russia's all right looked at from a distance. But you keep yer distance, me lad. That's wot I says.'

‘I wasn't aiming to go to Finland,' I said. ‘Though, come to think of it, it is an idea. No, I just thought it'd be a pleasant way of spending Sunday afternoon, that's all.'

‘Wot, listening to a service?'

‘Well, there'd be some interesting people there. And it's not every day you see a shipload of munitions dedicated to the service of God on the banks of the Thames.'

‘Yer right there. But then money does strange things, me lad. Reckon a banker can get most things dedicated to God if that's the way 'e wants it.' Then suddenly he leaned a little forward. ‘Who d'yer want to win – Finland or Russia?' he demanded.

I looked at him sharply, wondering what he was getting at. ‘I hope the Finns manage to hold out,' I replied. ‘I don't expect them to win.'

At that he snorted. ‘So, you're not a Red. I might have known it. Nobody interesting ever comes round this blasted street – just sailors and petty thieves and fellers who fall in the river.' This last with a sidelong glance at me. Then he turned to his wife. ‘And I was just beginning to think, Ma, that 'e aimed to blow this 'ere ship up, dedication and all.'

‘Blow her up,' I said, half to myself. That wasn't
at all a bad idea. She was carrying hand grenades. If I could stow away on board or something and get at those hand grenades. It would be a quick death. ‘Yes,' I said aloud, ‘I'd like to fight for Finland. I'd like to get on to the
Thirlmere.'

‘Then you must be a bleeding fool,' the old man snapped. ‘D'yer want to go and sign yer death warrant just to get out of the country? God Almighty! Don't yer know there are ways of lying low?'

‘Oh, I know,' I said. ‘Still, I'd like a bit of a change and some excitement. Anyway, I'd like to have a look at the
Thirlmere
while this ceremony is on. I suppose you don't happen to know of any way I could get on to Wilson's Wren Wharf?'

‘Wilson's Wren Wharf, is it?' He peered at me again. ‘Wot's it worth to you?'

I hesitated. I had under a pound left. ‘Five bob,' I said. ‘I'd make it more, only I'm getting a bit short.'

‘That's orl right. Why should you worry because it's only five bob. Five bob is five bob, ain't it. I wouldn't take yer money, only it means rowing yer across the river, and that's hard work for a Sunday. Wot d'you say, Ma – shall we go across the river and 'ave a dekko? The missis likes a little trip on the river after the Sunday joint, when it's a fine day like it is now, don't ye, Ma?' The old woman nodded, but said nothing.

‘But how do we get on to the wharf?' I asked.

‘We don't,' was the reply. ‘Wilson's Wren Wharf is down in the Lower Pool. Next to it is the Percivale Banana Company's Wharf. It's closed now, but Bill
Fevvers, wot looks after it for 'em, 'e's a chum of mine.'