In an instant I had leapt across the huddle of machinery and was staring down at an empty after deck.
David was nowhere to be seen. I had no illusions as to what had happened. I remembered the volunteer who had been hovering on the starboard side of the fo’c’sle. Doubtless he had been waiting his chance.
Then I became conscious of shouts from the neighbouring dock, and I could have laughed. The agent had bided his time and when David had actually been knocked out, there had been no one on the after deck and the man had doubtless thought, with some reason, that anyone overlooking the ship from the other side of the Thames would not notice the blow even if they did see a man collapse. But he had forgotten Alf Higgins sitting quietly with his missis on the Percivale Banana Wharf. The old man had advanced to the barrier dividing the two docks and was calling for the police and yelling at the top of his voice that a man had been assaulted on the after deck.
Not desiring to be picked out as a possible witness, I turned and climbed down to the well deck, where I mingled with the crowd, which was now lining the starboard bulwarks and peering down at the wharf. A few minutes later Alf Higgins was brought on board by two policemen. The captain was summoned and he went aft to make inquiries. In a minute he was back again to say that it was quite correct, one of the cameramen had fainted. ‘He is in the fo’c’sle,’ he told the police. ‘The ship’s doctor, he is attending to him.’
This, however, did not content Alf Higgins, who swore that he had seen the man struck by one of the crew. Whereupon, one of the policemen, a sergeant, went aft to investigate. A few minutes later he returned to announce that he had seen the gent and that he was suffering from a slight stroke. When the old man insisted that he had seen the fellow assaulted, the policemen gently took him by the arms and marched him down the gangway, the sergeant suggesting that he had been on the booze.
‘It was Shiel, wasn’t it?’ said a voice at my elbow.
I started, and turned to find the journalist, MacPherson, just behind me. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘How did you know?’
‘He used to do a certain amount of photographic work for the Globe,’ was the reply. Then the fellow added, ‘Seems funny that he should have a stroke. I shouldn’t have thought Shiel was the sort of man to suffer from strokes.’
‘He isn’t,’ I said. ‘He was knocked out by one of these volunteers.’
‘But what the hell for?’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘If I told you, I don’t think you’d believe me.’
‘You could try me,’ he suggested with a grin.
‘I will, on one condition,’ I said.
‘What’s that?’
‘That you go straight from here to Sir Geoffrey Carr of the Home Office. David Shiel is his godson. Explain what has happened and tell him that David is a prisoner on board the Thirlmere. Only if you’re to do any good you must run Carr to earth within three hours — that is before the ship sails. Will you do that?’
‘Yes, I’ll do that. Now what’s the story that I won’t believe if told?’
I hesitated, wondering how he would take it. I had no desire to make him incredulous. If he found Carr before the Thirlmere sailed it was just possible that the ship might be delayed whilst the police searched it. ‘This ship isn’t going to Finland,’ I said. ‘As soon as it is in Norwegian territorial waters and no longer has a British naval escort watching over it, the volunteers will take control and the ship will alter course for Germany.’
MacPherson was staring at me. ‘But why?’ he demanded.
‘Because the volunteers are all Nazis. Because that fellow Sedel is a Nazi. Because Marburg himself is a Nazi. But above all, because inside that torpedo boat is not a Calboyd Dragon engine, but an engine made of a new alloy which is being spirited out of this country to Germany.’
‘It’s fantastic,’ he said.
I laughed. I must have sounded a trifle bitter. ‘I told you you wouldn’t believe me,’ I said.
He looked straight at me for a moment, his eyes meeting and holding mine. Suddenly he said, ‘On the contrary I do believe you. The whole thing is much too fantastic not to be true. Can I have any more details?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said, suddenly remembering that the Globe was the Record’s great rival. ‘You see, I’ve been working on the matter for Fisher of the Record. I think I’ve said enough. I’ll give you a tip, though. The Record will be running this tomorrow. I’ve told you what I have because my desire for Government action to prevent this ship reaching Germany comes before my desire to get a scoop for the Record.’
‘Okay, pal. Thanks for the tip. And I’ll see that Carr hears about David Shiel.’
I watched him disappear down the gangway with a feeling that at least I was maintaining the initiative. That pleased me, for in other respects the outlook was grim enough. The crowd was beginning to drift away now that there was nothing of interest to hold them. I hesitated. If I remained on board much longer I should become conspicuous. On the other hand, once I passed out through the gates of the wharf, I should never get back to the Thirlmere unless it was with a squad of police and a search warrant. And there was David unconscious in the poop and Freya somewhere else on board. I could not just walk off the ship and leave them to their fate. It wasn’t as though I could do anything, either in Whitehall or at the Yard. I had to leave that to Fisher and Keif in any case.
It did not take me long to make up my mind. I must maintain the initiative and I decided to tackle Marburg. Looking back on it, I cannot imagine what I expected to achieve. I had not prepared my brief. I was going to face him and leave it to the inspiration of the moment to decide what I was going to say. With this intention, I climbed the iron deck ladder to the fo’c’sle. I then crossed to the port side, which seemed the easiest approach to the bridge. In doing so I passed the trapdoor leading to the hold. It was open, a small square hole in the deck plates, with barely room for a man to squeeze through. A rifle stood against the superstructure of the bridge. Presumably one of the volunteers guarding this entrance to the hold had found it necessary to go down. I hesitated, peering down it. All I could see was the top of an iron ladder. The rest was blackness.
I glanced quickly about me. No one appeared to be overlooking the fo’c’sle. Quickly I dropped to the deck and lowered my feet into the opening. A second later they found the rungs of the ladder and I had disappeared below the level of the deck. I paused for a moment, to discover whether my movements had been noticed. But there was no outcry, and I began to clamber quietly down. Somewhere below, no doubt, was the guard. As I clambered down dirty rung after dirty rung, I kept on peering below, expecting to see the light of a torch. But all was dark, and the smell of stale oil was very strong.