Above Suspicion (2 page)

“It’s all very much easier than it sounds. He identifies you by the position of the table and the red rose and the upset glass of Cointreau, reaches your table at the time you expect him, hears the name of the place you’ve chosen along with the right sentence, and gives you a clue to the time for a meeting on the next day. Have you got all that, Richard?”

“Yes. But before we go any farther, why choose us? I mean,
we shall be such amateurs for that job: we’ll probably mess it all up. There must be something fairly involved at stake, and it seems to me as if you needed someone with quick wits. I don’t know if mine have been sharpened well enough—in that way. As for Fran…” Richard shrugged his shoulders.

Frances only looked amused. “Darling, I love you,” she said. “Do go on, Peter.”

Peter took her advice.

“When you get the message it will probably be in some code. And that’s another reason why I want Richard to tackle this job. I can rely on him to get a meaning out of that message. His brain has had just the right training and discipline for that sort of work. Well, the message will direct you to another agent and he will direct you farther still, and you will find yourself passed on from agent to agent until you reach the chief of them. He’s the last one on the line, and he’s the chap we are worried about. That is the information we need.”

He paused, and watched Richard pour some sherry into his glass. Again Frances had the feeling that he was once more weighing his words very carefully before he spoke. His trouble was to tell them enough in the right order, without telling them too much.

“I think you’ll find the rest of this travelogue more interesting. We are now reaching the whys and the wherefores,” Peter allowed himself the suspicion of a smile. “You’ve heard of what is called the underground railway in Germany, haven’t you? It’s a version of the old Scarlet Pimpernel technique. It helps anti-Nazis to escape, and covers up their tracks. One of the brains behind it is the chief of this group of agents. On the side, of course, he collects information which has been very useful
indeed. Until about five weeks ago we had the normal reports from him—accurate and regular. But since then we have had no really informative messages. Two of them, in fact, were dangerously misleading. Fortunately, we had other sources of information about these facts which made us suspicious, and we didn’t act on his advice. These suspicions were increased when two men, escaping from Germany by his route, disappeared completely. They have simply vanished into thin air.”

Frances put aside her glass, and leaned forward, cupping her face in her hands. Richard held a cigarette unlighted. The eyes of both were fixed on Peter.

“What we want to know is this—before the harvests are gathered in, to put it quite bluntly—does the man still exist, or has he been sending us false messages to warn us that things aren’t just right, or has he been liquidated? So your job is to follow the route directed by various agents, always keeping in mind that you are just the simple traveller, until you find him. The one clue I do know is that he will be an Englishman, the only Englishman in that chain of agents. I can’t help with his name or appearance because he has too many of both. In any case, the less you know, the easier it will be for you to play your role, and the better it will be for all of us. He probably won’t seem at all English when you meet him, but if you give him the correct high-signs, which the previous agent will pass on to you, you will find out that he’s an Englishman all right.”

“But why all this agent-to-agent business?” Richard asked. “Why doesn’t the Paris man direct us to him straight away?”

“The plan is his: he invented it to suit his own particular work. And it has been very successful. It’s been foolproof for a longer time than most systems. It’s simple enough. The Paris
agent is the only stationary one, and that’s the reason why he takes so many precautions, just to safeguard himself. The others move about as their chief directs. It is just as well to keep moving, for they often work in Nazi-dominated territory. Each agent only knows the name and address of the man following him, and any information they collect can be posted along the chain of agents until it reaches the chief. Anyone who wants to get in touch with him must begin at the Paris end, and no one can begin at Paris unless he knows how to make the difficult contact with the agent there. There are only two sources which can direct anyone to manage that contact. We are one of them; the other is just as careful as we are. So you see there is some method in his madness.”

“And what about the information which he sends to you? He must have another line?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, and it’s a much more direct way, naturally. I knew you’d cotton on, Richard. Anything else which strikes you?”

Richard hesitated, and then, as Peter waited for an answer, he said, “The system is obviously pretty safe, except for one drawback. If the chief man himself is caught, then all information travelling out to him will get into the wrong hands. His agents might even be picked off by one if he were—persuaded into any confession.
Not
to mention the fate of the poor devils who thought they were escaping from Germany.”

“Exactly. That’s why the job has got to be done.”

“Your man must have been pretty sure of himself to think up that system, I must say.”

Peter said, “I suppose it looks that way, but you’ve got to take risks in his profession. It has been very much worth our
while to take a chance on him. And, strangely enough, it is just this kind of system which gets the best results. Until now he has always been agile enough not to be caught; he has been doing this kind of thing, you know, since we were being pushed round the park in our prams. You may depend on one thing, Richard: he won’t talk. Anyway, you see how vital it is to know whether he is still functioning, before the volcano in Europe blows sky-high. We’ve got to be sure of him before then.”

“Yes, I can quite see that,” Richard said gloomily. “But I still think you need a professional man on the job.” It was a good sign, anyway, thought Peter, that Richard was still arguing about it. He was clearly not very much in love with the idea, but he was still at the stage of objections rather than that of a downright refusal. Peter wondered if he should tell them anything more. He thought wearily, “I’m devoted to both of them, but can’t they see, in God’s name, that I was counting on them to accept, or I wouldn’t have let them in on all this?” Yet people changed, and being a don at Oxford might very well make you too contented, too unwilling to act against your own security. Richard was waiting for his answer.

“We sent one,” Peter said briefly. “We should have heard from him by this time. When we didn’t I suggested to my Chief that we should try an amateur; that line served me well enough in Bucharest. A couple of innocents abroad might be able to get through all suspicion. The thing to remember is that you are
not
agents; don’t let yourself get mixed up in any sideline snooping. All we want to know is whether an Englishman is there or not. If the trail gets too hot, then just pull out of it, using your own good sense. If there’s any questioning, then stick to your story. You are just two
holidaymakers having your annual trip abroad. There is one other point: your job will be finished when either you find the man or you’ve reached the sixth agent without finding him. He never worked with more in a line. You will have a margin of safety all through, because the contacting clues will be vague enough to let you have an out and your amateur status will be an additional help. That really is your strongest safeguard.”

Richard said nothing, but Galt, watching him closely, was satisfied. It wasn’t a comfortable, peaceful way of life which had held Richard back: it was the fact that Frances would be in this too.

“When you’ve finished, wire to this address in Geneva,” Peter said. He wrote some words quickly on a piece of paper and handed it to Richard, still looking undecided, worried… But Galt knew he had won.

“Better memorise the address and then destroy it,” he advised. “If you find your man, then wire, ‘Arriving Monday’, or ‘Tuesday’, or whatever day you actually saw him. If you don’t find him, wire ‘Cancel reservations’.” He drew a deep breath. “Thank God that’s over,” he said. “Is it all clear, Richard?”

“I’ve got it memorised, if that’s what you mean. But look here, Peter, if you have really decided that I ought to do this job, don’t you think I’d better go alone? I’m not running Frances into any risks.” His tone was grim. Frances looked at him suddenly. So that was what had made him hesitate.

When she spoke her voice was low, but equally determined. “Richard, I am
not
going to be left behind.”

Peter said, “Unfortunately I agree with Frances. Since you’ve been married you’ve never separated on your holidays. It really
would be better if you were just to do what you always do. And you’ll be safer with Frances because you won’t take risks if she is with you.” He looked anxiously at Richard. “I know it’s going to ruin your summer,” he began, and then stopped. He had said enough as it was.

Richard was staring at the red geraniums in the window box.

“It isn’t the ruining of it,” he said slowly. “Everyone’s holidays are ruined this year. But I don’t think we’d really be of any use.”

Peter was picking up his gloves and umbrella and his black hat. He was still watching Richard intently. Something seemed to decide him. He moved over to Frances to say goodbye.

“I would never have asked you if I didn’t think you could pull it off,” he said. “And I would never have asked you if the whole thing wasn’t so urgent, Richard. I’d have done it myself, except that the people we are working against have got me docketed since Bucharest. I’ll be on the files by this time. I thought of someone else, but your qualifications for this job are just what we need. I didn’t enjoy asking you, I may as well say… Time I was leaving now. I see I’ve kept you late for Frame’s party. I met him this morning in front of the Mitre, and he asked me to come along too.” He waved his hat towards the invitation card propped up on the mantelpiece.

“How long,” said Richard, “should this job take?”

“We allowed two weeks to our man, but he knew the ropes. We’d better say about a month. It will be safer if you don’t hurry things. You will have to spend a few days in each place to make it look convincing. Remember, I want you to steer clear of any suspicion or danger… For God’s sake, take care of yourselves.”

His voice was normal again by the time he had reached the door.

“Goodbye, Frances; goodbye, Richard. See you when you get back.”

The door closed softly, and left a silent room.

Frances was the first to move. She pulled out her compact and powdered her nose. She readjusted her hat to the correct angle.

“You’ll do,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “Come on, my love, we are three-quarters of an hour later than I had meant to be late… You’ve got it all memorised?”

Richard nodded. “That’s the least of it. Frances, this is the time to back out. Now.”

Frances rose, and looked at the seams of her stockings. She altered a suspender. “When do we start?” she asked. “As soon as you have finished all your teaching?”

Richard looked at his wife’s pretty legs.

“Blast Peter,” he said, and took her arm as they left the room.

They talked of other things as they went downstairs.

The party in Frame’s rooms had just reached the right temperature when Frances and Richard Myles arrived. They stood for a moment at the doorway rather like two bathers about to plunge off a springboard. Their host, armed with sherry bottles, pushed his way through to meet the latecomers.

“I’m
so
glad,” he breathed. “Sorry about this awful crowd: such a mob.” He turned to welcome some other new arrivals. Actually, thought Frances, he was just delighted that the room was jammed with people talking their heads off. She smiled goodbye to Richard. This wasn’t one of those ghastly affairs where you only knew the host. They wouldn’t have to put on their special act today, when they would meet each other with surprise in the middle of the room, greet each other warmly and start the vivacious conversation of two friends who rarely met. They always found that others, with an ear for preposterous remarks, would drift towards them. As Richard
had said, splendid isolation didn’t mix with sherry.

But tonight Richard had already seen two men he wanted to talk to, and Frances waited in the corner she had chosen for herself as three young men gravitated towards her. They had, in their typical manner, only smiled politely when they caught her eye, and had then, without another glance in her direction, started a quiet but determined progress towards where she stood. She noticed Richard was looking round him in that particularly ingenuous way he had when he was most on guard… But Peter Galt had not arrived yet.

The three young men arrived from their various directions, and began one of the usual adroit conversations which sherry parties inspire. They all avoided talking present-day politics with an understanding as complete as it was tacit. This was perhaps the last conversation they would have together for a long time, and they wanted to keep it gay. They discussed the Picasso exhibition in London, and Guernica, and that led to Catalonian art and Dali. Frances wanted to know if the pineapple Cathedral at Barcelona was still more unfinished. (Michael had been there with the International Brigade. It was a bad show about his arm; Frances had heard that the shrapnel still embedded there might end in amputation.) But Michael steered the conversation to Gaudi and his architectural fantasies. Frances remembered a chapter somewhere by Evelyn Waugh on Gaudi’s telephone kiosks. It was an amusing description and they laughed.

“Eternal Oxford: how delightful it is to return and be so far removed from the rigours of life.” The voice had a very pronounced, almost too careful Oxford accent. The speaker was tall and remarkably good-looking. A duelling scar marked
his chin, another his cheek; they gave his blondness a certain formidable quality. His smile was very self-possessed. “Mrs. Myles, as lovely as ever.” He bowed very low over Frances’ hand.