The Trojan Horse (24 page)

My companion had been talking and I suddenly caught the drift of his conversation. ‘There she is coming up the river now,' he was saying. ‘Perhaps we'll see something interesting after all. It's the first time old Petersen has shipped a boat on board one of his ships. Have you ever seen them loading up with locomotives?' I shook my head. We had climbed the iron ladder to the poop and I was peering past one of the lifeboats to see the sharp bows of a torpedo boat creaming the water brown as she ran smoothly up the centre of the river. ‘It's an extraordinary sight,' he went on. ‘The whole ship cants as the winch gear swings it on board. They shove the locomotives down in the hold. It's specially constructed for that purpose. Then for the rolling stock, rails are run lengthways across the whole of this well deck and the carriages or trucks are lashed to its rails. By Jove! There's someone going down into the hold. There, just below the bridge. See that little iron trapdoor?' I was just in time to see the head and shoulders of one of the crew disappearing below the level of the brief fo'c'sle deck.

At the time I took little notice of this incident, for the torpedo boat was rapidly approaching the
Thirlmere
and it was there my interest lay. The crowd, which had already thinned – out, was lining the bulwarks of the well deck, peering down the river. The torpedo boat came up fast with the tide, swung in a wide circle and nosed up alongside the
Thirlmere
, the propeller creaming the water at her stern as she maintained way against the flow of the tide. Ropes were flung and she was made fast. The engine quietly running had a familiar sound, and I remembered the white-painted
Sea Spray
chugging out from Porthgwarra. It seemed incredible to think that this was the same engine. In place of the white friendly lines of
Sea Spray
was the dull grey menacing hull of this small warship. Over the pointed bows showed the muzzle of a small gun, and on either side of the short mast were multiple anti-aircraft pom-poms. Astern was the depth charge apparatus, and doubtless below the level of the water would be a torpedo tube.

In appearance, the boat was a warship. And as I stood there in the cold sunlight I had a feeling of admiration for the men who had planned this method of removing a secret diesel engine from the country. Looking at that devilish little craft, bristling with armaments, no one would give any attention to its engine. The boat was a Calboyd product and would, of course, be fitted with a Calboyd Dragon engine. Who was there to realise that that engine spelt disaster for one or other of two warring nations! Well, there was myself. And I was helpless. Should I stand up
here on the poop and tell the press that installed in that boat was an engine that revolutionised aero engine production? Should I tell them that the
Thirlmere
was not bound for Finland at all, but for Germany, and that the volunteers were in reality Nazi agents? I could just imagine the laughter that would greet this denunciation, and the good-humoured comments as those same agents marched me ashore. Or there might be angry cries as the crowd denounced me for a communist. No, it was useless. I should achieve nothing that way. The stage had been too well set. Denunciations would only recoil upon the head of the denunciator.

Sailors had now climbed on to the poop and with a clatter the steam winches came to life. Slowly the great steel girder used for lifting locomotives and rolling stock was swung clear of the deck. Cloth-bound rope slings were attached to each end and the girder was swung out over the side of the
Thirlmere
and lowered until it was only a few feet above the boat, whose mast had been lowered.

For a time I became absorbed in the efforts of the crew of the boat to get the slings into position beneath the keel. I think it was the sound of a camera that made me turn. Almost directly behind me, one of the news-cameramen was taking shots of the man operating the steam winch. He was squatting on his heels, his broad back bent over his camera, which was lodged on a bollard. I was just turning away to see how the men on board the torpedo boat had progressed with their task, when he rose to his feet.
Something about his figure made me hesitate. Then, as he picked up his camera and turned to find a new vantage point, I knew who he was.

‘David!' I exclaimed.

He started and then stared at me as though I were a ghost. For a moment both of us were too surprised to speak. ‘Good God!' he said. ‘It really is you, isn't it?'

‘It certainly is,' I replied. ‘What are you doing here? And what's the news, David? Where's Freya? There's a whole heap of questions I want to ask you.'

‘And there's a whole heap I want to ask you,' he said. His eyes glanced furtively in the direction of the bridge. ‘I'm going to take a few shots from the stern,' he added, bending to adjust the mechanism of his camera. ‘If the coast is clear, drop down and have a few words in a minute. They're keeping an eye on me.'

I turned back and resumed my interest in the settling of the slings under the torpedo boat. They had managed to get the for'ard sling in position now. But I barely took in the scene below. My whole mind was concentrated on the fact of David's presence. I heard him climb down the ladder on to the after deck. I glanced towards the bridge and caught my breath. Sedel was standing on the fo'c'sle. He was by himself and he seemed to be staring straight at me. I looked down again at the figures moving in the boat below. Had Sedel seen us talking? Was David really a suspect, and if so, why was the fool on board the
Thirlmere
at all? These and many other questions raced through
my mind, and I was conscious all the time of my companion's curiosity. But he had the self-control not to ask questions.

A seaman on the after deck suddenly raised his hand and the steam winches broke into clattering activity. The torpedo boat, now slung firmly below the girder, rose slowly from the water. Soon its decks were level with the poop on which we were standing and I could see its keel, with the water dripping from it. I glanced for'ard. Sedel had disappeared. Everyone's attention seemed riveted on the torpedo boat. I climbed down on to the after deck and joined David, who was taking shots of the boat's stern as it rose above the deck level.

He did not pause in his work or look up. ‘Thank God you're all right, Andrew,' he said. ‘When I saw that story in the evening papers yesterday I thought they must have got you.'

‘So they did,' I said. ‘But I escaped.'

‘Well, they're after me, too,' he said. ‘That's why you mustn't be seen talking to me. I've been under observation ever since I came on board.'

‘Then why the devil did you come?'

‘I wanted to find out what had happened to Freya. And I'm going to find out before I leave this ship, if I have to break every bone in Marburg's great carcass.'

‘Freya,' I cried, with a sudden horrible fear. ‘They haven't got Freya, have they?'

‘Afraid so,' he said laconically.

I was on the point of cursing him. But he seemed to sense my condemnation, for he said, ‘I'm sorry,
Andrew. I ought to have been more careful. I think they trailed me down from Calboyds. I arrived back at Guildford Street about nine yesterday morning with a pretty hot story, to find Freya in a terrible state of emotional turmoil. You were missing, and she had discovered her father was still alive. There had been a message for Olwyn in the personal column of the
Daily Telegraph
that morning. He had suggested a meeting place in Billingsgate, of all places, and we had just time to make the appointment. Yes, it was genuine, all right. I've never seen two people so overjoyed at seeing each other again. Freya told the old boy about your disappearance. He was very upset. He gave us the low-down on the whole thing then. Do you realise who is behind this business, Andrew?'

‘For goodness' sake come to the point, David,' I said. ‘What's happened to Freya?'

‘But this is the point, old boy. The man behind this business is Baron Marburg, the banker.'

‘I know that,' I said, losing my patience. ‘This munitions for Finland story is a ramp and there, in that boat, is Schmidt's precious engine. But what's happened to Freya?'

‘I'm sorry, Andrew.' He was apologetic. ‘I don't know. We left old Schmidt in Fish Street shortly after eleven yesterday morning. I left Freya to pick up an “18” bus and took the District to Westminster. That's the last I saw of her. She never reached Guildford Street.'

‘And you went to see your godfather?'

‘Correct. And the old boy listened open-mouthed.'

‘And pigeon-holed your story as soon as the door was closed?'

David hesitated. ‘No, I don't think so. He certainly didn't believe me when I brought Marburg's name into it. Schmidt could give no very convincing evidence. But I think he believed what I told him about Calboyds and about the stealing of the engine, and I fancy he'll try to do something. But I'm afraid he found my accusations about the
Thirlmere
business as difficult to swallow as those about Marburg.'

‘But you don't think anything will be done in time?' I said.

‘Afraid not. At best they'll be slow to reach a decision. But the other side is getting rattled. They've advanced the sailing schedule by twenty-four hours, and Marburg himself has suddenly decided to sail with the ship.'

‘And you come galloping like Saint George right into the dragon's mouth,' I said. ‘Man, what dam'-fool game are you playing? Are you aiming to try and blow the ship up, or what?'

‘No – to rescue Freya,' was the reply.

My heart leapt. ‘Is she on board?'

‘Yes, she was brought on board in a tank in the early hours of the morning.'

‘In a tank!' I exploded. ‘Why in a tank?'

‘Well, it's unobtrusive, isn't it? One of the tanks was driven on board by a volunteer and she was inside it.'

‘But how do you know?'

‘Her father told me. He's got a berth as something
in the galley. Knows a Jewish export firm that has a pull with the captain. That's an incredible little man, Andrew. He looks so shabby and nondescript, until you meet his eyes. Where do you think he went to earth? At the Calboyd Power Boat yard at Tilbury. Got a job as a fitter.'

‘But why didn't he come and see me on the Monday?' I asked.

‘The chase was getting too hot. He had no more information to give you, and he thought that if he disappeared, you'd be more inclined to treat the matter seriously and do what you could. He didn't know, of course, that most of the information had been pinched from us. Another thing, he thought that sooner or later the
Sea Spray
would be discovered at Porthgwarra, and he guessed they'd bring it up to the Calboyd works. When that happened, he wanted to be on the spot, in order either to destroy it, or get it away. Do you know he nearly succeeded? The night after it arrived, he started a fire in a corner of the works. The police guard on the
Sea Spray
came ashore and he went aboard. As soon as he had started down the river, Sedel's men were after him in a power boat. Unfortunately, he knew nothing about the special valve Freya had put in, and he couldn't open the engine out. He hadn't a chance, so he ran her full tilt into a pier and sank her. He only just managed …' David's eyes suddenly became riveted on the far side of the poop. ‘We're being watched,' he whispered.

I glanced round. One of the volunteers was coming down on to the after deck. I became interested
in the lowering of the torpedo boat amidships and climbed back over the poop. David had given me plenty to think about. And the focus of all my thoughts was Freya. Why had she been captured? And why had she been brought aboard the
Thirlmere?
Did they want her as a hostage? Or – and then I knew the reason. She was the bait. They were taking his engine to Germany. But what was the good of that if the man who knew the formula of the special alloy and who had designed it was still in England? Not only had they got Schmidt on board, whether they knew it or not, but they had got the only other two people who could really testify that an engine of outstanding performance had passed into German hands. I paused in the midst of clambering over the maze of winch machinery. My journalist friend was no longer standing against the deck rail of the poop. And down on the well deck the crowd was gathered about the torpedo boat which was being lowered on to its cradle. I was just on the point of descending to the well deck, when I heard a dull thud behind me from the after deck. Almost simultaneously there was a low cry, and this was followed by the sound of metal striking metal. I was very close to the deck rail here and instinctively I leaned over the side, thinking someone might have fallen overboard. I was just in time to see what looked like a square bright lump of metal fall into the water with a splash. The ripples were already beginning to fade before I realised that what I had seen fall into the water was a news-camera.

In an instant I had leapt across the huddle of
machinery and was staring down at an empty after deck.

David was nowhere to be seen. I had no illusions as to what had happened. I remembered the volunteer who had been hovering on the starboard side of the fo'c'sle. Doubtless he had been waiting his chance.

Then I became conscious of shouts from the neighbouring dock, and I could have laughed. The agent had bided his time and when David had actually been knocked out, there had been no one on the after deck and the man had doubtless thought, with some reason, that anyone overlooking the ship from the other side of the Thames would not notice the blow even if they did see a man collapse. But he had forgotten Alf Higgins sitting quietly with his missis on the Percivale Banana Wharf. The old man had advanced to the barrier dividing the two docks and was calling for the police and yelling at the top of his voice that a man had been assaulted on the after deck.