The Trojan Horse (2 page)

It had not been just a story of the murder. It had been his whole life-story. Sitting there in the chair opposite my desk, with the firelight playing on his face, he had been sufficiently convincing for me to agree not to tell the police anything for a week, when he would come and see me again.

But it was the end of his story that had weakened my faith in the rest. He had risen to go. And his voice became suddenly excited and his eyes blazed with the light of the fire in them. ‘If I shouldn't come to you next Monday,' he said, ‘will you go round to my lodgings and take the face from the barbican? You are clever. You will understand. The clue is cones of runnel.' After the quiet matter-of-fact way he had told me his strange but consistent story, this departure into the melodramatic came as something of a shock.

I told him so and he smiled that rather wry tired smile and said, ‘I don't believe you will think so next Monday. I have a feeling that I shall not see you again.'

‘But when the police catch you, I will come and see you, and we will arrange about your defence.'

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe,' he said. ‘It is good of you. But it is not the police I fear. When I told you there was someone else after the plans beside the Calboyd Diesel Company, I meant it. Germany wants them too. They discovered I was not dead and what Fritz Thessen had told them whetted their appetites. But if I told you who their agents in this country
were, you would laugh at me and I should be discredited in your eyes. But when I am dead, you will know it, and then you will know who murdered my friend Llewellin. Goodbye, Mr Kilmartin.' He held out his hand and, as I shook it, he said, ‘I cannot thank you enough for listening to me so patiently. I shall hope to see you next Monday. If not, I have your promise to go round to my lodgings?'

His face was perfectly serious. I nodded. I could do nothing else. His grip on my hand tightened. ‘I think you will find it is not a case for the police – at first.' Then he fished in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. ‘That is a letter for my daughter, Freya, when you find her. The address of my lodgings is written in the corner.' He put it on my desk and, replacing his glasses and picking up his bowler hat, turned and went out of my office.

I sat down and tried to puzzle it out over a cup of tea. The man's story was convincing, at any rate in part. I couldn't believe he was a murderer. His point about Evan Llewellin being a bigger and younger man than himself, and the impossibility of his having held him under the drill with one hand while he operated it with the other, was sound enough. And yet it was fantastic. All that about Nazi agents after his diesel engine plans and the murder being a frame-up to get him out of the way. If they had wanted him out of the way and were prepared to kill a man to achieve their ends, it would surely have been much simpler and much surer to have killed him? Who was he suspecting of being a Nazi agent that I should laugh
at the accusation? And all that rigmarole about how the Calboyd Diesel Company had queered his pitch at the Air Ministry by saying they had tested his engine and considered him a crank. The story was real enough to him. Of that I was certain. But he saw events with a distorted mind. Up to the time of his escape from the concentration camp the story was certainly accurate, but the rest, though based on truth, seemed to have been coloured by an unbalanced mind. God knows what he had suffered in that concentration camp! He had not gone into details about those two months. But, judging by what I had heard of other such camps, it would have been sufficient to affect the balance of a sensitive and brilliant mind.

But then there was that point about Llewellin being stronger than he. On a sudden impulse I picked up the phone and asked my typist to try and get me Inspector Crisham at the Yard. Crisham was in and knew enough about the case to answer my query. ‘We realised that difficulty,' he said. ‘But the men were on friendly terms and it wouldn't have been impossible for Schmidt to get Llewellin to bend down to examine something under the drill. Part of a gun-mounting was found under it. More probably Llewellin bent down to adjust something and Schmidt seized his opportunity and pulled the drill lever over. What's your interest in the case?' I explained hastily that it had interested me and I wanted to clear up a point that had been worrying me. I rang off before he could ask any more questions.

Well, that disposed of that difficulty. I was a fool
not to have thought of it for myself. The more I thought about it, the less I liked it. I could picture that long low-ceilinged stamping shop just as Schmidt had described it to me only a few minutes ago. It would have been littered with machine tools, and there would be odd lengths and shapes of metal lying on the oil-soaked floor, and it would echo to the hollow sounds of footsteps as Schmidt came up from his own workshop to accompany Llewellin home. And Llewellin would show Schmidt the gun-mounting he had been working on. Perhaps it was complete save for one or two more drill holes and he had brought it over to the drill, switched the machine on and then bent down to adjust the position of the mounting. And Schmidt, standing beside him, short of cash and wondering about the future, yet knowing there was a whole week's pay in the safe and the key in Llewellin's pocket, had decided to kill him on the spur of the moment, as he saw the man's dark head come directly beneath the revolving point of the drill. That must be how it happened. And I was the only person who knew where Schmidt was. I looked down at the envelope on my desk. The name of Freya Schmidt stared up at me, written in that neat scholarly hand. And in the top right-hand corner was his address – 209 Greek Street, London, W.l. I had only to ring Crisham and give him that address and Schmidt would be safely behind bars by the evening.

Even now I am surprised that I did not. It wasn't the fact that I had promised to wait until next Monday before doing anything that stopped me. If I
had thought the man was dangerous, I should not have hesitated. I think it was that letter to his daughter. I felt I ought to trace her first, or at least try to prove to my own satisfaction whether Schmidt's story was true. I could not help remembering that he had convinced me at the time. It was only the melodramatic close to the interview that had cast doubt upon the rest of the story. I ought to try to prove it one way or the other. But how could I? That was the extraordinary part about the story. He had not offered me an alibi or anything concrete like that. His story was that he had come into the stamping-shop, seen Llewellin's body, had gone into the office and had seen the safe open with no money in it, and had known at once that he had been framed.

I lit a cigarette and tried to think it out. Then I picked up the letter and ran my pencil round under the flap. Inside was a single sheet of paper. I glanced through it and then put it back in the envelope and resealed the flap. An affectionate farewell from a man to his daughter. The phrases run in my memory now, and whenever I think of them I have a sense of guilt at having intruded upon something very precious to two people who had suffered much and loved each other greatly. Short though it was, the letter said everything there was to be said, and the words remain with me as something very beautiful. The man's sense of impending death showed quite clearly between the lines. He did not fear death. But he feared for his daughter's safety in the face of a danger that, reading the letter, I could not believe was unreal. This fear
showed in the postscript which read, ‘The man with whom I have left this letter is Mr Andrew Kilmartin. He knows my story and will have all the information that up to the time of my death I had obtained concerning Them. He will advise you. But until They have been unmasked, promise me to give up the work and disappear. I shall not rest happy if I think you are in danger.'

To read that letter was to feel that he had found it necessary to return to my chambers to bind a wavering man to his promise. How could I ring Crisham after reading that letter? It was not the letter of a madman – or was it? That beauty, that sincerity might all come of madness. I had seen cases like that before. If only he had told me where I could get hold of Freya Schmidt. She held the truth of the matter. But he had told me nothing to guide my next step except that melodramatic stuff about taking the face from the barbican and the clue being the cones of runnel.

At that moment the clerk came in to inform me that the court had just phoned him to say that the case of Rex
v
. Lady Palmer would be heard the next day, instead of on Thursday. It was a dangerous driving case, and though I did not imagine it would take long, it was one of those troublesome briefs that take a lot of preparing. The change of date made it imperative that I should get down to it right away. I decided to do nothing about Schmidt for the moment. I had given my word and there was that letter. I was convinced that he was not dangerous.

I spent most of the following day in the court and
returned to find that I had been briefed at the last moment for a drug peddling case due to be heard at the Old Bailey on Thursday, the K.C. who had originally been briefed for the case having suddenly joined the Ministry of Supply. This rush of work gave me little time to consider the case of Franz Schmidt. But I was able to make one inquiry. On the Wednesday night I dropped into the Clachan, which is quite close to my rooms in the Temple. I had a drink with one or two of the Fleet Street boys whom I knew and was introduced to a fellow in the Press Section of the Air Ministry. On the offchance that he might be able to find out something, I asked him to see if the contracts branch of the Air Ministry knew anything about a man called Franz Schmidt or Paul Severin, and if so, whether they had approached the Calboyd Diesel Company and had been told that he was a crank. ‘Oh, you're expecting to be briefed, are you?' he said. Then he turned to the others and said, ‘There's a wee bit news for you, boys – Mr Kilmartin to defend Franz Schmidt.'

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don't think so,' I said. ‘I'm just interested, that's all.' My tone was final and they accepted it that way. But the fellow phoned me on Friday morning, just as I was leaving for the court, to tell me that I was quite correct. A Paul Severin had approached the Air Ministry in July, 1939, with the request that they test for aircraft use a diesel engine he had produced. He explained that it was much lighter than any at present in existence as a result of the use of a special alloy he had discovered. He was
very secretive about the alloy and was full of conditions as to how they should test it. He wouldn't let the engine out of his sight. The Air Ministry had then got on to Calboyds', who handled all their diesel engine experiments, and had asked them if they knew of Severin. They had replied that he had already approached them and that they had tested the engine. The metal he had used was a well-known durable alloy and it had not, in their opinion, been sufficiently strong to stand up to the pressure it would have to bear. They had described him as a crank who was a little unbalanced.

Well, that was one part of his story corroborated. But was his interpretation of it right? His point had been that here was a big industrial firm queering his pitch in an effort to force him to sell the plans and the secret of the alloy to them outright. But supposing Calboyds' summing up had been right? I had no time to go into the matter more closely, and I decided to wait till Monday. If he didn't turn up then, it was a case for the police.

I completed the drug case on Monday morning and returned to my chambers somewhat dispirited. The case had been hopeless from the start, and as briefs had been much fewer since the outbreak of war, I liked to be successful with those I did obtain. Schmidt had not called. I went out and had lunch at Simpson's in the Strand as an antidote to depression. I did not return to my chambers until past three. Schmidt had still not arrived. I sat in my office and smoked a cigar. The brief spell of work had exhausted
itself. I had not a single case in prospect. I found myself involuntarily listening for the sound of someone entering the outer office. I had tea. There was still no sign of Schmidt. I let Hopkins and the typist go. There was nothing for them to do.

By five o'clock I was no longer waiting impatiently for him to come. I knew he would not come and I was wondering what I was to do. The most obvious course was to get in touch with the police. But I remembered his words about not finding it a case for the police at first. And there was that letter. The man had seemed so certain that he was going to die. I owed it to him to go round to his digs and make a few inquiries. Nevertheless, it was a police affair. I ought at least to get Crisham to come along with me. I rose from my chair by the fire and crossed to the phone. I hesitated on the point of lifting the receiver. That stuff about the face from the barbican and the clue being the cones of runnel. I could hear Crisham's soft sardonic chuckle. He was a hard-headed man, who believed in facts – and nothing else. He'd come, of course, but he'd say at once that the man was mad, and his only interest would be to trace Schmidt's whereabouts.

I went over to the door instead and got my hat and coat. My mind made up now, I hurried out of my chambers and up Middle Temple Lane and hailed a taxi in Fleet Street. We ran through a darkened Strand and by way of St Martin's Lane to Cambridge Circus. I was deposited outside a derelict-looking house practically opposite the stage door of the
London Casino. It had once been a shop, but the windows were boarded up and the place had a shut look. I paid off my taxi and then flashed my torch on to the door. The figures 209 showed black against the cracked green paint, and below was a little sign which said ‘Isaac Leinster, Bespoke Tailor'. I found an electric bell, that had lost its covering, and rang. No sound came from the other side of the door. I waited, and then rang again. No one answered. I knocked on the door. Then I stepped back and looked up. The aged brick face of the house towered above me, blank and sheer.

I played my torch over the door again, looking for another bell to ring, and I saw that it was not quite shut. I pressed against it, and it opened. I went in and found myself in a bare passage, with two dustbins in it, leading to uncarpeted stairs. I hesitated. I was not over keen on walking into a house on Greek Street that I did not know. But in the end I climbed the stairs and on the first floor I found a door with ‘Isaac Leinster' on it, and there was a line of light showing beneath.