i 16b0d473103b6aa5 (25 page)

set it going. The song was a French version of “Oh, Mamma!” and the singer was Waltheof

Leibowitz.

“Waltheof Leibowitz,” said Alexander Ogilvie thoughtfully. “I’ve heard that name

somewhere.”

The introduction ended, the singer started off with notable verve. Dixon Ogilvie clapped

his hands to his ears and said, “For heaven’s sake!”

“I have it, it was that comic hotel baritone Denton punched on the nose in Switzerland.”

“He ought to have killed him,” moaned Dixon. “Stop it, stop it. How does one stop these

dam’ things?”

“One takes the needle off, for a start,” said his uncle, doing so, “and then one stops the

motor, thus.”

“Thank you. I suppose the thing would play a decent record by Moskowski instead,

would it?”

“Of course it would.”

“Present my excuses to the Female Orphanage,” said Dixon Ogilvie to the customs

official, “I will take the thing on. What do I have to do about it?”

“It is only necessary for m’sieu’ to acknowledge ownership. I will make out an additional

way-bill.”

“Thanks awfully, carry on, will you? I am sorry to have given so much trouble,” said

Dixon. “Allow me to—er—”

“Thank you, m’sieu’. The affair is now in order.”

“That’s an odd business,” said Alexander Ogilvie, as the train moved off again. “Are you

sure you didn’t buy it as a present for somebody and forget about it?”

“It’s more probably that some luggage labels came loose at Cologne and were later tied

on the wrong things,” said Dixon.

“In that case, you’ve lost something. I wonder what it is.”

“So do I.”

“You don’t seem very worried about it. By the way, no, you can’t have lost one, the way-

bill said six packages, and this one was an extra.”

“Oh, the man counted wrong, that’s all, but if they insist the thing’s mine I’m jolly well

going to keep it,” said Dixon, but all the time he was wondering whether Hambledon had had

anything to do with it, and if so, what and why. There didn’t seem much sense in it, but

Intelligence agents are always mysterious people, and perhaps it was only a joke—a little return

for the concert of school songs. Or possibly Hambledon really thought that this crooner fellow

was something wonderful. Ogilvie shuddered faintly, but he knew that some people would agree.

In that case, why not send it to him openly, without all this mystery, unless Hambledon had got

so in the habit of being mysterious that he just couldn’t help it. Ogilvie gave it up and dozed in

his corner, anyway the thing would be an interesting memento of an interesting man, he was glad

to have it and would value it highly, records and all. After all, one needn’t play the beastly

things.

At Dover, a porter collected their luggage, including the gramophone, and wheeled them

on a barrow into the customs shed, the two Ogilvies following. They saw him slide all the things

on to the bench, though they were themselves impeded from reaching it at once by a lady with

several daughters who passed before them in single file, adhering to each other. A large trunk

shot on the counter and masked the Ogilvie luggage for a moment, but at last they arrived where

it was and waited for the customs officer, looking about them, with the ghoulish curiosity we all

feel when passing customs, to see if anybody else was going to be bowled out. However, no such

entertainment offered itself, and at last the customs man reached them.

“Anything to declare?” he said, and held up before them a card bearing a list of dutiable

articles.

“One portable gramophone,” said Dixon Ogilvie promptly, and looked among the pile of

luggage for it.

“What value, sir?”

“No idea, I had it given to me—I don’t see it. It’s not here. Where is it?”

“You are sure—” began the man, but Ogilvie cut him short.

“I saw the porter load it on his barrow with the rest, wheel them in here and put them on

the bench. I saw him put the gramophone on the bench, I was watching him.”

The customs officer consulted the way-bill and counted the luggage. “It says six articles,

sir, and there are six.”

“I know. There was a mistake at Cologne, and the gramophone had a ticket all to itself.”

“I have no other way-bill in your name, sir.”

“D’you think I’m lying?” stormed Ogilvie, thoroughly losing his temper. “It was in your

charge and it’s missing. I will have it, it must be found at once.”

“A search shall be made,” said the customs man, and consulted a colleague.

“Someone has stolen it,” said Dixon furiously. “Blasted inefficiency! Infernal

carelessness! If one’s goods aren’t safe in a customs house in an English port, where are they?”

“My dear boy,” said his uncle, “did you really want it as badly as all that? You nearly

gave it to the Female Orphans before. No doubt if it can’t be found the authorities will replace

it.”

“I don’t want it replaced, I want that one,” began Dixon, but suddenly became aware that

everyone was staring at him, and relapsed into purple silence.

Denton returned to his flat in town and Liese ran out to meet him.

“Charles dear, you are so late, be quick, the dinner is spoiling.”

“Yes, angel, just a minute, I must look at this thing.”

“It’s a gramophone, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I want to know why the Department sent me all the way to Dover to collect a

wedding present in person.”

“Oh, who gave us that, Charles?”

“A friend of your father’s, m’dear. Records in the lid—my hat!”

“Oh! They’re Waltheof’s, how lovely. Is ‘Im Monat Mai’ there? Yes, here it is, let’s have

that one, Charles darling.”

“If you wish,” said Charles, putting it on. “Unhealthy distorted sense of humour I call

this,” he muttered as Waltheof’s voice rang out, “confound Hambledon. Fancy having to listen to

this.”

But to their intense surprise, a third of the way through the record Waltheof’s ringing

tones suddenly ran down the scale, and came to an abrupt stop.

“So he never kissed the
kleine Mädchen
after all,” said Denton, laughing at his wife, “or

did he? Something wrong here, where’s a screwdriver?”

“Oh, darling, the dinner!”

“Let me just do this, angel, won’t be a minute. No room on this table, I’ll do it on the

floor. Look, it won’t take a minute, just these four screws and the whole thing lifts out—”

“
Not
on the carpet!” shrieked his wife. “Oh, you pig, darling, on our lovely cream-

coloured carpet, all that black grease—”

But Denton was too busy staring to listen to Liese’s wails, for the vacant space round and

under the motor was packed with papers. One envelope was addressed to him and he tore it open.

“Dear Denton,” ran the note inside. “These few nuts for the Dept, with my salutations.

Hope your wife likes the records, she can play them when you’re out, can’t she? Every good

wish. T.H.”

Denton drew out one thin packet and two thick ones, and put them in his pocket, his wife

watching him in that dutiful silence which Dixon Ogilvie so rightly admired.

“Sorry about the dinner, my sweet, got to go out,” he said, and her face fell. “I am sorry, I

won’t be a minute longer than I can help, and you are a darling not to argue. I adore you—”

“Dearest,” she said, as he was leaving the room with a rush.

“Yes, what? I can’t stop just now.”

“Not even to wash your hands?”

“No—oh, Lor’! As you were, yes.”

Denton took a taxi to the Foreign Office, handed over the papers and explained where he

had found them.

“I had an idea that there might be something there,” said his chief. “Hambledon would

not wireless such detailed instructions for collecting the thing if it were only a wedding present

and nothing more—how did Ogilvie take its disappearance?”

“When I left he was jumping up and down and making turkey-cock noises,” began

Denton, but the other man cut him short.

“My godfathers, look at this. Photographic copies of an Order to the German Chief of

Police to get out a scheme for the effective policing of Austria after its union with the Reich in

March. In March, good Lord! A carbon copy of the said Chief of Police’s scheme, not merely a

copy, Denton, but a carbon duplicate. How the devil—what are these?” he went on, opening the

two fatter envelopes, full of sheets of flimsy paper. “Dossiers of German agents in this country,

dozens of ’em. Dozens of ’em.” He put the papers down and filled his pipe. “So Germany

marches into Austria in March, does she? Hambledon, you ought to have the K.C.B. No, he

ought to have the Garter. Dammit, he’s earned a halo, only I hope he doesn’t get it just yet.”

Hambledon, having some work he wished to finish at home, returned from his office a

little earlier than usual one evening and went straight to his study. He was investigating a series

of fires in various parts of Germany, in some of which (
a
) arson was suspected but not proved,

(
b
) it was certainly arson but no arrest had been made, and (
c
) those cases in which an arrest had

been made; but Hambledon was by no means satisfied that it was always the right person who

had been arrested. He had left the papers in a tidy pile to the left of his desk, categories (
a
), (
b
)

and (
c
) each in alphabetical order and, on top of the whole lot, a separate sheet containing a list

of all these cases. He sat down at his desk, drew the pile towards him, and after the first glance

examined it with curiosity.

In the first place, the list was not at the top, it was at the bottom, but what really made

him gnash his teeth was that the rest of the papers, instead of being carefully and methodically

sorted as he had left them, were thoroughly and horribly mixed up.

“Damn it,” said Hambledon, looking through them, “someone has shuffled them like a

pack of cards.”

He looked at the other papers on his desk; though they had not been so carefully arranged

as the arson cases he was sure they had been changed about. That demand from Goebbels for full

statistics of the number of women (
a
) single, (
b
) married, or (
c
) widowed who had been

convicted of shoplifting in the last two years classified so as to show how many of them were (1)

countrywomen, i.e., dwellers in places of up to 1,000 inhabitants and (2) townswomen, dwellers

in places of 1,000 inhabitants and over, hadn’t been at the top of any pile for at least five weeks.

Confound Goebbels, anyway, this recent and increasing thirst for statistics was becoming a

wholetime nuisance, and Hambledon had a shrewd idea that Goebbels meant it to be. “He’s

getting after me,” said Hambledon to himself, “wonder why?” He made a rude gesture at

Goebbels’ query and put it firmly back at the bottom of the “miscellaneous” tray.

Having thus restored himself to good temper, he rose from his chair and went in search of

Fräulein Rademeyer.

“I say, dear, have you by any chance been dusting my desk lately?”

“No, Klaus, why? Is it badly done?”

“No, that is, it’s perfectly clean, but my papers are all muddled up and it’s rather

tiresome. Who does it, Agathe?”

“No, it’s Franz’ business to wait on you. I am sorry, dear, if he is getting careless, would

you like me to speak to him about it?”

“Don’t bother, I will,” said Hambledon, and returned to his study and rang for Franz.

“Did you dust my desk to-day, Franz?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This pile of papers which were carefully sorted are all in confusion. Do you think you

could—”

“I beg your pardon, sir. I had an accident with that pile of papers, I picked them up and

held them in one hand, sir, thus, while I dusted underneath them with the other, and they slipped

out of my hand and skated all over the floor, if I may put it like that, sir. I picked them all up, I

was not aware they were in any particular order. I am very sorry, sir, I will see it does not occur

again.”

“That’s all right, Franz, only you understand that sort of thing is tiresome when one is

busy.”

“Certainly, sir. Thank you,” said Franz, and left the room.

“Quite a good explanation,” thought Hambledon, looking after the man. “It may be quite

true, it’s a way papers have, but—Oh, well, I suppose I’m naturally suspicious.”

Nevertheless, when he left the study that evening he put most of the papers away in the

drawers of his desk and locked them up. Among them was an order to raid the headquarters of

the German Freedom League, it was complete except for his signature, but he was not quite

satisfied with the bona fides of all the information received. He thought it over, decided to make

a few more inquiries, and put it away in its envelope unsigned.

Two days later he opened the envelope again, but instead of the order there was a neatly-

written note saying simply, “No good. They have escaped to Switzerland.”

“This is too much,” said Hambledon, justly indignant. “A joke’s a joke, but taking papers

out of my desk and replacing them with little notes telling me where I get off is just plain

damned impertinence. Who does the feller think I am? Von Papen?”

He considered the matter carefully and came to the conclusion that the culprit must be