The Shadow of Treason (11 page)

‘Alfie thought they weren’t real police when they burst in. But when he came back he said they were.’

‘How long did they keep him?’

‘He was gone about an hour, then he turned up with a bruise on the side of his head. He said they’d apologized for the mistake. But he was still thinking of making a complaint. You know, about police brutality.’

‘Did he admit he’d tipped them off?’

‘Yes, when he finally got back. It seems at first he just
thought
it was Adam but he felt he should call the police just in case.’

‘Thank God you guessed what he was up to!’

‘Funny, he didn’t let on when he first got back; he was fussing about waiting at the chemist’s. He says he still wasn’t sure, and didn’t want egg on his face.’

‘So he got a bang on the head instead.’

‘Anyway, when he got back from the rozzers, he said it definitely
was
Adam Webber – they’d shown him more pictures. He told me I’d been hiding a criminal in his flat.’

‘Was he very angry?’

‘He was at first. But I convinced him I really thought he was just your soldier boyfriend.’

‘So you got your night out after all?’

‘Eventually. Of course, he pretended he was still cross, so he had an excuse to give me a good spanking. He always feels better after that. And then, after a bit, we went to Silvio’s.’

‘A bit of what?’

‘Well, you know how one thing leads to the other. It was nearly 10.30 when we got to the club. But we had a great time – he spent nearly twenty quid!’

Having finished her story, Maggie stubbed out her cigarette and looked intently at Jane. ‘Listen, honey, tell me to mind my own business if you like, but I have to ask. What are you
planning
to do now?’

‘Vic says we can stay with him for a week or two.’

‘Good. I expect he’s glad of the company – he’s between
girlfriends
. But I meant what are you going to do about Adam? He can’t hide for ever.’

Jane sighed. ‘I don’t know, Maggie, I really don’t. I want him to give himself up and let the police sort things out. But he won’t.’

‘Why not? Like I said, I’m sure he’s not a murderer.’

‘I know for a fact he’s not a murderer. But … well … there are some other things that could get him into trouble. Nothing wicked, I promise you.’ There was a brief knock at the door, and Vic Dudley came straight in.

‘Do you mind?’ exclaimed Maggie. ‘We might have had no clothes on!’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Vic. ‘But it’s not my lucky week. I should have known. Yesterday I bought a suit with two pairs of trousers and burned a hole in the jacket. Listen, I want to try out some new gags on you.’

‘I hope they’re better than that one,’ said Maggie.

‘They’re all winners,’ said Vic. ‘Get these.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Fellow stopped me in the street today. He said, “I’ve seen you on the wireless. Why aren’t you in the army?” I said, “With a war on? You think I’m crazy?”

‘Actually, the fact is, I failed my medical. Not enough blood in my alcohol stream. And they didn’t like the look of my alimentary canal. I think it had a barge on it. Anyway, it’s true, they wouldn’t take me.

‘Even today I need check-ups. Last week I had these tests. When I went back for the results, the doctor said, “There’s good news and bad news.” I said, “Better tell me the bad news first.” He said, “You’ve only got a month to live.” What a shock! I tried to be brave, I said, “Well, what’s the good news?” He said, “I made it with that new receptionist last night.”

‘He could see I was upset. He said, “Don’t worry, that was a joke.”

‘I said, “Could you come to the Windmill and explain to the audience?”’

‘You may need him to do that,’ said Maggie. She lit another cigarette.

The short man had missed last night’s shambles. He’d been in Bristol, arranging a fatal accident. Now he was back, and holding an inquest.

‘Bloody fools!’ he said. ‘You managed to mistake a
middle-aged
pen-pusher for a young bruiser! The brute who saw off Cregan and Clark and knocked out a policeman! Crass stupidity! It’s incredible!’

Reggie Paynter’s fists tightened. He didn’t like being talked to like this. One day he was going to hit the short man extremely hard. Several times. But not yet. These people paid good money. And he knew they had some ruthless men behind them. He clenched his fists, and let Sid Garrett do the talking.

‘No one give us a picture of the bastard, did they?’ Garrett protested. ‘Your number two just said there was a bloke called
Webber in Maida Vale giving you trouble. We was to go to his flat, make out we was coppers, and bring him here. That’s what we did.’

‘But you must have known what Webber looks like! You haven’t been living up a mountain, have you? You’ve seen his picture in the papers!’

‘I don’t bother with papers,’ said Garrett. ‘Anyway, there was no other geezer around. We brought back the only bloke who was there.’

The short man sighed. Then he opened a drawer and picked up a bunch of newspaper cuttings. He gave one to each of them, and they peered at the grainy photographs.

‘That’s Adam Webber. It’s vital we take him before the police do.’

‘The coppers are after him too?’

‘Good God, you have been living up a mountain! It’s not just been in the papers, man, it’s been all over the radio! Every day! The police want Webber for murder. We want him because he has a notebook that could make trouble for us. Our people are now offering five hundred pounds to anyone who can get him into our hands.’

Garrett whistled. ‘A monkey! Strewth! Just tell us where he is now and we’ll bring him in double-quick!’

The short man’s voice rose. ‘We don’t know where he is now! We had this chance last night, and you blew it! He’s hiding somewhere else now!’

‘So how do we find him?’

‘Through his girl. We now know for sure he’s with the young woman from the Cavendish. They were together at Mr Ju—’ He corrected himself. ‘At the Maida Vale flat. And they left together. Find the girl and we’ll find Webber.’

‘OK, how do we find the girl then?’

‘She’s a dancer at the Windmill Theatre. You see the show there and, at the end, you watch for her at the stage door and follow her home.’

‘How do we know which is her?’

‘Her name’s Jane Hart. You buy a programme, then you’ll know what she looks like when she comes on. You can read, I take it?’

V
IC
D
UDLEY’S
RENTED
flat in Notting Hill was functional rather than luxurious but at least it did have two bedrooms, as well as a sitting room and kitchen. Vic’s first two years in show
business
had been a struggle. But now Windmill wages and radio fees had brought a measure of prosperity. There was a
radiogram
, with a stack of dance-band records. Vic had bought a rather stylish electric heater to augment the gas fire. And there was a fridge, to keep the beer bottles cold.

Adam had stayed warm and comfortable all day but boredom had been a problem. It was a working day for Jane. And comedians at the Windmill worked every day. So Vic and Jane had gone off together to the theatre after the three of them shared a late brunch.

Vic had offered his large collection of men’s magazines to keep Adam amused and for a while it did. He’d chuckled at the jokes and light-hearted articles in
Lilliput, Men Only
and
London Opinion
, admired their occasional, rather demure, black-
and-white
pictures of naked ladies, and failed to finish several crossword puzzles. By late afternoon Adam was feeling the need for more positive activity. He studied himself in the mirror. His facial hair had grown quickly, and could almost be regarded as moustache and sideburns, with the beginnings of a beard around his chin. Every day he’d practised wearing the glasses and found they did little to impair his vision. He was starting to feel he could venture into the outside world without being instantly recognized.

He sat down with pencil and paper and began to list all the things that needed thinking about: Cooper, The Bull, black market activities, and the thugs’ interest in a blue notebook, which must surely be the one he’d taken from Jefferson’s room.

Then he saw that it was six o’clock: time for the news. He wondered if he’d hear an explanation of last night’s alarms. There’d been two big blasts in London for the first time in many months and this morning had brought much speculation. Were the Germans about to launch a new bombing campaign? A
last-ditch
attempt to turn the tide?

Adam switched on the radio and found that the news had already started. It was not good news, but the announcer’s voice was calm and reassuring.

‘It’s now been confirmed that the two explosions in the Greater London area last night were the result of enemy action. Two high-explosive rockets had been fired from enemy territory across the English Channel.

‘The explosion in Chiswick demolished two houses, causing twelve casualties, five of them fatal. The second rocket landed on farmland near Edgware, destroying some barns and outhouses, and injuring two farm workers. Their injuries are not thought to be serious. These rockets appear to be of a new type, and have been designated V2s, as successors to the V1 flying bombs, which the Germans have now abandoned.

‘The War Office says that the V2s will be defeated in the same way. Additional fighter squadrons are already being deployed over southern England, to destroy the slow-moving rockets before they cross the coastline. There are no plans for
evacuation
, and the government is stressing that danger to the public is far less than that faced during the Blitz.’

Adam reflected on this new threat. Perhaps Canada wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The newsreader moved on.

‘Police are investigating the death of a city councillor in Bristol today. James Baxter, aged forty-five, who died of gunshot wounds, was a captain in the Home Guard. He died
when a pistol was fired during a military exercise. It’s believed that Captain Baxter may have accidentally discharged the gun himself.

‘And now the weather….’

Adam switched the radio off, so that he could stop and think. Something in that last item had started his brain working. He remembered that Mark Jefferson had been in the Home Guard. And he’d also met an accidental death. That was something else to think about.

The new twist in the war against Hitler was the first topic when Westley and his friends began their meeting.

‘What’s the truth about these V2 things?’ Charles Bell demanded. ‘The press seem to be playing down the whole issue.’

‘That’s government policy,’ Westley replied. ‘In fact, the Cabinet are extremely worried. In private, Churchill is saying this is the biggest danger Britain’s faced since we saw off the threat of invasion.’

‘Hell!’ said Hugh Denby. ‘Just when we thought the bastards were finished!’

‘They are finished,’ said Westley. ‘Nothing can stop the Allied advance in Europe. But Hitler wants to kill as many people as he can before we hang him.’

‘What’s known about the actual rockets?’ Jupp enquired.

‘Just the basic facts. They carry high-explosive warheads, which go off on impact. They can’t be aimed with any accuracy. They’re fired from occupied Holland, pointed in the general direction of London. They can land anywhere within a fifty-mile radius and, needless to say, they can cause a lot of damage.’

‘What defence is there?’

‘None,’ was Westley’s blunt answer.

‘The War Office says that our fighters will destroy the rockets in mid-air,’ said Bell.

‘Window dressing, I’m afraid,’ said Westley. ‘The damn
things go too fast. If our aircraft can hit one in twenty, they’ll be doing well.’

‘So what will the government do?’

‘The rockets will only be stopped when our army reaches the launching sites. That may take some weeks.’

‘Has anyone thought of bombing these launch sites?’ asked Cox.

‘They’ll be trying,’ said Westley. ‘But our agents say they’re deep underground and heavily camouflaged.’

‘Could we drop paratroops to take the area in advance of the main force?’

‘That’s been suggested. But there’s opposition. The army don’t want another Arnhem.’

‘So, for now, any of us can be blown up at any time?’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ Westley conceded. ‘The
government’s
only option is to belittle the danger and prevent panic, while we wait for our troops to do the job.’

Denby voiced the question that was in everyone’s mind. ‘Is this going to affect our plans?’

‘Basically no. As I said, V2 impact is indiscriminate and
unpredictable
, affecting friend and foe alike. What we can’t foresee, we can’t take into account. So we carry on, exactly as planned.’

There were murmurs of approval around the table.

‘Of course, there could be complications,’ Westley continued, ‘if the Cabinet decided to evacuate certain public figures to the provinces.’

‘Is that a possibility?’

‘It has been discussed. They might move Churchill and his headquarters staff out into the country, probably somewhere up north, beyond the V2 range. Also, the King and Queen, plus some ministers considered vital to the war effort.’ Westley allowed himself a rare smile. ‘I believe I may be one of them.’

‘So you would be fully in the picture?’

‘Exactly. In that event, the job of making arrests would be handled by our local units, instead of our metropolitan strike force.’

‘And they’d have sufficient warning?’

‘Certainly. But I don’t think the situation will arise. Even if the decision were taken, I don’t believe the moves could be arranged before our day of action.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Bell, ‘that this V2 scare could work in our favour. The police and the army will have their hands full dealing with these V2s. Plus the public alarm they’re going to cause.’

Westley smiled again, using up his ration for the week. ‘Exactly. Furthermore, in due course the army will overrun these sites and put a stop to the rockets. If that happens after our takeover, we’ll get the credit. Now let’s move on.’ Ernest Cox had raised a hand. ‘Ernie, you wanted to say something?’

‘Yes,’ said Cox. ‘I want to congratulate you and our
active-service
unit on the efficient way the traitor Martin Hunter has been silenced.’

Westley looked stern. ‘Ah. Please be careful, everyone. Don’t assume Hunter’s death had anything to do with our
organization
. The police are checking on enemies he may have made at the time of the Spanish Civil War.’

Gerald Collis now spoke quietly. ‘I for one deeply regret Martin’s death. I still believe that there were other ways of dealing with the problem.’

‘Your views are noted,’ said Westley.

There was an awkward silence. Then Bill Ford spoke up.

‘What’s the latest on the Tilfleet cock-up? Have they
recovered
that notebook yet? And what about the thief? Have they caught him?’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid. There was a reported sighting of the man Webber in London on Tuesday. Our men moved quickly but by the time they got there the man had gone. Of course, it may not have been Webber anyway. I have no more details.’

Jupp’s eyes remained firmly fixed on the papers in front of him. The pound notes he’d handed out had been money well spent.

‘Our people are continuing the search,’ said Westley. ‘We’re
now offering a reward of five hundred pounds to the London underworld for anyone who can deliver Webber alive.’

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Bell. ‘More gangsters.’

Westley produced words that had served him well in the past. ‘You can be sure that we’re leaving no stone unturned.’

Onstage, Vic Dudley was in full flow. He’d been promoted to the penultimate spot in the show, and he was making the most of it. ‘Got a question for you. Little question. Do infants get as much fun from infancy as adults do from adultery? There’s a lot of it goes on, you know. Friend of mine came back from the Far East, he’d been away a year. First night home he was in bed with his wife; they’d left a light on downstairs. Air-raid warden banged on the door. My mate woke up in a panic, he said, “My God, is that your husband?” His wife said, “No, don’t worry, my husband’s in the Far East.”

‘Course, we shouldn’t do it. All these good people tell us we shouldn’t. There’s a big notice outside our local church. “If you’re tired of sin, come in.” Underneath, someone’s written “If you’re not, ring Bayswater 2429”.’

Vic was getting a few laughs, but not from Paynter or Garrett. They’d heard all this twice before. Entertainment at the Windmill was non-stop, the same programme being played five times a day, with a ten-minute interval between shows. No one had to leave. You could come in when you wanted, and leave when you chose. The audience consisted almost entirely of men, all eager to get to the front rows for a closer look at the girls.

So, when front seats were vacated by customers who had to get back to the office or go home, men from further back rushed forward to grab the empty places. Climbing over the back of the seats was forbidden, and punished by expulsion. So
experienced
Windmill-goers always sat at the end of a row when they first arrived, ready for the spring forward, until they finally reached Row A.

Paynter and Garrett had come into the theatre at four, and had made it to the front row at 8.30, in time for the start of the
last show. As they’d made their final charge, they’d faced competition from another man, slightly closer, approaching the vacant seats from the opposite direction. But this was a small man in a suit, with fountain pen and propelling pencil protruding from his breast pocket. Paynter had glared at him and he’d melted away. Thus they’d been watching the final run from the best possible vantage point. Seeing the girls repeat their routines had brought nothing but pleasure. Hearing Vic Dudley’s jokes for the third time was a small price to pay.

With the help of the programme, they’d identified Jane Hart as the fan-dancer in the South Seas number, and they’d studied her diligently, to ensure they’d recognize her later. They’d also spotted Maggie early on, standing on a pedestal at the back, pretending to be a classical statue. Garrett had made the connection.

‘Blimey, that’s the bint at the flat – the one I shoved in the bedroom!’

‘You’re right,’ Paynter had observed. ‘You missed a chance there, Sid.’

‘Yeah, well, she didn’t look so good with her hair in curlers and that white stuff on her boat.’

Now Vic Dudley was coming to the end of his act, and the two men were looking forward to the finale. They’d done their reconnaissance and located the stage door before they came in.

‘There’s been a bit of trouble backstage,’ Vic Dudley was saying. ‘They found a little hole punched in the wall between my room and the girls’ dressing room. That’s right, a little hole in the wall. The manager was furious, he said, “This is disgraceful! We can’t have that sort of thing here!” I said, “Don’t make a fuss, it doesn’t bother me. If it gives them pleasure, let them peep.”

‘Anyway, there it is. There’s a hole in the dressing-room wall, and I’d better go and look into it. So I’ll leave you with this thought. A happy life depends on working well and sleeping well. So watch out who you work with and who you see as a friend. Good night.’

Vic took his bow to a sprinkling of applause, the pianist went into his play-off music, and the red plush curtains swished together.

Paynter and Garrett settled down to enjoy the seaside
spectacular
for the third time. They could relax. There’d be plenty of time at the end to get to the stage door before the performers began to leave.

Bert Bailey had left his den behind the counter and was standing at the open stage door, taking the air. A portly, fifty-ish, balding man, short of exercise, he found even the Soho air refreshing after a long spell inhaling the stale smells of
grease-paint
, sweat and cigarette smoke. He surveyed the scene outside in Archer Street. It was a mild night, bright with
moonlight
, and the tart on the corner was looking relaxed and cheerful. People, on their way to pubs and clubs, were content to stroll at a leisurely pace.

The tart exchanged friendly words with all the male
passers-by
who weren’t accompanied by women and was not offended when they continued on their way. From the next street came the sound of a team of buskers, one with a concertina, the other playing the spoons. And then, of course, there were the loiterers.