‘So you agree to my identity?’ I said, as I shook his hand.
He gave me a quick glance. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Anyone who was trying to impersonate you wouldn’t be fool enough to come along in that fantastic rigout. Have a whisky? And now let’s hear your story.’
So I let him have it as briefly as possible. When I had finished he looked glum. ‘My God!’ he said morosely. ‘What a story! Man, there’s enough there to provide a splash for every day of the week. If we could use it,’ he added dourly.
‘Good God, Jim!’ I said. ‘At least you can have a crack at Calboyds.’
‘Aye, that’s what young Shiel wanted me to do.’
‘Shiel!’ I cried. ‘Why, he’s the fellow I mentioned, who had gone up to have a look at Calboyds.’
‘Aye. Well, he’s come down with a fine tale. If the blighter had given it to me exclusive, I might have done something about it. But he told me he was giving it to every editor he knew in the Street.’
‘Had he got a girl with him?’ I asked eagerly.
‘No.’ He glanced at me. ‘Why, has he got the Schmidt girl in tow?’
‘Evidently not,’ I said, a trifle sharply. ‘Anyway, what’s his story?’
‘There’s trouble brewing up at the Calboyd works. Apparently the board has been unlucky enough to pick executives who think more of their country than they do of their firm. Anyway, under the leadership of this fellow Raikes, who is missing, they went in a deputation to the directors two weeks ago. Apparently one of them has produced an engine that gives a good deal better performance than the much-vaunted Dragon, which is the one chosen by the Air Ministry for mass production. The deputation pointed out that the Dragon was not the best diesel engine the country could produce. It seems that not only is there this engine, which one of their own number has designed, but they recently tested, without the knowledge of the directors, an engine taken from a new type of German bomber, and found it definitely superior to the Dragon. They suggested that the board should offer the Air Ministry a new and superior engine. The suggestion was refused on the grounds that it would all take time and what they were interested in was getting the contract. Since then Raikes has disappeared and the whole of the technical staff is in a ferment.’
‘Will any of this get into print?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, I think so.’ He crossed over to his desk and came back with a telegram. ‘As soon as Shiel had given me his story, I sent one of our men straight off to Oldham. Here’s his initial report.’
He handed me the telegram. It read: INFORMATION OKAY STOP TECHNICAL STAFF MET TODAY THREATEN STRIKE STOP NO NEWS RAIKES STOP FULL STORY FOLLOWING — MELLERS.
‘How many papers will print the story tomorrow morning?’ I asked.
‘Every one that Shiel has been to. It just can’t be hushed up. Most of the others, too, will have something from their Manchester correspondents following the fall in Calboyd shares on Friday.’
‘Fine!’ I said. I was filled with a sudden sense of elation. If pressure were brought to bear by the press, it was just possible that the Government might be forced to act. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You’ll want a follow-up to that story. Why not use some of what I’ve told you?’
‘See here, Andrew,’ Fisher said, ‘there is a limit. Calboyds is one thing, but Marburg is quite another. I haven’t doubted you, which is more than most men would have done. Your story is fantastic enough to be true. But I’m not running my head into a noose. This engine you speak of may be all Schmidt says it is. On the other hand, it may not. You yourself don’t know. You haven’t tested it. I don’t know. And I’m certainly not going to pretend I do.’
‘I quite understand how you feel about Marburg,’ I said. ‘As for the engine, I agree with you — I haven’t the faintest idea what its performance really is. All I know is that Nazi agents find it worth their while to go out after him. And that’s good enough for me.’ I leaned towards him. ‘What’s your splash tomorrow? If the dailies are going to run Calboyds, you’ve got to have some sort of a follow-up, if you’re to sell your paper. I suggest you send a man to Bude. Get a detailed description of the missing Raikes, and I’ve got a hunch that he’ll be able to identify the body that is supposed to be mine. If he can, then there’s your story. Trouble at Calboyds — Raikes, the ringleader, killed — Body mistaken for that of Andrew Kilmartin — Then my story. You can churn the stuff out in relays all through the day.’
‘If this body proves to be Raikes’s,’ he murmured doubtfully.
‘Even if it doesn’t, you’ve still got my story. I was news yesterday.’ I saw his hesitation. ‘Look here, Fisher,’ I said. ‘I brought you this story, because I know you. If you don’t want it, say so. I haven’t too much time to spare. And if you don’t want it, maybe the Globe would take it.’
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute. Who said I didn’t want it? I’m only chewing over it, old boy.’ Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind. He took a notebook from his desk and seated himself in an easy-chair by the fire. ‘All right, let’s have it in detail, roughly as you think it ought to appear. Only don’t go too fast because my shorthand isn’t what it used to be.’
I glanced at my watch. It was past one. ‘Perhaps if I could have a few sandwiches or something,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get over to the Thirlmere service. I’m meeting an old fellow down at Wapping at two-thirty who is going to row me across to the neighbouring wharf.’
Fisher rang the bell by the fireplace. ‘Well, I can help you there,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an invitation card. I wasn’t sending anyone, so there it is, if you want it. You’re about my height. I can rig you out in a suit.’ The door opened and a manservant appeared. ‘Light lunch for two at about one-thirty, Parkes. And put out some clothes of mine suitable for this gentleman to wear as a representative of the press. Now,’ he said, as the manservant closed the door, ‘go ahead.’
CHAPTER NINE
Wilson’s Wren Wharf is on the south side of the river, in Rotherhithe. My taxi set me down in a narrow, dusty street lined with warehouses. On a week-day, I had no doubt, the street would have been full of the movement of wagons and vans as the hand-cranes loaded the contents of the warehouses for transport. But now the cranes were folded back against the blackened brick of the buildings, which ran, uniform in height and appearance, the whole length of the street. In the bright wintry sunshine the place presented an appearance of desolation that the gleaming line of parked cars only served to accentuate.
It was just on three as I walked through the archway beneath one of the warehouses and caught my first glimpse of the Thirlmere, her superstructure and funnels towering over the concrete wharf. Iron-barred gates guarded the entrance to the wharf and here my pass was scrutinised. There were several policemen standing about, but I could see no one who was likely to recognise me. I was passed through in the wake of a party of three, whom I judged by their conversation at the gates to be industrialists. All were dressed in sporting clothes — probably they had spent the morning playing golf. Dressed as I was in an old tweed suit of Fisher’s, this was to my advantage, and, as I crossed the wharf, I closed the distance, so that, as I climbed the gangway to the deck of the Thirlmere, I was close behind them. It was well that I did so. At the head of the gangway two volunteers for Finland stood guard with fixed bayonets. They were dressed in mufti, but wore armlets. As I stepped on to the deck of the ship, my eyes, which I had kept lowered, noticed the hand of the left-hand guard as it held his rifle. Across the knuckles ran a thin white scar. For a second my heart leapt to my throat. I expected to hear the rattle of the rifle being raised and the sound of a challenge. Then I was walking along the deck in the wake of the three industrialists, who were talking audibly of Russia, and I knew that my fears had been groundless. Dressed in brown tweeds with a virulent yellow tie and a green pork-pie hat, it was hardly to be expected that a fellow who had seen me only three times in his life, and always in the sober garb of my profession, should recognise me. Besides, when I had shaved, I had left my upper lip. My beard is of the fast-growing variety, and though I had only been without a shave for just over fifty hours, my moustache was already quite a healthy one. At the same time, I had allowed myself rather long side pieces and had acquired a pair of glasses.