Chapter Five

It was difficult to judge distances at night, but he thought that the Zeppelins were about half a mile away when he first saw them. They had covered most of that distance when the light appeared.

It was a thin thread of illumination, shining upwards from the skylight of the annexe. And he could now see that it was not appearing steadily, but in groups of longs and shorts. Clearly a message. Equally clearly, a message intended for the Zeppelins, as no one else could see it unless they were, like him, more or less directly above the skylight.

—/UUU/UUU/UU/UU/UU/UU/U/U/U/U/U/U/U/U

He fumbled for his notebook, managed to find the pencil in the one pocket he had not put it in, and scribbled desperately. He was conscious of a feeling of triumph. Their suspicions of the major were justified. He was a German spy. All that they had been wrong about was his method of working.

He had no need to go onto the roof of that convenient annexe. All he had to do was to sit inside it and turn the light on and off.

Simple and safe.

By this time, the Zeppelins had swung away inland.

It was a pity that he had been so intent on watching their arrival that he had missed the beginning of the message, which might contain the key to the whole. Next time he would get the full message and, God willing, would understand it.

He was in such a hurry to discuss this development with Joe that he climbed down at once and set out for home. The unwisdom of going so early was brought home to him when he ran into a group of golfers coming out of the clubhouse and had to dive for cover.

Fortunately, they were so busy discussing something that had happened that afternoon that they had no eyes for him. (“Moved the ball with his toe.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dead sure. He thought I wasn’t looking.”

“Always knew he was a bloody cheat.”)

Luke waited until the voices had died away in the distance, and then followed discreetly.

He found Joe sitting up. Luke poured out his news and produced the crumpled page from his notebook.

“Morse code,” said Joe at once. “Longs and shorts. Must be.”

“If they’re all shorts, it’s a pretty odd message.”

S/S/IIII/EEEEEEE

“Not crystal clear,” agreed Joe. “Needs thought. This message – whatever it turns out to be – the Zepps would be the only people who would pick it up.”

“I think that must be right,” said Joe. “If you look at that annexe with its side windows shuttered and no window on the end – which was natural enough when the admiral had used it as an observatory—”

“Point taken,” said Joe. “And you only saw it because you were up in my balloon.”

“All credit to you,” said Luke handsomely.

“Then the next thing is to find out when the Zepps are likely to show up next.”

“If they’re following a timetable.”

“The Huns are a regular sort of bastards. When it comes to dropping bombs it’ll be just the same, you’ll see.”

“Then we must have a word with Mr. Stokes. He may be able to help us.”

Mr. Stokes, brought into conference, said that the Zeppelins hadn’t been absolutely regular in their visits, but Wednesdays and Saturdays seemed to be their normal days. Why did they want to know?

Luke looked at Joe, and Joe gave a nod, which meant that he considered the ex-petty officer reliable and discreet.

Luke said, “We’ve had our eyes on a Major Richards for some time now.”

“The one who has the house up on Gilkicker Point and hangs around the Royal Duke?”

“That’s the man. Well, we’ve found him tonight apparently flashing a message to the Zepps, through the skylight in an annexe. For all we know, he may have been doing it for months. Tonight’s the first time we’ve been able to pick it up. I’ve got the end part of it here.”

He pushed the paper across.

Mr. Stokes translated it automatically into Morse. When he had done so, he stared blankly at the result.

“Must mean something, I suppose,” he said. “I mean, he wouldn’t just sit there turning the light on and off for no reason at all. But I can tell you one thing: I’m not really surprised. I’ve run into the major a couple of times and he seemed to me to be a slippery sort of character. Might he be a German?”

“Yes. That’s possible.”

“Perhaps the Germans have a Morse code of their own.”

Luke and Joe looked at each other. The idea had not occurred to them.

Luke said, “I’ve always understood that the Morse code was universal.”

“Must be,” said Joe. “SOS is the same in every language, ‘ent it?”

“Well, I’ll give my mind to it,” said Mr. Stokes. He had scribbled the letters down on a piece of paper. “I’ll sleep on it. That’s the way I’ve found to get the answer to a tough problem.”

This seemed so sensible to Luke and Joe that they made for their own beds.

Next morning, Joe said, “It’s my night for the crow’s nest. Not much chance of Zepps, not if the major is going to this piss-up at the Guildhall. I’ve got a lot of social drinking to do, so I may make straight for Gilkicker without coming back here.”

“Mr. Hobhouse, is it?”

“No. It’s Sergeant Twomey.”

Luke knew better than to ask questions. The name rang a faint bell. After some thought he tentatively placed Twomey as a member of the docks Police who dropped in occasionally to the Royal Duke when coming off duty. He could not conceive what use he was going to be to Joe, who could not have known him for much more than a week. But where the cultivation of friends was concerned, Joe was a fast worker.

Deciding that exercise might clear his brain, he set out on a twenty-mile circular walk up Portsea Island to Wymering, across the top of the harbour to Fareham, then south through Gosport and home by the ferry. He arrived pleasantly tired and hungry, but without any flash of inspiration. He decided that he ought to wait up for Joe, and scrambled back into wakefulness when he heard the front door opening and closing.

Joe had had the blank evening he had expected. The major had come back surprisingly early, by taxi, from the Guildhall and had gone straight to bed.

“What I thought,” said Joe, “was that the docks people must have a proper record of the visits of the Zepps – particularly as they seemed to cross right over them. Well, Sergeant Twomey – a good chap, I met him through Hobhouse – says that a friend of his – of Twomey’s, I mean – in the docks office, can probably give him the dope and not ask too many questions. O.K.?”

“Very O.K.,” said Luke, “and better than anything I can report.” He told Joe about the walk he had taken.

“I’m not sure that exercise is the answer,” said Joe. “I get my best ideas when I’m sitting still.”

After breakfast on Friday morning, Mr. Hobhouse arrived with the promised photograph. It was a good, clear, front-view picture of the major coming down the steps of the Royal Duke. Luke paid the fifteen pounds he had been authorised to draw from his imprest account and thanked the photographer, who seemed to have something on his mind.

He said, “I was talking to the wife about that photograph and I can’t conceal from you that it worried her. What she said didn’t worry me as much as it worried her, but I said I’d raise it with you.”

“Raise it, then,” said Luke.

“It’s just that she wants to know, when this picture’s produced in court, will you have to say who took it?”

Luke, fortunately remembering Joe’s cover story, said, “That will depend on the barrister.”

“The barrister?”

“The attorney who’s appearing for the lady in the case. You won’t expect me to mention names.”

“No names,” agreed Mr. Hobhouse. “That’s just it. I wouldn’t want my name to appear at all.”

“We’ll do what we can to keep you out of it,” said Luke.

When Mr. Hobhouse, faintly comforted by this assurance, had departed, Joe said, “Anyway, we’ve got the picture. He can’t take that back. What’s the next step?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Luke. “It should be sent to America and shown to Judge Rosenberg as soon as possible. Best if I take it personally to Daines. He’ll have some way of getting it across.”

“Send a destroyer,” said Joe.

“If he thinks it’s important, he might even do that. If I’m late back, could you stand in for me tonight? I’ll do your stint on Saturday.”

“Fair enough,” said Joe.

Captain Vernon Kell had been running MO5 since its formation in 1909. In five years, it had grown from tiny beginnings into a competent professional outfit in close liaison with Scotland Yard and the Special Branch. On that day in July 1914, Kell was one of the busiest men in England, and it was late on that Friday evening before he could spare the time to listen to Luke.

Luke had been interviewed by him when he joined MO5 and had been fascinated by the contrast between his heavy military moustache and the pince-nez glasses insecurely attached to the bridge of his formidable nose. On the present occasion, he confined himself to the shortest possible recital of facts. He had the impression that every word he spoke was being recorded, analysed, and locked into place in the memory of the man behind the telephone-cluttered desk.

When he had finished, Kell asked, “In short, you think that Major Richards is der Richt Kannonier?”

“I think he might be.”

“Would you undertake to prove it in a court of law?”

“No, sir.”

Kell thought about it. The boy could have said, “In all the circumstances it might not be easy …” Instead he had said, “No, sir.” Kell approved of that. He said, “I can give you one piece of information: we’ve had reports – secondhand, but reliable, I think – that the man you call the bosun has been talking to sailors in the port. Any scraps of information he picked up would, no doubt, be passed on to the major. What we have to find out, and be able to prove convincingly, is just how he passes this information on to the Germans.”

It occurred to Luke that he knew the means that were used, without being able to unscramble the method.

Caution warned him not to talk about it. Wait until he had the whole thing in his hands.

Kell said, “An investigation into dock procedures is almost certain to involve you in discussion with the authorities. In which case you may find this chit useful.” He had been scribbling as he spoke. “I take it you’re not going back to Portsmouth tonight?”

“No, sir,” said Hubert. “He’ll be staying at my place.”

“Right.” He looked at what he had written, which seemed to amuse him. “I’ll have this typed out and signed by someone more important than me. You can pick it up tomorrow morning.”

Taking this as a dismissal, Luke and Hubert removed themselves. Before they were out of the room one of the telephones on the desk had started to ring.

Luke got back to Portsmouth soon after midday and found Joe finishing his lunch. He reported a negative watch.

“Not that I expected anything. Wednesday and Saturday. Those are visiting days, aren’t they? You’ll get something tonight.”

“Hopefully, yes,” said Luke. “How are you getting on with Sergeant Twomey?”

“I’ve got a heavy date with him and some of his mates this evening. While you’re snoozing on the top of that tree I shall be drinking for England against some of the top performers in Portsmouth.”

“Would you see if you can get the sergeant around here sometime tomorrow? Lay it on a bit. Say it’s important. Be mysterious.”

“No problem, being a Sunday. Shouldn’t have any duty. Probably be glad to come.”

As Luke settled into the treetop perch that evening – Joe had added another piece of board as a backing, and it was comfortable enough to relax on – he was thinking about Major Richards. If he was a German spy he was formidably equipped, with his mastery of English, his uncheckable military background and his easy social manner, which had assured him of entry into the upper levels of the Portsmouth hierarchy, while the bosun insinuated himself at a lower level. Between them they must be completely knowledgeable about what ships were in port, valuable information indeed in the event of war.

Moreover, it was information that the Zeppelin would be unable to obtain by merely overflying the port, which was sometimes covered by mist, while some of the ships – the submarines in particular – would be out of sight.

What followed from this was so clear that Luke was surprised he had not spotted it at once.

“Hold it. Here they come. Dead on time, the bastards.”

The light in the annexe started to flicker and Luke started to write, noting the difference between longs and shorts:

—/—/—/UUU/UUU/UUU/UU/UU/U/U/U/U/U/U/U/U

Not unlike last time, but with small differences. And if he had cracked the code, small differences were to be expected.

A light went on in the major’s study. The major, who seemed pleased with himself, poured himself a stiff whiskey and water, took out two packs of cards, and laid out a complicated game of patience.

Luke watched for an hour. The patience didn’t seem to be coming out. Finally the major swept the cards off the table, got up, turned out the lights in the study and the hall, and disappeared from view.

On previous occasions, Luke would have felt obliged to continue his watch in case the major appeared on the annexe roof. Not now. Now he knew better. When he got home, Joe was still out. Drinking for England. Luke grinned at the thought. It was a duty that Joe would not find irksome. Luke took himself off to bed and slept dreamlessly.

Next morning Joe reported success. Sergeant Twomey had, somewhat reluctantly, accepted the invitation. He would be with them around midday for the promised drink.

“Make it a good one,” said Joe. “These dockies absorb drink like a camel getting ready to cross the Sahara.”

But Sergeant Twomey was a surprise. Luke had expected a cheerful, rum-budded boozer. In fact, he turned out to be a leather-faced Cornishman on whom drink had no apparent effect. When Luke casually introduced Kell’s name into the conversation, Twomey said, dryly, “Aye, I’ve heard of him. A lot of people claim to know him. Mostly I’ve found they were lying.”

“Since I work for him,” said Luke coldly, “I don’t have to claim acquaintance with him.”

This produced a long pause. Then Twomey asked, “You mean you work for one of those secret service outfits up in London?”

“Yes.”

“And does the other bloke – the one called Joe – who’s always filling us up with drink—?”

“Yes.”

“He might have saved himself time and trouble. Everyone knows there’s some dirty business going on around the docks. What with those Zepps flying over twice a week and that mid-European turd who can’t talk proper English crawling around asking us questions, which we’ve now given up answering. Well, if there’s anything I can tell you that’s going to help, fire ahead. What is it you want to know?”

“It’s very simple: There must be someone in the port organisation whose duty it is to keep a daily record of what ships are there.”

“An attendance state, you mean.”

“That sort of thing.”

“It’s not part of my job, but I have to see it from time to time.”

“Fine. Now, this is important. In this document, just how are the ships classified?”

Twomey thought about this. Then he said, “As long as I’ve been there, they’ve always been dealt with in the same way. Under six heads, ‘A’ to ‘F’. ‘A’ is battleships, all types, dreadnoughts, Queen Elizabeths, the lot.”

“Right,” said Luke. “I’ve got that. That’s class ‘A’.”

“‘B’ is battle cruisers. ‘C’ is armoured cruisers. ‘D’ is destroyers. ‘E’ is submarines. ‘F’ is what you might call the tail. Corvettes, minelayers, sub chasers. Is that the sort of information you’re after?”

“That,” said Luke gratefully, “is exactly what I wanted and hardly dared hope I’d get. Just one final point before we get down to serious drinking: could you forget, totally, that we’ve had this conversation?”

“I’ve forgotten it already,” said Sergeant Twomey, smiling for the first time.

Luke had thought it wiser to deal with the sergeant on his own, but as soon as he had absorbed the promised drinks and taken himself off, he called Joe in and they sat down with paper and pencil to put the final pieces together.

Luke said, “If we’re going to make six groups out of the longs and shorts, the only way would be to have three groups of each.”

“One long, two longs, three longs. One short, two shorts, three shorts.”

“Something like that. Now look at the second message. It starts with three longs. Maybe the first message did, too, but I wasn’t quick enough to get it. Since we’ve got to begin somewhere, let’s assume that three longs stand for a group ‘A’ ship.”

“That’d fit all right,” said Joe, who was beginning to sound excited. “They’ve had a dreadnought in dock for some time. The brain boxes on Whale Island are calibrating its guns.”

“So, if we follow the classification Twomey gave us, the next group, two longs, would be battle cruisers, and one long would be armoured cruisers. Then, I think, three shorts for destroyers, two shorts for submarines, and one short for the smaller craft. The snag is that the shorts could just as easily be the other way around.”

“Couldn’t be,” said Joe. “Are you telling me they’ve got eight destroyers in port? Where’ve they hidden ’em? No, I think we’ve got it right now.”

“I think we have, and the really important thing is to examine the changes in the second message. If we’re reading the code correctly, it means that since Wednesday one destroyer has come in and two subs have gone out, and if we find that that’s what’s actually happened, it’ll be a real clincher.”

Joe was grinning. He said, “What was it they used to put when you wrapped up one of them problems in geometry? Not that I ever did, but I expect you did.”

Luke cast his mind back to the sun-bedabbled classroom in a Norfolk village school.

Joe said, “What it meant in plain English was, ‘Bob’s your uncle’. But they wouldn’t put anything common like that. It was something in Latin.”

“What they put,” said Luke slowly, “was ‘Quod, erat demonstrandum.’”

It had the sound of a great Amen.