The Fifth Man Read online

Warren came in, pallid in face but bearing no other marks of ill usage.

  “Sit down, do,” said Hambledon. “I am very glad to see you alive—I didn’t think you were. I’m afraid you’ve had a rotten time of it.”

  “Thank you, sir. Yes, it wasn’t too good. I shall sympathize with yard dogs more than ever in future.”

  “Have a cigarette,” said Hambledon, “and tell me all about it from the moment you left this office.” . “Thank you, sir,” said Warren again. “I left this room with the prisoner, Abbott, who was lamenting about having to go back to Brixton. We went out of the building. I expected some trouble in finding a taxi, especially in the dark—t was quite dark by the time we left, if you remember, sir. However, at the corner of Charles Street and Whitehall I found a taxi standing; the driver was having an argument with a man who, I gathered, was his previous fare. I said, ‘Excuse me, is this cab engaged?’ and the man on the pavement said it was not, paid the driver, and walked away. I put the prisoner in, told the driver to go to Brixton Jail, and got in myself. We started off. The taxi turned round in Whitehall and went over Westminster Bridge all right, down Westminster Bridge Road, and turned right into Kennington Road, all as it should have done. The prisoner started arguing again about how an Englishman couldn’t be kept in prison without a trial. I remember he was talking about the Habeas Corpus Act as we crossed the Lambeth Road. I started to tell him about Section 18B, when suddenly the taxi, instead of keeping straight on, turned right. I tapped on the glass and shouted at the driver, but he said there was a traffic diversion farther on and it was better going that way. I am not very familiar with that part of London, sir, and traffic diversions are so common nowadays—I am sorry, sir”—to Bagshott—“I ought to have known, no doubt—”

  “Carry on,” said Bagshott.

  “We turned left and right and all ways. It was pitch-dark and I couldn’t see a single street name even if I should have known it if I had. Little narrow streets they were, too, and a lot of bomb damage here and there; I could see that much.”

  “Did the driver hesitate at all?” asked Hambledon.

  “No sir. I was beginning to get uneasy, but he seemed so confident I was sure he knew the way—I was right there, anyway,” said Warren with a rueful laugh, “All this didn’t last long, you know, five minutes or a bit over, and the prisoner talking nineteen to the dozen all the time—”

  “He did indeed,” said Tommy sympathetically.

  “When all of a sudden the taxi swerved so violently to the left that I was thrown on top of the prisoner and then round again to the right into a building of some kind. There were men there I could just see, and I heard sliding doors being run along behind us. At the same moment the taxi stopped so violently that I was thrown forward just as the door opened and somebody hit me a crack on the head—it all happened at once. I didn’t go right out; I could dimly hear the prisoner yelling, ‘No, no, no,’ and somebody laughed.”

  “Just laughed,” said Hambledon. “You didn’t hear anybody speak?”

  “No sir. Only the prisoner shouting and this laugh. I wasn’t quite conscious, but I remember trying to hang onto him—the prisoner, that is. Then somebody hauled me out of the cab and hit me again. At least I suppose that’s what happened; I went right out that time, and there were two bumps on my head when I woke up.”

  “Where was this—where did you wake up?”

  “In the room where I’ve been all this time. It had strong wooden panels over the windows like a permanent black-out; they were screwed on, the screws countersunk and the heads puttied over. I could just see they were screws in one or two places. I hadn’t any tools; they took my knife away. I imagined that the room was at the top of a house because there were ventilators in the ceiling, but I couldn’t see out. The door was very solid and had no handle on the inside. I knew there were two bolts outside because I used to hear them being run along whenever the door was opened. It was a fair-sized room and had a small wash place off it with hot and cold water laid on; that window was blocked too. Electric light on all the time; I couldn’t turn it off. That worried me, and I used to take the bulb out sometimes for a rest, or tie it up in a blue handkerchief I happened to have with me .... I don’t know how much of all this you want-, sir.”

  “Go on, please,” said Hambledon. “I want everything.”

  “The room was fairly comfortable, carpet on the floor, a bed and an easy chair. A man used to come in three times a day and bring me food and drink—at least I suppose it was in the day, I couldn’t tell. For all I know, they might have left me alone all day and fed me during the night. I tried to make him talk, but he wouldn’t. He used to shave me too; they wouldn’t trust me with even a safety razor.”

  “They didn’t actually ill-use you?” asked Hambledon.

  “No sir. I asked for books to read and the man brought some. And a book containing fairly stiff crossword puzzles, that was a great help. I used to do physical jerks and exercises, not to get too flabby. Room was fairly warm. There was a water radiator with a grating behind it; air came in that way. No, it wasn’t too bad, only the boredom and being shut in.” Warren shivered. “I started talking to myself.”

  “Take it easy,” said Hambledon. “You’ll soon get out of the habit. You said just now you didn’t know whether it was night or day. You had your watch?”

  “Yes sir, they left that, but I got muddled, having been unconscious. I tried to keep a sort of calendar, but it was a bit difficult.”

  “I should think so. Nothing happened all the time till tonight? Nobody else came but the one man?”

  “Nobody, sir. I thought somebody might come and ask me questions about Security stuff, but no one came near. I can’t think what they kept me for.”

  Bagshott stirred in his chair and said, “A hostage, possibly,” and Hambledon nodded.

  “Yes, I did think of that,” said Warren. “It’s a German habit.”

  “What happened tonight?” asked Hambledon.

  “Well—I ought to explain that sometimes they used to leave me an extra supply of food at breakfast time and not come in again till late at night. That happened—er—four times. It happened today. The man said they’d be back for supper. That was about nine o’clock generally.”

  “Just a moment,” said Hambledon. “Bagshott, it is now half-past seven. This house—you know the address?”

  Bagshott nodded.

  “This house will be surrounded at once,” Hambledon continued, “and anyone attempting to enter arrested. The house will, of course, be entered and searched and any papers brought to me. Letters may arrive.”

  “May I use your phone?” said Bagshott, and put a call through to the superintendent of police at Teddington.

  “Now, go on,” said Hambledon to Warren.

  “Soon after five o’clock. I heard somebody coming up the stairs. I knew it wasn’t the same man; the step was different. He opened the door and came in. I asked him who he was and he wouldn’t tell me. He asked me my name and I gave it, telling him I was a prisoner and he was to get me out. He agreed and we left at once, bolting the door behind us. I gather he had got in by a window at the back, as he went to shut it before we left the house. We went out at the front door, shut it after us, and walked away. In the course of conversation I asked if he was in the police and he said he was not. The question seemed to amuse him. I said I was going to the police station to get a car to London, and he asked if I could put him in touch with Intelligence. I was anxious to get him to the station, as I considered his actions not above suspicion, so I agreed to try and he came with me. I brought him to the chief inspector here who interviewed him.”

  “What, exactly, did you consider suspicious, Detective Inspector?”

  “Well, he wasn’t either police or Intelligence. What was he doing in that house? Was he just breaking and entering and happened to find me, or did he know I was there? He said he was just having a look round. How did he know the house was suspicious, or was it just coinciden
ce, and why was he so keen on interviewing Intelligence?”

  “Quite a string of questions,” said Hambledon. “Did he answer any of ’em to you, Bagshott? And who is the feller, anyway?”

  “Don’t know,” said Bagshott. “He wouldn’t talk to me, not even to give his name. He only repeated his demand to see someone in Intelligence, so I rang you up.”

  “Quite the little mystery man, isn’t he? I’ll unravel him,” said Hambledon. “About that taxi, did you get its number?”

  Warren shook his head.

  “Never mind, it was probably faked anyway. Anything recognizable about it? Or the driver?”

  “No sir. Perfectly ordinary taxi so far as one could see in the dark. I turned my torch on when we got in; nothing special about it. The driver was so muffled up in scarves and coats one could hardly see his face, but it was a cold night and taxi drivers do wrap up. I didn’t make a note of his number, either.”

  “We are making enquiries about a taxi which set down an argumentative fare at the corner of Charles Street at that time and picked up another,” said Bagshott. “Somebody may have noticed him.”

  “I wish you luck,” said Hambledon. “I think you’ll need it. Well, now for the other fellow. I hope hell think I’m good enough to talk to.”

  Chapter IV. A Dutchman from Flushing

  WARREN AND BAGSHOTT left the room and a few minutes later the chief inspector returned, bringing another man with him: a brown-haired man of about thirty-five, clean-shaven, of medium height, with a square jaw and a faintly amused expression.

  “This is Warren’s rescuer,” said Bagshott. “I’m sorry I can’t introduce him more formally, but he appears to wish to remain anonymous.” He turned to the man and added, “This is Mr. Hambledon of British Intelligence; you can talk to him without misgivings. Well, unless you want me, Hambledon, I’ve got a few things to see to.”

  “Carry on, Bagshott. I expect this gentleman and I will be able to entertain each other for a little while.”

  Bagshott went out, and Hambledon said, “Do sit down. I Understand that you had some tale you wished to unfold. Who are you, for a start?”

  “Really,” said the man coolly, “I’ve been so many different people lately that I must stop and think. What’s more, I doubt if any of my various aliases would convey much to you. In the first place, I’m the man who sent you a note by an escaping R.A.F. officer about four men who were being landed from a German submarine on England’s shores with a view to their acting for German Intelligence. I hope the note reached you.”

  “I had a feeling,” said Hambledon, “that this interview was going to be interesting; now I’m sure of it. Please go on.”

  “I particularly wanted them to be rescued from Nazi clutches as soon as they arrived. You know, they had no intention of acting for Germany—it was merely a scheme for getting home—but if the German agents did get their claws on them I’d be sorry for them. Not one of the four would have the least idea how to look after themselves; nice fellows and all that, but scarcely one complete brain among all of them. Not the chess player’s mind, what? No finesse.”

  “No?” said Hambledon. “I’ll remember what you say; I’m sure it’s valuable. About yourself, now—”

  “Tanner is at once the best of the bunch and the most helpless. Even deceiving the Nazis gave him a pain in his conscience, believe it or not. But his wife is dying of tb. and he wanted rather badly to get home. He—”

  “You will be sorry to hear,” interrupted Hambledon, “that Lieutenant Tanner was shot dead by patriots in Brussels on his way through. Unfortunately nobody warned them that he was not a genuine renegade.”

  The man scowled for a moment “Pity. Well, accidents will happen.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t know it,” said Hambledon.

  “I wonder I didn’t hear it. I suppose they didn’t get the tip in time in Brussels. I was having—”

  “Are you sure you didn’t know it?”

  “Quite sure,” said the man, and looked Hambledon squarely in the face.

  “Now tell me who you are,” said Tommy.

  “I am a member of German Intelligence,” said the man with an impish grin. “It occurred to me that since I’ve got away with that I might be useful to you.”

  “You propose to act as a British agent on the staff of German Intelligence?” said Hambledon.

  “Exactly. It should be exciting, I think. I’ve been bored stiff for three years and I’m tired of it. I don’t think I’d be bored on that job.”

  Hambledon leaned back in his chair and regarded his visitor with a face in which there was no amusement at all.

  “Let’s get this straight,” he said. “You are Major Aylwin Brampton, nephew of Sir Oliver Brampton, member of Parliament for the Rook’s Nest division of Yorkshire. You were born in 1911 in London, but both your parents died when you were a child and your uncle brought you up at his place, Rock Hall, Rook’s Nest, Yorkshire. You were educated at Rugby and Cambridge; after that you acted as secretary to your uncle, who was a man of many affairs. Am I right?”

  “Please go on,” said his visitor. “Excuse me—May I smoke?”

  “Have one of mine,” said Hambledon. “Your uncle was a great admirer of the Nazi Party; he was one of many who thought a little more discipline would be good for English youth. He not only joined the British Union of Fascists, he was a prominent supporter of The Link, that ingenuous organization for encouraging a rapprochement between England and Germany. Many people who thought in the early days as he did saw their mistake some time before war actually broke out; not so your uncle. He continued to believe in the innocence of Germany’s intentions—”

  “Persistent old cock, wasn’t he?”

  “With the result,” continued Hambledon, “that soon after the outbreak of war he was gathered in and interned under Section 18B of the Defence of the Realm Act. He is still interned. Let us revert to you. You joined the Territorials before the war, and in view of your uncle’s well-known views on the subject of Germany, I may say that your army career was watched with interest However, apart from acting as your uncle’s secretary, you did nothing reprehensible so far as we know. On the outbreak of war you were called up, went abroad with your regiment, and were eventually reported missing after Dunkirk, and subsequently as a prisoner of war in Germany. Nothing more was heard of you until now, when you pop up bright and smiling with this kindly offer to serve in British Intelligence on the strength of having rescued three British soldiers from the wicked Nazis. Am I right?”

  “It certainly sounds pretty dubious.”

  “Tell me how you knew when and where those men were going to be landed if the Germans didn’t tell you? Tell me how you knew where to look for Detective Sergeant Warren?”

  “With pleasure. It’s a long story.”

  “It would be, and I don’t know that I shall bother to listen to it,” said Hambledon. “Can you suggest any reason why I shouln’t simply have you shot as a traitor?”

  “There’s one quite good reason,” said Hambledon’s visitor with a disarming smile.

  “Trot it out and I’ll look at it.”

  “I’m not Major Brampton.”

  “Oh come,” said Hambledon. “Can’t you think of a better one than that? Listen. You arrived from your prison camp at the Germany spy school at Liesensee on October seventeenth, 1943. In spite of the fact that you can’t speak or understand a word of German—you, Oliver Brampton’s secretary—you came out on top in their end-of-term examinations. Do you still maintain you can’t speak German?”

  “Not to you,” said the man in that language. “I just thought it would be useful if the Germans didn’t know it.”

  “You are losing your grip,” said Hambledon contemptuously. “The Germans did know it; you have been corresponding with them for years. It was only to your fellow prisoners that you pretended you couldn’t speak German, and the Nazis for some reason fell in with the idea. You started off with the other pri
soners from Liesensee on January second this year, but you disappeared in Berlin. You turned up two days later in Flushing, where you got in touch with the underground movement and forwarded your note to me by the R.A.F. pilot who was being sent over. You were next seen entering the house of one Willem Geerdts, a Dutchman known to be collaborating with the German authorities. It may or may not be news to you that Geerdts has been carefully destroyed.”

  “Good job too,” said the man shortly.

  “Why?”

  “He murdered a friend of mine.”

  “Really,” said Hambledon, “your friends do seem to be unlucky, don’t they? There was Tanner, too, wasn’t there? And it’s difficult to imagine how the other three escaped on that occasion. Abbott, of course, didn’t last long; he was shot through the head in London the day after he reached England—”

  “Look here,” said the visitor energetically. “I am a fairly patient man, I think, but you are going a bit over the mark—”

  “My patience is exhausted,” said Hambledon in German, mimicking the Führer.

  “I’ve already told you I’m not Brampton; send for your dossier about him, read the description, and look at the photograph. I’m not in the least like him, and Brampton is dead anyway.”

  Hambledon looked at him for a moment and then rang the bell and sent for the papers. Till they arrived the two men sat in silence, the visitor lighting another cigarette from the end of the last, and Hambledoa busying himself with some letters on his desk. The dossier was brought in, a stout paper cover containing copies of letters, many pages of typescript with notes scribbled in the margins, and a photograph. Two photographs, to be exact, one full face and one in profile. There were also fingerprints.

  Hambledon looked from the photographs to the man in front of him and back again.

  “There is not the slightest doubt about it,” he said. “You are not this man.”

  “There are also the fingerprints,” said the man calmly, “but I’d rather you didn’t go into that if you don’t mind. I am a little sensitive on the subject of fingerprints.”