“Yes… but the question of the staff. They wouldn’t have been sent there if they were the sort likely to crack up, surely?”
Latymer said irritably, “Oh, nonsense. However closely you screen a man and however many factors you take into account, you can never be absolutely sure of his reactions under any given set of circumstances which haven’t occurred up to the time of screening. They’re all a first-class bunch out there, admittedly, and in a security sense they’re absolutely all right, but we just can’t risk any incidents at all. That’s why I want you to bowl out Edo before he has a chance to get cracking in a big way. But”—he jabbed the ebony ruler at Shaw again—“if you do take on the job, and as you know I never force a particular assignment on anyone — I don’t want you to go into this with your eyes shut. Remember, Mason was killed in a pretty nasty way last night. Stringer’s end was — messy. And voodoo has always led to killings in the past. Of course, it’s not just the Africans themselves — left alone, they’re all right. It’s the men who stir them up.” He paused. “All the same, I hope you’ll take this on, Shaw. You’re the best man I’ve got, and Washington’s perfectly happy to let you handle this.” He grinned tightly. “I’ve already taken the precaution of sounding out the Pentagon!”
Shaw stifled a sigh, shifted restlessly in his chair. Once again, it seemed, he hadn’t much choice in the matter when it was put to him like this. Not until he was pensioned off would he be able to lead the normal, ordinary life that he and Debonnair both wanted so much. Now, he swallowed his bitterness and nodded.
He said reluctantly. “Very well, sir. Where do I start — in Nogolia?”
“Not to begin with. I believe the first lead’s going to come right here in London. If I were you I’d try to find that coloured guard and see what you can dig up — his name’s Patrick MacNamara, by the way, at least that’s what he calls himself over here. Find him before Scotland Yard does, too. I don’t want this to get bogged down in a simple murder hunt.” He spread his hands on the leather desk-top and got up. “And that, I’m afraid, is all the lead I can give you, my boy.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The rain had started by the time Esmonde Shaw left the Admiralty. He went quickly through to Whitehall and boarded a Victoria-bound bus. Getting off near Strutton Ground, he made for the administrative offices of London Transport by St. James’s Park station. A few minutes later he was sitting in the office of an old associate — Major Bob Herrick, late of Military Intelligence and now a high-up on the security side of London Transport.
Lighting a cigarette, Shaw said, “Look, Bob, I don’t know the set-up here, and this may not be your pigeon at all. But I want some help and there’s no one else I can go to. You’ll understand that. It’s this way…”
Herrick, as it happened, had many of the details to hand, since the police had been in contact with him already. It turned out that Jackson, the guard who should have been on the train, had been beaten up by a gang of Teddy boys shortly before he’d been due to go on duty at Cockfosters the night before, and had been found on some waste ground by a policeman on the beat in the early hours of the morning. He’d been more dead than alive, and it looked as though his attackers had intended to kill him but had been interrupted before they could finish the job. In the meantime Patrick MacNamara had reported at the depot, saying that Jackson had been taken ill suddenly and had asked him to stand in.
MacNamara himself, who was twenty-four years old, was a Kroo from Nogolia with no family living. He had been employed as a houseboy by the manager of the Jinda branch of a British bank, who had been impressed by the lad, had taken a fatherly interest in him, and had seen that he went on to Yoganda Bay College to get a proper education. At the college the boy had taken his present British name, had done very well though not brilliantly, and about two years ago had come to London intending to study medicine. Partly because of colour prejudice, he had failed to get started, and had landed up in London Transport.
Shaw asked, “As a temporary measure?”
“Not officially, but I dare say he may have looked on it that way.”
“Has he ever been in trouble before, Bob?”
Herrick shook his head. “No. They say he’s keen, steady, reliable. A good lad all round… but now I suppose they’ll have him for murder.”
Shaw’s eyebrows went up. “You know it was murder, then?”
“Yep — Scotland Yard came clean, old boy! It does look a fairly conclusive case, doesn’t it. Funny, though… it doesn’t quite add up, to me anyway. I’ve always thought I’m a fairish judge of character, and I’d have sworn that young man was as straight as a die.”
“My own view entirely, from the little I saw of him,” Shaw said. “Did you actually meet him, then?”
“Oh, I yarn with all the coloured immigrants when they apply, and get all these details out of them,” Herrick told him. “They don’t know it, but they’re being screened in a mild sort of way, and that’s one of my special jobs. We don’t want too many yobos, you know, and I try to make sure we get the pick of the bunch. Matter of fact, I particularly remember Patrick MacNamara. He struck me as a very open young fellow.”
“Any known friends — girl-friends, for instance?”
“No idea. Sorry, I can’t really be much help as» to his private life, Esmonde… why not call at his lodgings — I’ll give you the address — or the depot?”
Shaw grinned. “No, thanks! Scotland Yard’ll be around there doing the bloodhound act…
Leaving London Transport, Shaw rang through to the Ministry of Nuclear Development for an urgent appointment with the head of “P” Branch. He was told to come along at two-thirty, and after a quick lunch he was back in Whitehall and sitting alone in an office in Personnel, an office very high up in a tall building not far from the Cenotaph.
There was a tap at the door, and a thin, grey-haired man with a stoop and an apologetic manner came in carrying a thick file. He said, “It’s all here, Commander Shaw. If you wouldn’t mind just signing.” He laid a large book in front of Shaw and held out a fountain-pen. Shaw took it and scrawled his signature.
He looked up. “Thanks, Mr. Crocker. Don’t bother to wait. I may be some time.”
The man coughed. “If you’ll pardon me, Commander, the files can be handed back only to senior staff for locking up and re-sealing. But take your time… I shall be in my office when you’ve finished.”
“Right.” Shaw smiled, and Crocker left the room. Shaw opened up the file. These papers contained the security screening details of all the men employed at the Bluebolt control-station in Nogolia. Shaw studied them closely, memorizing as he went along every detail that seemed to him important. In point of fact, these were very few indeed. The men’s records were without exception absolutely clear, and Shaw hadn’t expected them to be anything else; but a long experience had taught him that reading between the lines could often be a profitable way of spending his time until the real action began and that a man’s background, however clear from the security angle, could often yield points of interest which sooner or later might provide a lead.
Having read through the whole lot, he turned back to the records of the senior men.