Authors: Daniel Silva

The Unlikely Spy (29 page)

BOOK: The Unlikely Spy

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It was possible the killings were the work of one of their enemies. Their operation had thrived during the war and they had branched out into new territory. But it didn't look like any gang murder he had ever seen. Robert suspected it had something to do with the woman: Catherine, or whatever her name really was. He had made an anonymous call to the police--they would have to get involved at some point--but he wouldn't rely on them to find his brother's killer. He would do it himself.

Dicky parked along the river and entered the hospital through a service door. He came out again five minutes later and walked back to the van.

Pope asked, "Was he there?"

"Yeah. He thinks he can get it for us."

"How long?"

"Twenty minutes."

Half an hour later a thin man with a pinched face dressed in an orderly's uniform emerged from the back of the hospital and trotted over to the van.

Dicky wound down the window.

"I got it, Mr. Pope," he said. "A girl in the front office gave it to me. She said it was against the rules but I sweet-talked her. Promised her a fiver. Hope you don't mind."

Dicky held out his hand and the orderly gave him a slip of paper. Dicky passed it across to Pope.

"Good work, Sammy," Pope said, looking at it. "Give him his money, Dicky."

The orderly took the money, a disappointed look on his face.

Dicky said, "What's wrong, Sammy? Ten bob, just like I promised."

"What about the fiver for the girl?"

"Consider that your overhead," Pope said.

"But, Mr. Pope--"

"Sammy, you don't want to fuck with me just now."

Dicky dropped the van into gear and sped away, tires squealing.

"Where's the address?" Dicky asked.

"Islington. Move it!"

Mrs. Eunice Wright of Number 23 Norton Lane, Islington, was very much like her house: tall, narrow, midfifties, all Victorian sturdiness and Victorian manners. She did not know--nor would she ever know, even when the entire disagreeable episode was over--that the house had been used as a false address by an agent of German military intelligence called Catherine Blake.

For two weeks Eunice Wright had been waiting for a repairman to come look at her cracked boiler. Before the war the tenants in her well-kept boardinghouse were mostly young men, who were always willing to help when something went wrong with the pipes or the stove. Now all the young men were away in the army. Her own son, never far from her thoughts, was somewhere in North Africa. She took no pleasure in her present tenants--two old men who talked a great deal about the last war, two rather daft country girls who had fled their dreary East Midlands village for factory jobs in London. When Leonard was alive he saw to all the repairs, but Leonard had been dead for ten years.

She stood in the window of the drawing room, sipping tea. The house was quiet. The men were upstairs playing draughts. She had insisted they play without slapping the pieces so as not to wake the girls, who had just come off a night shift. Bored, she switched on the wireless and listened to the news bulletin on the BBC.

The van, when it drew to a halt in front of her house, struck her as odd. It bore no markings--no company name painted on the side--and the two men in front didn't look like any repairmen she had ever seen. The one behind the wheel was tall and thick, with close-cropped hair and a neck so enormous it looked as though his head were simply attached to his shoulders. The other one was smaller, dark-haired, and looked mad at the world. Their clothing was odd too. Instead of workman's overalls they wore suits, quite expensive suits by the look of them.

They opened the doors and got out. Eunice took note of the fact they carried no tools. Perhaps they wanted to survey the damage to her boiler before dragging all the tools inside. Just being thorough, making sure they bring only those tools that are necessary for the job. She studied them more carefully as they moved toward her front door. They looked reasonably healthy. Why weren't they in the army? She noticed the way they glanced over their shoulders into the street as they came closer, as though they were trying to make their approach unobserved. Suddenly, she wished Leonard were here.

There was nothing polite about the knock. She imagined policemen knocked that way when they thought a criminal was on the other side. Another knock, so forceful it rattled the glass of the drawing room window.

Upstairs, the game of draughts went quiet.

She went to the door. She told herself there was no reason to be afraid; they just lacked the good manners common to most English handymen. It was the war. The experienced repairmen were in the service, working on bombers or frigates. The bad ones--like the pair outside--were holding down jobs at home.

Slowly she opened the door. She wanted to ask them to be as quiet as possible so they would not wake the girls. She never got the words out. The large one--the one with no neck--shoved back the door with his forearm, then clamped his hand over her mouth. Eunice tried to scream but it seemed to die quietly in the back of her throat, making almost no audible sound.

The smaller one put his face to her ear and spoke with a serenity that only frightened her more.

"Just give us what we want, luv, and no one gets hurt," he said.

Then he pushed past her and started up the stairs.

Detective-Sergeant Meadows considered himself a minor authority on the Pope gang. He knew how they made their money--legally and illegally--and he could recognize most of the gang members by name and face. So when he heard the description of the two men who just ransacked a boardinghouse in Islington he wrapped up his business at the murder scene and headed there to see things for himself. The first description matched Richard "Dicky" Dobbs, the Popes' main muscle boy and enforcer. The other matched Robert Pope himself.

Meadows, as was his habit, paced the drawing room while Eunice Wright, sitting bolt upright in a chair, patiently recounted the story again, even though she had told it twice already. Her cup of tea had given way to a small glass of sherry. Her face bore the handprint of her assailant, and she had received a bump on the head when shoved to the floor. Otherwise, she was not seriously injured.

"And they didn't tell you who or what they were looking for?" Meadows asked, ceasing his pacing only long enough to ask the question.

"No."

"Did they call each other by name?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"Did you happen to see the plate number on the van?"

"No, but I did give a description to one of the other officers."

"It's a very common model, Mrs. Wright. I'm afraid the description alone won't be of much value to us. I'll have one of the men check with the neighbors."

"I'm sorry," she said, rubbing the back of her head.

"Are you all right?"

"He gave me a nasty bump on the head, the ruffian!"

"Perhaps you should see a doctor. I'll have one of the officers give you a lift when we're finished here."

"Thank you. That's very kind of you."

Meadows picked up his raincoat and put it on. "Did they say anything else that you can remember?"

"Well, they did say one other thing." Eunice Wright hesitated a moment, and her face colored. "The language is a little on the rough side, I'm afraid."

"I assure you I won't be offended."

"The smaller one said, 'When I find that' "--she paused, lowering her voice, embarrassed to say the words--" 'when I find that
fucking bitch
I'm going to kill her myself.' "

Meadows frowned. "You're certain of that?"

"Oh, yes. When you don't often hear language like that, it's hard to forget."

"I'll say." He handed her his card. "If you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to call. Good morning, Mrs. Wright."

"Good morning, Detective-Sergeant."

Meadows put on his hat and saw himself to the door. So they were looking for a woman. Maybe it wasn't the Popes after all. Maybe it was just two blokes looking for a girl. Maybe the similar descriptions were just coincidence. Meadows didn't believe in coincidence. He would drive back to the Popes' warehouse and see if anyone had spotted a woman hanging around there lately.

LONDON

Catherine Blake assumed that Allied officers who knew the most important secret of the war had been made aware of the threat posed by spies. Why else would Commander Peter Jordan handcuff his briefcase to his wrist for a short walk across Grosvenor Square? She also assumed that officers had been warned about approaches by women. Earlier in the war she had seen a poster outside a club frequented by British officers. It showed a luscious, big-breasted blonde in a low-cut evening gown, waiting for an officer to light her cigarette for her. Across the bottom of the poster were the words KEEP IT MUM, SHE'S NOT SO DUMB. Catherine thought it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. If there were women like that--tarts who hung around clubs or parties listening for gossip and secrets--she did not know about them. She
did
suspect that such indoctrination would make Peter Jordan distrustful of a beautiful woman suddenly vying for his attention. He was also a successful, intelligent, and attractive man. He would be very discriminating in the women he chose to spend time with. The scene at the Savoy the other night was evidence of that. He had become angry with his friend Shepherd Ramsey for setting him up with a young, stupid girl. Catherine would have to make her approach very carefully.

Which explained why she was standing on a corner near the Vandyke Club with a bag of groceries in her arms.

It was shortly before six o'clock. London was shrouded in the blackout. The evening traffic gave off just enough light for her to see the doorway of the club. A few minutes later a man of medium height and build emerged. It was Peter Jordan. He paused for a moment to button his overcoat. If he kept to his evening routine he would walk the short distance to his house. If he broke his routine by flagging down a taxi, Catherine would be out of luck. She would be forced to come back again tomorrow night with her bag of groceries.

Jordan turned up the collar of his overcoat and started walking her way. Catherine Blake waited for a moment and then stepped directly in front of him.

When they collided there was the sound of paper splitting and tins of food tumbling to the pavement.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. Please, let me help you up."

"No, it's my fault. I'm afraid I've misplaced my blackout torch and I've been wandering around out here lost. I feel like such a fool."

"No, it's my fault. I was trying to prove to myself that I could find my way home in the dark. Here, I have a torch. Let me turn it on."

"Do you mind turning the beam toward the pavement? I believe my rations are rolling toward Hyde Park."

"Here, take my hand."

"Thank you. By the way, you can stop shining the light in my face any time now."

"I'm sorry, you're just--"

"Just what?"

"Never mind. I don't think that sack of flour survived."

"That's all right."

"Here, let me help you pick these things up."

"I can manage. Thank you."

"No, I insist. And let me replace the flour for you. I have plenty of food at my house. My problem is I don't know what to do with it."

"Doesn't the navy feed you?"

"How did--"

"I'm afraid the uniform and the accent gave you away. Besides, only an American officer would be silly enough to intentionally walk the streets of London without using a torch. I've lived here all my life, and I still can't find my way round in the blackout."

"Please, let me replace the things you've lost."

"That's a very kind offer but it's not necessary. It was a pleasure bumping into you."

"Yes--yes, it was."

"Can you kindly point me in the direction of Brompton Road?"

"It's that way."

"Thank you very much."

She turned and started to walk away.

"Hold on a minute. I have another suggestion."

She stopped walking and turned around.

"And what might that be?"

"I wonder if you might have a drink with me sometime."

She hesitated, then said, "I'm not sure I want to drink with a frightful American who insists on walking the streets of London without a torch. But I suppose you look harmless enough. So the answer is yes."

She walked away again.

"Wait, come back. I don't even know your name."

"It's Catherine," she called. "Catherine Blake."

"I need your telephone number," Jordan said helplessly.

BOOK: The Unlikely Spy

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