The Doors Open (24 page)

“Admitted,” said Hewson-Collet, “that any financial embarrassment on our part is a cause of rejoicing to a certain Power whom we’re all too gentlemanly to mention by name. But was there, in fact, much in this for them. The only villain of the piece is Legate. We may be stung or we may be sunk – probably shall be. But it isn’t a criminal offence to be fooled – not yet.”

Lord Cedarbrook looked faintly surprised. “I’m afraid you haven’t got the idea at all,” he said. “Look it at this way. Suppose that we hadn’t got on to Legate’s game. Suppose he had wound up the business in a blaze of well-organized publicity – as he no doubt meant to. He’d have got rid of all your soundest holdings – and your shaky ones would have dropped through the floor. Your total loss would have run into millions. The public aren’t financial wizards, but that’s the sort of thing they
can
understand. The Stalagmite has lost two or three million pounds –
somebody
must have pocketed it. The suggestion, of course, is that
you
have done so. Then why haven’t you been prosecuted? Well, there’s a suggestion for that, too. Sir George has got a brother-in-law in the Cabinet and your cousin, Lord Stallybrowe, is a Parliamentary Under-secretary. We know it’s nonsense, of course, but that sort of thing’s meat and drink to the left wing. It was a perfectly lovely weapon. But, as I said, it was a weapon which needed the nicest timing in its use. And it is that timing which they have just failed to achieve. If Legate could have got clear away before you had any idea of what was happening you would have gone down without a struggle. As it is, you’ve got a chance.”

“There is a chance,” said Mr Atkinson slowly, “if you will hold your hand for a day or two. We can put an immediate distringas on any securities that Van Bright hasn’t actually sold. And where he has sold, we may be able to impugn the sale for lack of good faith. Then we shall need to float off some of those doubtful securities. It all depends on how long you can give us. If you upset the market now we shall get about a farthing in the pound.”

Lord Cedarbrook looked at Mr Curtis who said: “The Director has had to consider his duty to the public as well as to your shareholders and yourselves. But in the special circumstances he is prepared to suspend all action for forty-eight hours–”

“We shall have to get a move on,” said Mr Atkinson. “There’s only one thing to do. We shall have to form a private company to buy every single Stalagmite share which is offered for sale. When the news becomes public that ought to prevent a general run on our credit. I’d better see to the details–”

“Then we’d better have a test audit at once to find where we stand.”

“Mr Lloyd can take Legate’s place for the time being. If anyone wants to know where Legate is, say that he’s ill–”

“The police hunt will have to go on,” said Curtis. “We can’t guarantee that we shall be able to keep the public in the dark even for forty-eight hours. Something may get out.”

“Then the sooner we start the better,” said Mr Atkinson, who seemed quite cheerful now that there was action in prospect. “If you will leave the immediate steps to myself and Hewson-Collet I suggest we adjourn and meet again in two hours’ time.”

Lord Stallybrowe was last to go. He seemed to move in a daze. When he left the building he made instinctively for the modest café at which it was his custom to lunch on Board-meeting days.

In the middle of the road he changed his mind, and by vigorously waving, succeeded in stopping a taxi.

“Where to, sir,” said the taxi driver.

“The Ritz Hotel,” said Lord Stallybrowe.

It was the gesture of a lifetime.

And so for forty-eight hours.

The directors, under the inspired leadership of Charles Bedell Atkinson (Sir Charles now, of course), wrought to save the Stalagmite. And though no one will ever know what it cost them personally, it is a matter of history that they did save it; and with it a small but definite part of England’s financial credit. And at that time she was living on her credit and on not much else.

The police spread their invisible net, the unostentatious net of the man-to-man enquiry, and thousands of uniformed policemen and thousands of plain-clothes detectives and even more thousands of Specials and railway police and dock police and customs operatives and airport officials received a Description and a Name.

And reports came flowing in, and were sifted and scrutinized and analysed – and about one in ten seemed promising enough to be followed up.

And the trouble taken was infinite, and the success achieved was nil.

Appropriately it was Lord Cedarbrook who made the final suggestion. He made it to Chief Inspector Hazlerigg on the morning of the second day of the great search.

They were talking about the character of the Russian – or Lord Cedarbrook was talking, for it was a subject about which he knew a great deal, and Hazlerigg was listening with one ear cocked for the telephone.

“They’re diffcult to grasp,” said His Lordship, “because it’s always difficult to understand an alliance between fire and ice. On the one hand they are devastatingly practical – they subordinate the means to the end to a degree which frightens a Western European. On that side of the medal, you know, Legate was pure Russian. I expect that’s why they understood him so well. And then, when you think you’ve understood that part of their character you strike this extraordinary vein of sentimentality. It takes a lot of different forms – a secret respect for convention, an exaggerated hero worship–”

Hazlerigg waited patiently. He guessed that some practical suggestion might eventually emerge from this theorizing. When it did come it surprised him.

“I should look for Vassilev,” said Lord Cedarbrook at last. “If you find Vassilev he’ll lead you to Legate.”

“Quite so. Where do we look?”

“It’s only a suggestion,” said His Lordship. “But why not start with Highgate? I can’t give you very convincing reasons, but such as they are, they seem to point there. First, when I met Vassilev he was in a tube train going in the direction of Highgate. Of course, the train was going to the centre of London as well, but I don’t think he’d be living there. And then again, he may have been bluffing. But that’s where the Russian character comes in. If he had been a German I should have guessed he lived in Edgware – the place the train was coming from. The German is by nature a double bluffer. The Russian is a treble bluffer. Therefore, since he was going towards Highgate, I think he lives in Highgate. And that fits in with his respect for convention, too. You’ll find that most prominent Russian anarchists have lived in Highgate or Hampstead. Peter Kropotkin, Felix Volkhovsky, Rankow. Karl Marx was buried in Highgate Cemetery.”

“That’s all very well,” said Hazlerigg. “It’s an interesting theory. You talk of Highgate and Hampstead, but have you got any idea of their size? Together they form one of the biggest residential areas in London. We may have a lot of men on the job but strike me down, I can’t authorize a house to house search throughout the whole N6 and NW6, postal districts.”

“Nor am I suggesting that you should,” said Lord Cedarbrook. “This is where my lecture on the Russian respect for the great men of the past comes in. I’ll get the Department to give you a list of a dozen houses where heroes of the Revolution have lived in exile. It would be so completely in character for Vassilev to pick one of those.”

“We can try it,” said Hazlerigg. In his philosophy police work largely consisted in trying anything. It was the longest shots which sometimes came off.

At the third attempt – it was at the corner house in Nansen Hill, where Oralov the nihilist poet had spent seven hectic years before returning to Russia and martyrdom in 1918 – Sergeant Crabbe struck a very warm trail. He telephoned Hazlerigg, who said, “That sounds like Vassilev all right. Left yesterday afternoon, did he? I’ll get a search warrant and come along myself. You stay there and watch the house. Oh, and see if you can pick up anything from the neighbours.”

Colonel Vassilev was a thorough man, as Hazlerigg and his professional searchers realized when they had finished their first quick survey of the house. But he had left in a hurry, and in a hurry even the most experienced agents make mistakes; sometimes quite obvious mistakes.

“He cleared his desk and his wastepaper basket,” said Hazlerigg. “And the blotter’s clean. But – wait a minute – look here.” He pulled out the thick pad of blotting paper – a dozen double sheets together. The outside ones were blank, but at some time the whole pad had been refolded, and the inside sheets showed criss-cross lines of spidery writing.

“It’s Russian, all right,” said Lord Cedarbrook to Nap, who seemed to have attached himself to the party. “Something about an ‘uncle’ with a house in the country. And look, here’s a place name in capital letters, and there it is again – Blampford.”

“That’s near Salisbury,” said Sergeat Crabbe. “It was an Air Force station. I think there’s a small airport there now. I was in the village at the beginning of the war.”

Hazlerigg said, “This is beginning to look solemn. It might be a matter of hours – or even minutes. I don’t suppose he’d have been in time to get off last night, but this morning – he may be in the air now.”

Nap never forgot that last scene. The shabby little over-furnished room, the bulk of Lord Cedarbrook. Hazlerigg in front of the fire, his grey eyes very anxious. Sergeant Crabbe and the two police searchers; the landlady fluttering in the doorway.

“Have you got a telephone?”

“Yes, sir. There’s one in the hall.”

“Get on to headquarters,” said Hazlerigg to Sergeant Crabbe, “and tell them to clear me a priority to the Air Ministry. Tell them I’ll be at my office to use it in eight – no
–
seven minutes. Then see if you can get a line to Blampford. It mayn’t be easy on this phone but try. Come on.”

The drive was a memory, too. There were two police drivers, and they knew their way about; but to get from Highgate to Westminster in seven minutes is a feat.

2

Sergeant Crabbe’s call to Blampford got through at the same time as Hazlerigg’s – and both of them crossed a message from Blampford police station. This was brief and to the point. It said “A small civil Auster type monoplane Registration GAWG left Blampford without permission from Control Tower at 1100 hours this morning. Control Tower sent us this information at 1105.”

“Not bad,” said Hazlerigg. “1115. We’ve still got a chance. Hello. Yes. Group Captain Maine, please. Yes. Extremely urgent.”

“Another message from Blampford, sir,” said Inspector Pickup. “The chap in the plane – it’s not Vassilev. It’s Legate. There’s no doubt about it at all. They had our description in the routine way. They are quite positive.”

“Legate. I thought it was a monoplane.”

“That’s correct, sir. It seems he’s flying it himself.”

“Can he fly?”

“He was in the RFC for two years,” said Lord Cedarbrook. “And he had a peacetime ‘A’ licence at Hatfield. An Auster isn’t difficult.”

“Hello,” said Hazlerigg, turning back to his telephone. “Is that Group Captain Maine? Look here, can you put any fighters into the air. Yes. Now. What? I see. Yes, of course it’s operational. You could. How long?”

After a few seconds Hazlerigg said, “I see,” and put down the receiver quietly.

“It’ll take two hours,” he said, “to get a fighter up.”

“An Auster’s a slowish plane,” said Lord Cedarbrook. “And its cruising speed’s not much over ninety. All the same – two hours!”

“He was heading North-East,” said Pickup. “He’ll cross the coast between the Thames Estuary and the Wash. A hundred and forty-sixty – a hundred and sixty miles as the crow flies.”

“He took off at eleven,” said Lord Cedarbrook. “It’s eleven twenty-five now. He’ll be over the sea by one o’clock.”

“Then there’s only one thing for it,” said Hazlerigg. He sounded almost cheerful. “But it’s not a decision I can take myself – thank goodness for that.”

He dialled a number and when he spoke it was to the Commissioner of Police for the Metropolis.

Then they all sat in the office, with the June sun pouring in at the window, and waited whilst the minutes ticked away.

It was five past twelve when the telephone rang again and Hazlerigg picked up the receiver.

“I’ve been up to the top.” It was the Commissioner’s voice. “They’ve passed orders to the War Office. I hope to Heaven you’re not making any mistake about this, Hazlerigg.”

3

Lance-Bombardier Smith (Gertrude) had just told her friend Sergeant Evans (Florence) that she was bored.

Annual camp was all right, she said, as far as it went. But with seven and a half girls to every chap, well, one hadn’t much chance, had one. And as for Dummy Targets – well she, Gertie, had sat at a predictor on the South Coast during the last three years of the war where anti-aircraft gunnery was anti-aircraft gunnery and you shot at things which shot back at you, and she had assisted in bringing down German fighters and German bombers, and V-ones and V-twos and V-everything elses, and once, for a bet, she’d laid on a seagull at five thousand and hit that.

Cromer was all right, it was a nice place for a camp, whilst the weather kept fine. And Captain Berry was a good sport – and knew his stuff, too. Married, of course, but you couldn’t have everything.

There he was, now, talking on the field telephone,

“Hullo,” said Flossie, “he seems excited about something.”

“He’s running,” said Gertie. “This is going to be good. That’s the first time I’ve seen him run this week. I expect he’s heard that the Brigadier’s on his way. Now for a bit of bull.”

Captain Berry was observed to be talking into the R/T head-set. Evidently he was giving orders to the aeroplane which was cruising in a desultory way overhead towing a sleeve target; for it turned about and made for its landing ground.

“Attention, everybody.” Captain Berry had picked up the loud-speaker microphone. “I have just had orders from Group. I understand that they come direct from Command. All ack-ack batteries on Coastal practice have been ordered to open fire on an Auster aircraft, green fuselage with silver wings. Registration GAWG. Flying North-East. Expected to be flying low.”

Captain Berry paused. So far so good. But he felt that the occasion called for something more.

“I think,” he said, “that this is probably some sort of operational Readiness Test. The plane is probably a Robot. I want you to be very careful in your laying. If it appears in our zone it must be destroyed. I rely on you.”

All the same Captain Berry was both worried and intrigued. His instructions had said nothing about the plane being radio-controlled. And his orders had sounded very definite.

A shout from the Spotters interrupted his thoughts. There it was, all right. Pat on its cue, like the demon in the Pantomime. An Auster. Too far to read the identification letters.

“Plane,” he pointed. “Flying North-East.”

Thank God his NCOs in charge of the guns and Radar were veterans. And the predictor sergeant was a good girl too, though new to the game.

He thought he’d try it with his glasses again. It was going to pass to the North of the Battery, over the sea, but quite close.

“Predictor steady. Target in range,” said Sergeant Evans noncommittally.

Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds.

GAWG. Quite plain.

Captain Berry lowered his glasses and took a last look round. The target plane had gone. Apart from the Auster the sky was empty. Unconsciously he took a deep breath.

“Fire.”

It was easy enough. A crossing target, flying low and not very fast. For a few seconds it seemed to bear a charmed life.

Then the tell-tale plume of smoke. The fan of orange flame. The deadly comet’s tail of fire.

“Cease loading.”

As he spoke the Auster went plunging seaward down the parabola of its own velocity. The white wave tips rose up to meet it. The spray covered everything.

“Sweet shooting,” said Gertie softly.