i 16b0d473103b6aa5 (38 page)

strolled past the cars towards the river. Before he passed under the arch he cocked his eye up at

the evening sky.

“Sea captain,” said Hambledon, “looking at the weather.”

“Sea captain or not,” said Reck, “he’s the living image of you.”

“Nonsense. My face has its drawbacks, but not warts on its nose.”

“I meant, in build and general appearance.”

“I am not unique,” admitted Tommy modestly.

A woman came down the street closely followed by a man. Husband or lover,

presumably, for when she looked at Hambledon in passing, the man glowered. They went under

the archway and disappeared, but the neat grey man returned. He stopped near the cars and

brought a cigar out of his pocket, pinched it, smelt it, cut the end off with a knife, stuck the cigar

in his mouth and finally lit it. He took one or two puffs at it which appeared to please him, and

strolled past.

He was just approaching the tavern door when there came a change in the tone of the

sounds which floated from the half-open door, and he stopped to listen. Instead of song there was

shouting, instead of merriment, anger. Hambledon straightened up and began to run towards the

door, and at that moment two shots rang out.

Instantly the doors burst open and a gush of customers poured into the street. The

Mercedes driver awoke, started up his engine, and kept on tapping the accelerator, producing a

rhythmic series of roars. Hambledon leapt at the car and threw the doors open just in time for the

Commission to fling themselves into it.

“You are a fool, Andreas,” said one angrily.

“I thought all Danzigers were good Germans,” said Andreas in a pained voice, while

another voice from the doorway told them what sort of Germans they were. The adjective used

was not “good.”

Hambledon slammed the doors and shouted, “Drive on!” The car moved off and was

rapidly gathering speed when there came a fresh rush of men from the tavern and one of them

fired several parting shots after the car. Several of them hit, for the impact was audible, but one

at least missed, for the elderly man in the grey suit, who was hurrying away, suddenly threw up

his arms as though he were going to dive, and fell headlong in the road in front of the car. The

driver had no chance to avoid him and perhaps did not even see him; the heavy Mercedes ran

right over him, shot up the road, round the corner and out of sight.

“Now they have killed somebody,” said Hambledon in an exasperated tone. “There’ll be

trouble over this.”

He looked round for Reck and saw him emerging from the doorway in which he had

prudently taken cover, for he was not one of Nature’s warriors. The other people in the street

melted away so quickly that it seemed some of them must just have vanished where they stood;

already the tavern lights were out, blinds drawn and doors locked. In an incredibly short time the

Heilige-Geist Strasse was deserted except for Hambledon and his car, Reck, and the neat grey

man, who was a great deal greyer and not nearly so neat.

Hambledon observed with surprise that Reck, instead of hurrying to the car, was bending

over the body in the road. Tommy, supposing him to be animated by purely humanitarian

motives, did not call to him, but started the car and drove it to the spot where the man lay.

“Come on,” said Hambledon, after one glance at the victim of malice and accident, “you

can’t do anything to help him.”

“Quick,” said Reck in peremptory tones, “get him in the back of the car. Come on, lend a

hand.”

“What the devil—” said the surprised Hambledon.

“Don’t argue, help me!”

Hambledon slid out of the car, opened the rear door and helped Reck to hoist the body

into the back. “Though why on earth you want to saddle us with a corpse just when—”

“Don’t argue,” repeated Reck, slamming the door. “Get in and drive like blazes!”

Hambledon obeyed, very astonished at himself for doing so, and it was not until they

were several streets away that he said, “May I know what all this is about?”

“Certainly. That poor thing in the back is you.”

“But he’s not in the least like me in the face.”

“Face! Did you notice his face?”

“No,” said Hambledon. “I thought you’d put something over it—a rag of some kind.”

“No. There was nothing over it.”

“Oh,” said Hambledon, and shivered.

“You see, the Mercedes—”

“That’ll do, thank you. What were you thinking of doing with him?”

“Driving the car to some quiet spot and leaving him there to be found. Then we can go

away and live happily ever after, because even German Intelligence won’t look for you when

they’ve buried you with full honours and an oration by the Führer.”

Hambledon slowed the car on purpose to look at Reck. “I hand it to you,” he said

admiringly, “on a gold plate edged with rosebuds.” He thought it over for a moment. “But this

means I shall have to change clothes with him.”

“It does,” said Reck firmly.

“Oh, Lor’. Well, the Department will damn well have to pay me twenty years’ arrears

after that. I shall have earned ’em.”

“Do you know of a good place to go?”

“I only know the Zoppot road. It runs through forests, I should think we could find a

track turning off it somewhere.”

“No marks on his underclothes,” said Reck after investigation. “That saves your changing

those too.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Hambledon, “for I shouldn’t have put them on in any case. It only

saves you picking the marks off. Mind, that’s the wrong leg. You’ll have his trousers on back

before.”

“Why the hell do we have so many buttons? Heave him up while I fix his braces.”

“Collar and tie. Hang it, Reck, how do you knot a tie on somebody else? It’s all wrong

way round, besides—Oh, damn. I shall have to wash again now.”

“Hot night, isn’t it?” said Reck, who had perspiration running down his face. “Waistcoat.

A trifle loose, he didn’t live so well as you, evidently. Tighten that strap at the back a little.

That’s it. Now your watch in his pocket.”

“I liked that watch,” said Tommy plaintively, but it had to go.

“Now his coat. No, it’s not so simple as all that, his sleeves will ride up if we aren’t

careful. Here’s a bit of string, tie his cuff-links to his thumbs, and don’t forget to remove the

string afterwards and twist the cuffs round.”

“I would give the whole of that twenty years’ arrears,” said Hambledon violently, “for a

tumblerful of John Haig—neat.”

The ship was ten hours out from Danzig, bound for Cardiff with a cargo of sugar, when

one of the firemen thought he heard voices in the coal bunker. He picked up a firebar and went to

investigate.

“‘Ere, you! Cummon outer that.”

They came, slithering down the coal, blinking from the long darkness, cramped for want

of movement, and inconceivably grimy.

“ ‘Ere! Look what I’ve found.”

“Stowaways,” said the second engineer. “Hoo mony o’ ye are there?”

“Two,” said Hambledon with dignity. “I want to see the Captain at once.”

“Ye’ve no need to fret yourselves, ye’ll see the Captain quick and lively, but whether

ye’ll enjoy the interview is another pair o’ breeks a’thegither. Come on, now, get a move on.

What the deevil ye mean stowin’ away aboard this ship—”

“Who the devil are you?” asked the Captain.

“Thomas Hambledon and Alfred Reck. Can I speak to you in private?”

“No, you filthy blasted skulking scarecrows! How dare you stow away aboard my ship?”

“Because we had to. I am sorry, Captain, but there was no alternative. The passage will

be paid as soon as we arrive in England. I must speak to you in private.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Yes, you’ll pay for the trip all right-in work. Lucky for

you I’m two men short. Take these men for’ard—”

Hambledon took a quick step forward and leaned over the Captain’s desk. “Look here,”

he said, in a tone inaudible to the men clustered round the door, “we are British Intelligence

agents on the run, and I must send a wireless message instantly.”

“Wireless message my—”

“Don’t be a fool, man. You’ll soon know when you get the answer. The message is to the

Foreign Office.”

The tone of habitual authority was unmistakable, and the Captain paused.

“The matter is urgent,” added Hambledon coldly.

“Very well,” said the Captain. “You shall send your message, but if there’s any hanky-

panky about it the Lord help you, for you’ll need it. Come with me.”

In the wireless room Hambledon asked for a sheet of paper and wrote down a message,

briefly informing the Department that he and Reck were on board the—”What ship is this?”

“The
Whistlefield Star
.”

“Bound for?”

“Cardiff.”

“Do you put in anywhere between here and Cardiff?”

“No.”

On board the
Whistlefield Star
bound for Cardiff, and request instructions.

“Code that, will you, Reck?”

“Let me see it first,” said the Captain, and read aloud, “Hambledon to Foreign Office,

London.” The rest of the message he kept to himself.

“You may send it.”

“Carry on, Reck.”

Reck settled down to write a string of letters, with pauses for thought, occasionally

counting upon his fingers. Hambledon found the Danziger’s cigars in his pocket, pulled them

out, saw they were hopelessly crushed, and threw them in the wastepaper basket. He then walked

restlessly up and down the cabin, the Captain sat in a chair and stared at the calendar on the wall,

the wireless operator looked from one to the other, and no one spoke out of deference to Reck’s

mental labours. The wireless operator was a stocky man, with a freckled face and red hair turning

grey. He had been aboard the
Whistlefield Star
for a number of years and had served in

destroyers during the first Great War.

Presently Hambledon in his prowling came opposite to a small piece of mirror fixed to

the bulkhead, glanced at his reflection and said, “Good Lord.”

“What’s the matter?” asked the Captain.

“I had no idea I looked like that. No wonder you didn’t believe me. Dammit, I look like a

nigger minstrel on Margate sands.”

The Captain unbent enough to smile, and said, “You’ll be glad of a wash, no doubt.

Won’t you sit down?”

“No, thanks,” said Hambledon absently, and went on walking up and down, thinking.

Dear old Ludmilla in Switzerland, must let her know as soon as he could or she’d grieve

horribly. Perhaps they wouldn’t find the car for some days; it was well hidden in the woods off

the Zoppot road. He must send her a message somehow as soon as possible, better send it to Frau

Christine and let her tell Ludmilla. She must come to England; she always wanted to, though

how she’d like living there permanently was another matter, with the language difficulty, the

foreign cooking and the strange customs. Pity to part from Franz but it could not be helped,

Franz would be sorry, probably. He’d have to look elsewhere for the President of his New

Germany—thank goodness!

Reck stirred in his chair and began running through what he had written, absent-mindedly

tapping out the message with his pencil on the table, whereat the wireless operator spun round,

scarlet with excitement, and cried, “Good Lord! Is that who you are?”

“What d’you mean?” asked the Captain.

“Why, British secret agents, of course. T-L-T, that’s the call-sign. Used to listen for it

when I was on destroyers in the last war. Heard it again soon after I came in this ship, that’ud be

six years ago, before you came to us, sir—”

This was enough for the Captain, who rose from his seat, advanced upon Hambledon

with his hand held out and said, “I see I owe you an apology, sir. But you must admit

appearances were against you!”

The reply to Hambledon’s message came a few hours later, instructing the
Whistlefield

Star
to rendezvous at a certain time and place in the Channel to tranship passengers to a

destroyer, but by that time Hambledon and Reck, washed clean and in borrowed garments, were

having dinner with the Captain.

The following evening they were listening to the Berlin radio from the wireless set in the

Captain’s cabin, for Hambledon showed a certain interest in the German news bulletins.

“It is with heartfelt sorrow and burning anger,” said the announcer, “that the German

people will learn of the cowardly and brutal murder of our Chief of Police, Herr Klaus Lehmann.

His car was discovered this afternoon hidden away in a forest glade near Danzig; inside it was

the body of Herr Lehmann, battered almost beyond recognition. It was, actually, only identified

by the clothes and general appearance, and by the fact that the honoured and respected Chief had

not returned to his hotel two nights earlier. He was not, however, always in the habit of giving

previous notice of his movements, so that his absence had not yet caused alarm. He was one of

the earliest adherents—”

“Lord love us,” said the Captain, who knew enough German to follow a plain statement,

“was that why you were on the run?”

“What a question,” said Tommy blandly, and the Captain blushed and held his peace.