Catch the Saint (3 page)

“What, then?”
Julie insisted.

The Special Branch
officer stood in the doorway with her as
the
other men went through the wardrobe and drawers, which
contained
neatly segregated allotments of Julie’s and Adrian’s
clothes. Adrian had
been sleeping in the living-room, turning
over
the bedroom to his sister, but his clothes were still kept
there. The officer’s voice was like a knife
inserted slowly and qui
etly into
this homely setting.

“Your brother has
been arrested under provisions of the Official Secrets Act,” he said.

“You mean, like
spying?”

“The Official Secrets
Act deals with espionage.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Julie said.
“Adrian’s never had any
thing to do
with the government or the services or anything! He’s
got weak lungs and a bad back. How could he
possibly be in a
position to steal
any secrets?”

“There’s more than
one link in a chain,” the officer said mys
teriously.
“But I’m not at liberty to discuss this—and neither are
you, Miss
Norcombe.” He was looking at her very sternly. “I must emphasise this
most strongly. You must not tell anyone
what
has happened. The situation is very touchy, with important things still hanging
in the balance, and it is absolutely necessary
that you keep quiet about it. At least until tomorrow, after you’ve
spoken to Mr Fawkes.”

Julie was feeling
unsteady again.

“Mr Fawkes?”

“Mr Fawkes is in the
Home Office. You have an appointment
with him
tomorrow—or I should say today, at one o’clock. I al
ready
have the address and so forth written down here.” The man
found a piece of paper in his jacket pocket and handed it
to her. “Mr Fawkes is the gentleman who can explain all of this to you.
I’m sorry
that I have to be so close-mouthed about it. But after
all, it’s only a few hours until your appointment. Just have a
good sleep, but see you’re not late.”

A good sleep!
Julie thought despairingly. She felt she’d be
lucky
if she ever slept again. Unwelcome though these men and
their news had been, she did not want them to leave. The
thought
of being alone now frightened her terribly. When they
filed out
into the damp August night, she had to
struggle to keep her
mouth from trembling. What
if Adrian really had been involved
in something? She
could not believe it
…
but what if he had?
Shouldn’t they offer her
something more helpful than their
spokesman’s final
warning, before he turned to go down the
steps:

“Not a word to
anyone, remember.”

She closed the door,
attached the chain, and threw the bolt.
She
must try to sleep, somehow. Only one thing held her in the
front room, and it seemed to call to her silently, like a living crea
ture with some awful hypnotic power: the telephone. She had
to
restrain her hand as she passed it.

This would be the first
crisis in her life in which she would not
be
able to call for Mother.

CHAPTER 2

She had slept about four
hours, and knew she looked it. She
rubbed her cheeks
as if that might bring more life to her face. It was five minutes to one, and
the taxi that had brought her was
pulling away,
leaving her outside the building in Whitehall,
where
she was supposed to learn more about her brother’s fate.

She entered as if the
very size of the place made her feel that
she
should make herself smaller, and approached a desk that promised information.
She cleared her throat and said:

“I have an
appointment with Mr Fawkes, in room 405.”

The commissionaire on
duty was rather small and stout, and
very businesslike.

“What time is your
appointment?”

“At one
o’clock.”

“Most of ‘em are out
to lunch at this hour, but if he’s expecting
you…”

He dialled a number on the
telephone beside him, and tapped
his fingers while he
waited for an answer.

“Hullo,” he
said. “Is Mr Fawkes in? A young lady to see him.”
He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and leaned forward.
“What name, please?”

“Julie
Norcombe.”

She half expected his face
to cloud over at the very mention of
what now must be a
notorious last name, but he went ahead as briskly as ever: “Miss Norcombe.
It is ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she
admitted a little unhappily.

“Jolly good.” He
stood up after depositing the telephone in its
cradle.
“Take the lift to the fourth floor. Mr Fawkes’s office is immediately to
your right as you get out.”

A few minutes later she
was standing outside a door labelled
“J.
FAWKES” and “405.” She knocked. The door opened, and
a red-haired girl looked out at her.

“Miss Norcombe?”

“Yes. I have an
appointment with—”

“Mr Fawkes is
expecting you. Come in, please.”

It was a large, impressive
office, with solid heavy furnishings.
Mr Fawkes’s
red-headed secretary was also impressive, though
for her shape and
proportions rather than any heaviness. Mr
Fawkes
himself was most impressive of all. He rose from behind his desk to a height of
about six feet, and spoke to her with an ac
cent that she associated almost exclusively with the BBC Third
Programme.

“Miss Norcombe, do
have a seat. It’s good of you to come.”

She was overawed not only
by the silky smooth uncoiling of
his phrases, but also by the grey at his
temples, his majestic
straight nose, the
poise with which he held himself and gestured
her to a chair, a little as if he were flicking a speck of dust from
the air with the backs of his fingertips.

“Thank you,” was
all Julie could say.

She found herself wanting
to make a good impression, wanting
to equal Mr Fawkes
in poise. He was a facet of London that she
had
imagined admiringly in advance, and now found completely up to her ideal. For a
moment she forgot why she was there …
but
only for a moment.

“I’m sorry about
your brother, Miss Norcombe,” Fawkes said, sinking easily back into his
chair. “I’m particularly sorry that the
news
had to be broken to you as it was, in the wee small hours of
the morning. But that’s the way we have to operate
sometimes.”

Julie glanced towards the
secretary, who was now at her own
desk on the other
side of the room, absorbed in writing some
thing
down. Was she making a record of the conversation?

“It’s all
right,” Julie said. “I just couldn’t believe it. Adrian
is …He just isn’t
…”

Fawkes looked coolly
sympathetic.

“Appearances can be
deceiving, as the cliche has it. In any
case,
we don’t want to rush to conclusions about your brother’s character. A man can
be motivated by a great many things.”

“I’m not sure what
you mean.”

Fawkes shrugged.

“Well, blackmail for
example. Or financial problems. An artist
may,
for example, believe that he has such a great mission in
life that he can rationalise almost any means of keeping himself
going.”

Julie broke in: “I
beg your pardon, but please tell me, exactly
what
did my brother do?”

“Your brother has
been detained under Section 48C of the
Defence
Regulations. What that means is that he is allegedly in
volved in activities aiding potential enemies of His Majesty. For
eign powers, in other words.”

“How could he do
that?” Julie asked cautiously. It suddenly
occurred
to her for the first time that if the police or whoever
they were could mistakenly accuse her brother of crimes,
they
might suspect her too. “I really don’t
understand,” she added, to
emphasise her innocence.

“By transmitting
information,” Fawkes said, touching his
palms
together lightly. “That’s just one possibility. A man can
act as a courier without actually doing any spying in the sense of
stealing or compiling information. He may have very little knowl
edge of what he’s doing, or why, for that matter.”

Julie studied the man’s
face for some chink in the carefully
controlled
professional fa
ç
ade. She found none.

“But you must know
what he was supposed to be doing,” she
said.

“I know more than
I’m permitted to tell you. That’s the whole point of this conversation,
actually. We didn’t count on you, you
see. Since your brother was under
surveillance, we knew you were coming, but you’ll recall that you were a little
uncertain
until the last minute about
exactly when you would arrive in London, and it happened that our own plans for
your brother’s
detention were
delayed for about a week by circumstances.
Otherwise the whole thing might have been over with before you
got here.”

Julie felt momentarily
hopeful.

“You mean Adrian
might just be held for a few days and then
let
go?”

“That’s a
possibility,” Fawkes replied. “Remember, his guilt
hasn’t been
proved in a court of law or anything like that. But what I was really getting
at is the fact that a number of people
are
involved in this business, and we have only some of them
under arrest. The investigation is continuing. No
doubt more
members of the ring will
be rounded up over the next few days. Meanwhile we have to keep the whole situation
completely quiet.
We need a
smoke-screen of silence. I’m talking to you not only to
explain the situation. My primary purpose is to
make absolutely
certain that you
don’t mention anything about this to anyone.”

“Well, yes, but with
people being arrested, won’t the
other …” She
paused to grope for a word. “Won’t the other
spies
realise what’s happening anyway?”

“To some extent, of
course. But if I explained the whole situa
tion
to you in detail I’d be violating my own orders. Just believe
me: You mustn’t say anything.”

“What should I do,
if somebody asks me about him?”

“In the first place,
don’t mention to anyone that your brother is
gone.
In the second place, if someone questions you as to his
whereabouts, be vague about it and pretend there’s nothing
ab
normal about the fact that you don’t know where he
can be
reached at the moment. Artists are eccentric
fellows, after all.
Perhaps he’s gone off to Cornwall to
practice yoga.”

Julie did not smile,
though Fawkes did, slightly.

“How long do I have
to keep this up?” she asked him.

He looked completely
serious again, and thought before speak
ing.

“Possibly for several
weeks. We’ll let you know.”

“Several weeks?”
It was the first time Julie had raised her
voice.
“That’s a long time.”

“All you have to do is say nothing,”
Fawkes insisted. “You
may feel it’s
best to go back home. I think I’d agree with you on
that. It might spare you problems here.”

“What would I tell my
mother?”

“You can easily
explain to her that your brother has gone on a
trip.”

“But where
is
he
really? Adrian? What’s happened to him?”

“I can’t divulge that
information. But you can be sure he’s be
ing
treated well. When the undercover aspect of this affair is
completed, he’ll be given every facility for his defence.”

“Couldn’t I see him,
or at least speak to him on the tele
phone?” Julie
pleaded.

“I’m afraid that’s
quite impossible.”

As if he had suddenly
been made aware of the time, by a si
lent signal, Fawkes
stood up. Julie got to her feet also, but hesi
tated.