Bluebolt One (13 page)

The Outfit’s man stopped as though he had forgotten something, then turned back clicking his tongue in annoyance and walked away in the opposite direction, passing the two hefty men as he did so. He went right back to the corner of Mark Lane and turned up it, glancing back casually and without interest from the corner. He saw the girl getting into the Jaguar with the other men. Making for a small blue Morris, he got in beside the driver.

He said with satisfaction, “Got her. Black Jag, 123 XKV, headed east.”

The driver nodded, let in his clutch and nosed out of Mark Lane. Coming out into Great Tower Street he saw tl‘ Jaguar turning round Trinity Square to come down Cooper Row towards Tower Hill. No one in the Jaguar was looking at the Morris as the big car came down past them, making for Eastcheap and the Monument.

As they approached the junction, the man beside the driver of the Morris picked up a hand microphone and flicked a switch. Keeping his eyes on the Jaguar he said, “Olga calling Redfern . . . Olga calling Redfern . . . over.”

The reply came quickly, a little muzzy with interference. “Redfern acknowledging, Redfern acknowledging... come in, Olga. Over.”

The man said, “Black Jaguar, 123 XKV, four men, girl in rear seat centre. Men almost certainly armed. They are turning north out of Eastcheap into Gracechurch Street now. Over.”

“Message received. Am now in Cornhill, will wait further broadcast but am standing by to take over.”

A little later the man in the Morris said, “Olga calling Redfern— Jaguar now turning into Leadenhall Street. Will you take over, please. Over and out.”

The set clicked off and Redfern acknowledged. Staring ahead, the man in the Morris watched a grey Standard Ten cross the head of Gracechurch Street into Leadenhall Street just before the lights changed. When they changed again the Morris went straight on into Bishopsgate and lost interest in the proceedings. The grey Standard cruised along behind the Jaguar, followed it across Aldgate and the top of Hounds-ditch, where it gathered speed down Aldgate High Street and Whitechapel High Street, then veered to the right into the Commercial Road. In Sidney Street, farther along, another car waited, its passenger listening to a broadcast from the Standard which told him that the Jaguar was now moving into his area. In districts north, south, and west of Tower Hill other men listened and heard that they would not be needed after all, that the chase was moving away from their pre-arranged positions. As the receiver in the Sidney Street car died, the passenger nodded to his driver and the fresh car pulled out a little ahead of the Jaguar and then allowed itself to be overtaken as the Jaguar went fast under the railway bridge by Stepney East and the Regent’s Canal Dock.

In the Rolls-Royce-engined van marked
J. C. Grimes, Fishmonger
, Shaw had been keeping a listening watch on all reports, and Thompson, his driver, had kept the van in the general vicinity of the Jaguar without ever once coming across its track so that he could be seen; the idea being that when the cue came through they could take over for what Shaw hoped would be the kill. He would take over once they were well clear of Tower Hill, and he felt reasonably confident that a fishmonger’s van appearing on the scene some while after the Jaguar had started on its journey would not be remarked upon. Twisting in his seat towards two men crouched in the back he spoke to one of them, “All right, Pelly?”

“We’re fine, sir, apart from the stink of fish.”

Shaw grinned slightly and nodded. To Thompson he said, “She’s fast. Think you can keep behind her all right? They may open up more later on if they’re heading out of London, and we’ll probably have a longer run than the others anyway.”

Thompson said, “You’re not worried with this little beauty, sir, are you? It’s easy. Only trouble’s going to be the traffic.”

His hairy brown hand reached for the gear-shift, and the van moved on across some traffic-lights. Shaw glanced sideways at him, saw the steady eyes, watchful of the road ahead now. Thompson, the ex-Petty Officer who had once been Latymer’s own coxswain when the Old Man had last commanded a ship at sea, and who was now his personal driver, was just about the best hand behind a wheel that Shaw had ever known, and that was why he’d asked Latymer to let him have him for this job.

In the back of the Jaguar the girl sat between the two men, one of whom held a revolver pressed into her side. They didn’t speak; now and again one or the other of them turned and looked over his shoulder through the rear window. The driver, too, kept glancing into his mirror. But there was no sign of any pursuit, no car that appeared to keep behind more than ordinarily long.

As the Jaguar went deeper into London’s East End, Gillian Ross felt her stomach turn to water. Her mouth was trembling. After a while she asked, “Where are we going?”

The man on her right gave a soft laugh. He said, “You’ll find out soon enough. You’ll be going a long way, sister.”

In the fishmonger’s van the radio crackled in Shaw’s ears, and he listened, then flicked a switch.

He said, “Rescue answering Vanity... message received. Very good, will take over now.”

Switching off, he said, “Right, Thompson, we’re in. They’re in Limehouse, heading along the East India Dock Road. Get on to ’em now.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Thompson put his foot down, going as fast as he could through a maze of back streets. Soon after, the van took a right-hand turn into the East India Dock Road.

Shaw watched anxiously. “Can’t see her, Thompson.”

A moment later Thompson said, “She’s coming up behind now.”

Shaw relaxed, sat back in his seat. He said, “Good! She’s all yours, then. I’ll leave it to you—you know the best distance!”

“Don’t you worry, sir.”

The Jaguar overtook the van and then kept straight ahead for a while. Just beyond Victoria Dock Road it turned off into Silvertown Way, and then went through the criss-cross of side-streets that made up Canning Town, approaching the river again somewhere, Shaw judged, behind the Customs House in Victoria Docks.

He felt pretty confident they hadn’t been spotted, that the driver of the Jaguar had no suspicion whatever that he had been tailed by a series of cars. But, so far, it had been easy enough in those busy main thoroughfares. Now, it was trickier—much trickier. Lorries were unloading at the tall grey warehouses, and the streets were admittedly far from empty; but there wasn’t so much general traffic now. The van, innocent though it looked, might soon become a little obvious to the men ahead. On the other hand, if he dropped back too far, this was precisely the kind of neighbourhood in which the Jaguar could disappear for good. . . .

A little later the Jaguar slackened speed and then turned down a side street to the left. Shaw, watching the line of buildings, said, “Keep right on across that turning, Thompson. I’ve a feeling it may be a cul-de-sac.”

“Yes, sir.”

The van held its course, crossed the head of the turning, going slow. Looking left, Shaw caught a brief glimpse of the Jaguar disappearing through some big gates in a high wall at the end, beyond which there seemed to be a biggish yard. Shaw could see the high side of a warehouse, and over the gateway was a sign in the form of an arch, in gilt lettering fixed to a metal framework. The sign read:
Emco (Importers) Limited.

Shaw snapped, “Right, Thompson. Journey’s end. Stop her and back up until you’ve got a clear view of that cul-de-sac.”

The van stopped and backed, pulling up on the opposite side of the road just clear of the turning. Thompson took his hands off the wheel, rubbed them together. “Well, sir. Now what?”

“This is where Pelly and I go in and take a look round.”

The ex-sailor asked pensively, “Sure you wouldn’t like some help, sir?”

Shaw grinned, put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’d like nothing better than to have you along, but I’ve got something else for you and Archer to do.” He looked round at Pelly and Archer in the back. “Righto, you can hop out now.”

“Glad to, sir!” Pelly, a squarely built, homely man, slid back towards the rear door of the van. “Apart from getting cramp, I’m nearly asphyxiated.” He grimaced, screwing up

deep-set eyes in a leathery face. “One thing about this Outfit, sir, we do go in for plenty of authenticity.”

Shaw gave a brief, tight smile. “Take a deep breath then, Pelly. It’s going to get a whole lot fishier before long!” As the two men clambered out of the back, he turned to Thompson again. “There’s a call-box over there—see it?” Thompson nodded. “Give me a minute or two after I’ve left you, then ring the Admiralty. Speak to Mr Latymer personally. Tell him where I’ll be—Emco’s warehouse in—” He glanced through the window. “Calcutta Street, Canning Town. After you’ve done that, come back to the van and keep an eye on what comes out of Calcutta Street. Archer had better scout around for a back exit and watch that. Ring Mr Latymer at once if that Jag appears again, and then wait for Pelly and me. If the Jag doesn’t come out, give us a full hour from now. If we haven’t appeared again by that time you’ll report to the Chief by phone—after which, of course, you’ll be under his orders again. Clear?”

Thompson nodded. “Yes, sir, all clear and understood. And—best o’ luck, sir.”

“Thanks, Thompson.”

Shaw got out and joined Pelly, then swung away angularly, his tall frame striding ahead of his companion towards the warehouse gates. Thompson nodded to Archer, who went off to look for the back entrance, and then he sat there behind the wheel and watched Shaw and Pelly go, shaking his head and whistling softly between his teeth. He didn’t feel easy in his mind. . . Commander Shaw, he thought, he’s a real gentleman, and if anything looks like happening to him I know what I’d like to do: Go in there fighting.

Thompson, however, like Shaw, was still a sailor at heart; and he knew he just had to hang on and obey orders. He got out of the van, yawned, stretched as though he hadn’t a care in the world; then he went across to the telephone-box and called Whitehall. After that he went back and settled himself comfortably behind the wheel of the van again, lit up his pipe, and pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket. The headlines were all about some state in Africa—place called Nogolia. Thompson had only vaguely heard about it. They seemed to be having plenty of trouble just now, like the rest of Africa . . . Thompson turned the page. As he read he kept a careful eye on the street and on his driving mirror, watching for the Jaguar.

Nothing would get past him, or Archer for that matter.

Three minutes after leaving the van Shaw and Pelly walked in through the gateway of Emco’s yard, which was littered with straw and tissue packing, lids of old crates, and other broken woodwork. Away across the cobbles to their right was a big loading bay, with piles of sacks stacked in the rear and several lorries loading at the raised platform. At the back of this bay was a sign saying
Inquiries
and an arrow pointing towards the door of an office.

They went across and Shaw tapped at the door. He entered a small room with a counter running across it. Behind the counter, at a desk, a neatly-dressed clerk was making entries in a ledger. He glanced up as Shaw and Pelly came in, and got to his feet.

“Yes?”

Shaw said, “Good morning. I’m making some general inquiries about import statistics . . . I was wondering if I might have a word with your managing director?”

The clerk pursed his lips. “I don’t know if Mr Canasset’s here, sir. He doesn’t come down every day, not to the warehouse, you see. I’ve no appointments for him to-day—not that I’ve been told of, that is.”

Shaw said, “No, that’s quite right, I haven’t an appointment as it happens. Only as I was in the vicinity I thought I’d call—”

The clerk interrupted him firmly. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr Canasset never sees anyone except by appointment. Even if he is here. He’s very particular about that.” He half turned from the counter, dismissingly. “If you’d like to make an appointment by letter?”

“I’m afraid that won’t do.” Shaw’s expression hardened. “Look, this is very important. If you’d be good enough to find out if Mr Canasset is in, and tell him. . . tell him Mr Ross would like to see him, I feel quite certain he’ll see me.”

Shaw was watching the clerk’s face intently, but there was no reaction. The young man said doubtfully, “Well, I can ring and ask, if you like.”

“Thank you.”

The clerk went back to his desk and took up a house telephone. There was a brief conversation, apparently with a secretary, and then the clerk looked up at Shaw and said, “He’s in all right.” He held on for a while and after nearly a minute he said, “Very good, Mr Canasset, sir. Yes, sir, two gentlemen, that’s right.” He put down the receiver and got up. “Mr Canasset’ll spare you a few minutes, sir,” he told Shaw. “Mr Verity, that’s his personal assistant, he’ll be down in a moment.”

Almost V.I.P. treatment, Shaw thought sardonically. He nodded, folded his arms, and leaned back against the counter. Off-handedly he asked, “What kind of importing do you do, mainly?”

“Natural products entirely, sir, chiefly from Africa. There’s millet, cocoa, palm-oil. . . all that kind of thing. Quite varied. You interested in those lines, sir?”

“Among others,” Shaw murmured. His gaze wandered round the office, out through the grimy window. It all looked ordinary enough, he supposed, but then of course it would. And that Jaguar had definitely come in here.

Mr Verity was down very quickly, coming through a doorway opening into the section of the office behind the counter. By the look of him he’d been hurrying—he was hot, and a little out of breath. His plump stomach rose and fell with the effort of taking in air, the round moon-face had its mouth open to give him a surly, adenoidal look.

Blinking rapidly he asked, “Mr Ross? If you’ll kindly come this way, gentlemen.” He opened a flap in the counter and Shaw walked through, followed by Pelly. They emerged from the back of the office into the main body of a large warehouse stacked high with crates and sacks and round baskets. Verity led the way along a narrow gangway between the piled goods, and as he went along Shaw glanced at the black-stencilled markings on some of the goods, noting the ports of origin. . . Monrovia, Port Harcourt, Accra, Lagos, Freetown, Pointe Noire, Lobito, Walvis Bay . . . there was no doubt about it, Messrs Emco had plenty of contacts with the Coast.