'Why did you expect me, or somebody like me?'
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'I didn't. But you didn't surprise me. I'll never forget all those questions at the time. They left a mark on me when I'd been softened up. When I baled out of that Dak I was sure I was going to get killed–I can remember quite clearly thinking how unfair it was to be killed after the war was over. I've always associated Steerforth with trouble ever since, and when he turned up again I was just waiting for it.'
'You said you hardly knew him. But I'd have to know someone pretty well to call him a tricky bastard.'
Jones opened the car door. 'Let's get some air,' he said. 'It's easier to be frank in the open.'
Audley followed him over the springy turf on the hillside until he stopped by a wire fence. Audley experienced the familiar downland sensation which both excited and frightened him.
Down below him the neat patchwork of fields, the squat churches and neat houses with smoking chimneys–that was the rich, fat, peaceful land of England. Up here on the Downs was a different ambience, more ancient and hostile. The downlands could be creepy on a hot, still day. And in the evenings there always seemed to be things moving outside the circle of a man's vision.
All right then, he thought, as Jones carefully took a pipe from his pocket, tapped it on a fence post, and sucked it thoughtfully, let us see how frank we can be.
'Let's start then from your theory that he wasn't dead. Why wasn't he dead?'
'It was too damn convenient, for one thing. The customs men dummy4
coming down on the squadron, like that, and Steerforth conveniently missing.'
'He'd been smuggling?'
'Christ, man–don't let's play games. You know he'd been smuggling. Half the squadron was up to some little game or other.
It was an open secret. The only rule was not to overdo things, but Steerforth wasn't the man for rules.
'What I thought afterwards was that he'd made his killing, just one step ahead of your chaps. And now he'd planned a neat way of getting out, with no one looking for him. It was nicely calculated–
the squadron got its scapegoat, unofficially of course. And no one bothered to dig very deep. Officially he was just another dead hero.'
'Who left his wife and family just like that?'
'Maybe I've done him an injustice. It seems now that I probably did. But I know he didn't give a damn for his wife and family. You can take that for a fact, whatever the old girl says. He'd had babies and nappies right up to the neck–believe me, I know.'
Jones frowned. 'And that business about baling out–I thought a lot about that, and it never quite made sense. He really was a good pilot, you know. I saw the plane he brought back from the Arnhem drop, and if he could fly that he could fly anything. There were any god's amount of airfields he could have put down on in eastern England when we came back from Berlin that last time. But no–as soon as we made a landfall–out we had to go.'
'His second pilot explained all that at the inquiry.'
'His second pilot? What was his name?
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'Tierney.'
'Tierney?' Jones thought for a moment. 'Tierney. A ferrety-looking chap, with a little moustache? He was Steerforth's shadow. If Steerforth was up to something, he'd have been part of it.'
'But you baled out.'
Jones gestured impatiently. 'When the captain says bale out no one argues the toss. And I'm telling you what I thought later, not what I thought at the time. I can remember a bit now–it started to rain like hell. A thunderstorm. Tierney and the wireless operator yelled for me to jump. The Dak was lurching around as if it had been hit. I was bloody scared. I thought I was going to die.'
'I see. He disappeared too conveniently and you needn't have baled out at all. But if you thought this later on why didn't you say so?'
'I only started to think it when everyone began asking us questions.
It wasn't just the inquiry–that was routine. It was later on.
'First there were two chaps who said they were Poles. They wanted to know where the plane had gone, if it had been found and so forth. And then they wanted to know what it was carrying–they said that friends had got some of their stuff out of Poland and Steerforth had agreed to carry it out. At a price, of course.'
'And what did you tell them?'
'There wasn't anything to tell. There were some boxes in the cargo bay, but I thought they were down in the drink with the Dakota–
that was common knowledge. They seemed pretty upset by it all, as though it was my fault, so I told them to shove off.
'Afterwards it dawned on me that they must have thought I was one dummy4
of his crew. Which meant I'd probably have been in on the deal.
And that made me think. The way they hung around our pub, that made me think, too. So when I went down there again I took a Pole who was in the squadron with me–Jan somebody–with me—'
'—Wojek. Jan Wojek.'
That's right. How did you–but, of course, you'd have him in your records like me!' Jones shook his head resignedly. 'All these years, and we're all still in your files, Jan and I. And Tierney and Steerforth, and all the others . . . Once filed, never forgotten.
Though I suppose you've got it all taped in computers now. It's frightening.'
'You took Wojek down with you to the pub.'
'All right. We went down to the pub, and I told Jan to tell these two to bugger off–which he did in no uncertain manner.'
He paused, and then slipped his fist into his palm.
'By God, I remember it now! Because I was surprised at Jan getting so angry with them. He came back to me breathing fire.
'He said they were no more Poles than he was a Scotsman. Bloody Russians, he said they were–and Jan hated Russians as much as Germans. He reckoned his elder brother was at that place–Katyn?–
where they killed all those Polish officers. We hadn't heard about it officially, but there was a grapevine among the Polish aircrew.'
So that was how it had all started, thought Audley. The first report had come from Wojek simply because he hated Russians on principle. It had happened before, often. National hatreds were poor sources of useful infomation, but excellent watchdogs.
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But Jones was almost enjoying his memories now, warming to the task.
'Then there was another foreigner. A little chap, not at all like the other two–one of them was very sharp. In fact I can remember him–
the Russian–quite well now. I only saw him properly twice, maybe three times in the pub. But he was one of those people you can't really forget: he had a broken nose–it gave him a sheep-like look from a distance. Not from close up, though.'
Audley's stomach muscles tightened. Jones had described Nikolai Andrievich Panin with remarkable accuracy.
'Have you got him in your files too?'
Audley started guiltily. Jones was too quick by half. And I, thought Audley, am not very good at this job.
'Of course. But we'll talk about him again some other time. Tell me about the little foreigner.'
'He was nothing. A Frenchman, I think. And scared out of his wits.
I never even gave him a chance to explain what he wanted. He just muttered something about Steerforth's cargo and I told him to go to hell. I can't remember anything more about him–except that I think he was quite relieved to clear off.'
That fitted too. The Belgian had been an ex-policeman with a dubious wartime record. He had readily admitted that he had been hired, and paid, anonymously to trace Steerforth's plane. There had been no mention of any missing property. But he had soon sensed something bigger and possibly more dangerous, and he had wanted no part of it, he said.
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A little man, but a big complication, thought Audley. He gave an extra dimension to the Steerforth mystery, which admitted only one explanation. But it was an explanation as yet without any facts to support it.
'Then there were your people,' said Jones. 'But you'll know all about that, I've no doubt.'