The Fifth Man Page 3

  “What did you mean when you said just now that you enjoyed yourself ‘in a way’?”

  “When I came to see for myself, it was all a bit too military for my taste. I was rather a pacifist in those days,” said Little with disarming frankness. “I changed my mind later. But I thought then there was a lot too much drill and not enough Swedish exercises, if you see what I mean. Physical training, yes, but even then you could see what was aimed at.”

  “Did you ever visit Germany again?”

  “No,” said Little. “For a long time I used to be bombarded with literature from Nazi sources, big envelopes full of leaflets on all sorts of subjects, gradually working round to the iniquities of the Versailles Treaty and how badly Germany had been treated and all that stuff. I expect you saw it; there was a lot of it about at one time.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  “Joined the Territorials,” said Little cheerfully.

  After Little had been removed Hambledon talked the matter over with Chief Inspector Bagshott of Scotland Yard, who was at the time on special duty with the Security Police. He was an old friend of Hambledon’s and accustomed to his methods, which he sometimes deprecated and sometimes envied.

  “I think their stories are probably true,” said Tommy.

  “I thought the Germans were an intelligent race,” said Bagshott

  “Only in spots,” said Hambledon. “Large red spots with purple frills round them.”

  “Surely,” pursued Bagshott, “they could not really have believed that any of these men would be of the slightest use to them. It must have been obvious that these prisoners only agreed in order to get home.”

  “You don’t appreciate the Nazi mentality,” said Tommy. “Imagine the case the other way round. Suppose we’d freed German prisoners with the same tale and they had gone home and reported to the police, which would mean the Gestapo. Do you suppose they would have been believed? Not on your life. ‘But why,’ the Gestapo would say, ‘did the accursed English pick on you? There must have been something about you which led them to suppose you would fall in with this scheme. No true Nazi would countenance it for a moment. He would spit in the face of the tempter. You are politically suspect.’ When the German protested that he had reported himself at once to the police they would reply, ‘Of course. What else could you do? It is the first obvious step towards establishing confidence, under cover of which to serve the enemies of the Reich. You are from the bottom of your liver unreliable. You are probably Jewish.’ It’s wonderful,” added Hambledon in passing, “what a lot of Germans do have a Jewish skeleton in their family vaults. The end of the interview would open the door of a concentration camp, or more likely”—Hambledon levelled an imaginary rifle—“bang, bang! Bury me this carrion. Is that a quotation from Shakespeare?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bagshott. “But—”

  “I can’t account for it,” said Hambledon, “but I often say things that sound to me like Shakespeare. You know—”

  “What you mean,” interrupted the chief inspector, “is that these Nazis are so untrustworthy themselves that they can’t trust anybody else.”

  “Precisely. Untrust begets untrust, and liars, lies. There I go again; it even scans.”

  “So the Germans think the English wouldn’t dare to come to us for fear of being put into a concentration camp,” pursued Bagshott.

  “That’s it.”

  “But that’s exactly what we shall do with ’em, isn’t it? Detained under 18B?”

  “Till we’re satisfied with their bona fides, yes,” said Hambledon. “But our concentration camps and the Germans’ have nothing in common but the name. I ought to know, I used to—”

  The door opened and a man came in saying, “Excuse me, sir,” to Hambledon. “Brixton Prison on the telephone. Did you direct the first prisoner, Abbott, to be taken anyplace else instead of back there? Or possibly on the way there?”

  “What? No, I certainly didn’t. I sent him straight back in charge of the man who brought him. Why?”

  “Because they should have arrived two hours ago and they haven’t done so.”

  Hambledon glanced at Bagshott, who rose to his feet and reached for the telephone. “May I? Thanks. Put Brixton through to me here, please.”

  The man left the room, and Hambledon said, “That’s odd. There may have been an accident.”

  “Brixton ought to have been informed,” began Bagshott, but the telephone started to squeak and he broke off to listen. He asked a few questions and ended by saying, “I will see into it at once. Good-bye.” He put the receiver down and went on, “The escort was a Special Branch man named Warren. He was instructed to bring the prisoner in an ordinary taxi and take him back in the same way. The three prisoners were brought separately, of course, with separate escorts at different times, but all by taxi. I am going to look for Abbott and Warren now. I’ll ring you up as soon as I hear anything.”

  “If it’s really interesting come and tell me,” said Hambledon. “Or bring the men here if they have anything exciting to say. In an hours’ time will do. I’m going to have dinner now.”

  “I wish I could,” said Bagshott, and departed in haste.

  Chapter III. Conference in Whitehall

  THREE DAYS LATER the body of Abbott was found in an empty warehouse in the maze of small streets between Kennington Road and the Albert Embankment. He had been shot through the head. Of Warren there was no trace, nor of the taxicab in which the two men had driven away from the Foreign Office on the way to Brixton Jail. Bagsbott in person brought the news to Hambledon, whose face settled into grim lines.

  “And I promised that poor fish that he would be safe,” said Tommy. “Not that the world is much the poorer for his loss, but I dislike having my promises broken for me, especially by Germans. There’s one minor consolation: they only shot him through the head. I suppose they hadn’t the time to play with him as they said.”

  “Why,” said Bagshott, “what did they say?”

  Hambledon told him, and the chief inspector looked a little sick.

  “I wish I knew what has happened to Warren,” he said anxiously. “I went along and examined the place myself, but there was nothing there to tell us anything.”

  “There’s a pretty efficient organization behind all this,” said Hambledon. “I wonder whether your Special Branch inspector who collected Abbott at Coveham noticed anything or saw anybody.”

  “He’s at the Yard,” said Bagshott. “I’ll ring up and tell him to come round, shall I?”

  “Please.”

  While they were waiting for the inspector Bagshott said, “I should like to know why they made a dead set at Abbott. The two other men, Nicholls and Little, are just as dangerous to them as he was.”

  “I think perhaps Abbott was the only one they managed to keep tabs on. He rowed ashore at once from the submarine as he was told. Nicholls hung about offshore till daylight and only came in when he saw some soldiers. Little rowed parallel with the shore—I say rowed, though I understand you can only paddle those rubber dinghies. He must have put in some pretty strenuous exercise. He landed about three miles farther along the coast—I expect the tide helped him—and then gave himself up to a coast watcher. I daresav the reception committee lost track of those two. That’s why I wanted a word with you inspector.”

  Bagshott nodded. “What about the man who sent you the information in the first place?”

  “Goodness knows who or where he is; even the R.A.F. officer who brought the letter didn’t see him. He—the flying man—was forced down in Belgium, bailed out, and was hidden by patriots belonging to the organization who smuggle these fellows across. He was handed the letter at the last moment before leaving Belgium and asked to deliver it, and that’s all he knows. He was told a friend wanted him to take it.”

  The door opened, and Bagshott introduced the man who entered. “Detective Inspector Ennis of the Special Branch.”

  “I want you to tell me, Detective I
nspector,” said Ham-bledon, “every single detail of your arrest of the man Abbott at Coveham in Dorset on the night of Sunday last. What arrangements you made, who assisted you, and all about it.”

  “Where shall I start, sir? When I reached Bridport?” Hambledon nodded. “I took with me Detective Sergeant Fowler of the Special Branch and applied to the Bridport police for the loan of two constables of the Dorset County Police. They lent me P.C.s Widgers and Morgan. The place where the man was expected to come ashore is a narrow break in the cliffs which run all along that coast; it was there or nowhere for some distance either side. There’s a lane runs down to the sea there, and a little half-moon beach, with cliffs either side. I posted Fowler and Morgan out of sight down on the beach and waited with Widgers about a hundred yards up the lane where there was a clump of hollies providing cover. I didn’t want to be too conspicuous.”

  “Quite right,” said Hambledon.

  “Fowler and Morgan on the beach had instructions not to interfere if the man came straight up the lane, only if he tried to dodge away. We got into position before dark and waited about two hours, I couldn’t see the beach from where I was. Fowler reported that just before six he thought he heard the sound of engines out to sea, and about twenty minutes later he picked out a small boat coming inshore. It’s never perfectly dark down by the sea, somehow. The boat grounded and a man sprang out and ran up the beach; by luck he found the lane practically at once. They could tell by the sound of his footsteps, sir.” Hambledon nodded, and Ennis went on: “He came up the lane, alternately running and standing still, till when he was abreast of me I stepped out and stopped him.”

  “What, exactly, did you say and what did he answer?”

  “I said, ‘Stop, please.’ He asked who we were and I said, ‘Police.’ He said, Thank God,’ and grabbed hold of my arm. He said, ‘Take me to British Intelligence; I’ve got something to tell them. Be quick, don’t let’s wait about,’ words to that effect.”

  “You’re sure he mentioned British Intelligence?”

  “Certain, sir. He was in a nervous, excited state—one could see that—he was looking all ways at once—”

  “See it, you said. You turned a torch on him?”

  “Yes sir,” said Ennis in a tone of surprise. “I had no instructions not to show a light.”

  “No, no,” said Hambledon. “It’s all right. I only wanted to know. Go on.”

  “He was very frightened, thought he heard a noise behind the bushes. I told him it was only a rat.”

  “Did you go behind the bushes and look?”

  “No sir. I didn’t hear anything, and my instructions were to get him away as quickly as possible. So I took him up the lane to where I had the car waiting, me on one side of him, Widgers on the other, and Fowler and Morgan following on behind. We put him in the back seat between Fowler and Widgers and drove to Bridport, where we left the two constables and the car, and Fowler and I brought him up to town by train.”

  “Did Fowler or Morgan see or hear anybody on the beach?”

  “No sir. I asked them both. Not a sound or a sign.”

  “Oh. And you didn’t see anyone either?”

  “Only one man, a local resident who’d taken the wrong road. That would be nearly an hour before Abbott came ashore.”

  “A local resident taking the wrong road?” repeated Hambledon. “Surely not.”

  “He hadn’t lived there more than a few weeks, I understood him to say. Moved down from London.”

  “Did the local constable—Widgers—know him?”

  “No sir. He didn’t come from Widgers’ village, and not having been there long—”

  “Did you check his identity card?” asked Bagshott.

  “Widgets did. I supposed it was all in order as Widgers didn’t query it.”

  “What sort of a man was your wanderer?” asked Hambledon, and Ennis described the very fat man uncertainly riding a lady’s cycle with a basketful of shopping.

  “Doesn’t sound very suspicious, certainly,” said Bagshott, but Hambledon said, “I think I’d like a chat with Widgers; something might emerge.”

  “I’ll put a call through to Bridport,” said Bagshott, and talked about overriding priorities to the telephone exchange to such purpose that Bridport answered within five minutes and Hambledon took over.

  “Hambledon, Foreign Office speaking. Could I have a word with Police Constable Widgers if he is available, please? ... Thank you .... Not in the station? That’s unfortunate .... No, I’m afraid nobody else will do, Superintendent. I’m sorry to be so exacting, but it’s a matter of an eyewitness account .... Yes, please.” There was a short pause during which Hambledon lit a cigarette and practised patience. “Yes? ... Oh, thank you very much, please do. I am most grateful, Superintendent.” Hambledon put down the receiver and said, “Widgers is out on duty remonstrating with somebody who has set their chimney alight contrary to the black-out regulations. They are fetching him back and will ring us again in a quarter of an hour. ‘Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, across the sands of—Bridport.”

  Ennis looked respectfully amused, and Bagshott remarked in a tone of relief that at least it wasn’t Shakespeare. Hambledon said that in point of fact the quotation was not very well chosen because, if he remembered correctly, Mary came to grief and the cattle never arrived after all. Ennis diffidently suggested as an amendment, “I hear you calling me,” and the telephone rang again.

  “If this is Widgers,” said Hambledon, reaching for the receiver, “he’s put the fire out very quickly. Hullo!... Yes, speaking .... Good—What I wanted to ask you, Constable Widgers, was for the fullest possible particulars about a fat man on a lady’s cycle who turned up while you were waiting for somebody to come ashore last Sunday night, you remember?”

  Widgers said he remembered perfectly and gave a more detailed description of the man than Ennis had, including the clothes the man wore and the make of cycle he was using. Hambledon took notes.

  “You examined his identity card, didn’t you?”

  “Yes sir. It seemed all in order. He said he came from London, and there was a London address on it, and an address in Coveham written below when he re-registered, sir.”

  “You haven’t seen him since, by any chance?”

  “No sir. I haven’t looked for him,” said Widgers. “The Coveham constable is here, sir. I could call him to the phone if you wish.”

  “Ask him yourself, for a start, if he knows your fat friend,” said Hambledon. “I don’t want to waste time on the matter if it’s all in order. I’ll hold on.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Widgers.

  There followed a pause of five long minutes before he returned to the telephone with some excitement in his voice. “Sir? There is something wrong. There’s no such man living in Coveham at all, and the address he gave is occupied by two old ladies who’ve lived there all their lives. They have a brother from London staying with them now, an old gentleman over eighty and infirm. There’s nobody else there. The constable called there today about something. It’s only a small house.”

  “Oh, really,” said Hambledon. “How very interesting. I suppose you can’t, by chance, remember the London address? There’s no reason why you should, but—”

  “I’ve got it written down,” said Widgers unexpectedly. “And the identity card number. Just a moment—I’ve got it. The address is 101 Tavistock Square, W.C., and the reference number is EEPO/9/6.”

  “Well done, constable,” said Hambledon heartily. “This information is of the utmost value. I am very much obliged to you. I wish every member of the force had his wits about him to that extent.” Widgers, at the other end, was reduced to incoherent burbles, and Hambledon went on, “Tell me, why did you make these notes? Did you suspect him, and if so, why?”

  “Not exactly, sir. I did think it a bit odd that I hadn’t seen him before if he’d been about the district for weeks. He’s rather remarkable-looking, but it’s a big distr
ict; I mightn’t have chanced to meet him. No, I make a practice, sir, of noting down odds and ends just in case they might be wanted any time, the numbers of cars left standing in lanes, things like that. It’s never been any use before,” added Widgers frankly.

  “Well, it is this time. Thank you again,” said Hambledon. “Good-bye.”

  When the reference number was looked up it proved to be a Hampshire number belonging to an elderly but ferocious barber at Portsmouth. He had never been in Dorset, didn’t want to go to Dorset, and had no intention of going there.

  Why should he? He’d got quite enough to do, being so shorthanded as he was with all his assistants called up, and all his A.R.P. work as well, without gallivanting off to Dorset—

  “All right, all right,” said the police officer who interviewed him. “This is only a routine enquiry it was my duty to make—”

  But the barber took a dim view of routine enquiries when he was busy. As for number 101 Tavistock Square, it simply does not exist. There never was such a number.

  Bagshott turned the whole resources of the police force, Special Branch and C.I.D., onto the task of finding Warren, but nearly three weeks passed without a trace of him. In the evening of Friday, January twenty-eighth, Hambledon’s telephone rang and Bagshott announced himself in a triumphant voice.

  “I’ve got them,” he said. “Warren, my Special Branch man, and the man who found him.”

  “Alive?” said Hambledon anxiously.

  “Certainly. Alive and well. Warren’s a bit the worse for having been locked up all this time, but otherwise he’s all right. He’s been in a house at Teddington.”

  “Teddington, eh? I should like to see them both at once, if Warren is well enough to tell his story.”

  “I’ll bring them along at once.”

  Five minutes later Bagshott walked into Hambledon’s room, j “Most extraordinary affair,” he said. “I thought Warren was at the bottom of the river weeks ago. Which would you like to see first?”

  “Warren, please.”