It was with a horrible sinking sensation in my stomach that I mingled with the crowd on the pavement. The purposefulness of those policemen could mean only one thing. The other side had got in first. They had smirched my reputation so successfully that even Crisham, whom I regarded as a friend, believed them. I think, perhaps, if I had been feeling fresh, I should have jumped into a taxi and driven straight to the Yard. I don’t know. It is difficult to tell what one would do in any particular instance had the circumstances been slightly different.
My mood was definitely a defeatist one. I was frightened of the power I was up against. Perhaps I exaggerated that power. At least, I was afraid at that time that I might not be able to convince even Crisham of my sincerity. It was asking a good deal of a policeman to expect him to believe that a man of Marburg’s standing was a Nazi. Policemen have too great a sense of propriety readily to accept accusations of treason against well-known banking figures. They stand for the status quo, and I knew that even if I were not suspect, I should find it well-nigh impossible to convince Crisham of the truth.
It was in a state of complete frustration that I walked towards the Minories. I felt impotent against this power that was able to range the police, as well as its own agents, against me. I was puzzled to know how they managed it. Then I saw the placard. FAMOUS K.C.’S DEATH RIDDLE. I stopped. I knew, instinctively, that here was the answer. I bought a copy of the Record.
There it was in a banner head right across the front page. MYSTERY OF FAMOUS K.C. — ANDREW KILMARTIN KILLED IN CAR SMASH — IMPOSTER RINGS UP YARD. That final head explained Crisham’s attitude and the arrival of the squad car so clearly. I glanced quickly through the story. Apparently the wreckage of a car had been discovered at a lonely part of the coast near Bude called Strangler’s Beach. The car had been hired at Launceston late on Thursday and had been discovered by a shepherd on the Friday at the foot of a four-hundred-foot cliff. The body had been identified that morning as mine.
The subtlety of it was terrifying. As the story pointed out, I had left my rooms in the Temple on Tuesday for a short holiday in the West Country. My normal haunts had not seen me since. And then at the bottom of the page was a cross head — MYSTERY OF YARD PHONE CALLS. Doubtless Sedel, with his knowledge of Fleet Street, had provided that part of the story.
It had all been planned prior to their picking me up at the Wendover. But even now that I had escaped, their plans stood them in good stead. I dared not go to the police, for by the time I had proved my identity, the engine might have left the country. And even if I went straight to Crisham or to the Chief Commissioner, whom I knew slightly, and showed them, by my knowledge of what had passed at certain private conversations I had had with them, that I was not an imposter, would they believe what I had to say about Marburg, or even what I could tell them about Calboyds? They might believe my story of the sewers, but for the rest, they would shake their heads and say that the experience had upset me and that what I needed was a rest. That statement I had signed the previous night had done its work. The suggestion of mental derangement had been sown. And that seed would still be there, even when Crisham knew that it was not an imposter who had phoned him. Whatever I did, I faced a blank wall, because of the time factor. According to Sedel, the engine was due to leave in three days’ time now. That meant Monday. Two days in which first to prove my identity and then to prove that one of the biggest banking figures in the country was a Nazi.
The impossibility of it swept over me, and suddenly I knew how deadly tired I was. I peered back across the cobbled roadway. The police car was still there and behind it loomed the grey, imposing bulk of the Tower. Presumably they were making inquiries. I turned at right angles and hurried down Royal Mint Street. Exhaustion made that hunted sensation strong in me, and almost in a daze I made my way back, through the squalid streets that skirt the docks, to Alf’s Dining Rooms. I had no plan. All I knew was that I must get some rest. They had thought me a criminal and had helped me. I felt I should be safe with them.
It was half-past six when I dragged myself wearily into the eating-house. It was almost dark. One or two customers were seated at the tables, eating. They glanced up at my entrance, but without curiosity. I saw them in a kind of haze. I was suddenly very near collapse. The girl, with her hair tidied and a clean apron, was serving. I went through into the kitchen. Neither the old man nor his wife showed any sign of surprise at my return. And when I asked if they had a room to spare, where I could rest the night, the old woman took me upstairs to a little room with an iron bedstead and a lace-trimmed window that looked out across a huddle of chimney pots to the river. She placed a board of three-ply over the window before switching on the light.
I don’t remember taking off my clothes or removing the board from the window. All I remember is the momentary joy of the cold sheets against my tired body and the restfulness of a bed.
And then daylight was flooding in through the window and there was the sound of movement in the house. I climbed out of bed. The events of the previous day seemed like a nightmare. But the stiffness of my joints bore witness to their reality. And then I saw the sun was high over the river and I looked at my watch. It was eleven-thirty. I remembered then how much I had to do.
I washed myself quickly in cold water and hurried into my clothes. Down in the kitchen I found the old woman just beginning the day’s cooking. It was Sunday and the joint was standing floured upon the table. Her husband was sitting by the fire, his feet in a pair of old carpet slippers and a dirty clay pipe in his mouth. He was reading the News of the Globe. He looked up as I came in, peering at me over the top of a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. But he made no comment, so I said, ‘You should have woken me up.’
But the old woman smiled and shook her head. ‘A nice lie in is what yer needed,’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ the old man nodded. ‘A nice lie in. That’s wot I tells the missis.’
The old woman put the joint in the oven and then set about getting my breakfast. And all the time the old man was reading out scraps of news from the paper. I sat by the fire and tried to think out my next move. The events of the past two days seemed strangely remote. But I knew that I had made progress. I had discovered that Max Sedel was a Nazi agent, and that he had a number of agents working under him. I had discovered that he was closely connected with the dummy Calboyd shareholders, who controlled, presumably through the directors nominated by them, the policy of Calboyds. I was reasonably certain that he had murdered one of these shareholders. Above all, I had found out who controlled these dummy shareholders. But had I? I had been so certain about it when in that vault. But now I was not certain. It seemed so utterly fantastic. True, Sedel had not denied it. In fact, he had said, ‘So you know all our little secrets.’ But then he might have been just leading me on. And if I myself were not certain, then how could I expect to convince the authorities. It seemed so absurd that a man like Marburg should be a traitor to the country of his adoption. What had he to gain out of it? I had suggested to myself power. And, as a capitalist, why should the man work for the downfall of England, which was the stronghold of capitalism?
Then my breakfast was brought to me and for a while I forgot my problems in the joys of bacon and eggs. But when I had taken the edge off my appetite, my mind returned to the problem. Now that I was fed, my mind seemed more inclined to deal with realities. I found myself dismissing the problem of Marburg and concentrating on the question of the engine. Marburg could wait. The engine could not. But though I racked my brains till my head ached, I could not see how I was to prevent it from leaving the country. Quite apart from the time I should inevitably waste in convincing some responsible person of my identity, I did not know where the engine was or how they intended to smuggle it out of the country.