Ten days later Gregory received a small packet by special messenger. Having duly signed for it he examined its contents; then sat back and roared with laughter. Sir Pellinore’s people had needed time in which to secure various components of the photograph he required and had then the extremely tricky job of blending them into one picture, but there was not a thing about the finished article to suggest that it was a fake and Gregory felt that such a masterpiece of photomontage had been well worth waiting for.
Picking up his telephone he rang Tom Archer’s house in Kennington, but learned that Mr. Archer was out and was not expected home until about six o’clock that evening. At half-past six Gregory rang the number again and got on to him at once.
‘My name is Baird,’ he said; ‘Joe Baird; but I’m afraid that won’t convey much to you, Mr. Archer. I’m very anxious to have a chat with you, though, about a matter that interests us both.’
A deep, rumbling voice came back over the telephone. ‘I’m afraid I’m a very busy man, Mr. Baird. I couldn’t spare the time to see you at present unless you care to state what your business is and it’s very important.’
‘I’d rather not discuss it on the telephone,’ said Gregory.
‘In that case you’d better write,’ said the voice, with an abruptness which suggested that the speaker was about to replace the receiver.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Gregory said quickly. ‘I’ve only just got back to England from Budapest where I’ve been living for the last three years. Some people out there particularly wished me to get in touch with you.’
‘What people?’ came the suspicious answer.
‘Really, Mr. Archer,’ Gregory protested. ‘I’d rather not mention any names on the telephone, but I’ve some very important messages for you from my Hungarian friends which must be delivered by word of mouth. Surely you can guess the subject on which they want to communicate with you when I tell you that they live in Pest, on the left bank of the river.’
‘Oh; all right, then,’ said the voice on a slightly different note. ‘Is the matter urgent?’
‘Yes, I’d like to see you this evening if possible.’
‘Can you come down here?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right then; make it nine o’clock.’
‘Thanks.’ Gregory rang off.
At nine o’clock he was bowling along in a taxi a mile south of Westminster Bridge. The effect of the black-out was partially nullified by the moon, which was in its last quarter but shone in an almost clear sky, turning the few patches of low cloud a lightish-grey against which the blimps of the balloon barrage could be clearly seen in black silhouette. The taxi turned left from the main Kennington Road into a wide street of houses whose short gardens were fenced in on either side by iron palings.
In spite of the moonlight the taximan would have had some difficulty in finding No. 65 Walshingham Terrace, as the semicircular fanlights above the doors of the houses, which carried their numbers, were now all curtained for the black-out, had it not been for a steel-helmeted A.R.P. Warden who gave them directions; but having found the house Gregory got out, telling the man to wait.
The houses on either side of the street consisted of a solid block, but they were substantial, well-built affairs constructed in late Georgian or early Victorian times when Kennington was a well-to-do suburb, within easy reach of the City and Strand at a time when there were as yet no cars, tubes or motor-buses to enable business people to live further afield.
The district had gone down but the properties were well kept up, for Walshingham Terrace formed part of the London estate which is the patrimony of the Prince of Wales as Duke of Cornwall, and during his twenty years as holder of that title the Duke of Windsor had proved an exceptionally good landlord.
Striding up the short garden-path Gregory mounted a few steps and rang the bell. The door was opened to him by a thin-faced, intelligent-looking woman wearing heavy shoes and severe clothes, and having her grey hair smoothed flatly back. Gregory remembered vaguely that the Marxist leader had married an L.C.C. school-teacher, so this was evidently Mrs. Archer.
On his giving his name she said that her husband was expecting him and that if he would go right through he would find him in the back room; and as she made way for Gregory to pass her she called out loudly: ‘Tom! Here’s Mr. Baird to see you.’
A gruff voice called back through the door: ‘All right, Ellen, tell him to come in,’ and advancing down the passage, Gregory opened the door of a room that was evidently used as a study.
Archer was a big, burly man in his late fifties, who had probably been very strong in his youth but had now run to fat from lack of exercise. He was seated behind a small, square desk littered with papers, ash-trays, pipes and all sorts of other impedimenta.
The glance he threw at Gregory was not particularly amiable but Gregory liked the look of him for all that. There was something downright and honest about his big face with its powerful jutting chin. He smiled in his most friendly fashion, therefore, and said:
‘It’s very nice of you to see me, Mr. Archer. May I sit down?’
‘Sure!’ Archer, pointed with his pipe-stem to a well-worn arm-chair. ‘So you’re just back from Hungary, are you? Have much trouble in getting through?’
‘Trouble doesn’t describe it,’ said Gregory, with a grin, ‘because although I couldn’t say so on the ’phone it’s Germany I’ve just come back from.’
Archer raised his heavy, black eyebrows and a glint of suspicion crept into his eyes as he inquired: ‘What about those friends of yours in Budapest, then?’
Gregory shrugged. ‘I’m afraid they’re just as mythical as my stay in Hungary, but that doesn’t really affect the matter. Things are much more interesting in Gemany at the moment, and it’s there that I’ve been in touch with certain friends of yours.’
‘Indeed? Who, may I ask?’
‘Herr Rheinhardt, at Traben-Trabach, for one.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Pastor Wachmuller, of Ems, for another.’
‘I’ve never heard of him, either.’
‘Well; that’s not particularly surprising because, as you know the three anti-Nazi groups in Germany have agreed to sink their differences and act together. Your friends would naturally be among the German Marxists, whereas Rheinhardt and Wachmuller were both Social Democrats. Still it was they who gave me your name.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘So that those of us here in England who sympathise with the anti-Nazi movement in Germany can get together and give them all the support we can.’
Archer shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong shop, Mr. Baird. I don’t know anything about anti-Nazi movements.’
Gregory smiled. ‘I can quite understand your reticence, Mr. Archer, but perhaps this will convince you of my bona fides.’ For fear that his pockets might be picked he had had the overlap at the thick end of his silk tie partially sewn up as a safe place in which to carry the precious swastika. Undoing his waistcoat, he produced the swastika and held it out, hoping for an immediate reaction, but he was disappointed.
Archer glanced down at the symbol without betraying any sign of interest or recognition. ‘What’s that thing got to do with it?’ he asked. It’s a swastika turned the wrong way round isn’t it?’
‘No; as a matter of fact it’s the right way round—and the symbol of peace which opens all doors among the right-thinking.’ Gregory paused; he had used the phrase which he had heard from both Rheinhardt and Wachmuller, but still Archer remained entirely unmoved. He went on, therefore:
‘You know as well as I do that certain high officers of the German Army are preparing a putsch against the Nazi leaders with a view to establishing a new German Government freely elected by the German people; their object being to bring about an honourable and speedy peace.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Archer.
‘And it’s up to us,’ Gregory continued, ’to give them every support that we possibly can when the time comes.’
‘I see. But how d’you propose to give them any assistance now that we’re at war with Germany? However much we may wish to help the honest German working-folk to turn out this gang of Nazi blackguards, our hands are tied.’
‘Not altogether,’ said Gregory, trying a new bluff. ‘When I was in Germany I was talking to General Gra … damn it! What is the fellow’s name?’
‘Ask me another!’ replied Archer, unhelpfully.
‘Good Lord! I’ll forget my own name next! You must know the man I mean; he was a close friend of Baron von Fritsch who died the other day. Why, I had it right on the tip of my tongue just now!’
‘You did, eh? Well, perhaps you’re right, and you will forget your own name next. At the present moment you call yourself Joe Baird.’
Gregory saw that he was right up against a stone wall, so he did the only possible thing and said, with a rueful grin:
‘Mr. Archer, I congratulate you. You must forgive me trying to pump you, but it’s my job to try to do so. My name isn’t Baird, and what it really is doesn’t matter for the moment. Nevertheless, it’s quite true that I’ve been in Germany since the war began, and that I did meet there certain people who were definitely plotting to bring about the downfall of the Nazi Government. That is to your interest and to mine, so we ought to work together.’
‘It remains to be seen what interests you represent.’
‘I represent the British Government, who are prepared not only to give every aid in their power to any movement made by the German Army in collaboration with the German people to overthrow the Hitler regime, but also to guarantee a just peace to Germany.’
‘A capitalist peace, huh? A settlement which would enable the bankers to make big loans to Germany on reasonable security and place the German industrialists on the necks of the German workers instead of the Nazis. No, thanks!’
‘You’re wrong, Mr. Archer. It would be a peace made by the freely elected representatives of the German people.’
Archer shook his head. ‘I’m having no truck with this rotten, Imperialist Government of ours; and they know it. You’re wasting your time, Mr. whatever-your-name-is, so I think you’d better be getting along now. I’ve got a lot of work to do.’
‘Now, wait a minute,’ Gregory pleaded. ‘You are an Englishman, aren’t you?’
‘No, sir. I was born in this country and I’ve lived here most of my life, but I don’t regard myself as an Englishman. I’m a human being; just like all the other human beings up and down the world of whatever race or colour they may be. You were about to appeal to my patriotism, weren’t you? Well, you can save your breath because I’m not a patriot. It’s because people are wrongly brought up to get all hot under the collar about the countries in which they were born and to take pride in the fact that their forefathers have killed thousands of people born in other countries, that the world’s in the rotten state that it is today. It’s crazy, narrow nationalism and capitalist interests which are the sole cause of Germany, Poland, France and ourselves having once more been plunged into the hideous legalised mass-murder we call war.’
‘All right,’ Gregory shrugged, ‘have it your own way. Personally, I honestly believe there’s a lot in what you say, but unfortunately the world’s not yet sufficiently educated to accept your doctrine of Internationalism, and in the meantime we’ve got to make the best of a bad job. At least you’ll admit that life for the working-classes is infinitely better in every way in Britain and France than it is under Nazi rule, and our first job is to restore a reasonable degree of freedom to the German people. When we’ve done that, it’ll be quite time enough to talk about abolishing Nationalism.’
‘Nothing,’ boomed Archer; ‘nothing can justify any Government’s plunging its people into a new war.’
‘There, I’m afraid we differ, but we’ve got to face cold, hard facts. Four Governments have plunged their countries into war and it’s up to you and me and every right-thinking person to try to stop the slaughter as soon as we possibly can. The Democracies will make no peace until the Nazis are destroyed. You’re in possession of certain information which might help us to destroy them. I appeal to you once more, therefore, to tell me everything you know about this anti-Nazi conspiracy in order that the British Government may assist our friends abroad.’
‘It’s no good. I’ve told you that I don’t know anything, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you.’
Gregory’s lean face went flinty. ‘In that case it’s my unpleasant duty to remind you that the Government can take certain steps under the Emergency Powers Act. I am convinced that you are withholding information which might aid the Government in the successful prosecution of the war. Do you wish me to have a warrant issued for your arrest?’
Archer suddenly sat back, thrust his hands in his pockets and bellowed with laughter.
‘Come off it, man! You can’t frighten me. Putting me in gaol on a charge which couldn’t be substantiated would cause much too much excitement in the Press. Even if you do, I don’t mind. I’ve been in prison plenty of times for inciting to riot, and the usual sorts of charges the capitalists use as bludgeons on any man who tries to secure a fair deal for the underdog. You can do what you like, but I’m not talking, and if it’d get rid of you any sooner I’d tell you why.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Gregory; ‘I’d be interested to hear.’
‘Well, it’s this way. Supposing I have got friends among the German Marxists. There’s no harm in admitting that; it’s common knowledge. All right. I tell you who they are and what do you do? Instruct some of your secret agents in Germany to get in touch with them. Your intentions may be all right, but what’s the result? My friends are already watched night and day by the Gestapo. Some blundering fool of a British officer in a Tyrolese hat and plus-fours suddenly turns up in a slum street is Essen, Düsseldorf or Charlottenburg. The Gestapo see him haw-hawing with my friends and what’s the next thing that happens? They bung my friends in a concentration – camp, or worse. Nothing doing, thank you! You go and tell that to whoever sent you.’
Gregory felt as guilty as though Archer had accused him personally of such unwitting betrayals. Both Rheinhardt and Wachmuller had paid the penalty of his rash indiscretion. The truth of Archer’s argument could not be gainsaid and he felt sorry for the Marxist, but he had his job to do. It was a rotten job; a dirty piece of business; but nations were more important than individuals and Archer must be made to talk. Catching his eye Gregory held it as he said slowly:
‘Pearl Wyburn’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?’
Archer stiffened perceptibly as he replied: ‘What’s she got to do with this?’
‘Quite a lot. She’s the daughter of a very old friend of yours, isn’t she? When she became an orphan you more or less adopted her and have treated her like your own child ever since. She was a bit difficult to handle because she was so darned good-looking and obviously not cut out for a job in a factory or an office. I’ve been at some pains to find out all about her, you see. She knew she was beautiful, too, and hard-headed little hussy that she is she was quite determined to use her beauty to get on in the world. Naturally she likes pretty clothes, and as she hasn’t got much brain she did the obvious thing and got herself a job as a mannequin. But mannequins don’t earn very much and in their private lives they’re not allowed to wear the clothes that they display. In consequence she over-spends herself and you come to the rescue in order to keep her straight. If it weren’t for you it’s pretty certain that little gold-digging Pearl would have become the mistress of one of her rich admirers long before this, but you’ve fought tooth and nail although she now costs you far more than you can afford. As her taste for luxury has grown you’ve had to ante-up more and more money, because the girl is a sort of obsession with you. I’m not going to state categorically that you’ve raided your Party funds, but since you’ve been paying the rent of that luxury flat of hers at Bryanston Court I should think it’s highly probable. In any case, when the balloon goes up and the Party accounts are examined we shall find out whether you’ve been soaking the Party for her keep.’
Archer’s big face was suffused with colour. ‘What the hell d’you mean?’ he roared.
‘Simply this,’ Gregory replied with sudden, deliberate viciousness, ‘if you refuse to talk I’m going to see to it that your colleagues are informed that Pearl is your mistress and that you’ve been keeping her for years.’
‘That’s a damned lie!’
‘I know it is, my dear fellow, but what about it?’
‘I’ll have you for slander,’ Archer thundered. ‘It’s one thing to make such accusations and another to prove them.’
‘Of course; but I shall succeed in doing both.’
‘You dirty, blackmailing swine! You know damned well she’s a decent girl and that to suggest that a man of my age had been living with her would wreck her reputation. She’d never live it down.
‘I know. And I’m very sorry for her. But it’ll be your fault if she has to face this scandal, and it would be particularly inconvenient just now, wouldn’t it? You see, I happen to know that she’s got her hooks into Lord Bellingham’s son, Ollie Travers, and looks like landing him.’
‘So you know that, do you? Then for God’s sake give the girl a chance. He’s a decent lad, even if he is an officer in the Guards. It’s a filthy lousy trick to threaten me with breaking up her prospects of a happy marriage.’
‘Oh, it’s sheer, unadulterated blackmail, I quite agree.’
‘All right then; go ahead. By no possible means can you prove this damned lie so I’ll get a judgement against you and clear her that way. Stink or no stink!’
‘But I can prove it.’ Gregory quietly took the photograph from his pocket and passed it across the desk. ‘Have a look at that, Mr. Archer.’
The photograph had been faked by an expert who knew his job and although it had taken some days to procure the best possible results it had not been difficult to secure the necessary material. As Pearl Wyburn was a mannequin well known in the West End innumerable photographs of her in all sorts of costumes had been easily available from the fashion houses for which she worked. The one selected showed the attractive, long-limbed fair-haired mannequin with very little on except some delightful undies. Archer himself was, of course a public figure, so that it had been equally easy to obtain scores of photographs of him from the Fleet Street agencies, and one had been chosen in which he was seen relaxing, coatless and hatless, after addressing a big northern meeting on a hot day.
The two photographs had been skilfully blended into a specially-taken background with a bedroom setting. Pearl, in her undies, was standing near a tumbled bed, while Archer stood close by in his shirt-sleeves, smiling at her. On a side-table near-by stood an opened magnum of champagne, two half-filled glasses, cigarettes and chocolates. A valuable mink coat in which Pearl had once been photographed for a catalogue was thrown carelessly over an arm-chair. Altogether it was a most skilful and artistic production.
‘Secret Life of Noted Marxist,’ murmured Gregory. ‘Man of Sixty Keeps Twenty-Two-Year-Old Glamour-Girl in Luxury Flat. How d’you like it?’
After one glance at the photograph Archer sprang to his feet, banged his fist on the desk and bawled: ‘You dirty, double-crossing crook! I’ll have the law on you for this!’
‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ replied Gregory quite unperturbed, ‘You’d never dare to bring the case to court and you know it. We’d impound your passbooks and show the sums you’ve paid to and for Pearl, and no jury would give you a verdict. In addition I’d see that copies of this photograph were sent to all the Comrades and I’d have a special copy mounted for Captain the Honourable Oliphant Travers which would certainly put paid to Pearl’s affair.’
The burly figure behind the desk seemed to wilt and the age-lines suddenly showed more clearly in the big, determined face, Gregory felt an utter swine, but he had to break Archer’s will at any price and he knew now that he had succeeded.
‘God blast you!’ muttered Archer as he slumped down again into his chair. ‘I’ve known some dirty business in my time but this beats all. And you an Englishman!’
‘I thought you were telling me just now that no race was better than another?’ Gregory could not resist the gentle jibe.
‘I was. But I didn’t say that some weren’t more developed than others. At all events we like to think that English people have reached a stage when they have more sense of what’s just and decent than the rest. Our Government sneers at Hitler for making war on women and children, doesn’t it? The blasted hypocrites! What’s this but making war on an innocent man and a poor young girl?’
‘Don’t be too hard on the Government,’ said Gregory. ‘I’m afraid you must blame me for this. No Government official has any idea of what I’m up to.’
‘I see,’ said Archer thoughtfully. ‘Then all that stuff about using the Emergency Powers Act was just a bit of bluff.’
‘More or less; but that doesn’t affect the present situation. I’ve got the negative of this photograph in a safe place, and I’ve plenty of dope about your interest in Pearl Wyburn which will quite definitely be construed as showing that she’s your mistress. Either you talk, or much as I hate to have to do it I take steps to ensure the matter being made public.’
Archer sighed, and drew a hand across his face. ‘All right. What d’you want to know?’
‘I want the names and addresses of the people with whom you’ve been in communication in Germany. I want particulars of any methods by which you’re able to evade the censorship and communicate with them still, although we are at war. I want all the information you can give me about the anti-Nazi conspiracy. And before you start I may as well give you a warning; it’s no good giving me a lot of dope I can’t check up on. I’m too old a bird to accept as gospel any yarn that you choose to spin me now that I’ve got you in a corner. I want to see your correspondence files so that I can verify for myself most of what you tell me.’
‘I can tell you quite a lot; but it’s going to make things a bit difficult if you won’t take my word for what I say. I don’t keep dangerous correspondence like that here, in the house.’
‘I’m not going to tell you. It’s with all the other confidential papers of the Party and you can’t expect me to let anybody who’s outside the Party know where we keep them. You know well enough that we’re not tame Socialists who’d buy top-hats to go to Buckingham Palace in if they were asked there; we’d rather burn the place. We’re not hot-air Communists either; we’re even to the Left of the I.L.P. and if we lived in any other country we’d be called Anarchists. There’s enough so-called treason in those files to make the lousy bourgeoisie take permanently to their beds and to keep the judges in permanent session for six months if the police got hold of them. You’re plumb crazy to suggest that I should entrust the safety of all my friends to a police spy like you by telling you where our secret documents are kept.’
‘Then you must go and get the letters I want to see.’
‘Don’t be silly; they’re among hundreds of others, all confidential stuff. If there were only one or two of them I could get hold of them when nobody was looking and bring them away for you to look at, but there’re so many of them that it’d take me a good couple of hours to get them all out. The people who look after the files would never allow me to take a whole bundle of papers away like that, either; big man in the Party as I am.’
‘Rotten game, politics, isn’t it?’ said Gregory. ‘Especially when it means handling a lot of subversive literature. Naturally, you and your friends live in perpetual fear that you’ll double-cross one another.’
Archer shrugged. ‘That’s beside the point; the fact remains that once the letters have gone into the files there’s no getting them out again.’
‘Then you’ll have to take me to the place where the files are kept.’
‘That’s a pretty idea,’ sneered Archer. ‘Who do I say you are; Trotsky or the King of Siam?’
‘You will say that I am a German Comrade. I speak German very well, so you needn’t be afraid I’ll let you down on that score. We’ll spin a yarn that I’ve just arrived here via Holland with the very perturbing news that I believe some of those letters you’ve received to be forgeries and that it’s only by seeing them personally that I can ascertain whether this is a fact. You must explain that it’s of the first importance that you should know one way or the other, because If they really are forgeries you’re all being led up the garden-path, and that the only thing to do was to bring me down to see the letters in question so that you could find out.’
Archer considered for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose we could fix it that way, but I don’t like it, all the same. We’re talking turkey now, Mr. whoever-you-are, and between ourselves I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if the people down there find out that you’re not what you pretend to be. To start with, the address at which the secret files of the Party are kept is one of the most jealously guarded secrets in the country; Scotland Yard would give anyone a packet for it. The Party has got to protect its interests and its personnel. Honestly; I wouldn’t advise you to go there.’
‘I don’t think you need be afraid that they’ll find me out, and if there is a risk I’m quite prepared to take it. The point is that I’ve got to see those documents, and the sooner the better.’
‘All right,’ said Archer standing up. ‘You can’t, say you haven’t been warned. I’ll go and get on the telephone to see if there’s anyone there now who can let us in. The place may be shut, as it’s ten o’clock at night, but I think there’s a chap sleeping on the premises.’
He left the room and was away about five minutes. Gregory could hear him muttering down a telephone in the hall, but eventually he came back and nodded his massive head.
‘It’s O.K. We can go down there right away, It’ll take us about twenty minutes in a taxi.’
‘Good,’ replied Gregory, standing up. ‘I’ve got one waiting. Let’s go, shall we?’
Outside, Gregory got straight into the cab and did not make any attempt to overhear the address which Archer gave the man but took the opportunity to slip the golden swastika back into the secret pocket in the end of his tie while unobserved. The moon was still up but the streets were not as light as they had been on Gregory’s arrival, since heavier clouds had rolled up against which it was no longer possible to distinguish the balloons.
The cab ran eastward for a little way then north towards the river. Gregory recognised the big road-junction at the Elephant and Castle, after which they entered the New Kent Road, crossed the Old Kent Road and beyond it ran east-wards again, through some twisting streets in the direction of Bermondsey.
The district was not a particularly salubrious one, but Gregory had hardly expected that the secret H.Q. at which the Marxists kept their highly dangerous plans for fomenting strikes and even revolution would be in the neighbourhood of Whitehall. It was much darker down here owing to the narrowness of the streets, and on the way he gave Archer an outline of what he proposed to do.
‘Since a third person will be present,’ he said, ‘we’ll spin the yarn I suggested about my being a German and I’ll spend an hour or two going through the files with you pretending to identify most of the letters as genuine but picking out one or two as forgeries just to save face. As I examine them I can read their contents so I’ll get a pretty good idea of what’s going on; enough, at all events, to enable me to check up on whatever you may tell me later when we fully discuss the whole position on our own. After we’ve done that I shan’t trouble you again and I’ll destroy that very unpleasant negative which shows you in such a compromising situation with little Pearl.’
Archer seemed satisfied with this, and when the cab eventually pulled up at a cross-roads he said: ‘It isn’t far now and we’re going to walk from here.’
Gregory quite understood that the Marxist leader was unwilling that their destination should be known even by the taximan, who might have recognised him from his photographs in the Press, so he got out and paid the man off.
Side by side they started to walk in silence down a gloomy street. Gregory thought that Archer would now take considerable pains to mislead him by dodging about for a quarter of an hour or so in the maze of squalid courts and alleys which surrounded them, but the Marxist did nothing of the sort, seeming not to care whether Gregory found the place again or not. They took the first to the right and the first to the left; then Archer pointed to a small public-house that loomed up out of the shadows of what appeared to be a dark cul-de-sac, and muttered:
‘That’s the place.’
As they approached Gregory peered into the murk of the side-turning. Not a light showed in any direction, but the faint moonlight made the clouds slightly lighter than the dead-black of the houses, over whose roofs Gregory saw some tall, slanting streaks of the same dead-blackness which he suddenly realised were the masts of ships. What he had taken for a cul-de-sac was evidently an alley-way leading down to the Bermondsey docks.
It was just past closing-time, so no sounds of talk or laughter issued from the bars of the public-house. Archer passed by the main entrance on the corner and walking twenty yards down the alley halted there, feeling about on the wall until he had located a side-door. Finding its bell he gave two short rings followed by a single very long one.
For a few moments they waited in the darkness; then the door was opened and a man’s voice said: ‘Hullo! That you?’
‘Yes,’ came Archer’s deep bass. ‘It’s me, and I’ve brought the Comrade I was telling you about over the ’phone.’
‘Right-oh; come in,’ replied the man, holding the door open for them to enter but shutting and bolting it behind them after they had passed inside. Gregory found himself in a narrow, dimly-lit hall; he noticed with interest that there was a steel shutter above the door, which could be dropped in the event of a police raid, and that a large, electric alarm was affixed to a near-by wall-bracket.
Turning from the door the man who had let them in led the way up a flight of uncarpeted stairs. He was a small man with stooping shoulders and a shortage of breath which suggested middle-age. Gregory did not get a good chance to look at him until they reached the first floor and entered an office where bright lights were burning behind heavily-curtained windows.
Round the walls were ranged row upon row of steel filing cabinets. Gregory had had a faint suspicion that as Archer had taken no particular pains to conceal the locality of the place he might have been trying to trick him, but this was certainly the Party H.Q.; there could be no doubt of that.
‘This is Comrade Chivers,’ said Archer, introducing the little man.
‘Kröner,’ said Gregory in a gutteral voice as he announced himself in the German fashion and bowed from the waist before extending his hand. ‘Comrade Chivers, to meet you I am very pleased.’
‘I couldn’t say so over the telephone, Chivers,’ Archer went on, ‘but Comrade Kröner here has just come from Germany with some very alarming news. He seems to think that some of the stuff we’ve had from the Comrades there are forgeries, so I thought the best thing to do was to bring him down at once so that we could find out.’
Chivers, a grizzly-haired little man with pince-nez clipped to his long noise, seemed considerably perturbed at this announcement, and for some minutes he discussed with Archer the possible effects that forged letters containing misleading information might have upon their activities.
Gregory took in every word that they said. It was none of his business to concern himself with the affairs of the Marxists but he felt that he could not know too much about the men with whom he was dealing, as such knowledge might prove extremely useful later on, when he attempted to get into touch with their foreign colleagues. The trouble was, however, that nothing they said conveyed very much to him; they seemed to be talking to some extent at cross-purposes. No names were mentioned and there was nothing that he could get hold of.
Suddenly it struck him that they were making conversation solely for his benefit; that Chivers and Archer were talking only to delay his getting at the files. His senses suddenly alert, he glanced at them and saw at once that they were talking at random, unsuccessfully trying to disguise a nervous expectancy. They were waiting for something to happen.
Instantly his suspicions were aroused, to be intensified a moment later as he caught the sound of a footfall on the stairs. Suddenly he realised that by insisting on coming down to this secret filing-office he had given Archer a perfect opportunity to lead him into a trap. Archer had been on the telephone for quite a time before they left Walshingham Terrace. During those minutes he might have given detailed instructions to Chivers and other people in the house for the arrangement of an extremely unpleasant reception for their unwelcome visitor.
Gregory cursed himself for not having brought a gun, for that would have given him immediate mastery of the situation. If he had known that he was coming to such a place he would certainly have done so, for Sir Pellinore had years previously secured for him a permit to carry fire-arms in Britain which had never been revoked. But in London such a precaution had seemed entirely unnecessary, particularly as he had originally intended only to visit Archer’s house in respectable Kennington.
The footfalls came again. At that instant Gregory caught Archer’s eyes fixed upon him with a curious expression and something in the Marxist’s glance told him with absolute certainty that his instinct had been right. Without hesitation he acted.
Swinging his left fist in a vicious hook he took Chivers, who was nearest to him, under the jaw. Lifting his right foot sharply he aimed a savage kick at Archer’s knee. When Gregory went into battle against superior odds he never used half-measures. He knew that it was only by being completely unscrupulous that he had come out of so many tight corners alive.
As he moved he caught the sound of the footsteps on the stairs once more; closer now. They were heavy, and he could tell that more than one person was descending from the top of the house. If they were the guardians of the place and Archer and Chivers had been waiting for them he was in for an exceedingly bad time unless he could out the two Marxists and escape from the house before the others arrived.
Since Archer had been watching Gregory he was not taken by surprise. Dodging the kick he snatched up a heavy ledger and, with a loud shout, hurled it at Gregory’s head.
Gregory side-stepped, but as he did so he heard the footfalls quicken as the men on the stairs broke into a run in response to Archer’s yell.
‘You rat!’ snarled Gregory, leaping at the burly Marxist.
‘Rat yourself!’ bellowed Archer as they went down together in a heap.
With a crash the door was burst open, and out of the corner of his eye Gregory saw two big men who looked like expugilists come plunging into the room.
Wriggling free of Archer he jumped to his feet, seized a chair and with its legs thrust out before him charged straight at the nearest thug. One of the chair-legs caught the big fellow right in the middle of his ugly mouth. With a howl of pain he fell backwards against the open door, but his companion grabbed another of the chair-legs and with one wrench jerked the chair from Gregory’s grasp.
By now Archer was on his feet again and came lumbering heavily forward. Gregory stopped him with a punch like the kick of a mule that took him right over his heart. He grabbed the desk behind him and stood swaying there, half-dazed by the shock of the blow. The second thug had dodged round to Gregorys’ side and now sent a terrific right-hander to his head. Agile as a cat, he jumped backwards just in time to escape the full force of the blow, but the big man’s fist grazed his head when he was off his balance and sent him spinning to the floor.
Gregory protected his face with his outstretched arm and the moment he had measured his length he rolled over and over of his own volition until he was brought up sharp by the line of files at the far end of the room. Wriggling to his knees he snatched up a large bottle of ink from a near-by desk and hurled it with all his force at the tough who had struck him.
‘Look out, Summers!’ gasped Archer, but his warning came too late. The bottle caught the man full in the chest. It did not break as it hit him but its cork had come out and the ink spurted all over his suit; a second later the bottle smashed to smithereens on the floor.
The force of the flying bottle brought Summers up short. With dismay on his face and blasphemies on his lips he stood for an instant staring down at the rivulets of ink running over his ruined clothes.
Chivers had staggered to his feet again; but so had Gregory. He dived at the little man and grabbing him by one wrist and his coat-collar swung him round.
Shouting: ‘Come on, Ben!’ to his companion with the bleeding mouth, Summers again came wading in.
Before the wretched Chivers knew what was happening Gregory had nearly broken his wrist with a violent wrench which pitched him forward under Summers’ knees. The two of them fell in a tangled heap, and as the infuriated Ben came dashing in, his bullet-head well down and blood still dripping from his chin, Gregory dealt him a left upper-cut that made him reel, side-stepped adroitly, and jumping over Summers’ kicking feet dashed for the door.
A wave of elation filled him as he leaped past his three attackers and raced across the room. If only he could gain the stairs before the two thugs had recovered he would have just time to wrench back the bolts of the street-door and plunge headlong into the darkness. Once he was out in the street he could yell for help, and it was hardly likely that Archer’s men would risk police intervention by giving chase.
He was within a yard of the door when Archer, now partially recovered from the blow over his heart, heaved a chair at his legs. It caught him sideways-on; he staggered, clutched wildly at the empty air and went crashing, flat out, in the open doorway.
Before he could rise Ben swung round and came at him yelling murder. Shooting out a hand Gregory grabbed his ankle, twisted like an eel and brought him down with a thud across his own body. Wriggling from under him he managed to scramble to his knees just as Summers, now up once more, came pounding across the floor with steps that shook the room.
To fend off Summers’ attack Gregory threw his arms up in front of his face but at that instant it seemed as though a ton of bricks had fallen on the back of his head. Unnoticed by him Comrade Chivers had picked himself up, secured a heavy, round ruler from the desk and slogged him with it on the back of the head.
For a moment Gregory swayed there on his knees, half-dazed. His arms slipped downwards and Summers hit him in the face. As the blow came from above and was nowhere near his chin it did not knock him out, but it was sufficient to send him sprawling sideways. Before he could do anything to protect himself both the bruisers had flung themselves on top of him.
Ben, spitting curses from his bleeding mouth, gave him two vicious blows on the side of his face and knee’d him heavily in the ribs, driving the breath from his body. Then, as he twisted there in agony, doubled-up on the floor, the two of them threw him over on his face and secured his hands behind his back with a piece of stout cord, after which they lugged him to his feet and, panting, cursing and perspiring, pushed him into a chair.
With his head lolling forward on his chest he remained there, half-comatose for the moment. His brain felt as though attached to a large pair of pincers which were constantly opening and shutting, tearing at it every ten seconds as though to pull it out of the back of his skull where he had been hit. His right ear seemed to be twice its normal size from the blow that Summers had landed on it. His nose was bleeding freely from one of the vicious blows he had received while on the floor. His stomach ached intolerably from the effect of his having been winded and he swayed there weak as a rat, incapable of further thought or action.
As though through a mist he saw that Archer was waving the two thugs away from him; then Archer’s voice came to him as from a great distance.
‘I warned you, didn’t I? You asked for it, and you’ve got it. I couldn’t avoid bringing you here, you forced me to.’
Gregory tried to nod, but his brain seemed to slop forward as though it were loose inside his skull and the pain almost made him cry out. He bore no malice against Archer; it was his own fault that he had landed himself in this wretched mess. He had made the unpardonable mistake of underrating his opponent, and it had been madness even in England, to insist on being taken to such a place as this while unarmed.
Archer was speaking again. His voice came more clearly now. ‘You’ve only got yourself to blame. Now you know about this place what’s to stop your coming down here again with the flatties from the Yard? Our papers were safe here, but we can’t shift all these hundreds of files to a new headquarters without running a big risk of something getting out, and their contents would send a score of our most trusted men to prison for the best years of their lives. That would wreck our organisation and the game you tried to play on me shows that you yourself consider that national interests should be put before those of individuals. Our interests are international, so you’ve got to pay the price for having poked your nose into our affairs. Now we’ve got you we can’t possibly afford to let you go.’
Gregory slowly raised his head and looked at Archer. So they meant to keep him prisoner somewhere to prevent his having the place raided by Scotland Yard. That would be mighty inconvenient but he couldn’t blame them, and to keep a man prisoner for any length of time is by no means easy. Sir Pellinore knew that he had gone down to see Archer that night, and when he failed to report the Baronet would get the giant organisation of Scotland Yard in motion to trace him. The taximan who had brought him to within a quarter of a mile of this place would be questioned sooner or later, and that would narrow the area of the search. Special Branch men would keep Archer under observation from tomorrow onwards every time he moved out of his own house, so that he would never be able to come down to this place again without giving it away. Gregory knew, too, that even if the police failed to trace him the men who were set to guard him would sooner or later slacken in their vigilance, and he was prepared to back himself to think up some scheme whereby he could escape within a week from any private prison into which they might put him.
He suddenly noticed that Archer’s face was very white and strained, as though he were about to do something which required enormous effort of will, but upon which he was absolutely determined. Then the Marxist said distinctly:
‘We can’t keep you a prisoner here indefinitely, and now you’ve found out where we keep our papers you know too much for us to let you go. The London docks are only just round the corner and we’re going to seed you for a midnight swim.’