The Labyrinth Makers

'And my father and his crew–were they lucky?'

'They were luckier still. Your father went out quickly just when he thought he was home and dry and the others saved their skins.'

'And lost their treasure!'

'But that was the luckiest thing of all–for them. You don't think they'd really have got away with it, do you? More likely it would have been their death sentence.'

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'But you said — you've implied, anyway — that it was a marvellous plan?'

'So it was. But it had one terrible flaw they didn't know about–the flaw you've forgotten about and I still don't understand. They'd got Panin after them!'

'Panin–ugh!' Faith shivered. 'Every time you mention him it gives me the shakes–is he some kind of bogeyman?'

Audley shrugged. 'I wish I knew. But I know the Russians never gave up looking for that Dakota, so the odds are they'd have been on your father the moment he tried to dispose of his loot. And judging by what they did to Bloch they wouldn't have been gentle.'

She stared down at her feet miserably, and Audley cursed his runaway tongue, so proud of itself. He had set out to cheer her up and he had only reminded her of the real reason for this ridiculous treasure hunt. For a time he had almost forgotten it himself.

It was his turn to put a reassuring hand on her arm now.

'Never mind, Faith love. You don't have to meet the bogeyman on Tuesday. And you should get on splendidly with Maclean.'

She turned to him in surprise. 'Panin's coming here–to England?'

'You don't have to meet him.'

'Don't have to? I want to! The only way to deal with nightmares is to get them out into daylight–and I don't believe he can really be so awful, not if he thinks the treasure's worth his precious time.'

She was an innocent really, as so many of her kind were innocents.

Always trying to transpose their safe, cosy world with that other, very different one: brave old Uncle Joe, puffing his pipe; cuddly dummy4

Mr Kruschev, dandling his grandchildren on his knee; mild, worried-looking Mr Kosygin, playing the dove to Brezhnev's hawk. But he had to accept her jibe–it would only frighten her to point out that the worst nightmares were those which refused to dissolve in the morning sun.

'Besides, if he's such a big wheel it would be an experience to meet him. I've never met anyone really important!'

Audley felt another surge of affection for her: she was quite a girl.

And it could do no harm, provided she held her tongue. It might even be an advantage, for equally Nikolai Andrievitch Panin would probably never have met anyone like her. She might put him off his stroke, if only just a little.

'Very well, then, Faith. You shall meet him. But I still think you'll find Maclean more congenial.'

'Just because he's honest? I don't even see why you're interested in him. Tierney said he had no part in anything.'

'That doesn't mean he was blind or deaf. He was still one of the crew, and because he wasn't interested in making his fortune that way, your father just might have been more talkative with him.

Besides, he was with him for one whole day between the trips–he went to London with him and Wojek on the Thursday. That was the day your book on Troy was bought, I've no doubt.'

'How on earth do you know so much about what they did?'

'It's all in the original investigation file. Our people were trying to find out what your father had done that made his plane so interesting to the Russians. They didn't find out, of course, but they dummy4

managed a pretty detailed breakdown of his movements. And some shrewd character assessments, too.'

Butler had originally described the file as an assembly of non-information. And so it was, to the extent that it had failed to provide any conclusive answers. But like an old but painstaking geological survey it contained a wealth of information which became useful in the light of further knowledge.

'And as for Maclean being up your street–does Wadham Hill Comprehensive School mean anything to you?'

Faith raised her eyebrows. 'Wadham Hill? Isn't that the one that got the spectacular Oxbridge results?'

Audley nodded. 'I thought it might ring a bell with you. There was an article on it in one of the colour supplements, and it made the popular press too. One in the eye for the grammar schools. And all thanks to James W. Maclean–or "Big Jim" as he's known to his pupils. The papers liked that fine!'

'And that's our Maclean?'

'The same. Headmaster of Wadham Hill and sometime Flying Officer of 3112 Squadron. If we're nice to him perhaps he'll offer you a job sometime.'

'To Steerforth's daughter? I should doubt that–unless he's got a special remedial class for budding criminal scientists! I think I'll be plain Miss Jones to him.'

'You'll never be plain Miss Jones. But never mind–it's his memories we're after, not his professional approval. Always supposing he's available; it occurs to me that it may be his half-dummy4

term too.'

XI

But James Maclean was available. He received them readily and courteously in the immaculate study of his home which overlooked the equally immaculate glass and concrete campus of Wadham Hill. It had been his boast, Audley remembered now, that as a headmaster he was ready to meet anybody at any time–the colour supplement had made much of that.

But the 'Big Jim' nickname was puzzling. Clearly it didn't stem from size, either literally or by schoolboy mversion; Maclean was a neat, compact, average-looking man. Or perhaps it was a case of inversion, with the rough-hewn name contrasting with the man's intellectual precision–a compliment to the personality lurking beneath the neutral surface. There must certainly have been a measure of respect between him and Steerforth for him to have stood aloof from the hijacking without arousing ill-will.

Maclean came round his desk to meet them. 'Dr Audley–Miss Jones–your card says "Ministry of Defence", and I must admit that I'm curious to learn what your Ministry wants with me on a Sunday. I thought at first it might concern the Combined Cadet Force, but neither of you has the Cadet look!'

Maclean smiled as his eyes came to rest on Faith, but when she failed to return the smile the twinkle of good humour was replaced dummy4

by a more speculative look.

'It's good of you to spare us the time, headmaster,' said Audley, reaching into his pocket for his identification. Maclean studied the little folder carefully, nodded and returned it without comment.

'We're hoping you may be able to help us with information about something which happened rather a long time ago. It concerns Flight Lieutenant John Steerforth–you were his navigator during the war.'

Maclean stared at Audley steadily, with a slight crease of surprise wrinkling his forehead.

'John Steerforth!' he said, repeating the name and savouring it as though it had a special taste. 'It's a very long time since I've heard that name. But I remember him, of course. As you say, I was his navigator. What do you want to know about him? He's been dead twenty years or more–he was killed just after the war. We had engine failure flying back from Berlin. We baled out, but Steerforth stayed with the plane until too late–that was the presumption, anyway.'

'You remember him well?'

'Do I remember him well? I knew him very well once, certainly.

John Steerforth! It wasn't John, actually–it was always Johnnie–

Johnnie Steerforth! As a matter of fact I've been reminded of him off and on down the years a number of times.'

'How was that?'

'By boys who were like him. Not the same–no one's the same. But the same type, the Steerforth type. And oddly enough I don't mean dummy4

the Johnnie Steerforth type, either; I mean the original "J.

Steerforth"–David Copperfield's Steerforth. It's a curious coincidence. The Steerforths of this world can be useful in the right settings and dangerous in the wrong ones. Good in war, because they enjoy taking risks. The trouble starts when there aren't any risks to be taken.'