Trouble on the Thames (5 page)

“Mark Craig? Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't place him at the moment.”

“He runs a club in Grosvenor Street—very posh, expensive place where a crowd of rich people go to play poker. It's called the Mayflower.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now, sir. I have never been there myself, but I have met blokes who belong to it.”

“You have met one, anyhow. Medlicot was a member. If he hadn't enjoyed that distinction he would probably be alive now.”

“You mean he had been losing money there, sir?”

“Quite a lot, I imagine. We have no actual proof of that, but everything seems to point to it. I fancy that he was being threatened with exposure, and that in a moment of desperation he sold those plans in order to settle up his debts.”

“But couldn't you find out for certain?”

“Not so easy, Bradwell. We did our utmost, of course, but in a case of suicide people are uncommonly shy about giving anything away. Don't want to be dragged into a scandal.”

“Wasn't there an official inquiry?”

“A very private one. You see, the mischief was done, and there was no sense in advertising the fact to the whole world. Besides, we had grounds for suspecting a certain highly placed gentleman at the German Embassy. If his name had cropped up the fat would have been in the fire. Our ingenuous government still seem to be under the illusion that they can scrape through without going to war, and to bring a charge of that nature against a prominent Hun diplomat without cast-iron evidence to back it up—well, the mere suggestion would be sufficient to throw the whole Foreign Office into hysterics.”

“But surely something ought to be done, sir? If they can get hold of one set of plans—”

“They might be tempted to repeat the experiment? Exactly. You have hit upon the very point which is at present giving my particular department an outsize in headaches. I can assure you that the Mayflower Club and its proprietor are a subject of the deepest interest to us.”

“Who is this fellow Mark Craig, sir? Is that his real name?”

“So far as I know. He is an Irish American who has spent most of his early life in the States. He came over here six years ago with a certain amount of cash, and very soon afterwards he launched out in his present racket in Grosvenor Street. He must be a clever devil—I'll give him credit for that. The place was a success from the first, and although the police have been keeping an eye on it they have never caught him out in any actual infringement of the law. All the same, they are convinced that he's a bad lot, and that when he sees the chance he has no objection to doing a bit of blackmailing. My own belief is that he's a Nazi agent, and that he is being subsidised from Berlin.”

“Isn't that good enough, sir? Can't you have him arrested and locked up?”

“Might be arranged, but it would only mean that the work would be handed over to somebody else. As it is, we at least have the advantage of knowing where the mischief is likely to be hatched. Unfortunately, if the thing is as well organised as it appears to be, Mr. Craig and his friends are probably pretty well posted with regard to our own activities. I have several first-class men working under my direction, but I wouldn't mind betting a hundred pounds that every one of them is either known or suspected. When it comes to spying the Hun does his job thoroughly.”

Owen looked straight into the shrewd grey eyes that were fixed steadily on his own. “I take it that you have some special reason for telling me all this, sir.”

“Naturally.” The other leaned back in his chair. “I think you might be useful to me, Bradwell. You are being given two months' sick leave, and if you feel like putting your services at my disposal for that period I am quite prepared to accept your offer. The whole arrangement, of course, would be strictly unofficial.”

“Sounds all right to me, sir. I don't imagine I should be much good as a detective, though.”

“Possibly not. Still, Carmichael is a fairly sound judge of character, and if his statements about you are correct, I believe we are justified in making the experiment.” Greystoke gave another of his oddly attractive smiles. “After all, there is a certain amount of scientific evidence in favour of such a proceeding. According to Edridge-Green, who is the principal authority on the subject, people who suffer from colour-blindness are generally above the average in intelligence. Perhaps that is why it is so rare amongst our Cabinet Ministers.”

Owen laughed.

“Well, what have you got to say about it? Does the prospect appeal to you?”

“I should be delighted to have a try, sir.”

“Excellent. I had better explain what I have in my mind. As I told you a moment ago, we are keeping a close eye on the Mayflower Club, and also on its distinguished clientele. Two of my staff are actually members, but since it's more than likely that our friend Mr. Craig is well aware of the fact, I should imagine that any dirty work he may be arranging to pull off will probably be discussed somewhere else. The most likely place I can think of would be Otter's Holt, the island he owns down at Thames Ferry. Do you happen to know it by any chance?”

“I know where it is, sir. About three miles below Playford.”

“That's right.” Greystoke nodded. “He bought it last year, and I understand he goes down there most week-ends. Occasionally, I believe, he entertains friends. Now I could have the place watched, of course, either by my own people or by fixing things up with the local police. The trouble is that I daren't take the risk. If Craig is really using it as his private headquarters any hint that we are showing an interest in it would put him on his guard immediately. Whoever I selected myself might be known to him by sight, and in a Thames village a plain-clothes policeman lounging about the towpath would stick out like a lighted buoy. No, what I want is something quite different—some normal, harmless young holidaymaker who will fit naturally into the landscape. Get the idea?”

“I think so, sir.” Owen grinned. “It's a funny coincidence, but I really had some notion of putting in a day or two on the river, and, oddly enough, in that very neighbourhood. I am staying with a pal who has a punt laid up at Playford, and he told me I could borrow it whenever I liked.”

“Looks as though Providence were taking a hand in the game. What I am most anxious to obtain is a list of Mr. Craig's visitors. I should be glad to have an accurate description of everyone who sets foot on the island, but the gentleman I am chiefly interested in is our friend from Carlton House Terrace. If there is any further trouble brewing he is pretty sure to be somewhere in the offing.”

“What sort of a chap is he, sir?”

“A man of about forty. Tall, long-faced fellow with very thin lips. Generally sports an eyeglass. His name—for Heaven's sake keep this to yourself—is Manstein, Count Conrad von Manstein. He is that unpleasant mixture, a cross between a Prussian Junker and a genuinely fanatical Nazi, about the worst abortion that nature has yet produced. Exactly what his position is at the Embassy I don't know. Some people say that he is Hitler's personal representative, but the only thing I am practically certain of is that he was the moving spirit in the Medlicot affair. I regard him as the most dangerous man we are up against—a cunning, cold-blooded brute, utterly ruthless and without the slightest trace of fear in his whole composition.”

“Sounds rather an ugly customer,” remarked Owen cheerfully. “Well, I ought to be able to recognise him from your description.” He paused. “I think the best thing I can do will be to drift down there Thursday or Friday and hang around doing a bit of fishing below the weir. Lots of people spend their week-ends that way, so it won't attract any particular attention. I've just remembered something else, too. There's a pub in the backwater opposite, and if I keep my ears open I may pick up a few useful hints. Sure to be a certain amount of gossip floating about—always is in those riverside joints.”

“Very sound programme.” Greystoke nodded approvingly. “You will have to be careful, though—damned careful. Remember that we are dealing with people who stick at nothing, and if it came to their notice that you were asking questions about Otter's Holt it's more than possible that they might turn exceedingly nasty. I should hate to pick up the Sunday paper and read about your body being fished out of the river!”

“I shan't overlook that fact, sir.”

“Good! I am not over-sanguine about the business as it is, but you would certainly be no use to me as a corpse. On the contrary, I should find you a confounded nuisance.” Pulling a slip of paper towards him, the speaker jotted down a telephone number and passed it across the table. “If you have news for me you can ring me up. Don't say anything over the phone, and don't on any account come here again unless you have a definite appointment. Is that quite plain?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Then the only other point is the question of funds. As I have said, this little experiment is entirely unofficial, but at the same time it would be unfair to expect you to dip into your own pocket.” Greystoke unlocked a drawer and produced a small packet of notes. “You had better take ten pounds to cover your immediate expenses. Judging from my own recollections, riverside inns are apt to be a trifle exorbitant in their charges.”

With a word of thanks Owen slipped the money into his pocket, and then, picking up his hat, rose to his feet.

“Very good of you to give me this chance of doing something, sir,” he said quietly. “I only hope I don't let you down.”

“It wouldn't be the first time I had undergone that experience.” The Captain's eyes twinkled, and getting up also, he held out his hand. “If it's any encouragement, though, I have an odd faith in you, Bradwell. I may be superstitious, but I feel that you have been sent along here for this particular purpose.” He paused, “And on the rare occasions when I do get a hunch,” he added, “it generally turns out to be a winner.”

Chapter IV

“More tea?”

“No, thanks.” Mark Craig put down his cup and lighted a cigarette. Then, settling himself back comfortably, he half closed his heavily lidded eyes and contemplated his hostess with a kind of slow, sensuous satisfaction.

It must be admitted that Olga Brandon was well worth inspection. Even the ultra-modern room, with its steel chairs, its glass table and its inevitable cocktail cabinet, did little to detract from the dark, exotic beauty inherited from her Romanian mother, for which only a dream palace out of some opium-inspired romance by Mr. Coleridge would really have provided an appropriate setting. That it should triumph so successfully over the chill bleakness of an up-to-date St. John's Wood villa was perhaps the finest tribute that could be offered in its honour.

“Well,” demanded Craig, “what's this latest bit of news that you were hinting at? Anything really useful?”

“I guess so.” Olga smiled complacently. “Like to have the low-down on a new airfield, wouldn't you, especially if it happens to be on the east coast?”

“A new airfield! Where did you get your information?”

“From a boy I met at a night-club about three weeks ago. He fell for me with a crash, and since then he has been taking me out quite a lot. Seems to have plenty of the needful, so I thought I might as well cultivate him.”

“What's his name?”

“Forsyth—Desmond Forsyth. Boring as Hell, but right out of the top drawer—Eton and Oxford and all that sort of stuff. His father has got a big place up in Norfolk—owns about half the county, apparently.”

“That must be Sir George Forsyth.” Craig nodded. “I know something about him. Goes in for yacht racing, and used to be a Member of Parliament at one time.”

“Very likely.” Olga shrugged.

“What did this boy tell you?”

“Oh, he was a bit oiled and chucking his money about in the way kids like that do. I asked him whether he could really afford it, and he said that just at the moment he was particularly flush because his old man had pulled off a good deal and sent him along a cheque. Didn't want to talk about it at first, and that made me curious. I jockeyed him into having two or three more drinks, and then out he came with the whole yarn. Seems that the Air Ministry have taken over some of the family property and stumped up handsomely. Very hush-hush affair, of course, and I wasn't to breathe a word to a soul. Wouldn't have mentioned it if he hadn't known that I could be absolutely trusted.”

“Did you find out the exact site?”

“Think I'm dumb?” Olga laughed. “It's a three-mile stretch just south of a place called King's Welcome. Nice lonely bit of country as flat as a pancake. They've got a gang of men working there already, railing it off with barbed wire. Going to be one of the biggest aerodromes in England when it's finished—everything O.K. and slap up-to-date.”

“Sounds decidedly interesting.” Craig gave an approving nod. “I must congratulate you on a smart job of work.”

“Thanks, but I wasn't looking for compliments. What I could do with is something a bit more solid. Surely the right dope on a new airfield—”

“You can leave that to me. Our friends are always prepared to pay for what they want. They are too clever to be mean about trifles.”

Olga Brandon sat silent for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the speaker's face.

“You believe in them thoroughly, don't you, Mark? You haven't the slightest doubt that they are going to pull it off?”

“None whatever. Within two years at the utmost the Germans will be the masters of the whole of Europe. Nothing can prevent it.”

“You will be a very important man.” Olga's fingers tightened. “You will have money—money and power.”

“A good deal of both if all goes well. One has to take risks, of course.”

“How long do you think it will be before things begin to happen?”

“They are happening now. Preparations are going on night and day everywhere.” The clock on the mantelpiece tinkled out the half-hour, and glancing across the room, Craig pushed back his chair.

“What's the matter? You're not off yet, are you?”

“I must get along to the Club. I have an appointment for six-thirty. By the way, I believe you've met the man—a fellow called Granville Sutton.”

“What does he want?”

“Haven't a notion. He rang up this morning while I was out, and Casey gave him a date. All I know about him is that he's got a bungalow at Playford and that he used to be rather thick with that young fool Medlicot.”

“He couldn't make any trouble, could he?”

“Only for himself, I should say.” Craig gave an ugly laugh. “It's probably nothing of any importance; still, I thought I had better see him and find out.” He moved forward to where Olga was sitting, and bending down, kissed her on the lips. “One-thirty at the Milan to-morrow then, and it's just possible that I may have some good news for you. No, don't trouble to disturb yourself, my dear. I have been here often enough to find my way out.”

***

The taxi swerved round the corner into Grosvenor Street, and pulled up in front of a house on the north-west side. It was a large, four-storey house with a discreetly prosperous appearance. Neatly kept flower-boxes adorned the lower windows, and on one of the two pillars which sheltered the handsome door in the centre could be observed a small brass plate engraved with the words “The Mayflower Club.” Except for this laconic announcement one would have taken it to be the Town residence of some affluent or distinguished family.

“Paper, sir?”

A passing newsvendor halted inquiringly, and purchasing a late
Star
, Craig paid off the driver and moved leisurely across the pavement. The door was opened by a stalwart commissionaire who gave him a respectful salute, and passing through a handsomely furnished hall, he jerked back the gate of an automatic lift. A few moments later he was stepping out on to the top landing—a small private suite shut off from the rest of the establishment which he had had fitted up for his own use.

The apartment he entered was a cross between an office and an expensively equipped sitting-room. At one end of it an American desk and a couple of large filing cabinets took up most of the available space, but everywhere else there was a suggestion of solid—even luxurious—comfort, the most noticeable example of which was the deep, cushion-piled, leather divan that occupied the whole corner between the window and the fireplace. Judging by the pictures that decorated the walls, a generous appreciation of the nude in art was one of their owner's principal characteristics.

Moving over to the desk, Craig glanced through a small pile of letters which had arrived by the midday post. Most of them he tossed into the waste-paper basket, and leaving the remnant to be attended to later on, settled down in the nearest arm-chair and unfolded his copy of the
Star
. Then, pulling out his note-case, he extracted a slip of paper containing a list of the bets which he had made earlier in the day. At that precise moment several thousand other inhabitants of Great Britain were doubtless engaged in the same hopeful occupation.

He was in the act of turning to the racing news when a lavishly splashed headline on the front page suddenly arrested his attention. Almost simultaneously his eyes fell upon the opening paragraph below. The muscles of his jaw tightened, and bending forward over the column in question, he began to read it with a tense and concentrated interest.

DARING ESCAPE FROM DARTMOOR
Convict Scales Prison Wall

Early this morning a convict named James Wilson, who is serving a seven-years sentence for embezzlement, effected what may justly be described as the most ingenious and daring escape from Dartmoor prison that has ever been recorded in the annals of that famous institution. During the summer months from May to September prisoners have their breakfast at six-thirty. The meal is served in a large building situated in the main courtyard. It is prepared in a neighbouring shed some ten yards away, the trays being carried across by specially selected men, all of whom must have earned full remission marks for good conduct before being detailed for this particular duty. Between each delivery there is an interval of perhaps twelve seconds, and throughout the proceedings an armed warder is constantly patrolling the yard. Only for one brief period is he actually out of sight of the short passage between the two buildings.

Wilson, who was evidently waiting his chance and must have made his plans with meticulous care, was released from his cell at the customary hour of a quarter-past six. The warder on duty failed to detect anything amiss, though a more thorough investigation would have revealed several highly interesting facts. During the night Wilson had occupied himself in tearing his under blanket into long strips and then knotting the ends of them together so as to construct a rough but fairly serviceable rope. To this he had attached the strong canvas slip which provided the covering for his bolster, fastening the whole contraption round his waist with such skill that it successfully escaped the perfunctory examination to which he must have known from experience that he would probably be subjected.

On arriving at the cook-house he took his place among the other men, and in due course was handed the tray which it was his duty to carry across to the adjacent breakfast hall. Instead of doing so he made his way quickly towards a large heap of gravel that had been deposited inside the yard a few days previously. Here he put down the tray, and having removed the rope which encircled his waist, hastily proceeded to load the canvas bolster slip from the convenient dump beside him. Taking advantage of the moment when the patrolling warder was out of sight he then flung up the weighted bag with such accuracy that it impaled itself upon the iron spikes at the top of the fourteen-foot wall. For an active man the rest was comparatively simple. Within a few seconds the resourceful Mr. Wilson was astride the coping, where, unhooking his amateur rope ladder, he lowered himself by his arms and dropped on the soft turf outside. It is believed that this gymnastic feat must have been witnessed by a fellow convict who was the next to leave the shed, but, true to the proverbial honour that prevails among wrongdoers, the man in question stoutly denies having observed any such dramatic incident. Although one or two local farm hands were in the neighbourhood at the time, the fact that there was a considerable amount of mist would explain why none of them has been able to add anything further to what the authorities already know.

As some ten minutes appear to have elapsed before the alarm was raised, Wilson must have had time to reach the shelter of one of the large straggling plantations that adjoin the prison. Since then nothing has been seen or heard of him. An intensive search of the surrounding moor, however, is now in progress, and with all the roads watched and every car and vehicle being held up for examination, it is not considered likely that the fugitive's spell of liberty will be of very long duration. Contrary to the popular belief, founded upon sensational films and novels, every prisoner who has so far escaped from Dartmoor has been recaptured. In the majority of cases men give themselves up voluntarily on account of the hunger and exposure to which they are subjected.

***

For several seconds after he had finished reading Craig sat staring straight in front of him, his underlip stuck out, his thick eyebrows drawn together in a reflective scowl. Then, getting up abruptly and moving back to the desk, he pressed one of the three buttons which stood in a row beside the large writing-pad. It was apparent that his interest in the day's racing had been temporarily overshadowed.

After a short interval the door opened quietly, admitting a dark-haired, sleek-looking man of about forty with an oddly expressionless face. He was wearing a well-cut morning suit and had a red carnation in the buttonhole of his coat.

“Didn't know you were back,” he observed, glancing at the opened letters. “I was wondering whether you'd forgotten that appointment with Sutton.”

“No, I remembered it all right.” Craig paused. “Seen the evening paper?”

“Not yet. Anything special in it?”

“Have a look at this story on the front page.”

Mr. Paul Casey, the highly efficient manager of the Mayflower, took the
Star
which his employer held out to him. The next moment a low, surprised whistle escaped from his lips.

“Wilson, by all the saints! Done a bunk from Dartmoor, has he? Well, damn my soul, I'd—”

“Read it,” said Craig curtly.

Complying with the order, Casey perched himself on the arm of a chair and ran his eye swiftly down the column. That the news had considerably startled him had been obvious from his first reaction, but now that he had had time to recover, his face betrayed no further sign of emotion. Not until he had reached the end did he offer anything in the way of a comment.

“Got more guts than I gave him credit for,” he remarked, looking up from the paper. “Never be certain with fellows like that. What do you imagine his game is?”

“I should say that he had only one idea in his head.” Craig spoke with complete calmness. “That's to come up here and stick a knife into me. It's what he threatened to do the last time I had the pleasure of seeing him.”

Casey raised his eyebrows. “Mean that seriously?”

The other nodded. “I know his type. They're easy enough game, but once they've got hold of the notion that somebody's been leading them up the garden they're apt to go clean off the rails. Wouldn't mind betting that for the last two years Wilson has been sitting in his cell thinking of nothing else but how to get level with us. Became a sort of fixed idea, as the French call it. Otherwise he'd never have been such an idiot as to break out of prison.”

“Shouldn't wonder if you're right: you generally are. All the same, I don't think we need lose any sleep over it.” Casey shrugged. “It's a longish step from Dartmoor to Grosvenor Street, and—”