I had no longer any doubt about the reliability of the pilot’s information. I knew that I was right about Vayle. This was something big. There could be no other possible explanation of such elaborate steps being taken to dispose of a mere gunner. And I was horribly aware of the danger of my own position.
Press men, I know, are supposed to be tough. There is a firm belief that they are always adventurers capable of getting out of any situation. That is true of some, especially the freelance foreign correspondents. But nothing could be further from the truth in the case of most newspaper men. The majority of them have a job that involves mainly office work. That job is to collate facts and reproduce them in the form of readable matter. I was one of the majority. True, I had been in our Berlin office and had seen quite a bit of the world for my age. But I was no more than a spectator. Because a journalist writes about exciting things it does not mean he leads an exciting life. I suppose my life had been more interesting than it would have been in, say, my father’s insurance business. Nevertheless, though I had led the free and easy life of Central London with a flat of my own and no responsibilities, it had really been quiet and respectable. Certainly I had never been in any serious scrapes.
I was, therefore, no more equipped by my civilian life to get out of the fix I was in than the next man. And I certainly wasn’t any less scared. I sat there literally petrified. Behind the closed door of that lavatory I had the temporary illusion of security. Outside, I faced the uncertainties of a situation that was rapidly getting beyond me.
I tried to steady myself. Somehow I had got to go back into that hut as though nothing had happened. I settled down to consider how the document had got into my Army pay-book. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that it must have been placed there after my interview with Ogilvie the previous night. Obviously no such definite action would have been taken until it was known first that Ogilvie was not willing to have me transferred, and secondly, that I was continuing to make a nuisance of myself. My Army pay-book had been in the breast pocket of my battle top all the time. The paper could have been placed in it whilst I was asleep. But that meant there was one of Vayle’s agents actually in the detachment, and at the same time it would have been risky, to say the least of it, in a crowded hut. No, the most obvious time was during the morning’s short alarm. I had taken post in my shirt sleeves owing to the heat. I had left my battle blouse on my bed, and the hut had been empty.
It was then that I realised I had discovered something. The hut had not been completely empty. The whole detachment had been on the gun, but there were still the two workmen. And I remembered seeing the younger one pedal off on his bicycle. The older man had been alone in the hut. As soon as I remembered this I had no doubt as to how the paper had been planted on me. For no apparent reason the workmen had chosen that particular morning to turn up to do a job that we had never expected to get done at all. Now I knew why they had come. But what amazed me more than anything was that they were taking all this trouble over me. I could not believe that I was really dangerous to them. It could only mean one thing — that they felt themselves vulnerable if the attention of the authorities was persistently drawn to this idea of a plan.
And since they were evidently leaving nothing to chance, it meant that the scheme, whatever it was, was vitally important. It also meant that at any moment I should be faced with further developments in the plan to put me out of the way. Somehow they had to arrange for the document they had planted on me to be found. It was a nasty thought.
But at least I had the consolation of knowing that I was really on to something. It strengthened my resolve to go through with it — to break into Vayle’s rooms, to badger the authorities, to do anything to expose the plan.
I opened the door and went back into the hut. Hardly anyone looked up as I came in. Most of them were lying on their beds, smoking, or already asleep. I was glad. It gave me a chance to recover my confidence.
Kan, who was sitting at the table, smoking, suggested a game of chess. Anything to take my mind off my position. We settled down amongst a litter of unwashed crockery.
I had just driven his king into a corner and checked him with a knight, when the door opened.
‘Party, party, “shun!”’
It was Ogilvie with Wing-Commander Winton. They were accompanied by a man who looked like a workman.
‘Where’s Sergeant Langdon?’ Ogilvie asked. His voice sounded gruff and tense. I had a sudden premonition of trouble.
‘He’s in his room, sir,’ said Bombardier Hood. ‘I’ll fetch him.’
The sergeant had a separate room at the end of the hut. A moment later John Langdon appeared, looking very boyish with his hair all tousled and his eyes still full of sleep.
‘Identification parade, Sergeant Langdon,’ snapped Ogilvie. ‘I want everyone lined up down the centre of the hut.’
‘Very good, sir.’ He turned about. ‘Bombardier Hood, right marker!’ Hood took up his place at the far end of the room. ‘On Bombardier Hood in one rank fall in!’
Automatically we jostled into a line and stood at ease. ‘Detachment, detachment,‘shun!’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. Now’ — Ogilvie turned to the workman — ‘see if you can spot your man.’ And as the fellow walked slowly down the rank, he said to Langdon, ‘A man in the uniform of a gunner has been reported asking rather obviously leading questions of the post-office men laying the operations lines.’
I stood very stiff, my eyes fixed on the wall opposite and my muscles tensed. I knew what was going to happen. I sensed rather than saw the man pause opposite me. Then his slow face said, ‘I think this is the man.’
‘Who is it? Hanson? Ah!’ Out of the corner of my eyes I saw Ogilvie glance significantly at the C.O. ‘Well, Hanson, what have you got to say?’
My knee joints felt weak. The blood hammered in my head. ‘I think there’s some mistake, sir,’ I heard myself saying. ‘I have never seen this man before, and I have never spoken to any of the men laying the lines.’
‘But you know they’re being laid?’
‘Certainly, sir. Everyone in the camp must know that by now.’
‘What were you doing between seven-thirty and eight last night?’
‘In the Naafi, drinking, sir. Sergeant Langdon will bear me out. He was there too.’
‘Is that right, sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you still think this is the man?’ Ogilvie asked the workman.
‘I think so.’ His voice sounded sullen. ‘I can’t be sure. His face was in the shadow. Also I’m not certain about the exact time. I didn’t think of that until afterwards.’
‘Did you go to the civilian bar at all last night, Hanson?’ Ogilvie asked.
‘The supper canteen? Yes, sir. I went there shortly after eight with Chetwood and Fuller.’
‘I see. But you did not speak to this man?’
‘No, sir. I was with the others the whole time.’
This man says a gunner engaged him in conversation in the canteen and that later he saw him jotting down notes. He has now identified that gunner as you. And you admit that you were in the canteen at about the time he states.’ Ogilvie turned to Chetwood. ‘Do you agree that Hanson was in your company the whole time, Chetwood?’
‘As far as I can remember, sir.’ I experienced again that sense of undeveloped hostility about me. Chetwood could easily have committed himself to a direct ‘yes’. But he had hedged.
Ogilvie looked at me uncertainly. I could see that he did not know what to do. ‘You realise that this is a very serious charge, Hanson?’
I said, ‘Yes, sir. But it is quite untrue.’ My voice trembled despite all efforts at control. ‘This is the first time I have ever seen this man.’
Ogilvie turned to the workman. ‘I don’t feel justified in pursuing the matter unless you can say definitely that this is the man.’