CHAPTER 9

Gordon Craigie

‘The girl,’ read Loftus’s report to London, ‘is willing to help, and reluctant to leave Bournemouth. She has been told fully of the dangers, but insists that she wishes to help. I think we can use her. Have you any objection?’

Gordon Craigie, who had read the long report from beginning to end several times, read the last sentences again, then pushed his chair back from his desk. He walked across the long room towards the fireplace. In spite of the warmth of the day a small coal fire burned in it. He stirred the coals with a poker, and as he did so the bowl of the meerschaum pipe which drooped from his lips nearly touched the top bar. He finished poking and held his thin, pale hands before the little blaze. Then he stood up and rubbed his hands together.

Many people thought Gordon Craigie a cold individual. Physically, he certainly was.

For many years he had spent most of his time in this Whitehall office, and except that there were now three desks where once there had been one, and five armchairs where there had been two, the room looked very much as it had done when Department Z had first come into existence.

In all those years Craigie had altered very little.

His hair was thin on top, and there were growing signs of a bald patch. His eyes looked very tired—but he always looked tired, because his lids dropped so low, making him seem half asleep. His thin, pale face was deeply lined, but the lines gave him a droll, humorous expression. He had taken to wearing pince-nez, which served to emphasize the high bridge of his thin, prominent nose.

He was a man of medium height. Recently he had lost weight, although he had never been too heavy. His well-cut clothes were rather loose on the shoulders and about the waist.

The fireplace end of the office had something of the look of a bachelor’s den. The armchairs, all very comfortable, were grouped round the fire. On a table near Craigie’s chair, which had its back to the window, was a small radio set, a tobacco jar and other oddments, including well-thumbed books.

On the wall within his reach was a pipe-rack, holding six meerschaums. On the fine wooden mantelpiece, beneath the shelf, were several little glass buttons which looked like decorations.

All these things took up about a third of the room, the part being cluttered and untidy but comfortable. The rest of the room was scrupulously tidy. Three steel desks, a dozen steel filing-cabinets, telephones by the dozen—there were in fact, seven on each of two desks and twelve on Craigie’s—a dictaphone, several office chairs, and a hat-stand, were all severely practical.

As Craigie sat back in his armchair and began to refill his pipe, he was thinking of the report that had come by hand from Bournemouth late that afternoon, and the description of the girl—Ethel (Polly) Dalton. He had already seen a report about her ordinary life, and he found it difficult to imagine a background less suited to such work as the Department’s. Suitability, however, had little to do with background, much to do with adaptability and cold courage. Apparently the girl had these in good measure. Craigie got the impression of a girl somewhat puzzled, even bewildered at times, often out of her depth, but showing surprising resilience.

Loftus would not say that he could use her services unless he felt sure that she would serve a purpose. Craigie had to decide whether he was justified in allowing her to accept the risks involved. People did not really understand those risks at first, or even at second sight.

His pipe was going well when a green light showed in the mantelpiece; it was one of the ornamental glass buttons. Craigie leaned forward and pressed a bell-push just above the button, one that was hidden by the mantelshelf.

The wall next to the mantelpiece opened slowly. Beyond the opening was a cold stone passage leading to grey stone steps. Outlined against it stood a burly, carelessly-dressed man, rather more than middle-aged, powerful-looking, with a florid face. He smiled at Craigie, who started to get up.

‘Don’t worry, Craigie,’ he said. He stepped through, and the door closed behind him without a sound. ‘I suppose you’ve often been asked why you insist on these precautions,’ he added, and nodded towards the sliding door.

Craigie smiled. ‘Yes. Puerile, aren’t they? The answer is that they work—no one has yet forced a way in here.’

‘It keeps out more than active enemies,’ said the newcomer. He was Gilbert Leven, the Foreign Secretary. His manner was always a little gruff, his smile rather grim; his brown eyes were ready to smile but often held a sober gleam.

‘It saves me from being pestered with social calls and convivial visitors,’ said Craigie.

Leven laughed. ‘You have enough conviviality from your men!’

‘They’re all right,’ said Craigie.

‘Yes. I’ve often thought,’ said Leven, sitting down opposite Craigie and taking out his cigarette-case, ‘that they put up their façade of facetiousness as a kind of self-defence.’

‘In danger some men swear, some pray, mine play the fool,’ said Craigie. ‘If they didn’t, they would probably go raving mad! I sit back here, you know, day after day, rarely going out, and I read the reports of what they do and how they behave in this danger or under that threat, and—well,’ said Craigie, ‘I’ve been guiding their activities for more years than I care to think of, and it still amazes me.’

Are there many of the original members left?’ asked Leven. He seemed in no hurry; yet he was a man of action and bustle, who seldom rested. He had certainly not come for a social chat or from a point of interest; he would broach his subject when he was ready for it.

Craigie said: ‘I started with nine members. Three are still alive. I’ve several dozen newer men. Five years is a long life for them.’

Leven was quiet for a moment, and then asked: ‘How are things going in Bournemouth?’

‘Fairly well, I think,’ said Craigie. ‘There’s been much more activity since Bannister became the Professor. There is a plot to kidnap him tomorrow morning.’

Leven stared. ‘Tomorrow? How do you know?’

Craigie said: ‘A rather unusual temporary worker for us discovered enough to be able to tell Loftus what these people are going to attempt. We’ll see what happens after they’ve got Bannister.’

‘You’ll let them take him?’ asked Leven.

‘I don’t see what else I can do,’ said Craigie. ‘It’s being worked very neatly. They’re going to pass off another man as the Professor, thinking he’s in exchange for the real thing. Our man is Bannister—have you met him?’

‘Once, I believe,’ said Leven.

‘He might pick up a few odds and ends for us,’ said Craigie. He might have added: ‘Or he might not live to tell us anything.’ ‘Is Toller all right?’

‘Yes, and very busy,’ said Leven. He threw his cigarette-end into the fireplace, and leaned forward, looking into the red embers. He had a trick of stillness. ‘The Prime Minister has gone to Paris,’ he added. ‘Otherwise he would have been here himself.’

Craigie nodded.

‘Professor Toller was working in collaboration with Dr. Morritz,’ Leven said, ‘but of course you know that.’

‘Yes,’ said Craigie, ‘and so do the people in Bournemouth. They used Morritz’s name to persuade our Professor to make an appointment for tomorrow morning.’

‘I wonder what these people who’ve gone to Bournemouth do know,’ murmured the Foreign Secretary, very softly. ‘Too much for my peace of mind, I fancy.’

‘And for mine,’ said Craigie.

The Foreign Secretary got a little closer to the fire, as if he, as well as Craigie, were cold, and wanted the added warmth. Craigie could only see his profile. There was no smile on it, only a set expression which in itself indicated the gravity of his thoughts.

Leven spoke as if to himself.

‘Toller and Morritz were working in collaboration when Morritz disappeared in Paris. The same day there was an unsuccessful attempt to kidnap Toller. It was foiled only by his presence of mind. Yes. The subsequent attacks on Toller’s life made us consult you about it. That is—how long ago?’

‘Seven weeks,’ said Craigie.

‘In those seven weeks you have discovered that the man known as Rutter is partly responsible,’ said Leven. ‘You are, I suppose, quite sure that Rutter is not the principal?’

‘Yes,’ said Craigie. ‘Rutter, also known as Forbeson, is administrative, not executive. He receives instructions. He has worked for other people, sometimes in cases in which we have been involved, but we have never before had him in the position where he is now—we could detain him tomorrow, and with evidence to hang him.’

‘Yet he has always been so careful in the past,’ said Leven. This time he has taken an active part in the affair, taking risks which he has always avoided before. That is some measure of its importance to him.’

‘Or the money he’ll get for his work,’ said Craigie.

‘Yes,’ said Leven. He looked up with an unexpectedly bright smile. ‘And now he wants Toller. Have you discussed the motives behind the affair with your men?’

‘With Loftus and Hammond, but not with any of the others,’ said Craigie. ‘There’s no need to, at this juncture. And we’re not clear enough about motives. Toller and Morritz were working together on——’ He paused.

‘T.N.25,’ murmured Leven.

‘T.N.25,’ said Craigie.

They were silent again, and the room seemed very cold. Neither man moved; the symbol seemed to float about the room and echo from the ceiling and the corners. T.N.25. T.N.25. T.N.25.

‘There are times,’ said Leven, with another unexpected smile, ‘when I wish the Chinese had never invented gunpowder!’

‘Yes,’ murmured Craigie.

‘T.N.25,’ murmured Leven. ‘A single cupful would cause as much havoc as a V.2 rocket or a 10-ton bomb. It’s simple to make, I’m told. A devil’s companion for the atomic bomb. In its way it’s as bad. No one knew of this before. Pure chance brought Toller and Morritz together, and they discovered that they were working on almost identical formulæ. Neither worked with assistants who knew what was being prepared, and yet their researches have obviously become known. Yet we and the French have done our best to keep it a closely guarded secret until it is finished and the explosive proves its worth.’

‘Yes,’ said Craigie.

‘Do you know what we propose to do when it has proved its worth?’ asked Leven.

‘I know what I hope we’re going to do.’

‘What is that?’

‘Share it with the other Great Powers,’ said Craigie.

‘The United Nations,’ murmured Leven. ‘Yes. You know what we fear, don’t you?’

‘That Russian agents are after T.N.25.’

‘A hateful possibility,’ said Leven, ‘but we must know for certain. Who else would seek it?’

Craigie did a rare thing; he laughed.

‘Now answer yourself,’ he said, and Leven smiled.

‘There are still Nazis in existence.’

‘And Fascists and Japanese,’ said Craigie. ‘Also, I have seen too much of the activities of private armaments manufacturers to leave them out of count. It may be that we are now dealing with private individuals, wealthy, intent on getting T.N.25 for what it is worth commercially. More dividends on death,’ he added, and there was bitterness in his smile. ‘Am I offending you?’

‘You know you are not,’ said Leven.

Craigie said, slowly: ‘I do not believe that there is in this country at the present time a single agent of any country, friendly or hostile, with the money, power and freedom of movement to be behind this thing. I am convinced that we have to look nearer home. And’—he looked evenly at Leven—‘I have had a report, only this afternoon, about five men who might be implicated.’

‘Ah,’ said Leven.

‘Five men, each of whom controls large armament concerns,’ said Craigie. ‘One French, one American—both with English agents—and three English. With each of those five men, Rutter has been known to associate within the last twelve months. I believe that Rutter first discovered the existence of T.N.25, that he sold his knowledge to the highest bidder, and is now selling his services.’

‘You sound very certain,’ said Leven.

‘I feel certain,’ said Craigie.

‘Who are the five?’

‘I would rather wait for a few days,’ said Craigie. ‘I may be able to delete the names of one or two.’

‘I see,’ murmured Leven. ‘They would shock us?’

‘Very much.’

Leven smiled. ‘I don’t see why I should try to make you alter your usual habits, Craigie! The Prime Minister will be back on Monday, though, and I don’t think he will be quite so willing to leave it to you.’

‘I might know more by Monday,’ said Craigie.

‘Yes, of course.’ Leven looked at his watch, stood up and smiled. ‘I must go, I’ve several appointments this evening. Who else knows those five names?’

‘Loftus and Hammond,’ said Craigie. ‘And there is a curious thing, which makes me believe that this has been going on longer than we realized. Hammond’s wife was murdered three months ago. Early this afternoon an attack was made on Loftus’s wife. It failed, although she was injured. In every case where Rutter has worked—or where I believe he has worked—there has always been a tendency to indirect attack. We have evidence that many of the Department men are known to Rutter, but not a single attack has been made on any of them. Several have been made on their wives. It may be an attempt to blackmail them into working less thoroughly.’

‘Your Mr. Rutter, then, has a lot to learn,’ said Leven. ‘Good-bye, Craigie. Thanks.’ He shook hands, his grip powerful, and went to the door. When Craigie had his finger on the opening button, Leven turned and looked at him. ‘We must find the truth of it. Morritz knows the secret and might be forced to give it away.’

‘According to Professor Toller,’ said Craigie, ‘Morritz knows the theory, only Toller has yet succeeded in finding a way to make T.N.25 a commercial proposition. While we keep Toller safe, we haven’t too much to fear.

After Leven had gone, Craigie went to his desk, took a memorandum-pad, and wrote swiftly. He used an abbreviated longhand, which few people could decipher, and wrote in code. After five minutes at the desk he tore off a sheet of paper and put it in an envelope, which he stuck down but did not otherwise seal.

The last sentence was: ‘Use Miss Dalton in any way you think will serve.’