Cargo of Eagles (24 page)

Ex-Assistant Commissioner Stanislaus Oates rose to his feet.

‘Just what I was thinking myself,' he said. He looked about him. ‘You know, Albert, I don't like this place. It's all very fine in its way, but somehow it's what I call sordid and the port is terrible. Come along, my lad. Drive me to St James's and I'll give you a drink at my Club.'

MR CAMPION FOUND
his ex-chief L. C. Corkran in the office in Killowen Square on the afternoon of Whit Monday. ‘The Department', as he invariably called it, does not recognise Bank Holidays, for its connections are largely with countries who honour different feast days.

It was not a pleasant occasion for either man. When Morty had described ‘Elsie' Corkran as commonplace close to but distinctive from a distance he had been remarkably shrewd, for across a desk the face suggested an officer who had served his country without achieving either seniority or character, whereas at twenty paces his precise white moustache and curling hair conveyed that he might be a doyen of diplomats or a Major General of cavalry. His voice was scholarly, clipped and completely colourless.

‘It comes to this,' he said after hearing the recital of Campion's adventures. ‘We are back to square one. Teague is not in the running as a lead and is quite prepared to die with his secret. One cannot, I suppose, blame him for his attitude. The rest of the riff-raff, as you depict them, seem to me to be small villains, stirring up trouble to see if they can force or frighten someone else into making an informative move. We appear to be in much the same position ourselves. Would it be fair to say that?'

Mr Campion who was always acutely reminded of long impersonal sessions in his tutor's rooms at Cambridge on occasions when he visited Killowen Square, took his time before replying.

‘Not quite,' he said at last. ‘The opposition is still unpleasantly active, but there are one or two untidy threads
which may lead me out of the labyrinth. It's a question of time. How long have I got?'

‘Days, rather than weeks, if I may misquote an ill-advised politican. Until dawn on Thursday to be precise. The transport problem can be overcome by using diplomatic cover but that is the last—the final limit when I can be sure of getting an aircraft and the right man as a courier. Provisionally it will be at Southend Airport from Tuesday night, awaiting instructions.' He hesitated with the flicker of a self-deprecatory smile. ‘I took that chance. I hope it is justified.'

‘You have news of Monique, then?'

The use of code names in the Department was designed for many reasons, but partly to reduce the personal element to a minimum. But the woman behind the old-fashioned pseudonym with its wartime echoes was nearer to being a personal friend than either man was prepared to admit. Acute danger was always conventionally discussed as a ‘temporary difficulty' but the phrase did not conceal the terrifying anxiety it carried so lightly. Corkran made a pretence of looking at a folder on his desk, as if to refresh his memory.

‘Only indirectly. Our man thinks she will be moved from her present captors at the end of the week. They are instructed to hand her over to central authority and they've held out as long as they dare because they're not sure of themselves. They also want the prestige of arresting her in case she talks. But a transfer to the big boys means new interrogations, different methods. Knowing her, I doubt if they would be successful, but we all have our breaking point. Unhappily, she has one of those damnable capsule things and she might—just might—use it. The difficulty, of course, is that a suicide like that always argues a professional. If one link is exposed and broken then the rest are too easy to identify. That could be rather unfortunate.'

He sighed. ‘You know all this. Have you any suggestions at my end?'

Mr Campion was shocked. The man across the desk rarely
showed more emotion than a don correcting a mathematical exercise, but now he was pretending an indifference which was not convincing.

‘There is something you can do—a long shot, I admit, but we can't afford to neglect it. Can you send me a mine detector and a man who knows how to work it?'

‘Of course.' He had raised his eyebrows by the fraction of an inch at the suggestion. ‘A mine detector? You have some particular area in mind, I hope. That house you're lodging in—The Hollies, isn't it?—has been gone over rather thoroughly by the police within the last fortnight because of the man who was killed there. They used an apparatus of that sort since there was some question of finding the offensive weapon. They covered the grounds, too. I took particular note of it at the time and sent for all the reports because the suggestion frightened me. It would have cut across our plans awkwardly had anything been found. The connection between the killing and the anonymous letters and the inferred “keep off” warning was rather too obvious for my taste, but if anything had been there it would have been found at that time. You have a fresh zone to explore?'

‘I have an idea. The letters, by the way, were inspired by two other seekers after truth, but the lesser snake is scotched. I'm afraid the viper remains but he is probably more in the dark than we are. I can have my mine detector? When?'

Corkran glanced at the wall clock behind his visitor's head. ‘Tomorrow morning will be the earliest, I'm afraid. You'll be down at that end-of-the-world hole to meet him?'

‘I'm going there now,' said Mr Campion. ‘Goodbye, Elsie.'

A conventional smile of farewell crossed the face which was so nearly handsome.

‘
Quod petis hic est
, I hope,' he said. ‘Good God, Albert, how out of date I sound. But it would be pleasant to retire knowing that one had slipped a final fast one past the New Establishment. I do not love its silly face.'

‘
Ora pro nobis
,' said Mr Campion.

The traffic of a Bank Holiday which was dizzy with sunshine had turned the suburban streets into solid queues of frustration. Mr Campion sighed with relief when he reached the horrific area of Victorian-Arabian architecture which marked the start of the old road to Saltey. It was not easy to remember, but once mastered, the route for all its twists and deviations was uncannily free from obstruction. He drove slowly, a sense of guilt sitting uneasily between his shoulder blades. To offer false hope to a man in Corkran's state of mind was unforgivable but the gesture had to be made, because of the remote chance, the last stone which had to be turned.

He quartered the problem from every direction, putting himself in the place of each of the protagonists in turn. Finally he returned to himself. There was something which he had missed, an idle thought which had sneaked up on him when he was half awake and now refused to be recalled.

An ancient joke suggested by the cluttered furniture of his bedroom at The Hollies? The childhood memory of a great uncle booming dull anecdotes over a dining table to which he was admitted on sufferance in uncomfortable clothes? A faded picture framed in red velvet? An overblown Duchess opening a Bazaar, conjured by flowered wallpaper?

There were two vehicles standing in the awkward circular drive when he arrived at Saltey. Morty's Lotus and the dilapidated scooter which announced the presence of Mrs Weatherby.

She had discarded her working clothes for tailored tweeds which suggested that she might have arrived to pay a conventional call and she now sat upright in the big verandah chair facing the remains of another of Mr Lugg's delicate teas. Morty and Dido, a trifle exhausted by the energy which vibrated from her, were patently relieved to see him.

‘Too bad you've missed the excitement,' she proclaimed. ‘All hell's been popping whilst you've been away. You'll simply
blow a gasket, my dear man, when you hear. These two good samaritans saved my life, or I don't know what I'd have done. The last phone box in the place has been smashed by vandals, or that's what the notice says, The Demon is impossible and if it weren't for the doctor I should never have got my story off. I was going to drop in for a chin-wag in any case, but when I saw the wires were connected to the house again, it was providential.'

‘Times are hard for us poor pigeons,' said Mr Campion. ‘There hasn't been another fire, I hope?'

‘Nothing so ordinary. The trouble with a fire is that one can never get a scoop—too many people see it from a distance and cash in simply by ringing up the office from their bedrooms. They get a cut price and do honest journalists out of a job. No, this was a hot tip from an old pal. Mob's Bowl has been raided by the police and all the tearaways and rockers in the place have been rounded up and searched. The place has been literally buzzing with blue-bottles and black marias. What about that for a story?'

‘Any arrests?'

‘Several, I hope. It's so difficult to distinguish between an arrest and a detained-for-questioning, so we must all keep our fingers crossed. But I do know that they've found a lot of purple hearts and what d'you call 'ems—black bombers?—all over the shop. I picked up a paper bag full of them myself; found it lying on the grass by the churchyard. They're just like the pink cachous one used to eat as a child to take the smell of gin away. The police simply swarmed all over the Bowl so I suppose the smarter boys promptly threw them overboard when they scented trouble. Damned unsporting, but what can one expect?'

Mr Campion sipped lukewarm tea reflectively. ‘You didn't recognise any familiar faces amongst the malefactors, I suppose?'

‘Not a hope. The trouble is, all these children look exactly the same to me—like Chinese coolies, you know. Even their
trousers seem to be patched in the same places. They chant and scream about freedom and then they wear a uniform which is as rigid as a subaltern's at a Trooping.' She stooped and brushed a shower of crumbs from her lap. ‘I must trickle along now. If I drop in at the Cop-shop at Nine Ash they'll give me the gen about who's really been kept in the cooler. I'll see myself out. Goodbye, doctor, it was tophole of you to lend me the blower. Cheero, Morty.'

At the open glass door into the garden, she turned. ‘Better luck next time, Mr Campion. Whenever you want a purple heart give me a buzz. What a jolly good room for summer weather this is, doctor. I don't blame you for living in it. Kitty Kytie always did. She had no taste, poor creature, but then none of that family ever had. Still, they made themselves comfortable and that's better than kicking yourself in the pants.'

Her departure did not slacken the tension since Morty and Dido were eager for news. Mr Campion was soothing but evasive. He sketched the scene at the Cap and Bells but omitted any account of the morning's interview.

‘So James Teague is out of the picture,' he finished. ‘His colleague, Mr Target Burrows, is still advertising his presence rather curiously, so for the moment any moonlight walks are out of the question. Tomorrow looks like being a long and possibly tedious day, so I shall retire early. Just at the moment I have some research to do in my bedroom.'

He left them abruptly.

The end of a Bank Holiday in the country is closely connected with the local dosing time of the inns. For the Londoners nothing remains but the dull necessity to get home, to rest, to recuperate for the demands of the working week. By half past eleven Saltey was as silent and remote as if the city existed on a different continent. Morty had been dismissed with a friendly coolness which forboded a sleepless night and only the light in Dido's window indicated that she too was still awake.

Campion descended the stairs silently to discover his aide
brewing cocoa in the kitchen. Mr Lugg, in trousers topped by a string vest, lifted a steaming mug.

‘Care for a drop?' he enquired. ‘It does wonders for your slumber graph and stops you 'aving 'orrible dreams, whilst you're snorin' yerself stupid.'

‘Not at the moment, if you'll forgive me. You and I have a little exploring to do. It may take some time so don't drink too much of that anaesthetic. If we have any luck what we'll both need is a nice stiff brandy.'

It was after two in the morning before Lugg made his final tour of the house, locking the outer doors, slipping bolts and checking window catches as he moved cautiously in the darkness.

In his bedroom Mr Campion undressed and sat for some time looking at the telephone which had a direct line to Killowen Square.

Finally he picked it up and was answered by the melancholy voice of the Duty Officer. He identified himself and was acknowledged.

‘Gadsden here. The dog watchman.'

‘What of the night? Elsie is no longer on the bridge, I take it?'

‘Not since six bells. Can I take a message? I have one of these taping devices which I can play back so you needn't go over every point twice. I'll stop you if I don't understand.'

‘Very commendable. Will you please say to him that I would now like to add to my mine detector a lot of surveying equipment, a theodolite and surveyor's level, tripods, poles and so forth and link measuring tapes. I want to make an impressive show. Two good operators and two drivers—four in all. I want tough boys who could look like council employees. And two vans or trucks, decently anonymous. Today is Tuesday, just. They'll be away for a couple of nights or until dawn on Thursday morning. Dawn on Thursday is a deadline which will be understood.'

‘It's more than I do. Anything else?'

‘Yes. Half a dozen cases of champagne. That is not a joke, though it has a certain irony. Krug '59 would do very nicely. Got that?'

‘Every word of it. Having a party?'

‘You could put it that way. Tell Elsie that among other things—say
“inter alia”
for his benefit—I am hoping to exorcise a ghost. Refer him to the gospel according to St Matthew, Chapter 24 verse 28.'

The voice at the other end of the line sounded depressed.