The Trojan Horse (20 page)

I never thought a ladder twenty feet high could seem so far. My clothes, sodden with water, added to my weight, and my exhausted muscles, now relaxed in the relief of safety, would scarcely pull me from one rung to the next.

When I hauled myself up on to that wharf I was met by the full force of a bitter east wind. My skin was blue and I was shivering from cold and exhaustion. That wind seemed to blow right through my sodden clothes direct on to my naked flesh. I looked around me. Behind, across a huddle of cranes and masts and funnels, I saw the misty outline of Tower Bridge. Ahead stretched the river, bending away to the Lower Pool, the brown waters flecked with little tufts of white as the wind whipped chilly at the wave caps. The wharf was deserted.

Wretched with cold, I crossed the uneven planks, leaving a trail of water behind me. At the back of the wharf rose the grimy mass of the warehouse. The air was full of the smell of malt and cinnamon and sacks; a queer, musty, but exciting conglomeration of scents. The entrances to the warehouse were barred with worn wooden doors. The place looked like some old barracks. But between it and the next warehouse were
steps leading up from the river. By climbing down over some old barrels, I reached these steps. They led up to a narrow street lined with warehouses on the river side. On the other side, the buildings were much lower, mainly shops and lodging houses. During working hours it would be fantastically congested with lorries and carts, but now it was quiet and practically deserted. A dirty cast-iron street sign told me that this was Wapping High Street. Anything less like a high street I have never seen. But I found a little eating place called Alf's Dining Rooms and went in. There was no one there. But at the tinkle of a door bell an old woman came out from the back quarters. When she saw me, she stopped and stared, her mouth agape. I am not surprised. I must have presented a sorry spectacle, standing there, the water dripping from my clothes, which stank ruthlessly in the warmth of that eating-house.

My teeth chattering, I explained to her that I had fallen into the river. I was too dulled by cold and fatigue to tell her my wants. I did not even tell her that I had any money. ‘It's a cold day for falling in the river,' was all she said, and led me through into the kitchen at the back. She shooed a big full-bosomed girl from her pastry-making and sent her upstairs for blankets. Then she told me to strip. I was too far gone to feel any sense of discomfort at her presence. In front of the blazing range I stood and towelled myself down. The warmth and the friction soon restored my circulation.

In the midst of this an old man dressed in a seaman's
cap and jersey came in. He stopped at the sight of me, standing nude before the fire. Then he took the pipe out of his mouth and spat in the coal bucket. ‘'Ullo, ma,' he said. ‘See yer've got company, like.'

I hastened to explain. But he held up his hand. ‘Now why bother to explain,' he said. ‘Nobody explains things around 'ere, see. They just 'appens. You fell in the river. Orl right. But what I says is the river 'as acquired a fruitier scent than when I last smelt it. So you keep yer explanations to them as wants 'em, me lad.'

There was nothing I could say to that. If I told him the truth, he would never believe me. And if I made up a lie, he wouldn't believe that either. We just left it at that. I wrapped myself in the blankets that the girl had brought down and, sitting like an Indian in front of the fire, I ran through my sodden garments, removing anything of value that remained in the pockets. Fortunately my wallet was still there. In it were three wet pound notes. And I found two half-crowns and several coppers in the pocket of my trousers.

I looked across at the old man, who had sat himself down on a chair. ‘Have you got any clothes you'd be willing to sell me?' I asked. I pointed to the pound notes in the wallet. ‘I expect they'll dry all right, won't they?'

‘Blimey!' he said. ‘Where did yer get those?' Then he picked himself up. ‘Orl right, me lad. Never mind where they comes from. They'll dry out orl right. But if it's orl the same to you, I'll take those two halfcrowns.
And in exchange you can 'ave a pair of my old trousers and a sweater.'

He disappeared upstairs. The old woman came and picked up my clothes. ‘You'd better throw those away,' I said. ‘They're in a filthy state.'

I saw her gnarled hands fingering the cloth. ‘Throw them away!' she said. ‘Not likely I won't. It'll all come out in the wash. I can see you 'aven't 'ad anything to do with children.'

And with that, she disappeared with the clothes, leaving me alone with the girl, who had returned to her pastry. I had been conscious of her eyes on me ever since she had returned to find me standing in front of the fire with nothing but a towel round me. ‘You do look funny in that blanket,' was her opening line.

It was not the best she could have chosen, for I was already conscious enough of my appearance. I looked at her. Her figure was big and clumsy, and she had dark rather sullen features. Beneath her tousled hair was a rather fine pair of brown eyes. She was smiling at me. ‘Tell me wot reely 'appened,' she said. ‘Did yer get much?'

At that I laughed. ‘Nothing, I'm afraid,' I said. ‘You see, I raided a big City Bank, and they caught me and shoved me in the vaults. But I broke out into a sewer. I've been chased all day through the sewers by four big men in top hats. They all had beards, too,' I added as an afterthought.

‘Ooh, I don't believe yer. Yer teasing.' And she laughed, a husky, rich sound. ‘'Ere, that blanket's slippin' orf yer. Wait a minute. I'll tuck yer up.'

But, as she was wiping the flour off her hands, the old woman came back and she returned sullenly to her pastry. I was not sorry, for a great lethargy was stealing over me, and I was not in the mood to cope with such a wench. A few minutes later the old man came down with trousers, a tattered old vest, a thick blue woollen jersey and a pair of socks carefully darned. He watched over me as I put them on. The jersey was a little on the high side, but who was I to complain, having come straight from the sewers?

The problem of footwear still remained. But the old man, who, now I was clad in his cast-offs, seemed to take a fatherly interest in me, said he knew of a good second-hand clothes dealer in Wapping High. So, a little later, when the notes in my wallet had dried, I entrusted him with one to go and buy me a pair of shoes, size nine, and some sort of a coat. I told him to see to it that there was enough left over to buy himself some tobacco. But I had to assure him repeatedly that the note was genuine before he would agree to run the errand. In the meantime I had a wash and a meal of cold meat and bread and pickles. With it I was given some of the strongest tea I have ever tasted from a big black pot on the hob. It was bitter with tannin, yet I drank three cups, and liked it.

When the old man returned, he brought with him a pair of black boots, ex-service, I guessed, and a tattered old coat of dark-blue serge. He evidently noticed my surprise when he proffered me boots instead of shoes, for he said, ‘Boots is what you'd be
wearing in them clothes. Besides, they were reel cheap – only five bob the pair. And you was quite correct – them notes was orl right.'

I was loath to leave the warmth of the fire. But I had much to do. So I thanked them for their kindness and went out into Wapping High Street. My immediate need was a call box. I made my way west along the narrow street. It was still practically deserted, the gaunt grimy faces of the warehouse barred and lifeless. Only round the pubs was there any sign of life. I crossed the bridge over the Hermitage entrance to London Docks and, skirting the blank castlelike walls of St Katherine Docks, I made my way to Tower Hill, where I found a call box. I was thankful to go inside and shut the door. My tattered coat and woollen jersey seemed no protection against the biting wind, and I was deathly tired. I lifted the receiver, inserted two pennies and dialled Whitehall 1212. I was put straight through to Crisham.

‘Is that you, Kilmartin?' His voice was terse and I was surprised at his use of my surname.

‘Listen, Desmond,' I said, ‘do you know who controls Calboyds? Is it Baron Marburg?'

‘Well, what of it?' he demanded. ‘I suppose he has been over-quoting for the sale of diesel engines to the Government?'

‘So they've sent you that statement accusing Terstall of over-quoting for gun turrets, have they?' I asked.

‘Yes. Who signed that statement?'

‘I did,' I said. ‘But I was forced to. Their idea was
to make me sign a number of absurd statements, so that when, after my death, you were handed my original statement, which dealt with Calboyds, you wouldn't believe a word of it.'

‘Look here,' he said, ‘did you ring me up yesterday?'

‘Yes, of course I did. Why?'

‘And on the previous day?'

‘Yes – why?'

‘You said you were coming along to see me yesterday.'

‘Yes, but I couldn't. I went straight from that call box to the Wendover Hotel. I wanted to frighten Cappock – he's one of the big Calboyd shareholders – into an admission. But they were waiting for me there. They packed me up in a deed-box and took me along to Marburg's Bank in Threadneedle Street.'

‘Who is they?'

‘Max Sedel for one. He's the fellow at whose house John Burston is supposed to have got drunk enough to drive himself over the cliffs at Beachy Head. Actually he was murdered by Sedel. Sedel, for your information, is a Nazi agent.'

‘You'd better come along to the Yard and have a talk with me,' Crisham suggested.

‘That's what I want to do,' I said. ‘But I want you to know what the position is first, just in case I don't reach the Yard. I escaped from the vaults of Marburg's by way of the sewers. I've been all day getting out of them with the pack at my heels. I tell you, Desmond, this Marburg business is the biggest thing that has
happened in this war, so far. Do you know what Baron Marburg is? He's Führer-designate of Britain. And if Germany gets that engine that your police were fool enough to let out of their grasp, it's goodbye to air supremacy with Calboyds making obsolete diesel engines for the Government.'

‘Just what are you talking about?' His voice sounded exasperated. Then a moment later it was suddenly conciliatory. ‘Look here, old man, you'd better tell me the whole thing from the beginning.'

He had never addressed me as ‘old man' before. I was puzzled. I knew the man well enough to know that it was a mode of address he only used when wheedling a suspect. ‘You've got the guts of it,' I said. ‘I'm coming up to the Yard right away to talk to you. And don't breathe a word of this to anyone until I've seen you.'

‘Wait a minute,' he said. ‘I've got to dash out almost immediately. Just let me have the story from the beginning.'

‘What the devil has got into you?' I said. ‘Can't you understand the importance of what I'm telling you? You stay right where you are till I get there.'

‘Stop!' he said. ‘They might get you on the way. I'll have a squad car sent round for you.'

I think it was that mention of a squad car that touched some sixth sense in my brain. Then reason took up the argument of instinct. One minute he had not seemed to understand what I was talking about and the next he was offering me a squad car for protection. One minute he had been terse, and the
next conciliatory. I replaced the receiver and left the call box. As I crossed the road towards the Mint, I saw steam rising from a man-hole cover in the roadway. It was the ventilation shaft of a sewer smoking in the raw air. Involuntarily I shuddered. But a few hours ago I had been in those sewers. Perhaps I had passed along beneath Royal Mint Street itself.

I had barely reached the other side of the road, when I saw a big black roadster coming fast down Tower Bridge approach, weaving its way in and out of traffic. It drew up by the kerb opposite the call box and three policemen jumped out. I was on the point of crossing the road to it, thinking that Crisham had been as good as his word and sent a car along to take me to the Yard, when I realised that three policemen were not necessary to invite the friend of an inspector along to Scotland Yard. Anyway, it had not come from the direction of the Yard. And there was no mistaking the manner in which they closed in on that call box. They were there to make an arrest.

It was with a horrible sinking sensation in my stomach that I mingled with the crowd on the pavement. The purposefulness of those policemen could mean only one thing. The other side had got in first. They had smirched my reputation so successfully that even Crisham, whom I regarded as a friend, believed them. I think, perhaps, if I had been feeling fresh, I should have jumped into a taxi and driven straight to the Yard. I don't know. It is difficult to tell what one would do in any particular instance had the circumstances been slightly different.

My mood was definitely a defeatist one. I was frightened of the power I was up against. Perhaps I exaggerated that power. At least, I was afraid at that time that I might not be able to convince even Crisham of my sincerity. It was asking a good deal of a policeman to expect him to believe that a man of Marburg's standing was a Nazi. Policemen have too great a sense of propriety readily to accept accusations of treason against well-known banking figures. They stand for the
status quo
, and I knew that even if I were not suspect, I should find it well-nigh impossible to convince Crisham of the truth.

It was in a state of complete frustration that I walked towards the Minories. I felt impotent against this power that was able to range the police, as well as its own agents, against me. I was puzzled to know how they managed it. Then I saw the placard. FAMOUS K.C.'S DEATH RIDDLE. I stopped. I knew, instinctively, that here was the answer. I bought a copy of the
Record
.