Eye Of The Needle Part 9

MOTHER DID NOT STAY the second fortnight. Lucy walked with her down the jetty the next day. It was raining hard, and they both wore mackintoshes. They stood in silence waiting for the boat, watching the rain pit the sea with tiny craters. Mother held Jo in her arms. the second fortnight. Lucy walked with her down the jetty the next day. It was raining hard, and they both wore mackintoshes. They stood in silence waiting for the boat, watching the rain pit the sea with tiny craters. Mother held Jo in her arms.

"Things will change, in time, you know," she said. "Four years is nothing in a marriage."

Lucy said, "I don't know, but there's not much I can do. There's Jo, and the war, and David's condition-how can can I leave?" I leave?"

The boat arrived, and Lucy exchanged her mother for three boxes of groceries and five letters. The water was choppy. Mother sat in the boat's tiny cabin. They waved her around the headland. Lucy felt very lonely.

Jo began to cry. "I don't want Gran to go away!"

"Nor do I," said Lucy.

10.

G.o.dLIMAN AND BLOGGS WALKED SIDE BY SIDE ALONG the pavement of a bomb-damaged London shopping street. They were a mismatched pair: the stooped, birdlike professor, with pebble-lensed spectacles and a pipe, not looking where he was going, taking short, scurrying steps; and the flat-footed youngster, blond and purposeful, in his detective's raincoat and melodramatic hat; a cartoon looking for a caption. the pavement of a bomb-damaged London shopping street. They were a mismatched pair: the stooped, birdlike professor, with pebble-lensed spectacles and a pipe, not looking where he was going, taking short, scurrying steps; and the flat-footed youngster, blond and purposeful, in his detective's raincoat and melodramatic hat; a cartoon looking for a caption.

G.o.dliman was saying, "I think Die Nadel is well-connected."

"Why?"

"The only way he could be so insubordinate with impunity. It's this 'Regards to Willi' line. It must refer to Canaris."

"You think he was pals with Canaris."

"He's pals with somebody-perhaps someone more powerful than Canaris was."

"I have the feeling this is leading somewhere."

"People who are well-connected generally make those connections at school, or university or staff college. Look at that."

They were outside a shop that had a huge empty s.p.a.ce where once there had been a plate-gla.s.s window. A rough sign, hand-painted and nailed to the window-frame, said, "Even more open than usual."

Bloggs laughed, "I saw one outside a bombed police station: 'Be good, we are still open.'"

"It's become a minor art form."

They walked on. Bloggs said, "So, what if Die Nadel did go to school with someone high in the Wehrmacht?"

"People always have their pictures taken at school. Middleton down in the bas.e.m.e.nt at Kensington-that house where MI6 used to be before the war-he's got a collection of thousands of photographs of German officers: school photos, binges in the Mess, pa.s.sing-out parades, shaking hands with Adolf, newspaper pictures-everything."

"I see," Bloggs said. "So if you're right, and Die Nadel had been through Germany's equivalent of Eton and Sandhurst, we've probably got a picture of him."

"Almost certainly. Spies are notoriously camera-shy, but they don't become spies in school. It will be a youthful Die Nadel that we find in Middleton's files."

They skirted a huge crater outside a barber's. The shop was intact, but the traditional red-and-white-striped pole lay in shards on the pavement. The sign in the window said, "We've had a close shave-come and get one yourself."

"How will we recognize him? No one has ever seen him," Bloggs said.

"Yes, they have. At Mrs. Garden's boarding house in High-gate they know him quite well."

THE VICTORIAN HOUSE stood on a hill overlooking London. It was built of red brick, and Bloggs thought it looked angry at the damage Hitler was doing to its city. It was high up, a good place from which to broadcast. Die Nadel would have lived on the top floor. Bloggs wondered what secrets he had transmitted to Hamburg from this place in the dark days of 1940: map references for aircraft factories and steelworks, details of coastal defenses, political gossip, gas masks and Anderson shelters and sandbags, British morale, bomb damage reports, "Well done, boys, you got Christine Bloggs at last-" Shut up. stood on a hill overlooking London. It was built of red brick, and Bloggs thought it looked angry at the damage Hitler was doing to its city. It was high up, a good place from which to broadcast. Die Nadel would have lived on the top floor. Bloggs wondered what secrets he had transmitted to Hamburg from this place in the dark days of 1940: map references for aircraft factories and steelworks, details of coastal defenses, political gossip, gas masks and Anderson shelters and sandbags, British morale, bomb damage reports, "Well done, boys, you got Christine Bloggs at last-" Shut up.

The door was opened by an elderly man in a black jacket and striped trousers.

"Good morning. I'm Inspector Bloggs, from Scotland Yard. I'd like a word with the householder, please."

Bloggs saw fear come to the man's eyes, then a young woman appeared in the doorway behind him and said, "Come in, please."

The tiled hall smelled of wax polish. Bloggs hung his hat and coat on a stand. The old man disappeared into the depths of the house, and the woman led Bloggs into a lounge. It was expensively furnished in a rich, old-fashioned way. There were bottles of whiskey, gin and sherry on a trolley; all the bottles were unopened. The woman sat on a floral arm-chair and crossed her legs.

"Why is the old man frightened of the police?" Bloggs said.

"My father-in-law is a German Jew. He came here in 1935 to escape Hitler, and in 1940 you put him in a concentration camp. His wife killed herself at the prospect. He has just been released from the Isle of Man. He had a letter from the King, apologizing for the inconvenience to which he had been put."

Bloggs said, "We don't have concentration camps."

"We invented them. In South Africa. Didn't you know? We go on about our history, but we forget bits. We're so good at blinding ourselves to unpleasant facts."

"Perhaps it's just as well."

"What?"

"In 1939 we blinded ourselves to the unpleasant fact that we alone couldn't win a war with Germany-and look what happened."

"That's what my father-in-law says. He's not as cynical as I. What can we do to a.s.sist Scotland Yard?"

Bloggs had been enjoying the debate, and now it was with reluctance that he turned his attention to work. "It's about a murder that took place here four years ago."

"So long!"

"Some new evidence may have come to light."

"I know about it, of course. The previous owner was killed by a tenant. My husband bought the house from her executor-she had no heirs."

"I want to trace the other people who were tenants at that time."

"Yes." The woman's hostility had gone now, and her intelligent face showed the effort of recollection. "When we arrived there were three who had been here before the murder: a retired naval officer, a salesman and a young boy from Yorkshire. The boy joined the Army-he still writes to us. The salesman was called up and he died at sea. I know because two of his five wives got in touch with us! And the Commander is still here."

"Still here!" That was a piece of luck. "I'd like to see him, please."

"Surely." She stood up. "He's aged a lot. I'll take you to his room."

They went up the carpeted stairs to the first door. She said, "While you're talking to him, I'll look up the last letter from the boy in the Army." She knocked on the door. It was more than Bloggs's landlady would have done, he thought wryly.

A voice called, "It's open," and Bloggs went in.

The Commander sat in a chair by the window with a blanket over his knees. He wore a blazer, a collar and a tie, and spectacles. His hair was thin, his moustache grey, his skin loose and wrinkled over a face that might once have been strong. The room was the home of a man living on memories-there were paintings of sailing ships, a s.e.xtant and a telescope, and a photograph of himself as a boy aboard HMS Winchester HMS Winchester.

"Look at this," he said without turning around. "Tell me why that chap isn't in the Navy."

Bloggs crossed to the window. A horse-drawn baker's van was at the curb outside the house, the elderly horse dipping into its nosebag while the deliveries were made. That "chap" was a woman with short blonde hair, in trousers. She had a magnificent bust. Bloggs laughed. "It's a woman in trousers," he said.

"Bless my soul, so it is!" The Commander turned around. "Can't tell these days, you know. Women in trousers!"

Bloggs introduced himself. "We've reopened the case of a murder committed here in 1940. I believe you lived here at the same time as the main suspect, one Henry Faber."

"Indeed! What can I do to help?"

"How well do you remember Faber?"

"Perfectly. Tall chap, dark hair, well-spoken, quiet. Rather shabby clothes-if you were the kind who judges by appearances, you might well mistake him. I didn't dislike him-wouldn't have minded getting to know him better, but he didn't want that. I suppose he was about your age."

Bloggs suppressed a smile-he was used to people a.s.suming he must be older simply because he was a detective.

The Commander added, "I'm sure he didn't do it, you know. I know a bit about character-you can't command a ship without learning-and if that man was a s.e.x maniac, I'm Hermann Goering."

Bloggs suddenly connected the blonde in trousers with the mistake about his age, and the conclusion depressed him. He said, "You know, you should always ask to see a policeman's warrant card."

The Commander was slightly taken aback. "All right, then, let's have it."

Bloggs opened his wallet and folded it to display the picture of Christine. "Here."

The Commander studied it for a moment, then said, "A very good likeness."

Bloggs sighed. The old man was very nearly blind.

He stood up. "That's all, for now," he said. "Thank you."

"Any time. Whatever I can do to help. I'm not much value to England these days-you've got to be pretty useless to get invalided out of the Home Guard, you know."

"Good-bye." Bloggs went out.

The woman was in the hall downstairs. She handed Bloggs a letter. "The boy's address is a Forces box number," she said. "Parkin's his name...no doubt you'll be able to find out where he is."

"You knew the Commander would be no use," Bloggs said.

"I guess not. But a visitor makes his day." She opened the door.

On impulse, Bloggs said, "Will you have dinner with me?"

A shadow crossed her face. "My husband is still on the Isle of Man."

"I'm sorry-I thought-"

"It's all right. I'm flattered."

"I wanted to convince you we're not the Gestapo."

"I know you're not. A woman alone just gets bitter."

Bloggs said, "I lost my wife in the bombing."

"Then you know how it makes you hate."

"Yes," said Bloggs. "It makes you hate." He went down the steps. The door closed behind him. It had started to rain....

IT HAD BEEN RAINING then too. Bloggs was late home. He had been going over some new material with G.o.dliman. Now he was hurrying, so that he would have half an hour with Christine before she went out to drive her ambulance. It was dark, and the raid had already started. The things Christine saw at night were so awful she had stopped talking about them. then too. Bloggs was late home. He had been going over some new material with G.o.dliman. Now he was hurrying, so that he would have half an hour with Christine before she went out to drive her ambulance. It was dark, and the raid had already started. The things Christine saw at night were so awful she had stopped talking about them.

Bloggs was proud of her, proud. The people she worked with said she was better than two men-she hurtled through blacked-out London, driving like a veteran, taking corners on two wheels, whistling and cracking jokes as the city turned to flame around her. Fearless, they called her. Bloggs knew better; she was terrified, but she would not let it show. He knew because he saw her eyes in the morning when he got up and she went to bed; when her guard was down and it was over for a few hours; he knew it was not fearlessness but courage, and he was proud.

It was raining harder when he got off the bus. He pulled down his hat and put up his collar. At a tobacconist's he bought cigarettes for Christine-she had started smoking recently like a lot of women. The shopkeeper would let him have only five, because of the storage. He put them in a Woolworth's bakelite cigarette case.

A policeman stopped him and asked for his ident.i.ty card; another two minutes wasted. An ambulance pa.s.sed him, similar to the one Christine drove; a requisitioned fruit truck, painted grey.

He began to get nervous as he approached home. The explosions were sounding closer, and he could hear the aircraft clearly. The East End was in for another bruising tonight; he would sleep in the Morrison shelter. There was a big one, terribly close, and he quickened his step. He would eat his supper in the shelter, too.

He turned into his own street, saw the ambulances and the fire engines, and broke into a run.

The bomb had landed on his side of the street, around the middle. It must be close to his own home. Jesus in heaven, not us, no- There had been a direct hit on the roof, and the house was literally flattened. He raced up to the crowd of people, neighbors and firemen and volunteers. "Is my wife all right? Is she out? Is she in there? Is she in there?"

A fireman looked at him. "n.o.body's come out of there, mate."

Rescuers were picking over the rubble. Suddenly one of them shouted, "Over here!" Then he said, "Jesus, it's Fearless Bloggs!"

Frederick dashed to where the man stood. Christine was underneath a huge chunk of brickwork. Her face was visible; the eyes were closed.

The rescuer called, "Lifting gear, boys, sharp's the word."

Christine moaned and stirred.