6

George Kent

Garth did not put the question into words.

Staring at Hammond, he came to the conclusion that words must often be superfluous, with that man—and Errol, too. They gave him a strange impression of solidity: an unspoken assurance that they know very well indeed, everything whereof they spoke.

From the first, he saw now, they had known more than it was reasonable for them to know. Now, he was hardly surprised when Hammond said quietly:

‘You’re wondering how we know it’s Anne Duval?’ He smiled, fleetingly. ‘But you’ll realise we’ve had to check on you pretty thoroughly, Garth—and we’ve learned enough to be able to guess that only Miss Duval would affect you so strongly. Then there’s another—possibility,’ he added thoughtfully.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Garth.

Hammond said:

‘George Kent, Miss Duval’s fiancé, is in your Ministry—and a stickler for the orthodox approach to all matters. You know, of course, that …’

He spoke quickly and to the point for a minute or two.

None of what he said was news to Garth, although much was presented in a way which surprised—even startled—him. He saw possibilities which he had not dreamed of before.

George Kent—sound, solid, exasperatingly conventional, and, as Hammond said, a stickler for the orthodox approach—was in the American Relations Section. He was not Garth’s immediate superior, but was senior to him. There was little doubt that he would strongly disapprove of the speeches which had caused the trouble.

And Hammond thought that Kent might have been approached by Ryall.

‘We can’t be sure,’ he emphasised. ‘And it wouldn’t be a direct approach. Kent would report that immediately—and Ryall would have the sense to know that he would. But there are ways of getting round the problem. Kent has some influence at the Ministry, and recently Miss Duval worked there as his secretary. Did you know that?’

Garth was astonished.

‘I’d no idea!’

‘Staff shortage, as you know. Presumably at his request, she took a special course in secretarial training and went to help him. She may have been killed solely to give Ryall a strong hold on you, but there could also have been some other reason.’

‘This gets more and more incredible,’ Garth protested.

‘Why?’ asked Hammond quickly, and Garth hesitated a moment before replying.

It was partly because they were discussing his Anne so dispassionately: the others had not known her gaiety, the warmth of her smile, the deep joyousness of her laugh. But it was partly, too, the remembered tone of that first greeting on the telephone.

He could still hear that unbelieving: ‘David!’

Was he wrong? No, dammit! There had been a note of welcome, almost excitement in her voice. Then why that mercurial change? Had she suddenly decided to be discreet? Was he reading more into it than he should?

He explained his uncertainty as best he could.

Hammond looked thoughtful.

‘I see … Yes. You think it’s possible she had some information affecting you?’

‘Well … just possible,’ Garth said, awkwardly. ‘But it was so unlike her—the sudden change, I mean. I couldn’t understand it.’

‘We’ll keep it in mind,’ Hammond told him. ‘You may have hit on something. Meanwhile, what matters most is—are you with us?’

‘Of course!’ Garth looked his surprise at the question.

‘Hook, line, and sinker?’ Errol demanded brightly.

‘I’m with you all the way.’

‘You don’t quite know what it might entail,’ Hammond reminded him. ‘You’ve seen something of their methods. I don’t think there is the slightest doubt that they murdered Miss Duval—and if they had any idea you were working with us, they would kill you without compunction.’

‘I might do a little violence myself,’ said Garth, grimly—and was aware at once of a subtle change in the atmosphere. Hammond’s eyes had narrowed and Errol raised an eyebrow and contemplated the ceiling.

‘Well, what’s the matter with that?’ he demanded, gruffly, and Hammond said:

‘The point is, Garth, you may frequently feel like murder—but you mustn’t give way to it.’ He smiled widely. ‘An odd kind of moralising! What I mean is: you may be fully justified in wanting to kill Ryall or Russi in self-defence, but until we know about their activities we must not allow them to be killed. We want to keep in touch with what they’re doing—and you will be able to help us a great deal. On the other hand, if they discovered what you were doing....’ He shrugged. ‘Someone else would have to take your place.’

Garth stared at him, slowly comprehending.

‘No matter what the provocation,’ Hammond added. ‘You’ve got to remember that. At the risk of embarrassing you, I’ll say that we’ve reached the conclusion that you’ve considerable moral courage. That’s why we selected you as the most likely man to help us—and why we’ve investigated your past so thoroughly. As the position stands now, you’re able to tell Ryall and Russi something about us. They might want to know it.…’

‘I shan’t talk!’ Garth said sharply. ‘What do you think I am?’

Hammond eyed him steadily.

‘Very good men—brave men, strong men—have talked, under pressure. It’s no shame to them. Pressure can be excessive. There aren’t many who can stand up against every kind of persuasion.’

‘What are you trying to do?’ Garth demanded. ‘Scare me out of it?’

‘No,’ said Hammond. ‘I’m doing what Mike did at the Regent Palace—trying to make sure that you do understand all the dangers. I’m not justified in asking you to help when you know only half a story. I don’t think I need go into any further detail.’ He paused. ‘Are you with us?’

‘What do I do next?’ asked Garth.

Hammond and Errol had gone.

The flat was very quiet. It was nearly one o’clock and no sound came in from the street. Garth could near the ticking of his wrist-watch as he sat back, staring through narrowed lids at the ceiling. The only movement in the room was when he raised a cigarette to his lips, or took it away.

His instructions had been simple: he had to wait until he heard from Russi and Ryall—and then to do whatever they wanted. He would hear from Hammond, or the Errols, as and when he had information to impart: they had not volunteered how they would know when such moments arose. But oddly enough, he believed that they would. And they would see that he was watched, and if possible aided, whenever action threatened. He himself had no means of making contact with them, or the Department for which they worked.

He did not even know, yet, that it was known to the cognoscenti of Whitehall simply as ‘Department Z’.

Bruce Hammond left Mike Errol at the corner of Parliament Street, searching for that rarest of war-time birds, a late-night taxi. Hammond, himself, crossed the road and reached Whitehall. There was a narrow turning not far from Scotland Yard, which many people passed unnoticing by day and night because it was so insignificant-looking. Many of those who did use the little alley as a short cut also passed a small doorway, piled high with sandbags, for the same reason.

Hammond found his way past the sandbags and, guided by a handrail, climbed a narrow flight of stone steps. He climbed another, stood listening a moment, then returned to the first landing. There, he ran his fingers along beneath the handrail, he touched a small nodule, and carefully manipulated it.

In the room beyond, Gordon Craigie, Chief of Department Z was seated in an old but obviously comfortable winged armchair. Opposite him, lolling back with his eyes closed and a smile on his heavy face, was his deputy and second-in-command, Bill Loftus. In some moods, Loftus was inclined to be bitter about his ‘inactive executive’ position in the Department. His active share in its operations had been curtailed after one such affair had robbed him of his right leg.

Behind Craigie was a large cupboard, built into the wall. The door was open, revealing a miscellany of oddments from tinned food and tobacco to spare collars and socks. Gordon Craigie’s hair was thin and very grey, his long face deeply-lined, his drooping lips had an expression and his hooded grey eyes could turn from grave to gay in a flash. He was personally the untidiest man in the Department, but his records—for which he was responsible—were scrupulously kept.

At the moment, as indeed at most times, there was an elderly meerschaum in his mouth: and within easy reach were a dozen others, all ornately carved and all darkened with constant use.

Loftus—a very large, apparently ungainly man, until he moved—smoked a big conventional pipe.

A few embers glowed in the fireplace and the eyes of both men were closed, as if they were dozing. But the moment a button of green light glowed beneath the mantelpiece, Craigie opened his eyes and took the meerschaum from his lips.

‘Here he is,’ he said, as a small bulb suddenly glowed green and a section of the wall near the fire-place slid open to admit Bruce Hammond. Craigie pressed a button, and the door slid to.

‘What-ho, my hearty!’ greeted Loftus, opening one eye.

‘Hallo, Bruce!’ nodded Craigie: ‘Pull up that chair.’

‘Thanks,’ said Hammond, doing so.

It was like them not to ask questions. Hammond sometimes felt that to people outside their little circle, they must present an exasperating front. He had been part of the circle for many years; but for much of that time he had worked abroad—and even he was not yet fully accustomed to regular contact with the Whitehall office.

‘And how is the Operations Commander tonight?’ boomed Loftus, opening the other eye.

Hammond smiled.

‘I’m all right.’ He understood very well what it must mean to a man the same age as himself and essentially a man of action, to be compelled through no fault of his own to hold a watching brief—particularly on cases where experience could mean the difference between life and death. Yet Loftus, who had been the Operations Commander immediately before him, had given his successor every possible help; and Hammond knew he would continue to do so.

‘I think Garth’s all right,’ he went on, coming straight to the point. ‘He’s taken the death of the girl very hard.’

Loftus frowned.

‘Like that is it? Pity.’

‘I don’t know,’ murmured Craigie. ‘Might quicken his interest—give him greater staying-power. I don’t like bringing in outsiders, but …’ He shrugged. ‘We needn’t go into that again. You’ve told him just what we arranged, Bruce?’

‘Exactly,’ said Hammond. ‘And …’

For fifteen minutes he reported in detail on their conversation, the gist of which he had telephoned to Craigie right after leaving Garth’s flat. Another fifteen minutes passed before they had finished discussing that angle of the case.

Finally, Craigie went to his desk, pulled out a drawer, and selected a manila folder.

The part of the long room at the fire-place end was homely and comfortable. The larger part, furnished as an office, held three steel filing-cabinets, one large steel desk—on which stood five telephones, all of different colours—two smaller desks, a typewriter, a dictaphone and several chairs.

Craigie came back to the fire-place and passed the manila folder to Hammond.

‘Kent’s file,’ he explained.

Hammond opened it. The first thing he saw was the photograph of a plumpish but good-looking man, with meticulously-parted dark hair and a rather petulant expression. There were two other photographs—George Kent’s profile, taken from right and left. If anything, he was more handsome in profile than full face, for the querulous expression was not apparent.

Hammond ran through the reports. They were of a man who had entered the diplomatic service straight from Oxford and whose career had been exemplary but unexceptional. His transfer to the Ministry of Propaganda had come in the second year of the war; and there again, his record was unblemished.

On the last page relating to his professional career, Craigie’s neat hand had appended a note:

Thorough, careful, unimaginative.

Kent belonged to three clubs: the Carilon, the Carlton and the Junior Conservative. All of his known friends, as recorded in the dossier, could be found in Debrett and Who’s Who. He had no known hobby, but a reputed liking for polo and hunting. He had spent several years in various European capitals and was an excellent linguist.

Hammond finished reading and said mildly:

‘Not a lot there for suspect Number 3, is there?’

‘Have we got that far, yet?’ asked Craigie. ‘Ryall—or Franklin—is Number 1, Russi, Number 2. Kent might be in it somewhere. But we can’t say more than that, yet.’

Loftus raised an eyebrow.

‘Wally Davidson thinks Anne Duval discovered something about Kent that she shouldn’t. He warned us that something might happen to her. It’s happened. Ought we to look further than that?’

‘Well …’ Craigie rubbed his long chin. ‘It could also be that she discovered something which Ryall didn’t want known. It might be that she discovered he was making an approach to Kent, and so could warn Kent. Or to Garth. It’s all too indefinite at the moment.’

‘It’s all too much in the air, that’s for sure,’ said Loftus, with some irritation. ‘It’s going too slowly. We might get results from Garth, but even that is by no means certain. I don’t like these shows which hang fire. It always makes me think that a lot we know nothing about is going on. I don’t …’

‘Like being kept in the dark?’ grinned Hammond.

‘Damn your eyes!’ Loftus grinned back. ‘But are you satisfied? Of course you’re not.’ He scowled. ‘If we’re right, Ryall is going to pull something very big. But we haven’t the faintest idea when it’s to start or what it’s about—except that it won’t make things very healthy between London and Washington. If we had even a vague idea of what interests are behind him, it would be a help.’ He stretched up to grip the mantelpiece and hoisted himself to his feet, then stumped somewhat awkwardly across the room: he was always a bit stiff when he had been sitting for some time. ‘We’ve not had a single report of real interest. Not a single flash of inspiration, or …’

Craigie’s hooded grey eyes twinkled.

‘You must be tired, Bill.’

‘Tired!’ snorted Loftus. ‘I’m worried, dammit! It’s time we got a move on.’

‘We haven’t had the sort of chance we’ve got with Garth before,’ Hammond pointed out. ‘It won’t surprise me if we get some action pretty soon, Bill. And there’s another thing to remember—this is the first time we’ve had approval from Number 10 to concentrate on one job and let the others go hang. The Cabinet is deeply worried about Anglo-American amity now, thank God. Give it a few days, and we’ll start breaking it open.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Loftus, darkly. ‘I certainly hope you’re right. I wish …’

He stopped as a telephone rang, and limped towards the desk.

‘It’s the red one,’ Craigie told him; constant usage had made him able to differentiate in a flash.

Red for danger—and red for Number 10.

All three of them were tense now: it was seldom that there was a call from Downing Street so late at night, although the P.M. was renowned as a ‘late-bird’ and had been known to ring for information in the early hours of the morning. But it could well be something of exceptional importance.

The big man lifted the receiver, and a moment later heard the unmistakable growling voice of the Prime Minister.

‘That you, Loftus? Is Craigie there?’