Danger at my Heels Page 2

  The gun-fire was noisy; though, curiously enough, the most persistent sound and the one you noticed above everything else was the noise of enemy aeroplanes; these sounded as if they were exactly above your head. It took me some time to get to sleep, though I was lucky enough, at that, for it was the last night of comparative peace that I was to know for some time. The next day things started to happen—as far as I was concerned, I mean. But I’ll come to that in a moment.

  I ought to explain that I was back to get into the Navy. Try to, that is. My age group—the thirty-two’s—had long since been conscripted, and I had a nasty feeling that they might now leave you no choice of service. However, I saw a fellow at the Admiralty, and then at Rex House, and found there was a good chance for the R.N.V.R.—only it meant a wait of two or three months. So I took a quarterly tenancy of a flat in Kensington Court, on the top floor, and went into immediate possession.

  At Kensington Town Hall I got a gas-mask, and from the Food Office a ration card; this entitled me to a quarter of a pound of butter, half a pound of sugar, two ounces of tea, and one and tuppence worth of meat a week. I dumped this lot in my new flat, and went out to get some lunch. I remember worrying lest a period of boredom and inactivity lay before me. It makes me smile to think of that now.

  I bought an Evening Standard and turned into a pub in the Kensington High Street. One side of the room was partitioned off with wooden cubicles. As I came abreast the first of these, a curious thing happened. A man got to his feet and said, “Hullo, you’re early!”

  Then he stopped—very suddenly.

  He was a small, ordinary-looking fellow, wearing a raincoat. He had a thin, pinched face—and there was nothing remarkable about him except perhaps his eyes; these were blue and deep-set, and gave him a look of cunning. He was gaping in surprise. I could not imagine what had startled him! Certainly I had never seen him before in my life.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, “I thought you were someone else.”

  He sank back in his seat, and I went on to an empty cubicle.

  When I had given my order to a waiter, I opened the newspaper.

  We had raided the Lofoten Isles. . . . Eden, the Foreign Secretary, had left Greece after discussions with Greek leaders. . . . Weather reports were forbidden, but the paper gave an account of the conditions over the Straits of Dover; a reminder of the possibility of a Nazi invasion.

  I glanced down the amusement column. John Gielgud was in Barrie’s Dear Brutus at the Globe Theatre, and there was Applesauce at the Palladium with Max Miller. The Piccadilly Hotel and the Lansdowne Restaurant both advertised dancing thirty feet below ground level. “Eat in safety.” I wondered what future generations would think of notices such as these.

  On the wall was pinned the reproduction of a drawing by “Fougasse,” a warning against careless talk. It represented Hitler leaning out from under a table and listening intently to two gentlemen. My mind turned to spies and spying. I wondered how many had got in with the refugees from Germany and Austria, and whether our supervision was strict enough.

  Soon I finished and went out. As I turned down the High Street, someone touched me on the arm. Two men had followed me out of the pub.

  They were in the middle forties. One was fat and round of face, dressed in a cheviot overcoat. The other was thin with a dark jowl. Both their faces were grave. I think if you had asked me to guess their occupations, I would have said that they were builders or some sort of artisans who had gone to the public-house for their midday beer and sandwich.

  The fat one said, “I think your name is Carr.”

  I shook my head.

  “No—Stephen.”

  The face of the fat man hardened; a purposeful look appeared in his eyes.

  “I think not, Mr. Carr. I am Detective-Inspector Cartwright” (I think he said of the Special Branch), “and I must ask you to come with us.”

  I was amazed.

  “But why?”

  “You will be charged under the Official Secrets Act, and under the Defence Regulations.”

  “Nonsense!” I said, smiling. “Look here, unless this is a joke, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else. My name is Michael Stephen—really!”

  “We don’t want any trouble. You’d better come quietly.”

  They moved closer. The thin one had one of his hands in his pocket; and I knew, as clearly as if I could see it, that he was handling an automatic.

  It all seemed rather unreal. People were passing close to us on the pavement, and the traffic was moving smoothly along the Kensington High Street, that sedate shopping centre; a pretty girl in slacks went by and glanced enquiringly at me. I wondered if she thought we were three men who, after meeting for a drink, were about to go their respective ways.

  I could not take the men seriously.

  “I don’t know what it’s all about,” I said, “but I think we can clear this up.”

  “All right,” said the fat one, “come along.”

  He hailed a passing taxi. I do not like being told what to do, and nearly said so. Then I reflected that, if they were really detectives and had made a mistake, it was up to me to help them.

  The thin one told the driver to go to Scotland Yard. I asked them what it was all about. Cartwright (the fat one) said, “You’d better wait.”

  We drove in silence. I was still puffing at my pipe. My mind was not unduly disturbed, though I realized that this would be a nuisance. There would be the business of establishing my identity. Soon we drove through a gateway into a courtyard. The taxi was paid off and I was hurried along a passage into a room. Here were some chairs and a teak table. The walls were bare, the windows barred.

  The thin man disappeared, and after a while a slight, grey-haired man came in. He was accompanied by a police stenographer.

  “Well, Mr. Carr,” he said, “we’ve had quite a hunt for you. I hope you’re not going to give us any trouble.”

  “On the contrary, I came here to help you,” I replied. “There has evidently been a mistake. My name is not Carr.”

  The elder man shrugged his shoulders.

  “We will not quarrel about a name!” He turned to Cartwright. “Have you that photograph?”

  The Inspector carried some papers, and from these he took a photograph. He gave this to his superior, who in turn handed it to me.

  “Do you deny that that is your photograph?”

  The photograph looked as though it had been enlarged from an amateur’s snapshot. I do not think that the average man (unlike a woman) knows his face really well. But the sight of these reproduced features surprised me. There was my black hair, my fairly square jaw, and slightly aquiline nose. The lips were, perhaps, fuller than mine, the face fatter and the eyes more closely set. But certainly the general effect was amazingly like myself.

  I gave it back.

  “Yes, it’s certainly like me. But it doesn’t happen to be me.”

  “I don’t think lying’s going to help you.”

  It was an excusable case of mistaken identity. It should not take long to put right, and I gave an easy laugh.

  “If I tell you about myself, that should clear this up.”

  “That is what we wish to hear.”

  I told them my name was Michael Stephen. I gave them details of the bombed S.S. Cawnstor and of my movements since. I asked them to ring up the estate agent to verify my address.

  “If you don’t believe me,” I finished, “get in touch with Swansea or the destroyer that put us ashore.”

  They were looking at me closely, suspiciously.

  “We don’t deny that you may have done all these things,” said the grey-haired man in his soft voice, “but you’re still the man we want.”

  “Who do you think I am?” I burst out.

  The older man regarded me unperturbed.

  “Will it save time if I tell you that we know of your interest in the Admiralty affair?”

  Sudden realization came to me. They thought I was some sort of a spy. I nearly laughed; it was so ridiculous.

  “Look here, if you think I’m some sort of spy, you’ve got to forget it—quickly. Because the man you really want will be getting away.”

  “But you admit trying to get into the Navy?”

  “Of course! Why not?”

  “And you’ve applied for mine-sweeping work!”

  “Yes. But you’re still making a mistake.”

  The grey-haired man sighed.

  “You know perfectly well what we want. We’ll soon find out if you’ve got it.”

  He whispered something to Cartwright, who nodded and left the room. I protested, but neither of the men said anything. Finally I fell into a savage silence, and took out my pipe. At the sight of it the grey-haired man said:

  “I see you no longer smoke your Pagani black cigars!”

  “I’ve never even heard of Pagani black cigars,” I snapped.

  “Wise of you to drop your known habits when someone’s looking for you.”

  Soon the Inspector returned, ushering another man into the room. The newcomer was about thirty, with a pale face and restless eyes. He continuously clenched and unclenched his fingers. He was obviously a badly frightened man.

  “You see, we got Fergusson,” said the grey-haired man.

  “I don’t know who he is.”

  “Very well. We’ll have another talk, later.”

  They all went out, leaving me alone. Then Cartwright returned and took me to another room. Here they made me strip to the skin and searched both myself and my clothes. Then they weighed me, photographed me (full face and profile), and took particulars, such as the colour of my eyes and hair. Finally they took my finger-prints.

  I had a few angry things to say and said them. Eventually I ended up back in the f
irst room.

  I sat there alone for about an hour, working up a beautiful temper. I got too heated to worry about my position, though I realized that without papers (mine were in the sea) and without a soul in England who really knew me, it would be difficult proving my identity, at any rate, for some time.

  I was just about as cross as a man can be, when the grey-haired man came in and at one stroke punctured my inflated rage. He crawled; he apologized all ways he knew how. There had been a terrible mistake, and he could only throw himself on my mercy. Particulars they had just taken about me did not check up with those of the man they wanted. They had telephoned Swansea, and my trip abroad made it certain that I could not be Carr.

  Would I accept his apology? Was there anything he could do to put it right? Above all, would I be good enough to say nothing of what had happened. Something big was at stake. He did not want the man they really sought to be warned.

  There was nothing I could do but say all right, and accept their offer to be taken home in a taxi.

  In the cab I pulled at my pipe. It was annoying to have lost the best part of an afternoon (I had been arrested about one, and it was now four o’clock). Against that, it would make a good story. I dismissed the whole thing from my mind—including a little nagging worry that something was wrong somewhere.

  Then occurred an incident that should have made me suspicious. I stopped at the Overseas Club, and when I came out my taxi was still waiting.

  “Paid for to Kensington Court,” said the driver.

  I thought this very considerate of the Metropolitan Police.

  We rattled to a stop in Kensington Court, and I went upstairs to my flat; on a landing were buckets and a stirrup pump (the householders’ indispensable requisites with which to fight that modern pest—the incendiary bomb.)

  The estate agent had told me that it was customary (and sometimes compulsory) to form fire-fighting groups amongst the houses. The suburban dweller, when he lent over his neighbour’s fence, now courteously borrowed, not the garden roller, but a stirrup pump, “As a fire has dropped into one of the bedrooms, old boy.”

  I went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. As I sat waiting for the water to boil, that uneasy, nagging worry came back.

  Something was wrong somewhere. The Scotland Yard business did not add up right. When I first got there they were certain that I was the right man. They had questioned me, and produced that fellow—what was his name?—Fergusson (whoever he might be). It was only afterwards that they had taken my particulars. Surely, if there had been any doubt, they would have checked particulars straight away.

  Suddenly I gave a gasp. Something had become very clear. Inspector Cartwright and the dark-jowled detective had not been in the public-house by chance. They were there because they expected to find Carr.

  The fellow in the raincoat who had spoken to me. He fell neatly into the picture. What was that he had said? “Hullo, you’re early—”; and then, “Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

  Of course! He thought I was Carr—because he was waiting for him.

  The police knew that Carr was going to meet someone in the public-house; but, presumably, they did not know whom. By one shot in a million I, who happened to look something like the wanted man, had walked in. The detectives had waited, hoping my confederate would turn up, but when I went out alone they arrested me.

  They had let me go because they expected me to lead them to someone—or something; whatever it was they had searched me for at Scotland Yard.

  I went into the living-room and looked round. It was difficult to tell if anything had been disturbed. Indeed, I would not have known, but for a knot on one of the parcels. It had been loose and I had retied it. Since then it had been undone and then done up again.

  The flat had been searched in my absence.

  On an impulse I looked out of the window, being careful not to be seen myself. Below was the square and beyond the park. . . . A few seconds later and I would have missed him. On the steps, talking to a man, was the dark-jowled detective. He stayed but a few seconds. Then, turning, he hurried away. His companion went down the area steps into the house.

  They still thought I was Carr and were waiting for me.

  A hiss of escaping steam came from the kitchen. Mechanically I made a pot of tea.

  I tried to recall what the grey-haired man had said at Scotland Yard. He had made a point that I could have done all the things I claimed to have done, and yet still be Carr. This suggested that, beyond the photograph, the police knew very little about that individual. Their lack of knowledge made it awkward, for no one knew me well in England.

  I sat very still, automatically drinking the milkless tea, listlessly crumbling a piece of cake.

  A hush, like a tangible thing, hung over the flat. Suddenly I hated it; the place had become a prison. Outside, they were waiting for me; ready to arrest me. It was only a question of time. When they had me—what then? There would be a period of restraint while I sought to convince them. But supposing this was not possible? What if they believed to the end that I was Carr?

  I thought of him, somewhere in London, working against England. Burrowing like a mole while he helped to undermine her. When they took me they would think they had him. He would be free to continue his work. Then I knew that I must find Carr. It might be the only way to convince them. More important, it might be the one way to stop him.

  My brain, which had clouded, came to life. I felt resourceful; ready for escape. Going into the living-room, I pulled out my pipe. It would have to be carefully thought out—this escape of mine. Outside, the net was drawn pretty tight. I was up against men trained to man-hunt.

  I turned a few ideas over in my mind. My first thoughts centred round something in the nature of a dash for freedom. Only that line of country was hopeless. Something more subtle was necessary.

  I tried putting myself in their place. What would their instructions be? How much rope would I be allowed?

  It was clear that they would not give me much of a run. If I went out in daylight no doubt I could wander about, for they could follow me. But once the black-out came—then, surely, they would act. They could not risk my slipping off in the dark. Nevertheless, it was for night that I must wait. It was my only ally.

  Then an idea suggested itself. They expected me to contact somebody. As long as they thought I was leading them somewhere, then just so long would they let me go free. Anyway, that was my guess.

  It so happened that the telephone was still connected. The last occupant had left, like so many Londoners, in a hurry. Now, if the police were as smart as I hoped they were, they would expect me to use the telephone, and might have a man listening in.

  I looked up the Piccadilly Hotel, and asked for Major Maxim Buckley. I chose that name because, to the best of my knowledge, no such person existed.

  They, naturally, told me they had never heard of him.

  I affected surprise, and paused as if in thought.

  “Apparently he hasn’t arrived yet,” I said. “But I want to leave a message for him. Will you tell him, when he arrives, that Mr. Stephen wants to see him very urgently to-night. I’ll meet him in the cocktail bar at eight forty-five. And on no account is he to go out. Tell him not to bother to ring me; but he must wait. Have you got that?”

  I made my voice sound pretty urgent, and repeated everything twice. I acted like a desperate man. If any policeman was listening in, he should have been duly impressed.

  Well, there it was. If they had heard me, I might have a chance to get away; and if they hadn’t, then it probably meant a cell for that night.

  I had to decide what to take with me. My hat and coat, obviously. Apart from that and the clothes I stood up in—nothing else. There was sufficient money in my belt for some considerable time. So there was no need for anxiety on that score.

  Food would be useful; and I made some paste sandwiches. There was consolation in being able to use a week’s ration of butter in one grand burst. Wrapping the sandwiches and some cake into a parcel, I stowed this into my overcoat pocket.

  Then back to the living-room to wait until about eight-thirty. Sitting there, thinking of this strange new London, made the time pass quickly.

  Black-out was round about seven-twenty; and at fifteen minutes past I pulled the curtains. Metal shades over the electric lights threw the beam downwards. For in this London of 1941 a glimmer of escaping light would mean a visit from the Warden; it could also invite a sudden oblivion from a falling bomb.