But then I remembered something that Peter Venables of the Foreign Office had told me more than a year ago. Marburg’s position as a power in the shadow cabinet had been checked badly when the Government at last swung round to a policy of rearmament. He had strongly opposed it. He had always been a great advocate of close Anglo-German relations and had favoured a secret alliance against the Soviets. He had demanded censorship of the press to prevent the growing virulence of the attacks on Germany. He had not openly favoured Hitler. But he had argued strongly that it was to England’s advantage to see Germany all-powerful in Eastern Europe. He had emphasised that a strong Germany was our best safeguard against Bolshevism. But apparently other influences had been at work, especially heavy industry, and his position had been seriously impaired.
Supposing that he had then realised that power — supreme power — was not to be obtained by any one man under a democratic system? He was a dynamic personality, I had been told. I had never talked to him myself. But I had seen him, and I could still remember that powerful, rather stocky figure, with the heavy face and sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes. I had heard him speak at a Guildhall banquet once. His deep baying voice had had fire and eloquence. Above all, he believed in himself — believed in his destiny, perhaps.
Suppose that, having realised the futility of our own democratic system as a ladder to power — even by the back stairs of the shadow cabinet — he had received an offer of supreme power from Germany. Suppose Baron Ferdinand Marburg was Britain’s Führer-designate. That would explain everything. I remembered how much to the fore he had been over that Czech gold business, and then earlier there had been much talk of big reconstruction loans by the banking house of Marburg. Unlike some other big international merchant banking houses, the Berlin and Paris houses of Marburg were directly controlled from London. I remembered Schmidt’s phrases about a cancer at the heart of England, and what I had then thought to be melodramatic now seemed to be an understatement. I saw that heavy face with the square, powerful jaw and the high forehead, and those sleepy eyes hooded like a hawk. And I knew that that face spelt doom to Britain — that the influence of that one man, if unchecked, was more serious than the loss of several major battles at the front.
And then suddenly the pain in my head returned, and my brain, which had been working with remarkable clarity for a short time, became dulled again. I don’t know whether I slept or fell unconscious. At any rate, I knew nothing until I dreamed that my tin box and I were being pitched into the Thames and woke in a cold sweat to find the box being tilted backwards and the scratch of keys against the locks. The next instant my eyes were blinded by a glare of light as the lid swung back.
My bonds were undone and I was released from the clamps that held me secure in the box. I was laid on the cold stone floor and my limbs were so stiff that I could not move them. Then began the agony of returning circulation. I think I cried out with the pain. And when I was not half-screaming with agony I was unconscious.
But the pain gradually lessened and, although the light still hurt my eyes, I was able to take stock of my surroundings. I was sprawled on the floor of what looked like a cellar, it had a vaulted stone roof, black with cobwebs and dirt, and from it, suspended by its flex, hung a naked electric bulb. The walls, too, were of stone — great square blocks that reminded me of London Wall. And at intervals round the walls hung rusty chains. I could almost imagine that I was in one of the dungeons of the Tower. The place was empty save for the tin box, which stood upright against one wall like an instrument of torture on show. The lid had been pulled back like the door of a small safe, and inside I could see the clamps and straps which had held me in position. It was only then that the relief of being out of it flooded through me. And with that relief came an overwhelming and ghastly fear of being imprisoned in it again. The box seemed to fascinate me, for it was not until a voice said, ‘I trust you were not too uncomfortable,’ that I turned my gaze upon the two men who had released me and who were now standing by the half-open door.
One was Sedel and the other was the man with the scar on the back of his hand. It was Sedel who had spoken, and there was something feline about the way he watched me. His lips were swollen and black against the white of his face. Two of his front teeth were missing. But I felt no satisfaction at the damage I had done him. He had me at his mercy and I knew he would repay me a hundredfold for that blow.
He seemed to read my thoughts, for his cracked lips spread into a smile. ‘That blow of yours was unfortunate, Mr Kilmartin,’ he said. ‘I think you will find that I repay — with a high rate of interest.’ He came forward, and in his hand he held a sheet of paper. ‘Will you kindly sign this statement?’
He placed it in my hand. As in a dream I read it through. It was to Crisham, accusing a well-known steel magnate of over-quoting for gun-turrets. It gave details of conversations with works foremen and of estimates obtained from other firms. With weak, shaking fingers I tore the document up, and looked defiantly at Sedel.
But he only smiled. ‘Yes, I had been expecting that. I have had a number of other copies typed.’ And he pulled another from his pocket. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘are you going to sign?’
‘Of course not,’ I said. But deep within me a horrible fear was growing.
He turned to the other fellow. ‘Hans,’ he said, ‘come and help me get this fool back into his box.’
I tried to struggle, but I was as weak as a kitten. In a few minutes I was once again clamped into position inside the box. The door closed and suddenly I was in darkness again. I heard the keys scraping in the locks. I struggled, but I was held as firmly as in any nightmare. And then suddenly I lost control of myself. Panic seized me. I heard myself sobbing. They had not gagged me this time. And then I was screaming, screaming with uncontrollable fear.
And through my senseless cries I heard Sedel say, ‘Well, are you going to sign or shall we leave you for the night?’
For the night! At that I stopped screaming. It would be hours and hours. They might never come. They might lose the key or forget about me. ‘Don’t leave me,’ I sobbed.
‘Will you sign?’
‘Yes, I’ll sign,’ I cried. ‘I’ll do anything, only let me out of this.’
I heard the scrape of the keys again and, as the lid was pulled open, my panic subsided, leaving me weak and disgusted with myself. I signed the document, using the top of the box as a writing-table. I knew it was useless to resist. I could not face that box again. When I had finished, Sedel took the paper and laughed. His hand stretched out and gripped my hair, tilting my head backwards so that I was staring up into his face. ‘So, you weren’t going to sign, eh?’ he said, and his eyes gleamed. Then he flung me away from him so that I fell sprawling across the floor. ‘Tonight you are free,’ he said. ‘Free to lie here and think about tomorrow. For tomorrow you will go back to your kennel again.’
I saw that he meant it. But I had control of myself again now. I rose painfully to my feet. Then I played my last card, hoping against hope that it would prove an ace. He had his back to me and was moving towards the door. ‘Perhaps you would take me to Baron Marburg,’ I said.
I had the satisfaction of seeing him swing round on me. His eyes searched mine. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you know all our little secrets.’ There was a sneer in the way he said this. ‘You are cleverer than I thought, Mr Kilmartin. May I ask why you wish to see the Baron?’
‘I have a proposition to make to him.’