Wreckers Must Breathe (15 page)

Following Walter Craig's brilliant exposure of the first German spy to be captured since the beginning of the war, the
Daily Recorder
has sent one of its star reporters to take up the hunt where Walter Craig was forced to lay it down.

The
Daily Recorder
is convinced that Walter Craig's brilliant work opens the way to the exposure of a whole network of German espionage in England. This must not be regarded by readers as being in the nature of a spy scare. It is nothing of the sort. But it would be foolish to imagine that Germany, which has been preparing for this war for over five years, will not have perfected an intelligence system of the greatest efficiency in this country. This will have been facilitated by the influx of refugees into this country since Nazism first began to spread terror in Europe.

This does not mean that you should regard all your neighbours, especially those with foreign names, with suspicion. But you would be wise to remember not to discuss in public the little pieces of information, military and civil, that you glean in the course of your business or through conversation with friends. Remember—Walls have ears. In the meantime the
Daily Recorder
is investigating this menace.

Wire from Maureen Weston to Charles Patterson of the Daily Recorder dispatched from Falmouth at 4.25 p.m. on September 8
:

Cutner imprisoned here stop local force succumbed but Cutner unhelpful stop Declares visitor was commander U-boat and he gave him envelope contents unknown stop Insists he was purely an intermediary stop Discussion with estate agents at Penzance unhelpful—Maureen.

Letter from Maureen Weston at the hotel, Cadgwith, dated September 10 and received by Charles Patterson of the Daily Recorder on the morning of Monday, September 11
:

D
EAR
C
HARLIE
,

It's not for the recipient of a £5 daily retainer to doubt a news editor's wisdom in continuing it, but I must admit that you don't seem to be getting your money's worth. Needless to say, I'm doing my best, but it doesn't seem to be leading any place. Either I'm no good as an investigator or else Cutner was just what he said he was—an inter-mediary. The only objection to this theory is that his identity was rather elaborately faked—at least that's my opinion.

I stayed the Friday night at Falmouth and on the Saturday morning received an answer to a wire I had sent to the local paper at Gloucester the previous night. Gloucester was where Cutner was supposed to have been a bank manager and I had asked for full details as to appearance, interests, visits abroad if any and present whereabouts. The description given in the reply tallied with Cutner in every detail. Interests were given as golf and bridge—golf handicap was four! He was a widower and, following his retirement in June, 1936, he had embarked on an extensive tour of Europe. Present whereabouts was given as Carillon, Church Cove, near Lizard Town, Cornwall.

I then presented myself once more at the local police station. But the law had become unpleasantly official overnight. Exit your glamorous investigator, baffled, to meet friend Fuller on the doorstep. He did not seem in the least surprised to see me and frankly admitted that he was responsible for the attitude of the local force. So I weighed in with a few questions: What were the countries visited by Cutner in his European tour? Was Germany one of them? Did he play golf? If so what was the handicap and had they found out whether he really could play? And so on.

When I had finished, Fuller said, ‘So you've got that far, have you, Miss Weston.' I said, ‘What do you mean—that far?' He said, ‘Never mind.' We then discussed the weather and left it at that. He was not inclined to be helpful.

Deductions, my dear Watson—lucky I write detective stories, isn't it?—are as follows. Cutner vanished in Germany. His passport, clothes, and in fact, his whole personality were taken over lock, stock, and barrel by the gentleman now in prison. This gentleman returned, and, with Cutner's background to fall back on if questioned, purchased Carillon from the executors of the deceased Mrs Bloy. This all sounds rather like an excerpt from one of my books, but I am quite convinced that if only I could get this man Cutner on to a golf course I could prove it. The average German isn't very interested in golf and I doubt whether the man would know one end of a club from another.

However, the net result of this was to send me post-haste back to Cadgwith in an attempt to pick up the threads from that end. But nothing doing. The man had few visitors and no one seems to know anything about them. The police have withdrawn from the cottage and last night I went over it. Not a smell. The police will almost certainly have removed anything they thought might be interesting. But I doubt whether Cutner was the man to leave anything about. When I saw him in the cell at Falmouth he struck me as a secret-ive little man. He looked like a bank manager. His whole appearance shrieked figures, routine and a methodical mind. I doubt whether he ever had an affair in his life. Incredible the sort of people who will go in for intelligence work! There's not an ounce of romance or adventure about him. If he is a master spy, he's a damned dull one. But there you are, that's just the sort of man you want for a spy.

The point I am leading up to is this. I am no further forward on this business than when I started. I don't mean I've discovered nothing. But I have not discovered anything that would lead me to a big spy network or even to suggest that such a network existed. From your point of view I'm a washout, and after this letter I'm quite expecting you to wire me to get back to my book. The only trouble is I've got interested in this business. The way I look at it is this. Presuming my deduction to be right, why did the German Intelligence go to such pains to plant at Cadgwith a man who was to be no more than an intermediary? It doesn't make sense. Any one would have done for the job of intermediary.

Now I have a proposition to put forwared. I continue this investigation and the
Recorder
pays me expenses. I'll chuck it as soon as I realize I'm getting no further. And if I chuck it you'll only be out of pocket to the extent of my expenses. If, on the other hand, I get on to something that is really worth while you can pay me my daily retainer for the period and for whatever you are able to print. Let me know what you think.

Yours,

M
AUREEN
W
ESTON
.

 

Wire from Charles Patterson of the Daily Recorder to Maureen Weston at the hotel, Cadgwith, dispatched from Fleet Street at 11.10
a.m. on September 11
:

Okay go ahead stop Good luck—Patterson.

Letter from Maureen Weston at the Red Lion Hotel. Redruth, dated September 12
and received by Charles Patterson of the Daily Recorder on the morning of Wednesday, September 13
:

D
EAR
C
HARLIE
,

Believe we may be getting somewhere, but God knows where. Am leaving here early tomorrow for St Just near Land's End. It's a long shot and can't for the life of me think why I am feeling suddenly optimistic.

My last letter, if I remember rightly, was written on Sunday evening at the hotel in Cadgwith. On Monday morning I ran over to Penzance and had another talk to the agents who sold Carillon to Cutner. I don't know whether it was a sort of hunch or just that, having drawn blank at Church Cove, I turned in desperation to the agents as the one possible link between Cutner and the others.

The agents were Messrs Gribble, Tolworth and Fickle—incredible, isn't it? Previously I had only spoken with the chief clerk. This time I demanded to see the senior partner. This was Mr Fickle, the other two being dead! He was a pompous little Scotsman and vera vera careful. The police had apparently been at him and he was beginning to fear for his reputation. When I told him that I represented the
Recorder
, I feared he was going to throw me out. However, we played the old game and I said it would look as though he were concealing something if he was not prepared to discuss the matter openly with a representative of the press. In the end he told me everything I wanted to know, and it wasn't much at that.

Cutner had purchased the cottage on February 2, 1937. He paid for it with a cheque on the branch at Gloucester where he had been manager—ergo, if my reasoning is correct, this makes him a passable forger as well. He had looked at a number of cottages before choosing Carillon. Several of these were inland, but Fickle seems to have been left with the impression that what Cutner was really interested in was one on the coast. An interesting point is that he offered him one at Sennen Cove, which was in every way ideal and much more suited to his stated requirements than Carillon, but he turned it down without even bothering to go and look at it. For some reason it had to be in South Cornwall. In all, Cutner spent the better part of a week in Penzance, motoring out daily in various directions to have a look at properties. An entry in the register at the Wheatsheaf Hotel, Penzance, where I stayed the night, shows that he was there from January 27 to February 1, 1937. He instructed his purchase agreement to be sent to his hotel at Torquay. He was resident at that hotel from December 4, 1936, to January 26, 1937, and again from February 2 to February 28, 1937, when he took up his residence at Carillon.

All this is getting nowhere, you'll say. Quite right, but it shows that I'm being thorough. Now here we come to the little sequence of coincidence which is sending me scuttling down to St Just. The hall porter at the Wheatsheaf remembers Mr Cutner. And the reason he remembers him is that he tipped him with a dud ten shilling note. I know what you're going to say. That dud ten shilling note shows, Miss Weston, that your reasoning is all wrong. Cutner was not ingeniously smuggled into this country by Germany. He is just a petty criminal passing dud notes and ready to take on anything, even a little espionage work, to keep himself in funds. But wait a minute. This man paid his bill by cheque, and it was honoured. He paid in two cheques at his Torquay hotel and both were honoured. As far as I can find out this was the one and only dud note that he passed. My conclusion is that it was just one of those things. But it has served my purpose, for to this day the hall porter remembers all about Mr George Cutner. He remembers that he wore brown boots with a dark grey suit and that he kept a big gold watch, which he would frequently consult, in his waistcoat pocket. And that during his stay at the hotel he had a visitor. This visitor was a man of the name of Robertson—short and thick-set, with rimless glasses, heavy cheeks and a way of puffing as he moved as though he were perpetually short of breath.

Using the office of Gribble, Tolworth and Fickle as a poste restante I wired this description to Cutner's Torquay hotel and to Detective-inspector Fuller at the Falmouth police station. The reply from the Torquay hotel was not long delayed. It read—‘Man answering description visited Cutner several times stop Name Jones.' I waited at the estate agents for some time, hoping for a reply from Fuller. In the end I gave it up and went along to see the editor of the local paper. Here I drew blank. No one in the office knew any one of the name of either Jones or Robertson who answered to the description. In fact, no one knew any one at all who answered to that description.

So back to the hotel and further talks with the porter. A genuine ten shilling note changes hands—this will be included in expenses—and from the depths of the remote past this worthy individual, who has needless to say the acquisitive nature of the Cornish wrecker well developed, conjures the memory of a telephone call from said Mr Robertson to Cutner when the latter was out. Later Mr Robertson rings through again and as Cutner is still out leaves a message. The message is to the effect that Cutner is to meet him in Redruth that evening. When the porter asks where and at what time, this Robertson says, ‘Seven o'clock. He knows where.'

So then I get the car out and start for Redruth. And as the estate agents is on my way I stop off to see whether Fuller has answered my wire. I should have been warned by the sleek black roadster that is drawn up at the curb. Detective-inspector Fuller is waiting for me inside with a whole heap of questions. How did I get to know about this man? Who had seen him? Where did I get my description from?

‘So you recognize the description, do you?' I asked.

And he said, ‘Like hell I do. I've been trying to trace this man ever since Cutner was arrested.'

‘Well, isn't that a coincidence,' I said, ‘I'm trying to trace him too.'

And then we start the questions all over again. But I get the answer to my wire. This fellow Robertson had visited Carillon several times. So I say good afternoon and thank him for being so kind as to come all the way over to Penzance in order to reply to my wire. He thinks I think I've made rather a hit and that makes him very embarrassed. Even so he sticks to the point and keeps on with the questions. We both get rather hot under the collar and in the end he takes himself off to go the round of the hotels and through the whole gamut of investigation that I've just been through, while I go on to Redruth.

And here everything tumbles right into my lap. The editor of the local paper listens to my description and says, ‘Sounds like Tubby Wilson. Started up the old Wheal Garth mine and packed up about a year back.' Then he gets down two bound volumes of the paper and after about ten minutes' search produces a photograph of a fat little man standing with feet apart, his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and a broad grin on his moon-like face. The man has a battered trilby on the back of his head and I can see a faint mark on his waistcoat that looks like a watch chain. The photograph appeared in the issue of March 2, 1937—that is shortly after he had had these meetings with Cutner. And the reason the photograph is in the paper is that he has just floated a small private company called Cornish Coastal Wilson Mines Ltd. Then in the issue of March 16 of that year appears the announcement of the purchase of the Wheal Garth tin mine near St Just. Eighteen months later the mine closed down. But it evidently had good backing for there was no question of bankruptcy—all the creditors were paid in full and the mine is still the property of this now very nebulous company. Well, that's the low down on Tubby Wilson. By the time you get this letter I shall be on my way to have a look at his mine and talk to people in the neighbourhood of St Just who worked there—that is if friend Tubby is the man I think he is. I obtained two back numbers of the issue in which his photograph appeared. One cutting I have sent to my friend, the hotel porter, with a request to wire me in the morning if he recognizes it as Robertson. The other I am keeping myself for identification purposes. In the meantime I am trying to ferret out Tubby's antecedents and history. The editor of the local paper, a jovial old boy who regards me as something of an
enfante terrible,
is taking me to the local mineowner's club tonight. I threatened to go on my own, but apparently he didn't think that would be quite, quite. In the meantime, could you have someone go along to Bush House and look up Tubby's ancestors? If you have any luck wire me at the St Just post office.