Colonel Verney’s office was on the top floor of a tall building in London. He was sitting at his desk looking at a photograph of the naked body of a man of about thirty. Dark marks on the wrists and ankles showed where they had been tightly bound; the head lolled back and the neck was half severed by a horrible gash from ear to ear. Laying the photograph down, the Colonel said:
‘The Devil’s behind this. I’m convinced of it.’
‘Several devils, if you ask me, Sir,’ replied Inspector Thompson, who was sitting opposite him. ‘Must have been, to have trussed poor Morden up like that before cutting his throat.’
‘I didn’t say “a devil” but “the Devil” – Lucifer, Satan, or whatever you care to call the indestructible power of Evil that has sought to destroy mankind ever since the Creation.’
The Inspector had been transferred to the Special Branch only a few months before; so he did not know much about the work of Colonel Verney’s department. Like the other branches of the Secret Service, its function was to secure information; it never took legal proceedings. Whenever these were required the case was passed to Special Branch for action. Morden had been one of Colonel Verney’s young men, and Thompson had come over from Scotland Yard to report on the case. The report was negative as, although it was over a week since Morden’s body had been found in an alley leading down to a Bermondsey dock, the police had so far failed to secure a clue of any kind to the murder. But Thompson had also brought with him the results of a second post-mortem held to answer certain specific questions raised by the Colonel.
Now, he gave a slightly uneasy cough, and said: ‘I should have thought it a pretty plain case, Sir. Morden was after these Communist saboteurs, they rumbled him and knocked him off. I can’t see how the Devil comes into that. Not from the practical point of view, anyhow. But, of course, if you’ve got any special theory we’d be only too happy to follow it up.’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘No, I’ve nothing you could work on, Thompson. I’m about to brief another man to carry on in Morden’s place. He might pick up something, and naturally your people will continue to check up on all the roughnecks who might have been involved. We can only hope that one of us will tumble on a lead. Thank you for coming over.’
As the Inspector stood up, the Colonel rose too. He was a rather thin man and tall above the average, but his height was not immediately apparent on account of a slight stoop. His hair was going grey, parted in the centre and brushed firmly back to suppress a tendency to curl at the ends. His face was longish, with a firm mouth and determined chin; but the other features were dominated by a big aggressive nose that had earned him the nickname of Conky Bill – or, as most of his friends called him for short, C.B. His eyebrows were thick and prawn-like. Below them his grey eyes had the quality of seeming to look right through one. He usually spoke very quietly, in an almost confidential tone, and gave the impression that there were very few things out of which he did not derive a certain amount of amusement; but at the moment his thin face was grim.
Having politely seen the Inspector to the door, he paused on the threshold and said to his secretary in the outer office, ‘I’ll see Mr. Sullivan now.’ Then he returned to his desk.
Barney Sullivan was twenty-eight years of age, and, in contrast to his Chief, made the most of his five foot nine inches by carrying himself very upright. He was broad-shouldered, rather round-faced and had a nose that only just escaped being snub. His mouth was wide, his brown eyes merry, and his hair a mass of short, irrepressible dark curls. Those merry eyes, a healthy bronzed skin, and his swift movements, showed him to be a young man endowed with abundant joie de vivre.
As he came in, Verney, now faintly smiling, waved him to the chair the Inspector had vacated, offered his cigarette case, and asked:
‘Well, young feller, how’s the world treating you?’
With a word of thanks, Barney took one of C.B.’s, specials – they were super-long Virginians that he smoked occasionally as an alternative to his beloved thin-stemmed pipe – then he replied.
‘Not too badly, Sir. I had a grand run with the Pytchley on my day off last week. We killed three times. Apart from that, only the usual complaint; too much desk work. I’m sick of the sight of card-indexes.’
C.B. shrugged. ‘Has to be done. Backbone of our job. But I’ve got something for you that should mean your being out and about for quite a while. That is, if you care to take it.’
‘Orders is orders, Sir.’ Barney gave a wide-mouthed grin. ‘All that matters is if you think I’m up to it.’
‘I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t offer it to you. But I’ve never yet asked a man to gamble his life with his eyes shut. The risk involved in this case is far greater than any of us are expected to take in the normal course of our duties; so I’ll not hold it against you if you say you’d prefer to stick to routine work. Before you reply you’d better take a look at that.’
Barney picked up the photograph that C.B. pushed across to him, stared at it a moment and gave a low whistle. ‘So that’s what happened to poor Teddy Morden! I knew, of course, that he was dead, but understood that he’d died of a heart attack.’
‘We don’t broadcast such matters,’ remarked the Colonel quietly, ‘or even let on about them in the office to anyone who is not immediately concerned. Now; how about it?’
‘I’ll play, Sir.’ Barney’s reply came after only a second’s hesitation. ‘I hardly knew Morden, except to pass the time of day with; but he was one of us and I’m game to have a cut at the swine who did that to him.’
‘Good show, Sullivan. I had a hunch that in you I’d picked the right man to carry on from where Morden left off. The chance of your running down his murderers is pretty slender, though. The police haven’t got a clue. Of course, you might strike a lucky lead but, anyway, that isn’t really your job. I showed you that photograph only so that you should know the sort of thing to which you will be exposing yourself by stepping into Morden’s shoes.’
C.B. got out his pipe and began to fill it. ‘This is top-level stuff. Last December a high-power meeting was held with the P.M. in the chair. Among those present, as well as several Cabinet Ministers, were the leaders of the Opposition and some of the big shots of the T.U.C. They met to discuss a matter which for a long time past has been giving a lot of responsible people headaches; namely, the hold that Communism still has on Labour. As a result of that meeting the Prime Minister sent for me and ordered me to carry out a special investigation.’
As he paused, Barney remarked, ‘I was under the impression that the savagery with which the Russians put down the Hungarian revolution had resulted in a major set-back for the Communists all over Western Europe; and that here, especially, owing to the strong line recently taken by the T.U.C. Chiefs, the Reds have been finding the going much more difficult.’
‘You were right about the effect of the Budapest massacres, but that was quite a few years ago. The Communists get most of their recruits from among young people who are discontented with their lot, and for many of them the Hungarian purge is now only an episode in history. Anyhow, we have good grounds for believing that support for Communism here is again on the increase. You are right too, of course, that for some time past the T.U.C. has been taking active steps in an attempt to check the influence wielded by Communists in the Unions; but it’s an uphill game. Did you happen to see a booklet published last year that was called The British Road to Stalinism?’
‘Yes. It was a warning to trade-unionists put out by the Industrial Research and Information Service about the danger of Communist infiltration.’
‘That’s right. And the I.R.I.S. is no Tory-backed set-up. Its Chief is Jack Tanner, a former chairman of the T.U.C. and president of the Amalgamated Engineering Union. The booklet was issued in an attempt to impress on the ordinary workers the importance of attending Branch meetings and using their vote in the election of shop-stewards and Union officials. If anything could have woken up the rank and file of Labour one would have thought a broadside from such a source would do the trick; but it failed to make any noticeable impression.’
Having lit his pipe, the Colonel went on. ‘There are eight million trade-unionists and only twenty-five thousand Communists, yet the Communists hold posts out of all proportion to their numbers. The average British working man is as sound as a bell. If only we could get a quarter of them to face up to their responsibilities, we could check the rot in no time. But they won’t. And only the comparatively few, who have political ambitions, will stand for election as officials because the work entailed would mean giving up some of their evenings instead of watching T.V., working in their gardens, or going to the pub.’
Barney nodded. ‘Yes, apathy’s the root of the trouble; but from what one hears, it’s not only that. A lot of the elections are rigged.’
‘Ah! Now you’re talking, young feller. That’s one of the things I want you to find out about. As you will have seen from the papers, the T.U.C. have been toying with an investigation into ballot rigging for a long time past; but they don’t seem to be able to get down to brass tacks, and it is a real menace. Once one of these Red gentry succeeds in getting himself into a key post, such as secretary of a branch, he is in a position to do ail sorts of fiddles. He can call snap meetings at a time when those who would oppose him are sick or on holiday; he can nominate his pals to act as tellers when votes are counted, and get up to a dozen tricks which result in others of his kidney getting seats on the committee. The process is cumulative and before the ordinary members of the branch wake up to what is happening they find that it is Communist controlled. And once they’re in, it’s next to impossible to get them out. Anyone who tries is either beaten up or, in some way or other, put on the spot.’
‘Like that Union official they accused of raping the typist,’ Barney grinned. ‘If the girl hadn’t proved a decent sort and refused to lie for them, he would have been out on his ear and his private life wrecked into the bargain.’
‘That’s it. No game is too dirty for them to play, even against one of their own kind if he shows signs of disagreeing with the Party line – and the other name for that is “orders from Moscow”.’
The Colonel sat forward and went on in his low conspiratorial voice. ‘Now, we can’t do much about the general apathy at the moment. But if we could get the low-down on these rigged elections and other crooked dealings it would provide really valuable ammunition for the T.U.C. in the purge they are attempting. Not only could they get the boys we had the goods on sacked from their posts, but full publicity about what has been going on would raise the dander of the honest majority men and make them more conscious of their responsibilities. Greater numbers of them would attend meetings and the odds then would be on honest chaps instead of saboteurs being elected. Get the idea?’
‘I certainly do, Sir.’
‘Good! Then there’s another angle to it. Since the war, Britain has been fighting for her life economically. Industry has done marvels in increasing our exports, and the Government did a wonderful job a while back in saving the pound. But the country has been deliberately robbed of a big part of the benefit it should have derived from these stupendous efforts.’
‘By unofficial strikes,’ hazarded Barney.
‘You’ve said it, my lad. In the past ten years they’ve cost the country untold millions, and at times thrown as many as a hundred thousand people, who had no part in the dispute, out of work for several weeks. It’s their repercussions that prove so costly and there seems no way of altering the pattern they follow. A group of Reds get a dispute going on some little point of procedure in a small plant where they have control. The installing of a new machine, or an alteration in schedule to improve efficiency, is all they need to start an argument. They persuade one category of workers that it may lead to their getting smaller pay-packets, or cause redundancy, so they down tools. If it ended there that wouldn’t be a very serious matter. But it doesn’t. The agitators get busy with the cry that a threat to one category of workers is a threat to all, and out come other categories in sympathy. Yet even that is not the worst. After a week or two the stoppage in that factory begins to affect others. Nine times out of ten the thing it is making is not a finished article, but a part or material essential for putting the completed product on the market. That means far bigger plants have to put their hands on short time, or are brought to a standstill.
‘It’s time everyone realised that every man who joins a strike that has not the approval of his Union is a Public Enemy; because these wildcat stoppages eat into profits like rats into corn, and profits mean taxes. If it had not been for all this downing of tools without real justification, by now we could have doubled old-age pensions and child allowances, and had a shilling off the income-tax into the bargain.’
‘Bejesus, you’re right, Sir!’ The touch of Irish slipped out owing to Barney’s spontaneous agreement. ‘Look at that B.O.A.C. strike. It must have cost the country millions; and largely because the men let themselves be carried away by the brilliant oratory of Sid Maitland – in spite of the fact that, according to the Press, he openly declared himself to be a Communist. They just wouldn’t listen to Jim Matthews but howled him down, and when he tried to get them to accept the Union’s ruling and rely on its negotiations they called him a traitor. It’s a shocking state of things when they won’t be guided by their own Union officials.’
That’s what is giving the responsible Labour leaders such a headache. For the past year or so they have been doing their utmost both to oust the Communists from key positions in the Unions and to get a firmer control over the shop stewards. But it is uphill work, because it lays them open to accusations of attempting to browbeat the workers and of being secretly in league with the Tory government; and it is difficult for them to convince the rank and file that they are not.’
‘Yes, I see that. They’re between the devil and the deep blue sea; and owing to the size of the Unions it is impossible for their top men to keep in personal touch with all their tens of thousands of members. That is where the shop stewards have such a pull.’
The Colonel nodded. ‘True enough. But don’t run away with the idea that all the shop stewards are bad hats. The great majority of them are good chaps doing a very valuable job of work maintaining good relations between the management and their mates. The trouble is that the bad ones are in a position to do an immense amount of damage by formenting these wildcat strikes. Those are the boys we want to get the low-down on; so that we can expose them and help the T.U.C. in its big campaign to purge the British Labour movement of Russian influence.’
‘And where do I come in on this, Sir?’ Barney asked.
Again C.B.’s voice sank to a conspiratorial low. ‘Sinews of war, young fellow. That’s our line of attack. Men who come out unofficially don’t get strike pay. Yet some of these unofficial strikes go on for months. Meantime the strikers have got to live and feed their families. How do they do it? We know the answer to that one. At least we know it to apply in some cases, and have good reason to suppose that it applies in many more. They are given enough cash to keep going on the side from secret funds controlled by the Reds.’
‘Don’t some of the better types query where it comes from?’
‘Those who do are told that it is from subscriptions raised among sympathisers.’
‘But, in fact, it comes from Moscow.’
‘For such considerable sums, that seems the only possible source of origin. One of Russia’s prime objects is to disrupt our industry, in order to create the unemployment and discontent which always results in the spread of Communism; so they could hardly spend their money to better purpose. Yet the fact remains that we have failed to uncover any link between the leaders of these unofficial strikes and any of the Iron Curtain country Embassies, or any other Soviet-controlled set-up.’
‘Quite a number of the top Reds go to Russia from time to time, Sir.’
‘Yes, and although they give out that they go there only for a holiday, I don’t doubt they return with plenty of ideas that don’t do British industry much good; but they could not bring back any considerable sums of money with them – not without our knowing about it.’
‘And you want me to try to find out the source of supply?’
‘That’s it; then we could think up some way of cutting it off.’ C.B. pulled at his pipe for a moment, then said with a change of tone, ‘Now, a word about yourself. What led you to join this outfit?’
Barney grinned. ‘I was broke. My creditors in Dublin had made Ireland too hot to hold me. I decided that I’d got to take a steady job, but I knew that I’d never settle down to a humdrum office routine. It had to be something that would provide me with a bit of excitement now and then, and my uncle, General Sir Geoffrey Frobisher, got me in here.’
‘So that was it, eh! Of course, I knew that old “Frosty” Frobisher had vouched for you, and looking up your file the other day reminded me that you are the Earl of Larne. How come that you have never used your title?’
‘Well, it was this way, Sir. I’ve practically no family, only my mother’s brother, the General. Both my parents died when I was quite young and he became my guardian. He did very little about it, though; but I can’t really blame him for that. I lived in Ireland and he lived in England. During most of the time I was at school he was up to his eyes in the war. Then for the greater part of the next six years he was stationed abroad – doing tours of duty in the Middle East, then in Germany. No one else had any right to call me to account, so I’m afraid my high spirits led to my becoming rather a bad hat. I got sent down from Trinity for leading a pretty hectic rag, but I had quite a generous allowance and plenty of friends. The fathers of several of those with whom I used to stay in the holidays reared bloodstock, and I’ve always been good with horses; so I naturally gravitated to that as a means of earning a living. I won quite a few steeplechases and received handsome presents from the owners. But it was a case of easy come easy go, and most of what I made over the sticks I lost by backing losers on the flat.
‘Thanks, Sir.’ Barney took another of C.B.’s long cigarettes, lit it and went on. ‘They were an expensive crowd to live with, too, so I was soon up to my eyes in debt. But I was in my last year at the University when I was sent down, and becoming twenty-one a year later saved me from disaster. My father didn’t leave me a fortune, only a few thousands, and if I’d had any sense I should have pulled up then. As it was, like a young ass, I started to really hit up the town. What with the gee-gees, the girls, and throwing expensive parties, I got through the lot in a couple of years.’
‘You would have been twenty-three by then. That’s about the time you came into the title, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Sir. But I had never expected to. When my father died there were seven people between myself and the Earldom, and we didn’t even know that branch of the family. One was drowned in 1939, two more were killed in the war, and another met his death while climbing in Switzerland in 1951. That still left three; the late Lord Larne and his two sons. They had lived in Kenya since before the war, so I’d never met any of them and never gave them a thought until one day in ‘fifty-four. I learned then that all three had crashed in their private plane and been killed.’
‘Didn’t you come into any money with the title?’
‘No. The place in Ireland had been sold way back in the ‘twenties, and all the money Lord Larne left went to his widow, who still lives in Kenya. All I came into were the heirlooms – some good family silver and a few pictures – but unfortunately they weren’t worth much.’
‘What happened then?’
‘The General sent for me. I came clean with him about my debts in Dublin and he said some pretty caustic things to me; but, by and large, he behaved extremely well. He declared that as I came of an ancient and honourable family, I was under a definite obligation not to disgrace the title; that if I took it up, it would certainly lead to my continuing to mix with people whose style of life I could not afford, and that, in any ordinary job, it could only prove a handicap to me. Therefore, he argued, I ought not to use it until I had lived down my raffish past. By then I had realised that if I did not turn over a new leaf I was riding for a really nasty fall; so I agreed to forget the Earldom for the time being, leave Ireland, and make a fresh start. He said that if I’d do that and promise to go straight for five years before using my title, he would pay my debts and make me an allowance of £300 a year until I got on my feet.’
‘So that was the way of it.’
‘Yes. Then we talked about all sorts of jobs and eventually he hit on the idea of getting me in here. That appealed to me more than going off to one of the Dominions or into industry. I went back to Dublin, hardened my heart about saying good-bye to any of my friends so as not to have to lie to them about my future plans, packed up my things and simply told my landlady that I was going to the United States. I imagine my sudden disappearance was no more than a nine days’ wonder, and I’ve never been back there since. Naturally I missed the hectic parties, the racing, the girls and the champagne for a bit, but I soon became so intrigued by the work here that I didn’t miss them any more; and I can never be sufficiently grateful to the General for what he did for me.’
C.B.’s long face broke into its most friendly smile. ‘Yes, he certainly did the right and handsome thing by you; but you’ve yourself to thank even more for having the guts to snap out of the sort of life you had been living for so long. About this title of yours, though? The five years are nearly up, aren’t they?’
‘Yes; only another three months to go.’
‘Do you propose to use it then?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Having a title these days doesn’t get one anywhere. It only costs money and I’m not all that well off. I might if I married though, as the girl would probably like it, so it wouldn’t be fair to her not to.’
‘Are you thinking of getting married?’
Barney grinned. ‘No, Sir. I prefer to love them all a little bit.’
‘Good. You’re wrong, though, about a title never getting a man anywhere. There are times when it can be very useful, and that might well prove the case, in certain circumstances, during the course of this job I’m putting you on.’
‘What! While I’m posing as a Red among manual workers and technicians?’ Barney opened his brown eyes wide in surprise. ‘Surely not?’
‘That will be your role for most of the time, of course, but there may turn out to be another angle to the business. I’m not telling you about that at present, because it is only a theory of my own and I don’t want to start you off with preconceived ideas that might both warp your judgment and be wrong. But if at any time you do feel that the use of your title might help to open a door to you, use it. I’ll take the responsibility for your breaking your promise to the General and, if need be, square matters with him.’
‘Very well. That’s O.K. by me, Sir.’
C.B. pushed a thick file across the desk, and said: ‘Here is all the dope we’ve got so far. Take it to your office and spend the next two or three days going through it very thoroughly. Naturally I have a dozen other members of the firm hard at it, ferreting out the pasts of various fellow-travellers, attending meetings, checking figures, and generally gathering information, but you’ll be the only one to be planted on the inside in London as a real red-hot Red. Your line will be that you’ve just come over from Ireland. We’ll provide you with all the background stuff – a Party card, membership cards of half-a-dozen Unions, and a list of the most promising branches at which to use them. Don’t start anything until you have mastered that file, and when you have, let me know. Can I take it that you are clear on what I want you to do?’
‘Yes, Sir. I’ve to get you all I can on the methods used by Communists to become officials in the Unions, about rigged elections and where the money comes from to finance unofficial strikes.’
‘You’ve got it, young feller. Good luck to you.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ Barney Sullivan tucked the file under his arm and, with his cheerful face more serious than usual, left the room.
As Barney went out, Verney again picked up the photograph of Morden’s body. With set mouth he stared at it while thinking of the points that had emerged from the second autopsy, for which he had asked.
Morden’s ankles had been lashed together, but his wrists had not; they had been lashed separately to thick pieces of wood or iron. The marks of the cords that had bound his ankles did not make a straight line; they made a V pointing towards the feet, as though pressure had been exerted between them to drag the cords down where they met in the middle. Immediately below the point of the V there was severe bruising of both ankles, as though a thick stake, or peg, had been thrust between them. There had been no blood on the body when it was found, so obviously it had been washed after Morden’s throat had been cut; but the second autopsy had revealed that while there was no trace of blood on Morden’s body, there were still tiny particles of blood under his eyelids and in his hair.
Inspector Thompson had been aware that Colonel Verney had given most of his time before the last war to checking up on the activities of Fascists, and that since the war he had given most of it to checking up on those of Communists. What the Inspector had not known was that, as C.B. was responsible for keeping tabs on all groups which might be engaged in any anti-social activity, it had included a number of secret societies that practised Black Magic. The knowledge that he had gained of such matters was, therefore, considerable.
With a heavy sigh he put away the photograph. It was the marks on the legs that had first led him to suspect that Morden had been hung by his bound ankles from a stout peg between them, and now the particles of blood found in his hair confirmed that. Verney did not believe that the killing was the work of thugs in the dock area. In his own mind he now felt certain that Morden was the victim of a ritual murder, and had been crucified upside-down.