CHAPTER 4

All Shapes and Sizes

‘PINK, plump and delicious,’ murmured George Henry George, in a soft voice. ‘Isn’t she?’

‘Oh, a pretty piece, I grant you,’ said his companion.

The companion was the taxi-driver of the previous day. They were sitting together at the edge of a grass court, watching Polly Dalton playing a spirited game with another large man, who was remarkably like George’s companion. Many people, seeing the two together, thought they were twins; in fact, they were cousins, and their surname was Errol.

Mark Errol was playing, Mike sitting in a deck-chair with George Henry George on the grass by his side.

The tennis court was at the back of a large, modern house. Until a month before it had been in the market, a hotel ‘furnished throughout and with every modern convenience’. It had been bought by a man unknown locally, and from the first day ‘No Vacancies’ had appeared on the gate, the front door and one window.

The people who lived on either side saw that it was full, mostly with male guests, and assumed that the new owner had brought with him a good connection.

‘She has what it takes, too,’ declared George. ‘I mean, no vapours about Plump Polly, she backed me up like a good ‘un, and although we haven’t told her anything yet, she’s pretty patient about it. Not many women would be. I wonder when Loftus or Big Chief Craigie will get here. We mustn’t go into details until one of ‘em comes, I suppose?’

‘We must not,’ said Mike. ‘That’s most strictly forbidden. One of them will turn up today, though I shouldn’t work yourself up about that.’

‘How long have you worked for them?’ asked George.

‘Six or seven years,’ said Mike, absently.

‘And they’ve kept you busy all that time?’

‘Pretty busy, on the whole,’ said Mike. He smiled lazily at his companion.

‘How long have you been one of the crowd?’

‘Six months,’ said George. ‘I was transferred from M.I.9, of course. I was three years in that shop, and heard a bit about Craigie, Loftus and the Department, but I didn’t really believe it.’

‘Departmental jealousy,’ said Mike.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. The stories were a bit tall, you know. About this and that. Is Craigie a close personal friend of Herbert Mattley?’

‘He’s well in with the Prime Minister,’ said Errol, ‘in a manner of speaking. Craigie doesn’t make many mistakes, you know, and he has a nose for the right thing to do. You probably don’t know Craigie well enough to like him yet,’ went on Mike, ‘but you will when you’ve been with us a little longer. He seems a bit cold and dry at first.’

Department Z, of which they had talked, was a small and little-known section of the Intelligence Service. Among the other branches its work was legendary—and, in some degree, discredited. Its tally of agents in England was rarely more than twenty, although it could call on the police and other branches of intelligence when the need arose. But there were agents of the Department in most of the world’s capitals and in many smaller cities, and many strange matters passed through its hands. Or, more accurately, the hands of Gordon Craigie and Bill Loftus, who worked in the office, Loftus as Craigie’s assistant.

Loftus had lost a leg in the Department’s service.

In England, the work was highly specialized—counterespionage of a particular kind, against highly organized spy rings. Now and again those spy rings became not only active but violent—and where there was violence of that kind, there was also Department Z.

All these things George Henry George, the newest recruit, knew quite well.

The couple on the court finished their set, gravely shook hands, and strolled towards the house. George jumped up and had iced drinks waiting for them, for the day was hot, and the heat on the court would have been overpowering but for the ring of tall pine trees which surrounded the back garden of the hotel, which was called The Pines. A few spectral clouds floated lazily across the sky, at a great height, and the shrubs and flowers which abounded were besieged by butterflies and bees. A few wasps hummed about the lemonade and lager as Polly and Mark Errol drew up. Mark was perspiring a little, but Polly looked as fresh as when she had started; her plumpness was deceiving.

‘Here we are, tuppence a glass, fresh from the lemon-groves of Sicily and the premises of the famous Pilsener,’ said George, brightly. ‘Lager, Polly?’

‘No, thanks,’ she said, ‘lemonade.’

‘You won’t get drunk on Pilsener,’ George said.

‘I won’t get drunk on anything,’ said Polly, ‘I never touch alcohol.’

The remark produced an effect far greater than she expected. The Errols stared at her incredulously, and George again went pink. Beer was part of the staple diet of Department men. Seeing this concern, Polly smiled serenely, and said that she had not the slightest objection to others drinking lager or whatever they chose, provided they did not try to force it on her.

‘There is one thing which I do mind,’ declared Polly, accepting a cigarette and a glass of iced lemonade, ‘and that is the mystery with which you all surround yourselves. I’m tired of being told that I will learn all about it later, it just isn’t good enough. This isn’t a normal hotel, is it?’

‘Well, hardly,’ said Mike. ‘It’s a——’

‘Hostel for respectable young men,’ Mark finished for him.

‘Respectable?’ queried Polly, with a sniff. ‘I’m not at all sure that I ought to stay here. There isn’t another woman in the place, so far as I’ve been able to see.’

‘Strange women, our women,’ said Mike Errol.

‘Silent,’ said Mark.

‘If that’s a hint that I’m not to ask questions, it isn’t any good,’ said Polly, spiritedly. ‘There are nine men in all including the Professor—and all of you know one another, except the Professor. Don’t you?’ she demanded.

‘We’re acquainted,’ admitted Mike.

He leaned forward and smiled, but he was serious. ‘Before the day’s out you’ll know what this is all about, Polly, and you won’t regret having been so patient. Don’t present an ultimatum just yet.’

Polly looked at him thoughtfully and promised that she would wait until dinner-time.

It was then a little after three o’clock, almost twenty-four hours from the moment when she had heard the scratching at the door next to her room. On all that had happened, she was vague. She had had grave doubts, at first, as to the wisdom of leaving the Mayberry and coming to the hotel which George recommended, but George had a way with him, and he had assured her that the terms would be no higher than those of Mayberry. The food was more like that of a luxury hotel, however, the appointments were remarkably good, and she was a little uneasy about that. Eight guineas a week was her limit for the three weeks’ holiday in front of her.

During tea, young men appeared as if from nowhere. Most of them were large and all of them were flippant. There was a round-faced, curly-haired young man named Dunster, Teddy Dunster, who was obviously taken by her, and a dark, sallow youth with pomaded hair, named Grey—Guy Grey—who watched her with languid, but interested eyes. The names of the others escaped her. They were a boisterous crowd, all shapes and sizes, and they reminded her of a touring cricket eleven which had once stayed for several nights at an hotel where she had been staying with her mother.

After tea she went to her room to change. Various young men passed her and beamed. She changed into a frock of apple-green linen and put on light brown sandals, and then applied herself to the increasingly difficult task of writing home.

At half-past five, while she was still writing, there was a tap at the door. She said, ‘Come in,’ and looked round.

A tall, fair-haired, smiling woman entered.

‘Why, hallo,’ said Polly, surprised and pleased.

‘I thought I would let you know that you’re no longer the only woman in the party,’ said the newcomer. They shook hands. ‘I’m Christine Loftus, you’ll meet my husband soon.’

‘Is he like the rest of these...’ Polly hesitated, and then added, with a laugh, ‘nitwits?’

‘Sometimes,’ laughed Christine. ‘They’re much the same.’

She wore a flowered frock of great simplicity, and had a grace of carriage which Polly needlessly envied. There was in her something of the quality which was in all the men—a quality to which Polly could not put a name, but which was nevertheless, apparent. Christine’s eyes were grey and laughing, and she was more than ordinarily good-looking. Her hair was curly, short, and attractive.

‘Do sit down,’ said Polly. ‘I am glad you’ve arrived. I felt a little bit de trop.’

‘I expect you did,’ said Christine, sitting in a small armchair by the window. ‘You needn’t. I was adjured by Mike and Mark Errol, George and several others to promise you the story—the story—between now and dinner-time. And I’ve come in advance,’ she added, ‘to tell you that you need not stay here unless you really want to—after you’ve heard what there is to hear, of course. They’ll probably ask you to do something for them, and there is absolutely no compulsion.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Polly, doubtfully.

Christine laughed.

‘I suppose I’m making it more mysterious. I mustn’t talk so much.’ She leaned forward and looked out of the window, and then she asked: ‘Had you ever met Professor Toller before?’

‘No,’ said Polly. ‘I didn’t even know his name until George made some silly remark about him having been attacked nine times. At least, I thought it was a silly remark at the time, but now I’m not so sure.’

‘George wanted to try to find out whether you knew anything about him,’ said Christine, and went on quickly: ‘He now swears that you didn’t, but——’

She was interrupted by another tap at the door, followed by a deep voice:

‘You there, Christine?’

‘Yes, darling.’ Christine stood up.

‘We’re ready when you are,’ said the man.

‘We’re ready now,’ said Christine.

‘Do come in,’ called Polly.

The door opened and a huge man entered. He was much taller even than Christine, six feet three or four, and his shoulders were vast. He had a large, rather plain face—a homey face—and he was smiling. Without the smile he would have looked wooden, rather like the man who had attacked her and escaped the day before. Polly wished she had not seen a likeness; it worried her.

‘This is my husband,’ Christine said. ‘Bill, I’ve promised Miss Dalton that you’ll tell her everything you can.’

‘So I should think,’ said Loftus, in a firm voice. He extended a large hand; she expected to find it flabby, but it was as hard as leather. When he went out of the room ahead of them, she saw that he limped, but it was not until later that she learned that his right leg was an artificial one. He towered above them as he led the way downstairs, and then into a room marked ‘Private’.

George and the Errols were there, and Professor Gabriel Toller, whom she had seen only once before while at The Pines. There were two others. One was a compact, sturdily-built man who looked older than any of the others except Toller. He was dressed in brown, his thick, wavy hair was brown, and his eyes were hazel. When he was introduced, he bowed gravely. He was good-looking, with a close-clipped brown moustache that spread over the whole of his upper lip. The second stranger was a short, almost hunchbacked middle-aged Jew, whose presence surprised her. He had a Punch-like face, long, curved nose and long, curved chin almost meeting, and he looked sad—as if some deep sorrow weighed upon him. One side of his face was badly scarred.

The brown man was introduced as Bruce Hammond, the Jew as Hoffmann.

Loftus lowered himself into an armchair, which was only just large enough for him. He stretched his legs out straight in front of him, and, after much deliberation, began:

‘Miss Dalton, I’m going to be brief, I’m probably going to be puzzling, and I’m going to open with a question. Have you ever met Professor Toller before?’

‘Only yesterday,’ said Polly, ‘and I’ve already answered that question several times.’

‘Sorry,’ said Loftus, and looked at the bearded man. ‘Professor, what about you?’

‘No, I had not seen Miss Dalton until yesterday at breakfast,’ said the Professor.

‘Thank you.’ Loftus took a deep drink of beer, replacing his tankard with a sigh, and went on as if he had not paused. ‘Professor Toller, Miss Dalton, is a scientist of eminence, who has made many discoveries of great importance to the country—and to the United Nations—and who is now working on another of equal importance. Once he worked for Dakers, a prominent armament firm, but now he is employed by the Government. You will not expect me to tell you what it is. By unexpected chance you were given a room at the Mayberry next to the Professor’s. We were taking care of him, and we knew that the room had been booked by a couple named Merryweather, and we suspected that Merryweather wanted the room so that he could gain access to the Professor’s. The Merryweathers didn’t turn up until you were safely installed in the room, and then only the man arrived. That gave rise to some misunderstanding—George, rightly, thought you might be there on behalf of the said Merryweathers.’

‘I’ve never heard of the Merryweathers,’ declared Polly.

‘We now know that the Lamberts gave you the room without telling you of the change until you were there,’ said Loftus, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘so George’s suspicions are proved groundless. Now you have the bones of the story, Miss Dalton. The Professor was in danger, we wanted to know from whom, we took considerable precautions to save him from injury. George took from his bed, yesterday, a little gadget which had been put there by the man you saw trying to break into the room. It was a time-bomb, more latterly known as a mine.’ Loftus spoke mildly.

Polly stared. ‘An explosive!’

‘Bombs do bang,’ said Loftus, apologetically. ‘It would have blown him up, bed and all. So, you see, the idea that there was villainy afoot was not far wrong,’ said Loftus. ‘You are entitled to know that, equally entitled to know that everyone in this room, except yourself and my wife, who came down to keep you company, knew of what was planned and was working to prevent it.’

‘All of you?’ asked Polly, in a bewildered voice.

‘In one way or another, all of us,’ said Loftus. ‘We have different jobs to do, of course. The chief one just now is to find out who wants to kill the Professor.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Polly, and looked at the old man, whose eyes were twinkling at her. She said, with warmth: ‘I think he takes it marvellously!’

‘I am quite used to danger,’ murmured the Professor.

‘So are we all,’ said Loftus, lightly. ‘Well, now. George showed you his card. We all have similar cards. We would not have told you more but for two things. One is that although one man who broke into the Mayberry was caught, and proved to be Merryweather, the other escaped. He has friends. He knows that you helped George. While you stay in Bournemouth, you may be approached and questioned. In fact, it’s almost certain that you will be.’

He paused, and Polly said: ‘Well, I needn’t answer him.’

‘Of course not,’ said Loftus, looking taken aback and embarrassed. ‘That is, if he—or they—don’t exert too much pressure. You had one experience of their methods yesterday, didn’t you?’

Polly fingered her throat. It was still a little tender, and there were bruises beneath her ears; she recalled the pain as the hard-faced man had gripped her, and she realized suddenly what Loftus meant. She coloured, and did not speak.

‘Now our problem is a ticklish one,’ said Loftus. ‘Merryweather, it proves, has very little knowledge of the other people involved with him, and we must find them. Operative word, must. They will try to prevent us, and they will probably use violence. They know most of us by sight and they are not likely to strike at any one of us. They may try again at the Professor, but that’s by no means certain. If you were to stay in Bournemouth, however——’

‘Do you want me to help?’ exclaimed Polly, aghast.

‘We would like you to help,’ said Loftus, ‘but we know that you may think it’s too risky. It will be risky. If you go away, of course, we shall meet any expense to which you’re put.’

Polly, sitting near the middle of the room, felt every eye turned towards her. George was just behind her, with the Errols, and their gaze seemed to be burning into her neck. Even Toller was staring, and the sad eyes of the little Jew seemed full of appeal.

Appeal! They were all asking her to stay in Bournemouth and to take this risk!

She spoke after a long pause. Her voice was remarkably steady:

‘It would help if I know who you are. I can’t even be sure that you’ve any authority at all.’

‘We can satisfy you about that,’ said Loftus. ‘We are—well, call us Special Branch men.’

‘I wish you could tell me more,’ said Polly, slowly.

‘We haven’t treated you too badly,’ said Loftus, ‘and we can’t go further. There’s no need to make a snap decision—think about it. You can have until breakfast tomorrow. If you can say one way or the other after dinner tonight, it will be helpful. Remember, no compulsion,’ he added with a quick smile. ‘There is one other thing, before we go. I’ve painted the picture fairly black. It might be only a dull shade of grey. These people are not fools. They will have found out as much about you as we have by now——’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Polly, sharply.

Loftus laughed. ‘Name, age, place of birth, place of business, home address, record and reputation! No, no awkward questions have been asked anywhere, but as soon as your name was mentioned we had to find out what we could. This man will have done the same. You’ve been here, and presumably you have learned something—that is how his mind will probably work. He may try to bribe you to tell him what you’ve learned. If you’re going to join us, we’ll prime you with a story to tell him. At no time will we leave you with him for long, and we shall always know where you are. You will be most closely watched. At best, it will be a chance encounter with him or one of his envoys, a talk over lunch or dinner or tea—perhaps at an hotel, more likely at a private house. After they’ve had one interview with you, I don’t think there’ll be much to worry about.’

Polly said, slowly:

‘I have always wanted to spend a holiday in Bournemouth.’

‘Don’t be too hasty,’ said Christine, unexpectedly.

Polly turned to her. ‘Will you be here all the time?’

‘Yes,’ said Christine, ‘if you stay.’

‘I will,’ said Polly.

There was a moment of silence among those men of all shapes and sizes. Then Loftus smiled, leaned forward, and patted her shoulder. Mark and Mike shared an approving sentence between them, and George squeezed her forearm until it hurt. Hammond, who had sat there, a brown man as if in a brown study, looked up with an unexpectedly attractive smile, and the Professor said, ‘Thank you, my dear, thank you very much indeed,’ in his deep voice.

Yet it was Hoffmann who impressed her most.

The shadows were lifted from his eyes. It was only for a moment, while he looked at her, and he made no move and did not speak, but the smile on that scarred face, the sudden lightness in the sad eyes, did more than anything else to convince her that she had made the right decision.

As she turned to leave the room with George, she spoke in an aside:

‘Probably nothing will come of it.’

‘Bless your heart, nothing that will harm you!’ said George, with feeling. ‘Our enemies will use the velvet glove, and you’ll probably be given the finest dinner Bournemouth can provide while you deliver up these specially prepared secrets.’

She looked at him severely, and said:

‘You already owe me the finest dinner in England.’

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed George. ‘So I do!’

At seven o’clock, not quite sure whether she wanted a tête-à-tête with George, dressed in a cocktail dress of royal blue, Polly left The Pines on foot, with George at her side. He was a changed George, resplendent in a dinner-jacket suit, but no less light-hearted. She expected some of the others to follow them, but she saw no one whom she knew, and after five minutes, as they walked along the roads of West Cliff towards the Square, she was laughing helplessly at her companion’s drollery. Yet she was not so absorbed in him as to fail to see a man who moved suddenly into a doorway. She caught only a glimpse of him, but his was a face she was never likely to forget.

She gripped George’s arm.

‘George—that man!’

‘Man?’ said George, vaguely.

‘The man who was in your room.’

‘Oh,’ said George. ‘Him. Or should it be he? Don’t look round!’ he added, softly. He tightened his grip on her arm and made her walk past the doorway, although she found it hard to keep her eyes averted.

‘Why didn’t you do something?’ demanded Polly.

‘My dear lass, what? A little chap like me and a big chap like him? Phoo! I’m not a hero. And if you’ll laugh gaily, as you were born to, you’ll see his reflection in the window of the corner shop,’ he added, without a change of tone. ‘If he’s following us, that’s fine.’

She watched the shop window closely, and caught another glimpse of the hard-faced man.