Game Without Rules, page 13
“It depends what I have to do,” said Mr. Calder cautiously.
“The Headmaster took a grave risk in acting as he did. He must have felt that Craven represented a very real danger. And yet, curiously, Craven didn’t know it. If he had suspected anything, he would have reported at once.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Calder.
“What you will have to do is to trace Craven’s movements, his professional and social contacts, and try to discover why he should have become so dangerous without realising it. Would a month be enough?”
Mr. Calder said, “I ought to know by the end of a month, if there is any chance of success. . .”
The first person he called on was Truscott. Craven’s head clerk Truscott, and his sister Mrs. Gordon, were the only two people who knew that John Craven was more than a very successful barrister; and of the two, Truscott had been deeper in his confidence.
Mr. Calder sat in the barrister’s neat room in Crown Office Row, overlooking the lawn of Middle Temple Gardens. It was a room walled with books. There were other books, marked with slips of paper, on a side table; a pile of briefs which would now have to be returned; a book diary with professional appointments; a flat desk diary with private engagements; and a locked cabinet of personal papers.
“He was a very methodical man,” said Truscott.
“I hope it will make our job a bit easier,” said Mr. Calder. He had explained to Truscott what he planned to do. “We’ll start by listing everyone he saw privately in the last six months. The names will be in his private engagement book.”
“I think this will help us, too,” said Truscott. He produced, from the cabinet, a folder marked personal. “He kept all private letters here, and carbons of his replies. If he answered them by hand, he often made a spare copy.”
“We’ll use one as a check on the other. As a further cross-check, would you get your telephonist to give us a note of any numbers he called. If she doesn’t keep a record, the post office could at least give us the toll calls.”
“She keeps a record,” said Truscott. “I’m not sure if it goes back six months, but I’ll find out.”
There followed a fortnight of work as hard and demanding as any that Mr. Calder could remember. He sat at John Craven’s desk from nine o’clock in the morning until seven o’clock at night. He was introduced to the other members of the chambers as Craven’s literary executor; Craven had been a considerable contributor to all sorts of journals, on legal and non-legal topics, and had published two books of essay and reminiscence. Many of the friends whom Mr. Calder so patiently checked came from Fleet Street and New Fetter Lane.
The professional contacts caused little trouble. With Truscott’s assistance he was able, in the first two days, to identify and put on one side the various solicitors who consulted Craven professionally.
This left a clutter of personal friends, relations, literary contacts, people he had met in the course of his political work, tradesmen, club acquaintances, and odd members of the public who will write to anyone whose name is known and who is foolish enough to have his address in the telephone book. A Christmas card list, with notes on some of the recipients, proved invaluable.
After a week of such work Mr. Calder felt so limp that he thought that he might be in for a bout of flu. But he was not dissatisfied with his results.
“There are three people,” he said, “that I’d like to concentrate on. Any one of them could have access to secret information. And all three are new acquaintances.”
Truscott looked over his shoulder at the names he had jotted down.
“Sir George Gould,” he said. “He’s something in the Treasury, I believe. Mr. Craven met him over his work with the Inns of Court Conservative Association. They were both concerned in the drafting of a new Rating Bill. General Hamish Fairside. He works in the War Office.”
“Military Intelligence,” said Mr. Calder.
“Freddie Lake. The name is familiar, but I don’t think I ever met him.”
“You’re lucky,” said Mr. Calder. “I have.”
In the course of a long career, Sir Frederick Lake had held every conceivable post in the Foreign Service, had visited every known country in the world and had developed into the most compulsive bore of his generation.
“I’d better start with General Fairside,” said Mr. Calder. “I have a nodding acquaintance with him. Let’s have a look at Who’s Who.”
“Clubs. United Services, Naval and Military, and the Hambone.”
He turned the pages until he came to Gould. George Anstruther, educated Winchester and New College, Oxford. His clubs were the United University Club – and the Hambone.
“This is too true to be good,” said Mr. Calder. With fumbling fingers he turned to the letter L.
Sir Frederick Lake belonged to no fewer than six clubs. The Hambone was fourth on the list.
Mr. Calder sat turning this odd coincidence over in his mind. A further thought struck him.
“Did Mr. Craven belong to any clubs?”
“He was a member of the Travellers, sir.”
“No other ones?”
“Fairly recently, I remember, he was talking about joining the Hambone. But you know what these clubs are like, sir. There was some opposition, somewhere, so of course he withdrew his candidature.”
“I wonder,” said Mr. Calder. “I wonder.”
The Hambone Club in Carver Street is the offspring of that eccentric aristocrat, Sir Rawnsley Clayton. Having been turned out of the Athenaeum for giving dinner there to a troupe of clowns, he had founded it as a place where he could meet his more bohemian acquaintances. It was still much used by actors and writers, but had acquired a solid addition of politicians who found the Carlton too stuffy and of soldiers who found the Senior too exclusive.
It was to the Hambone Club that Mr. Calder was now making his way. Three weeks had passed since the death of John Craven. Mr. Calder had not hurried. The quarry he was hunting, if it existed at all, would await his coming.
He was conscious, as he walked through the misty lamp-lit streets, of a feeling close to guilt. He was breaking one of the oldest rules of the game. For so slight, so intangible, so elusive had been the clue upon which he had stumbled that he had not yet dared to record his suspicions. Possibly “suspicions” was too concrete a word altogether. It was a breath, a whisper, the first faint stirring of apprehension.
Yet when General Fairside, their acquaintanceship skilfully renewed, had invited him to dinner at the Hambone, and had mentioned casually that George Gould might be joining them for a drink afterward, he had paused to consider matters very carefully. In the end, he had slipped into the special pocket of his coat an automatic pistol. It had – like its owner – a short stout body; and it was equipped with a most efficient silencer. The moment he had put it into his pocket, he had felt the extravagance of the action. But he had allowed it to remain.
Mr. Calder found his host warming himself in front of a hospitable fire of logs.
“Nice of you to come out on a night like this,” he boomed. “What are you drinking? Nonsense. Must have something before we start eating. Take away the taste of the food.”
Over an excellent dinner they talked about the Service charity in which Mr. Calder was interested, and which was the ostensible reason for their meeting; and about old friends, in the Army and out of it. The general had been a subaltern in a rifle regiment, which had shared a particularly unpleasant section of the line with Mr. Calder’s regiment in 1918.
“Sensible of you not to stay on in the Army,” said the general. “No future in it.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Mr. Calder.
“Oh, it suited someone like me. I meant for a brainy chap like you. By the way, what did you go in for?”
“Import and export,” said Mr. Calder promptly. “What excellent Burgundy this is.”
“I’m glad you like it. They know how to buy wine in this club. And how to look after it. Barlow! My guest likes the Corton.”
Barlow, who was the doyen of the Hambone staff, smiled politely.
“I am glad you enjoyed it, sir,” he said. “I had half a bottle with my own dinner.”
He sailed off down the room to attend to a black-haired man who had just come in.
“That’s Sir George Gould, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Calder.
“That’s him. Doesn’t look like a senior treasury official, does he?”
“To be absolutely candid, I think he looks like a retired boxer.”
“Not bad. Not bad at all. I fought him myself, in the first interregimental tournament after the war. He was in the Sixtieth. A dirty fighter. We’ll lure him along with a glass of brandy after dinner.”
No lure was needed. Sir George came over as if drawn by a magnet, was introduced to Mr. Calder and was given a large brandy. Mr. Calder settled himself in one of the large leather armchairs which make the coffee room of the Hambone one of the best sitting-out places in London. Sir George, he reflected, would be a very difficult man to fool. His had been a lifetime of committees and desk work; a lifetime of watching the wheels go round; and occasionally of making them turn.
He was in an unbuttoned mood now, telling stories of undersecretaries and their ways; of experiences at the bar of the House of Commons; of the foibles of his own master. Another brandy, thought Mr. Calder, and he might become thunderingly indiscreet. Or would he? There was an inner wall of cold reserve in those grey eyes which were turned upon Mr. Calder from time to time.
It was quite late, when the general said, “Hullo, Freddie, come and join us,” and Mr. Calder looked up and saw the tall, spare figure of Sir Frederick Lake bearing down on them.
A sense of completion seized Mr. Calder. It was the feeling which assails a scientist when, at the end of a long and difficult series of calculations full of imponderables and unknown quantities, he feels the shifting ground hardening under his feet at last. It was a sense of satisfaction, but mingled with alarm.
He had known that Sir Frederick would come. His arrival had been part of a ritual. How often, he wondered, had these three men met together in this way, in this place, at this hour of night?
Mr. Calder shifted in his seat, and felt the weight of the silenced automatic pressing against his stomach.
“I think we could all do with another drink,” said Sir Frederick. “What would you like? Port or brandy? George? General? And you, sir?”
“It’s too late for formal introductions,” said the general. “But this is Mr. Calder. He’s an old friend of mine. And he knew John Craven very well indeed.”
The diplomat bowed very slightly toward Mr. Calder and said, “A sad business. All the same, when it happens, it’s not a bad way out, is it?”
Mr. Calder felt three pairs of eyes upon him, and his lips were dry.
He said, “I suppose not, no.”
“In the open air,” said the general. “On a Sunday afternoon walk. Quite suddenly. I’d settle for that myself, eh?”
“If I am destined to die quite suddenly,” said Sir George, “I think I should like it to be when I was in the box of the House of Commons at question time. Imagine the look on the Minister’s face—”
The three men laughed.
Sir Frederick, still standing, said, “May I have your orders, gentlemen?”
Sir George and the general said, “Brandy,” in perfect unison.
Mr. Calder said, “At this time of night, I’m very fond of a half pint of bitter.”
“An excellent choice,” said Sir Frederick, and rang the bell. “In certain circumstances, the grain and the grape go very well together. I can only suggest one amendment. You should have a pint, not a half pint.”
“I will fall in with your suggestion,” said Mr. Calder.
The benign figure of Barlow appeared out of the gloom. Sir Frederick gave the order.
“I sometimes wonder,” said the general, “if Barlow ever goes to bed. If you want a drink at any time between ten o’clock and four in the morning, he always brings it himself.”
“He sends the younger waiters home,” said Sir George, “and sits, in solitary splendour, in a great padded chair in a sort of pantry next to the kitchen. On one occasion, when the electric bell was out of order, I penetrated to his lair.”
“I picture him,” said the General, “as leading a Regency life, going to bed at six in the morning and getting up at lunchtime—”
This speculation was cut short by the reappearance of Barlow. He was bearing, on a silver salver, three glasses of brandy and a half pint tankard of beer.
“Barlow,” said Sir Frederick, “that’s the first time in twenty years I have known you make a mistake. I said a pint.”
Even in the gloom Mr. Calder could see the man flush. He said hastily, “That’s quite all right. Don’t think of changing it. It’ll do me very nicely.”
In truth, he had only one idea now – to get the three men out of the club. Patience, patience and still more patience. Mr. Calder, who had played many waiting games in his life, had rarely been tried higher than he was that night.
But all things must have an end, even Sir Frederick Lake’s anecdotes. Two o’clock was striking as Mr. Calder followed his three hosts down the steps of the Hambone Club, past the empty porter’s hutch, through the great doors and out into the street.
There were three cars there. Mr. Calder said, “I won’t trouble any of you for a lift. My flat is only ten minutes away, and I’d welcome the walk. And thank you, General, once more, for a most enjoyable evening.”
As soon as he had turned the corner he paused, drew into a doorway and waited. He could hear the three voices; a laugh, a shouted good night; the slamming of car doors; three separate cars starting and driving away. Then silence returned.
While they had been sitting in the club, the mist had thickened. Since he had to move, and more quickly now, mist might be a useful ally.
He turned about and walked back the way he had come. The porter’s hutch was still empty. One of Barlow’s self-imposed duties would be locking up when the last member had taken himself home to bed.
The lights in the inner hall had been reduced to one reading lamp. From the walls the pictures of actors and actresses looked down from their heavy gold frames. Their incurious eyes followed Mr. Calder as he tiptoed across the floor.
A melodrama, thought Mr. Calder. In three acts. Act one, a deserted farmstead. Act two, a barrister’s chambers. Act three, a London club.
He pulled on a pair of cotton gloves before opening the baize-covered door. His rubber-soled shoes hissed softly on the flagstones.
The club kitchen lay at the end of the passage. The door was open, and from a room leading off it a light showed. Mr. Calder drifted across, breath held, silent as thistledown. He pushed the door open with his gun.
Barlow was not sitting in the great padded chair which the general had described. He was standing beside it, working at the leather upholstery.
“Good evening, Headmaster,” said Mr. Calder.
“I recognised you when you came here this evening.”
The voice was harsh. The tones of the well-bred club servant had disappeared with the deferential smile. The face was grinning. But it was the grin of a death mask. “I should have taken steps at once. First Craven, then you.”
“I suppose it’s no use me telling you that Craven suspected nothing. That you killed him to no purpose.”
“I could not afford to take a chance.”
Mr. Calder said, “I imagine there is some sort of concealed microphone in the coffee room, behind where the eminent gossips sit over their brandies? And a listening apparatus in this room?”
“You imagine correctly. The microphone and receiver are removable. Only the wiring is permanent.”
“And the receiver is somewhere in that chair?”
“It was. I have removed it. In ten minutes, I should have had the whole apparatus dismantled.”
“It is interesting to reflect,” said Mr. Calder, “that had Sir Frederick Lake indulged in one more reminiscence, you would have got away with all this.”
“I should like to know how you found out.”
“Oh, it was a stupid thing,” said Mr. Calder. “You brought me the half pint of beer which you overheard me asking for, instead of the pint which Sir Frederick actually told you to bring. An incredible mistake for an experienced club servant.”
“Ah!” said the man.
He raised his hand, without haste, to his mouth. The stench of cyanide filled the room. As Mr. Calder watched, the body arched, clung for a moment with hands braced to the chair back, then emptied itself into a black pool on the floor.
Before he left, Mr. Calder removed the microphone and the headset. The wiring he left. It would attract no notice. London clubs are full of aged and inexplicable wiring.
He was in bed by three, and asleep ten minutes later; His influenza seemed to be better.
HEILIGE NACHT
Squadron-Leader Leopold, late of the RAF, but now attached to the Foreign Office, took the early-morning flight from London Airport to Frankfurt on December 24th. This Christmas Eve flight had been totally booked for several weeks, and Leopold had to use his priority rating to get a passage. Technically this meant that he occupied the spare seat kept for such emergencies, the prerequisite of the off-duty air hostess. In fact, he spent most of his time on the flight deck talking to the pilot, an old friend of his.
Leopold was carrying his operational passport, which was made out in the name of James Bellingham and described him as an insurance broker. His complete luggage was a flight bag into which he had thrust a few overnight necessities when he had received the emergency call at eleven o’clock the night before.
At Frankfurt he transferred himself and his bag into the small two-seater craft which was waiting for him and which landed him, in a heavy shower of sleet, at an old Army airfield seven miles outside Bonn at eleven-thirty. Here he was met by Captain Massey, military attaché at the embassy. Massey hurried Squadron-Leader Leopold straight out to the car, which he was driving himself, and started off with him down the little-used secondary road which joins the airfield to the city.
