Beneath Gray Skies (10 page)

“
But where are the people? I make that about a couple of thousand people, all vanished.”

H
enry Dowling wouldn’t admit it, but he felt beaten. Although he spoke German fluently, it was the wrong kind of German, totally unsuited to the dockside areas where he was looking for the
Robert E. Lee
.

Tramping what seemed like miles of waterfront, and entering the bars where the longshoremen and dockworkers congregated, a pattern which was becoming all too familiar repeated itself at the first words of his Oxford-accented German.

Conversation in the bar stopped with an almost tangible silence, and just as suddenly resumed, but on subjects like football, rather than politics or the men’s working lives. The bartender would politely suggest to the overdressed middle-aged stranger that he might be happier at another bar closer to the respectable area of town. Often, to reinforce the suggestion, a few large men would rise from their tables, and stand close behind Dowling. Sometimes he fancied he heard the click of a switchblade. At that point, Dowling would leave, having gained no information. As he left, he would hear the conversations cease, and restart again.

He bought cheaper clothes at German stores, and left his Savile Row suits in the hotel. His accent still betrayed him as an outsider, though, and the closed society of the waterfront seemed to remain forever a secret to him.

On what seemed like his hundredth bar, he had a stroke of luck.

“Back again?” asked the bartender. “Better dressed for the part this time, aren’t you?”

Dowling looked around him. All the bars looked much the same, but it was true, he had been in this one before. He recognized the model ships behind the bar, especially the U-boat, which had caught his attention on the first occasion.

“Afraid so,” smiled Dowling. “It’s thirsty work looking for my friend.”

“You’d like a beer, then?” asked the bartender. It was an offer of some sort of acceptance, and Dowling quickly seized it.

“Yes please. And one for you, and one for each of my friends,” turning round and grinning like an ape at the four or five heavies who’d materialized behind him.

“You’re English?” asked one of them.

“Yes,” replied Dowling. It was fairly obvious and there seemed little point in lying.

“Good. As long as you’re not one of those Dutchmen, that’s all. Hard-hearted bastards, taking our work away.” There was a general murmur of dissent against the Dutch. The beer arrived. “Come and sit with us.” It was not so much an invitation as an order, and Dowling obeyed.

“So, Mr. Englishman, what are you doing in Bremen?”

“I write for one of the London newspapers. I’m writing about the German economy, and how England should be helping German people like you get work and live better.”

“Does anyone read what you write?” There was a burst of mocking laughter.

Dowling replied. “There are many Englishmen who would like to see Germany destroyed, and would show no mercy to you or any German. But—” as a babble of protest started to arise, “There are many more Englishmen who think that the war was a mistake, and that England should help Germany become a great nation again. I’m proud to say I’m one of the last group.” The whole speech was delivered with great sincerity, and brought a round of applause, and a few more customers to Dowling’s table.

“So who should the English and Germans be fighting together? The Bolsheviks in Russia?”

Not knowing whether he was talking to a Communist sympathizer or not, Dowling turned the question round with a joke. “It’s me who’s meant to be the reporter, interviewing you, not you interviewing me. I need your expert opinion, sir.”

The others round the table laughed and pressed their companion for his answer. “Well, since you’re asking, my favorite enemy would be the Confederates. Anyone who keeps slaves like that doesn’t deserve any sympathy.”

“Well, we didn’t treat our blackies very well in East Africa, did we?” came a shout from another table.

“We didn’t,” admitted the first man. “But then we were wrong to do it. And anyway, they weren’t slaves. I just say it’s flat-out wrong to own other people as if they were property.” He finished his beer, and placed the empty glass significantly in front of him. Dowling called for another round of drinks.

“Thank you, sir,” said the anti-Confederate dock worker. “I’m thinking that as a good liberal gentleman, those views I expressed on slavery would be similar to your own?”

“They would indeed,” replied Dowling earnestly. “Your very good health, sir.”

A lot of beer was drunk, and Dowling’s billfold was significantly emptier and his notebook significantly fuller with his pretended journalistic notes by the time he left the bar. He’d learned nothing of any interest to his mission, though.

“Feel free to come back any time, sir,” called the barman as he left. About a hundred yards down the street, Dowling heard footsteps running behind him. Closing his fingers round the butt of the Browning automatic that C had insisted he carry with him at all times, but keeping the pistol out of sight in his pocket, he stopped and turned.

-o-

O
ne of his bar companions had followed him. Half-expecting to be robbed, Dowling looked for the rest of the gang, but could see no-one. As if he’d guessed Dowling’s thoughts, the other spread his hands wide, keeping them in clear view as he walked forward.

“I didn’t speak to you back there, but I heard what you were saying about them damn’ Confeds,” said the smaller, somewhat ratty-looking man in American-accented English. “By God, I am glad to be out of that place!”

“The bar back there?” asked Dowling, deliberately misunderstanding.

“No, the goddamned Confederate States of America, may the devil take Jeff Davis’s rotten soul to hell!”

“My sentiments exactly. How long have you been out of the Confederacy, then, Mr.—”

“Call me Pete. A few years now. Since the end of the European War, anyway. Life here is real tough, but at least there ain’t no slaves here and there’s folks who believe in freedom and equality for everyone, not just the rich folks.”

“They don’t all think that way in this country,” warned Dowling.

“I know that, and that’s why I’m going to tell you what I’m going to tell you. There’s a group of no-good scum call themselves National Socialists. They say they’re a worker’s party, but that’s a load of horseshit, if you’ll pardon my French. They’re no better than Jeff Davis and his lot. In fact they’re workin’ alongside Jeff Davis. There’s a ship called the
Robert E. Lee
came into port just the other night from Savannah, Georgia.”

“But German ports don’t allow Confederacy ships to dock,” objected Dowling.

“So they don’t. But I know the
Bobby Lee
. See, I jumped ship from her in Martinique before I came here. She was flying a Panamanian flag a few days back, and she had another name on her, but I knew her right enough when I saw her come to berth. So I watches her, and guess what?”

“Tell me.”

“Just after sundown, the gangplank comes down, and lots of men walk off the
Bobby Lee
and into this big warehouse and they never come out again. And they was all dressed sort of queer.”

“How do you mean? Uniforms?”

“No, that’s my point. They sure as hell weren’t uniforms. They all looked as though they had each other’s clothes on. There was one tall guy, looked just like a scarecrow with his pants legs halfway up to his knees, and his coat sleeves up around his elbows. And then, this is the good part, so listen up close now, a whole load of them brownshirts, the National Socialist private army boys, came by and went into the warehouse an hour or so later. All of ‘em with swastika armbands. Now,” grinning triumphantly. “What do you make of that?”

“Where’s this warehouse?”

Pete grinned. “Interested? I’m sorry to tell you, sir, that this will cost you some money.”

“I’m always happy to spend money in a good cause, Pete, and if I can get this story into my newspaper, it’s a bloody good cause, I tell you.”

“You’ll pay me in British pounds? These German marks aren’t worth a bucket of warm piss now, and they’re getting to be worth less every day. But I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Good old British pounds sterling it shall be. But I don’t have the money with me. I’m going to have to get it from my hotel for you, if you’re prepared to wait.”

Pete led Dowling through the narrow alleys of the dockside. As they came out from between two buildings, he pointed at a ship berthed at the quay. “That’s her, the
Bobby Lee
, but she’s in heavy disguise like I said,” he said. Sure enough, a Panamanian flag was flying from her jack staff, and the name on her stern read
John Hancock
. “Bet if you scraped that Yankee moniker off, you’d find the good old Southern name underneath,” said Pete.

“I’m not taking that bet,” said Dowling.

“And this here’s the warehouse they all went into,” said Pete. He stopped and listened outside the door. “Funny, it’s real quiet.” He moved forward. “And the doors are open.” He pushed open the small judas gate in the main door and entered. Dowling followed. “Got a light?” asked Pete. Dowling was in the habit of carrying a small battery flashlight with him. Shielding the main beam with his hand, he switched it on, removing his hand as it became apparent that they were alone in the warehouse. There were rows of German Army cots, Army-issue field kitchens at one end of the warehouse and …

“A whole row of bloody field latrines,” exclaimed Dowling in wonder. “But where are the people?” He counted the rows and columns of cots. “I make that about a couple of thousand people, all vanished.”

“There’s something here,” called out Pete. He was standing at a table. “Don’t know if this is important or not.” He held up a scrap of paper.

“
Bahnhof - Freitag 23:13
,” read out Dowling. He looked at his watch. If they’re meant to be at the station at 13 minutes past 11 on Friday evening, which is this evening, they can’t have been gone long. How many stations are there in this town? I only know the central station.”

“I figure,” said Pete, “that these two thousand guys is meant to be kept kinda hidden.” Dowling nodded. “So they’re not going to go through the middle of the town. These guys will go from one of the dockyard freight depots. The nearest is a couple of blocks away. Comin’ along?”

“Of course.” Dowling cursed silently. So close, but his watch now read half past eleven. There was little chance that the train was still there. And that meant there was no way that he would be able to talk to Finch-Malloy in Bremen. If he had gone on to Berlin with the rest of the group from the Confederacy, Dowling had to follow him there. He followed Pete out of the warehouse to the depot, which was really only a freight loading platform and an office.

-o-

A
sleepy railroad official was turning off the lights in the office and locking up.

“Working late?” asked Dowling.

“A special train tonight,” grumbled the other.

“What sort of train? What was it carrying?”

“I’m usually off duty at least two hours before this. I like my quiet evenings at home at my time of life.”

“But you get paid for overtime?” suggested Dowling.

“Not nearly enough to answer foolish questions late at night,” complained the official, snapping the door shut and locking it behind him.

“So how about some over-overtime?” suggested Dowling, waving a few large German bills in the general direction of the man’s pocket, where they swiftly disappeared.

“A train made up of cattle trucks. Going to Berlin. Carrying men. Lots of them, dressed in each other’s clothes, by the look of it. Speaking some foreign language, like English, but not English English, I’m sure. And a lot of those National Socialists standing around shouting.”

“And the train was going to Berlin, you say?”

“Yes, due to arrive there tomorrow afternoon. That’s if the signals aren’t broken. Which they usually are,” he added with the air of a man who enjoys bad news. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I will bid you gentlemen goodnight.”

“Well, what is that lot worth to you?” asked Pete when they were alone together again.