Graham Greene (13 page)

He is a most original character. He is sixty-five years old, very alert, spick and span, very well-dressed, always has a flower in his buttonhole, has been very fond of women and is still able to please them, and adores intrigue, adventure, and nosing about. In 1891 he was pointed out, or rather handed over, to us by the Prefect of Police, Lozé, who recognised his astonishing skill in worming his way into the most varied environments and eliciting information; for the rest, he is a decent enough chap. Nisard and I always refer to him as “Casanova” or “M. de Seingalt”. He was in good form today, because he had had good hunting in a certain Roman
palazzo.

MAURICE PALEOLOGUE

ond unfastened his seat-belt and lit a cigarette. He reached for the slim, expensive-looking attaché case on the floor beside him and took out
The Mask of Dimitrios
by Eric Ambler, and put the case, which was very heavy in spite of its size, on the seat beside him …

Q Branch had put together this smart-looking little bag, ripping out the careful handiwork of Swaine and Adeney to pack fifty rounds of .25 ammunition, in two flat rows, between the leather and the lining of the spine. In each of the innocent sides there was a flat throwing knife, built by Wilkinsons, the sword makers, and the tops of their handles were concealed cleverly by the stitching at the corners. Despite Bond's efforts to laugh them out of it, Q's craftsmen had insisted on building a hidden compartment into the handle of the case, which, by pressure at a certain point, would deliver a cyanide death-pill into the palm of his hand … More important was the thick tube of Palmolive shaving cream in the otherwise guileless sponge bag. The whole top of this unscrewed to reveal the silencer for the Beretta, packed in cotton wool. In case hard cash was needed, the lid of the attaché case contained fifty golden sovereigns. These could be poured out by slipping sideways one ridge of welting.

IAN FLEMING

•

Whenever I was on missions abroad I was under standing orders to have an artificial tooth inserted which contained enough poison to kill me within thirty seconds if I were captured by an enemy. To make doubly sure, I wore a signet-ring in which, under a large blue stone, a gold capsule was hidden containing cyanide.

WALTER SCHELLENBERG,

HEAD OF THE FOREIGN DEPARTMENT OF THE GERMAN
SECRET SERVICE

Scene:
The private sitting-room of the Wave Crest Hotel, on the South Coast, September 1914.

Fräulein:
Accident, or no accident, I like not the way that things are going. You have a telegram from Carl. What says he of tonight?

Mrs Sanderson:
The troops are coming through. The emergency signal must be given.

Fräulein:
At what hour?

Mrs Sanderson:
It must be plainly seen at the first hour of the morning.

Fritz:
De house?—it purns tonighd?

Mrs Sanderson:
Yes.

Fritz:
Oh, dat ees fine! Seex fat English pigs roast in deir peds!—Undt de spy—how he vill crackle! (
He snaps his fingers illustratively.
)

Mrs Sanderson:
No, no, Fritz, don't! (She
shudders and turns aside to the fireplace.
) Oh, it's too horrible! Is there no other signal we can give?

Fräulein:
None. It is necessary for our safety and for the success of our plans that nobody but those to whom we send it shall ever guess the signal is a signal. It must be natural—and what more natural than that a house catch fire? It happens every day in every place. It is simple; it is sure; it is safe.

Mrs Sanderson:
But, surely, there is some warning we can give the others?

Fräulein:
After what has happened? It would be madness! Why should you mind? They are your enemies. And—think!—if this signal should miscarry it is the sons of the Fatherland will suffer.

Mrs Sanderson:
Yes, you're quite right. The cause demands it.
She
pulls herself together and turns to
FRITZ
.) Where is the petrol stored?

Fritz:
In de shmall, empdy room.

Mrs Sanderson
(to
FRITZ
): Mr Carl will give you his orders. Do nothing until you have heard from him. (She
turns to
FRÄULEIN SCHROEDER
.) You have packed, Luise?

Fräulein:
Everything. After twenty long years of exile, I return to my own land. (She
draws her handkerchief from her belt, and dabs at her eyes.
) It is too good—too good!

Mrs Sanderson:
What about your drawings?

Fräulein:
They are here. (She
takes them from her bag, and gives them to
FRITZ
.) I have addressed them. They are all ready. You will post them.

(
FRITZ
takes the letter, slips it into his pocket, and moves up to the door.
)

Mrs Sanderson:
You are sending them to London?

Fräulein:
To our good friend, Mr Smith. From him they go to Holland, and from Holland to Berlin. It is so simple. (
She presses her hand to her forehead.
) I think I go now to rest until the dinner hour.

LECHMERE WORRALL AND J. E. HAROLD TERRY

ewitt was very apt in conversation to dwell upon the many curious chances and coincidences that he had observed, not only in connection with his own cases, but also in matters dealt with by the official police, with whom he was on terms of pretty regular and, indeed, friendly acquaintanceship. He has told me many an anecdote of singular happenings to Scotland Yard officials with whom he has exchanged experiences. Of Inspector Nettings, for instance, who spent many weary months in a search for a man wanted by the American Government, and in the end found, by the merest accident (a misdirected call), that the man had been lodging next door to himself the whole of the time; just as ignorant, of course, as was the inspector himself as to the enemy at the other side of the party-wall. Many criminals had met their deserts by venturing out of their own particular line of crime into another: often a man who got into trouble over something comparatively small, found himself in for a startlingly larger trouble, the result of some previous misdeed that otherwise would have gone unpunished. The rouble note-forger, Mirsky, might never have been handed over to the Russian authorities had he confined his genius to forgery alone. It was generally supposed at the time of his extradition that he had communicated with the Russian Embassy with a view to giving himself up—a foolish proceeding on his part, it would seem, since his whereabouts, indeed, even his identity as the forger, had not been suspected. He
had
communicated with the Russian Embassy, it is true, but for quite a different purpose, as Martin Hewitt well understood at the time. What the purpose was is now for the first time published.

The time was half-past one in the afternoon, and Hewitt sat in his inner office examining and comparing the handwriting of two letters by the aid of a large lens. He put down the lens and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece with a premonition of lunch; and as he did so his clerk quietly entered the room with one of those printed slips which were kept for the announcement of unknown visitors.

It was filled up in a hasty and almost illegible hand thus:

“Show Mr Dixon in,” said Martin Hewitt.

Mr Dixon was a gaunt, worn-looking man of fifty or so, well although rather carelessly dressed, and carrying in his strong though drawn face and dullish eyes the look that characterises the life-long strenuous brain-worker. He leaned forward anxiously in the chair which Hewitt offered him, and told his story with a great deal of very natural agitation.

“You may possibly have heard, Mr Hewitt—I know there are rumours—of the new locomotive torpedo which the Government is thinking about adopting; it is, in fact, the Dixon torpedo, my own invention; and in every respect—not merely in my own opinion, but in that of the Government experts—by far the most efficient and certain yet produced. It will travel at least four hundred yards farther than any torpedo now made, with perfect accuracy of aim (a very great desideratum, let me tell you), and will carry an unprecedentedly heavy charge. There are other advantages—speed, simple discharge, and so forth—that I needn't bother you about. The machine is the outcome of many years of work and disappointment, and its design has only been arrived at by a careful balancing of principles and
means, which are expressed on the only four existing sets of drawings. The whole thing, I need hardly tell you, is a profound secret, and you may judge of my present state of mind when I tell you that one set of drawings has been stolen.”

“From your house?”

“From my office, in Chancery Lane, this morning. The four sets of drawings were distributed thus: two were at the Admiralty Office, one being a finished set on thick paper, and the other a set of tracings therefrom; and the other two were at my own office, one being a pencilled set, uncoloured—a sort of finished draft, you understand—and the other a set of tracings similar to those at the Admiralty. It is this last set that has gone. The two sets were kept together in one drawer in my room. Both were there at ten this morning, of that I am sure, for I had to go to that very drawer for something else, when I first arrived. But at twelve the tracings had vanished.”

“You suspect somebody, probably?”

“I cannot. It is a most extraordinary thing. Nobody has left the office (except myself, and then only to come to you) since ten this morning, and there has been no visitor. And yet the drawings are gone!”

“But have you searched the place?”

“Of course I have. It was twelve o'clock when I first discovered my loss, and I have been turning the place upside down ever since—I and my assistants. Every drawer has been emptied, every desk and table turned over, the very carpet and linoleum have been taken up, but there is not a sign of the drawings. My men even insisted on turning all their pockets inside out, although I never for a moment suspected either of them, and it would take a pretty big pocket to hold the drawings, doubled up as small as they might be.”

“You say your men—there are two, I understand—had neither left the office?”

“Neither; and they are both staying in now. Worsfold suggested that it would be more satisfactory if they did not leave till something was done towards clearing the mystery up, and although, as I have said, I don't suspect either in the least, I acquiesced.”

“Just so. Now—I am assuming that you wish me to undertake the recovery of these drawings?”

The engineer nodded hastily.

“Very good; I will go round to your office. But first perhaps you can tell me something about your assistants; something it might be awkward to tell me in their presence, you know. Mr Worsfold, for instance?”

“He is my draughtsman—a very excellent and intelligent man, a very smart man indeed, and, I feel sure, quite beyond suspicion. He has prepared many important drawings for me (he has been with me nearly ten years now), and I have always found him trustworthy. But, of course, the temptation in this case would be enormous. Still, I cannot suspect Worsfold. Indeed, how can I suspect anybody in the circumstances?”

“The other, now?”

“His name's Ritter. He is merely a tracer, not a fully skilled draughtsman. He is quite a decent young fellow, and I have had him two years. I don't consider him particularly smart, or he would have learned a little more of his business by this time. But I don't see the least reason to suspect him. As I said before, I can't reasonably suspect anybody.”