21

New Mission

‘You Garth?’ he demanded, harshly.

Garth spoke calmly with an effort:

‘I am, yes.’

‘O.K.,’ said the cyclist. ‘You been followed?’

‘I… I’ve noticed no one.’

‘I’ll look around,’ muttered the other, laconically. ‘Here’s a key. You’re to go to the first room on the right of the right-hand passage upstairs. Got that?’

‘The first room on the right of the right-hand passage,’ repeated Garth, mechanically. His forehead was beaded with sweat. He still could not be sure what they intended.

‘There’s a make-up case and some clothes in the wardrobe,’ the cyclist told him. ‘Use ‘em.’

That was all. But it brought first a flood of relief to Garth and then, as he let himself in and climbed the stairs, a realisation of just what it meant. Ryall knew of his escape: here was the proof of treachery at Queen’s Gate!

It was what Hammond had hoped to know; but he, Garth, had not. He hated the thought that someone close to Olivia Livesey—perhaps someone for whom she deeply cared—was implicated in an affair which could only end in ignominy and death. During the past few hours, Olivia had been more in his mind than Anne had ever been.…

It was strange to be alone in the silent house, to open the wardrobe, search it for suitable clothes, and the make-up case. He was a fugitive … he had to keep reminding himself of that: so much depended on his ability to act convincingly. As a fugitive, he had to change his clothes and disguise his appearance as much as possible.

He was an utter amateur in such matters and he surveyed an array of chalks and greasepaints helplessly. Then picking up a stick of black, he stared at himself in the mirror, and put the crayon against his skin, just beneath the eyes.

‘You have admirable common sense, Garth, haven’t you?’

The words came without warning and he swung round, dropping the crayon—as he stared into the eyes of the little man in black.

‘C … common sense?’ he stammered.

‘Black beneath the eyes is one of the first things,’ said ‘Brown’. ‘But I am surprised that Ryall allowed one so inexpert to attempt this alone. I fear that our friend is getting a little nervous.’ He was only a couple of yards away, now. ‘Sit down,’ he invited. And as Garth obeyed, he came forward and picked up the crayon.

‘Don’t try to look in the mirror,’ he advised, and began to use the crayon deftly. His fingers—the gloves were of black satin Garth noted—were gentle and dexterous. Garth breathed heavily.

Slowly, as Garth recovered from his first shock, he realised that this was almost certainly the man for whom Hammond and the others were taking such big chances. He had twice the man’s strength; it would be easy to overpower him.

‘Brown’ said nothing, until he had finished. Then he stood back and surveyed his work. It was uncanny. Nothing of the man was visible, save those strangely-piercing eyes: everything else was covered in black. Yet he was a creature of flesh and blood; and very vulnerable, in that moment.

Garth thought: Not yet: it isn’t time. Not yet!

‘You may look at yourself now,’ ‘Brown’ told him, and he looked.

The mirror showed a face which was Garth’s, yet did not seem to belong to him. It looked wider: the expression at his lips was one of petulance. His eyes looked narrow and there were dark shadows beneath them.

‘It… it’s incredible!’ he muttered.

‘It is perfectly simple,’ said ‘Brown’. ‘It will deceive no one, Garth, who is well-acquainted with you. But it will deceive anyone who knows you only from a photograph. Have you seen this?’ He drew something from a coat pocket: a cabinet-size photograph … of Garth.

‘Where … where did you get it?’ he faltered.

‘From a very good friend.’ ‘Brown’ laughed softly. ‘It is one which the police took yesterday … perhaps you did not know they had done so? It is now widely-circulated and I think every police-station in the south of England is in possession of one. But look at it and then into the mirror. Are you frightened that anyone will recognise you from it?’

Garth was amazed at the difference.

‘You are satisfied?’ murmured ‘Brown’. ‘I am so glad! Now I do not know exactly what Ryall has in mind for you to do. I think I have convinced him of your sincerity in wanting to help us … and of course, of the manner of your escape from the police. That was very clever of you, Garth.’

‘There was half a chance, and I took it.’

‘They would not expect you to do so, of course! And you did not mention Ryall or Russi to them … I have that on the very best authority. You are to be congratulated, my friend’

‘How the devil do you know all this,’ Garth demanded.

‘Through a very good friend.’ The little man in black laughed again: an eerie sound. ‘You know, Garth, I have quite an affection for you. I like the way you behaved and the way you withstood what must have been a most unpleasant police interrogation. You are a man of parts—I should not like to think you were to hang.’

Garth stared at him, his hands clenched.

‘Ryall’s methods are sometimes clumsy but they are usually effective,’ ‘Brown’ murmured, reflectively. ‘I must admit he is a good worker—but there are times when I am concerned about him. Is he, do you think, entirely trustworthy?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Garth said stiffly.

‘Let me explain a little more, my friend. Ryall and Russi work for me—and you will not be foolish enough to inquire who I am; that will never be known! But to proceed: I have at times wondered whether either … or each … of them feels that working for me is a little … humiliating. They are clever men and they have interests of their own. I have to consider the possibility that they will use the assistance I am able to give them for their own ends. That would be most unpleasant, don’t you think?’

‘What ends are they?’ demanded Garth, in a stronger voice.

‘Come, come! You do not seriously expect me to answer that question. There may be some people who would not approve of what I’m doing … but believe me, it is for the best. Very much for the best, Garth, both for this country and America! But let us consider the possibility that Ryall and Russi may be planning to … er… doublecross me. You can understand my doubts, I think?’

‘They’re capable of anything!’ Garth snapped, bitterly.

‘Precisely,’ nodded ‘Brown’. ‘They are capable of anything … and naturally, I do not wish them to betray me. So I am charging you with a new mission, my friend. You may find an opportunity, in the next day or two, to learn whether they are planning disloyalty. If they are, Garth … and you advise me, you will greatly benefit. I guarantee it!’

His eyes were not brown, as Hammond had told him Washington’s were. And the nose seemed flat, beneath the mask. Obviously this could not be Washington. This man’s eyes were grey … almost colourless … and strangely compelling. They robbed the words of their softness, making them sound harsh and ugly ... making Garth shiver … as he went on:

‘Of course, my friend, if you were to side with them, it would be most … unfortunate … I have them under constant observation, you see. At the first sign of treachery, I shall act. But …’ He shrugged lightly: ‘You will be loyal, I know … you have no love for either of them. The fools! Had I known they were going to try to kill you.…!’ He laughed softly. ‘But there … they do not realise your future value, do they?’

‘I’m of no value to anyone,’ Garth said bitterly. ‘I’m wanted by the police … hunted, helpless. What value can I be?’

‘Come!’ exclaimed ‘Brown’. ‘Why so dejected?’

‘Russi… Ryall … that … that murder!’ Garth licked his lips: he was feeling the strain of acting a part; beginning to fear that ‘Brown’ was deliberately baiting him. ‘Somebody has made the police think I know something about it! And I’m sure they didn’t believe me … about Kent’s flat!’

‘You denied it, of course?’

‘Of course I denied it!’ Garth snarled. ‘And the murder! But they aren’t satisfied about the murder.’ It was the story Hammond had told him to tell and he prayed he was making it sound convincing. ‘How the hell did they even start to tie me up with it?’ he said, bitterly. ‘One of them must have told the police … deliberately told them! The rotten swine! I did all they wanted, and they … oh, what the hell does it matter! What can I do? They’ll never believe me, now! And all because of those two rotten …’

‘One of Russi’s men killed Miss Duval,’ said ‘Brown’, softly. ‘I can prove that, Garth. I can clear your name, I assure you. Be faithful to me, and you need have no fears!’

Garth leapt to his feet, clutching him by the arm.

‘You mean that? Will you swear it?’

‘I mean it, my friend. Ryall and Russi made this unenviable position for you … I can unmake it. You will be restored to favour with your Ministry, too … have no fear of that. Just be loyal to me, Garth. That is all.’ ‘Brown’s’ curiously pale eyes did not change their expression; yet Garth found himself believing that the man could do what he promised.

‘Just what do you want me to do?’ he urged.

‘Watch and report to me,’ murmured ‘Brown’. ‘That is all, my friend! I shall get in touch with you, from time to time. You will not tell anyone that you saw me here, of course.’

‘I’m not that kind of a fool!’ Garth protested.

‘I hope you’re not any kind of a fool,’ said ‘Brown’, gently. ‘Good-bye, Garth.’

He left the room silently, without closing the door, and turned towards the stairs. But he made no sound, and Garth did not know whether he had gone up or down them, or into another room. He lit a cigarette, then went out himself, going slowly down the stairs and out to the porch.

The thickset man was near the shrubbery; he looked at Garth with narrowed eyes, drew nearer, and nodded.

‘You took your time, but you did a good job,’ he admitted, grudgingly.

‘I’ve done enough making-up for television,’ said Garth offhandedly, as if with a touch of vanity. ‘There’s not all that much difference. What do we do now?’

‘There’s another bike … you can ride, I hope?’

‘I haven’t for some time, but …’

‘There won’t be much traffic, I’ll go ahead … you just keep me in sight, that’s all.’

The two cycles were propped together against the wall, round the side of the house. Ryall’s messenger led the way into Brook-side Road, then towards the common. Garth followed, unsteady at first but soon finding it surprisingly easy, after a lapse of ten years. They crossed Wimbledon Common and went on towards Roehampton and Kingston.

Too absorbed in keeping up with his guide to look about him, Garth had not noticed a workman who had cycled out of Brook-side Road a few seconds before him, and whom they had passed. The ‘workman’ was still in sight when they reached Robin Hood’s Gate—an entrance to Richmond Park. Nearby stood a Lanchester coupé, sleek and brightly polished: Ryall’s ‘taxi’.

The guide climbed from his cycle and waited for Garth.

‘Leave the bikes here,’ he said. ‘They’ll be looked after.’

He scanned the road down which they had come; the workman, passing them, received a long scrutiny. He looked an oldish man and his dungarees were torn and dirty. They passed him a little further along the road still pedalling steadily.

But when the car was out of sight, the workman pedalled more furiously, only stopping when he reached a telephone kiosk. From it, he called Craigie, and identified himself as an agent called Graham. Craigie took his message, told him to get to Chertsey as quickly as he could, replaced the receiver, and turned to Loftus.

‘Phone the Kingston police, Bill, to get that car watched.’

‘Same registration number?’ asked Loftus, dialling.

‘Yes. Heading for Chertsey, I fancy. But we’d better make sure.’

By the time Garth and his companion had reached Chertsey, a small police car had passed them at speed: shortly afterwards, its driver reported the address of the house where the wanted car had turned in.

On the bank of the Thames, not far from the small house, two young men sat in a small tent which had been there the night before and so had occasioned no surprise in Ryall or Russi. Russi had, in fact, made discreet inquiries and satisfied himself that the two men were junior R.A.F. officers, enjoying an unorthodox leave.

In fact, they were Department Z men.

Craigie, Loftus and Hammond, although satisfied that everything possible was being done—and done well—remained uneasy. The climax was still to come: in spite of Garth’s apparent safety, they would not be surprised to learn that he had been killed.

They had constant reports on the various personalities who might be involved but not once did they hear the name of The Beacon. Nor did they learn that important members of the British Missions in the various Anglo-American problems had received what they believed to be highly confidential messages from the Foreign Secretary, inviting them to a conference to be held in great secrecy. Knowing what had been attempted against their American counterparts, each one of the delegates accepted the instructions regarding absolute secrecy without question.

Not a word was said; not a question raised.…

Olivia Livesey was at odds with the world—her own particular little world, especially.

Her father’s reaction to her visit with Kent to David Garth had angered her; she had never felt the bitter animosity towards him that she did now. Nor had it helped improve her mood when Hammond had called at the Queen’s Gate house and reported Garth’s escape to her father, Catesby, Washington, George Kent—who had come to discuss the M.O.P. questions—and Olivia herself.

Hammond had explained how Garth, being taken from the police station to Scotland Yard at dawn, had surprised his escort and managed to get away. Hammond’s brevity and matter-of-factness had made it seem the easiest and most likely of things.

Livesey had raged at the carelessness of the police and Hammond’s Department, having little effect on Hammond but making Olivia wince, inwardly. The news of the escape seemed to all the others proof positive that Garth was guilty, and Hammond did nothing to make them think differently.

Olivia had tried to convince herself that she was being prejudiced and unjust. Dick had been right to report seeing Garth—if it was indeed Garth—in the flat. The new development did make it seem that Garth was guilty.

But she could not—and did not want to—believe it.

When Hammond had gone, her father and the others had at once plunged into details of their arrangements. Livesey wanted much more of the reports published than Kent, as the M.O.P. representative, thought wise. Olivia made notes until her fingers ached. Finally, Livesey lost his temper with Kent—who left the house in high dudgeon—and telephoned for a more senior member of the Ministry to be sent over. Then the argument started again and Olivia, realising that her father and Catesby appeared to have found a working agreement, at long last, wondered how much of the discussion was even necessary.

The food was ready and more would be stored before the word ‘go’ sent hundreds of laden ships to the starved continents. That was all that mattered, as far as Olivia could see.

While the others were still discussing it hotly—Livesey pressing for more disclosures; the Englishman against it—the telephone had rung. Olivia answered it, to hear an American voice drawl:

‘Mr. Livesey there?’

‘Who is that?’ she asked.

‘The Embassy. Mr. Kelly wants to talk with him.’

Livesey broke off in the middle of a heated argument and took the receiver as Olivia said: ‘It’s the Ambassador.’

‘Fire away, Kelly!’ he growled, and showed no sign of interest, at first. But almost immediately his hand tightened about the instrument and his eyes sparked angrily. His lips were compressed and veins stood out on his forehead and neck. The others stared at him, knowing that something serious had happened.

Then abruptly, he let fly.

‘What in hell’s name is the use of working my guts out if that kind of thing gets by?’ he bellowed. ‘They’re as bad back home as they are in this goddam country! … What’s that? … No, by God, I won’t be discreet! It’s time we forgot being so pussy-footing discreet! … Oh, of course … sure … Yeah … I’ll keep it pretty close. That all? … ‘Bye!’

He banged the receiver down and glared at them all. Olivia’s resentment and depression were gone; she was as intent as Washington, Catesby, and the Englishman.

Softly, Livesey said:

‘Yes … it was the Ambassador, in case you’re interested! The report Kent lost reached someone it shouldn’t have done.’

Catesby stared at him.

‘What report?’

‘The report Garth stole, you fool!’ roared Livesey, pushing his chair back and beginning to pace the office. ‘The one that gave details of where the food is stored in the States. And now … half of it has been destroyed by fire!’

There was a shocked, incredulous silence.

Olivia’s mouth was dry, Catesby’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. The Englishman swallowed hard and Livesey brought a clenched fist crashing on the top of his desk.

‘That’s what your precious Garth has done! Sold the details … sold us out! My oath, if I could get my hands on him for just one minute ...! And you ...!’ He turned on Olivia: ‘You wanted to warn him … give him a chance of getting away!’

The Englishman said:

‘Surely the stores can be replaced, Mr. Livesey? It isn’t so great a quantity as all that.’

‘Replaced!’ roared Livesey, ‘It’s destroyed, understood? It’s all gone up in smoke. It was food … F-O-O-D! It needs growing. It needs buying. Someone’s going to make a heck of a profit out of it and it could be a helluva long while before it can be replaced. And it’ll be needed a damn’ sight sooner than that—this war’s going to crack open almost anytime now—and you babble about replacing it!’ He glared at the affronted Englishman, then turned to Olivia, who was moving towards the door. ‘Livvy! Where are you going?’

‘Out,’ said Olivia.

She drew a deep breath when she reached the passage. Her father was right about the food, she knew. Was he right, too, about Garth? Was Garth responsible for what had happened? The very possibility sickened her. She went to her room, closed the door and crossed to the window, staring blindly out.

She did not hear Washington come in, was unaware of his presence until his soft voice startled her.

‘Is it as bad as that, Olivia?’

She swung round, startled.

‘Ben! I … I didn’t hear you.’

‘I don’t like to feel that you and your father are quarrelling,’ he said, gently. ‘Tell me, does this man Garth mean so much to you?’

‘I … I don’t know.’ She shrugged defeatedly. ‘I’m all mixed up.’

‘So are we all,’ Washington smiled. ‘I did not see a great deal of Garth, but I like him. I find it difficult to believe he is the villain he appears. But don’t let it come between you and your father, Olivia.’

‘I… I’ll get over it, I guess!’

‘Of course. You are feeling the strain, I know—but believe me, your father is labouring under an even greater one. You see, Olivia, he is afraid that there is a leakage of information here. He has told me. Other papers have been stolen—less important ones, but which could do harm in the wrong hands. He hardly knows whom to trust.’

‘Are you sure?’ Olivia protested, amazed.

‘I am quite sure. He does not even trust Hammond and the other men who came the other night. That is why he has been so difficult, lately.’

‘But… why didn’t he tell me?’

‘He had no desire to worry you. And, my dear, I am not sure that he is right. The man Kent has had an opportunity for taking the papers. None were lost until he began to call here—and he and Garth are close friends. I wonder if Garth could be suffering for something Kent has done?’

Olivia stared at him without speaking.

‘I wish there was a way of making sure,’ he told her. ‘Perhaps something will transpire. But meantime, I wanted you to know the truth, because the sight of you and Arnold so hostile to each other is disturbing. And you mean so much to him, Olivia—since your mother died.…’

‘Yes, yes. I know.’

‘You remember how sudden her illness was. You know your father was only advised just before he was to board that ill-fated airplane? Her death saved his life and mine—he has not been quite normal since then, Olivia.’

‘Why are you reminding me of all this?’ she demanded, harshly.

‘Because I’m afraid you may not fully appreciate its importance,’ he said, gently. ‘It affected him deeply. He is more arbitrary, less amenable to … shall I say, reason? … than he was. Anything unusual affects him much more than it did; but the underlying reason for it is her death. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ Olivia’s voice was muffled. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Ben … and thank you.’

‘You have no reason at all to reproach yourself!’ he said, quickly. ‘The fault is his. Both of us know that; and I think he does, too. But to return to the immediate problem—do you think you could face George Kent?’

‘About what?’ asked Olivia slowly.

‘To see if you can find any kind of clue … any reason for thinking that he, not Garth, is concerned with this. He might have sent the report of what was stored in the States before anything was stolen. The theft might have been arranged because Garth was seen at the flat—and an opportunity thus presented for finding a scapegoat. It is no more than a possibility, but whoever sent that message must have had access to private wires from here to the States.’

Olivia looked startled.

‘Why?’

‘Because it is not two days since the report was stolen, and that would not be time to get the information across, except on privileged lines,’ Washington told her, gravely. ‘Whereas if Kent knew anything about it and sent word across as soon as he saw the report—over a week ago, now—all that has happened would be more easily understood. Will you see Kent?’