Trouble on the Thames (4 page)

“We'll talk about it later,” she whispered.

Chapter III

With that silent efficiency that characterised all his actions Watkins deposited a couple of silver dishes upon the sideboard and then cast a final glance round the neat and perfectly appointed breakfast table. As he did so Owen turned back from the open window.

“Another grand morning,” he remarked. “More like July than September.”

“Very remarkable weather indeed, sir,” agreed Watkins. “A trifle belated, if one might use the expression, but none the less agreeable for that.”

“I understand you've been having a lousy summer in England.”

“Precisely, sir. It is the exact adjective which I should have selected myself.”

There was a sound of whistling accompanied by approaching steps, and a second later Joe Anstey marched briskly into the room. In his hand was a small sheaf of opened letters which had evidently arrived by the early post.

“Hello! Beaten me by a head.” He tossed his correspondence on to the table and surveyed his guest with an inquiring grin. “What sort of a night did you have? Manage to sleep all right?”

“Not too bad, considering the time we turned in and the amount of whisky you made me drink.”

“Feel you can face some breakfast? Let's see what there is.” Moving over to the sideboard, Joe lifted up the two covers. “Devilled kidneys and fried eggs and bacon. How about a spot of both? Go splendidly together.”

Without waiting for an answer he ladled out a couple of generous helpings, and carrying them across to the table, planted himself down alongside of Owen who had already taken his seat. Watkins, having apparently decided that everything was in order, faded away to his own quarters, closing the door behind him. From outside, four storeys below, the faint hum of the early-morning traffic along Park Lane drifted up in a monotonous rumble.

“Bound to happen just as you blew along.” With a disgusted shrug Joe pushed across a cup of coffee. “I've had an S O S from Halsey screaming for my presence at the Works. He's heard from the Ministry about this new scheme of theirs, and he thinks we ought to go into a huddle straight away. Says that if I can manage it he'd like me to run up there to-night.”

“Well, you must go, naturally. How long do you imagine you'll be away?”

“Lord knows. Maybe a couple of nights, maybe a week.” Joe stabbed viciously at a morsel of bacon and transferred it to his mouth. “Won't interfere with your arrangements, though. You'll stay on, of course?”

“How about Watkins?”

“He'll be delighted. As I told you before, you're the one friend I've got with whom he condescends to be a shade human.”

“Makes one feel quite conceited.” Owen laughed. “Still, if that's really the case, I think I'll accept your offer. Don't suppose I'd get as good a breakfast anywhere else.”

“Splendid. That's all settled, then. If you find it too hot in Town you can always slide down to Playford and have a day on the river. I'll give you a chit to Martin before I go.”

“Thanks very much.”

“By the way, there's a cover to one of those punts, so if you happen to feel like taking along some grub and camping for the night you've only to mention it to Watkins. He'll fix you up with a hamper.”

“Sounds gorgeous.” Owen nodded gratefully. “Nothing I'd enjoy more, provided I can get away. Depends upon whether Greystoke has anything to suggest.”

“When's your appointment?”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Hope something comes of it. All I can say is that if they don't find you a decent berth they must be a pack of blithering nitwits.”

“Can I mention that as being the opinion of an exceptionally acute observer?”

“Certainly. I'll put it in writing if you like.” Joe chuckled and glanced across at the clock. “Curse it all, I shall have to be pushing along in a minute or two. I must catch the five-twenty, and there's sure to be a Hell of a lot to do at the office.” He spread some butter on to a piece of toast and daubed it lavishly with marmalade. “You'll make yourself at home, won't you? Ask Watkins for anything you want, and give me a ring about ten o'clock to-night. I'd like to hear what's happened. The number's Rockton two six double one: you'll find it written down on the pad beside the phone.”

“Don't suppose there'll be any news. Doesn't seem the least likely to me.”

“I'm not so sure. I've a sort of feeling that you're going to strike lucky. What would you do if he offered you a job at the Admiralty?”

Owen reached out for the toast-rack. “I'd probably kiss him,” he replied cheerfully.

***

Though only a stone's throw from Victoria Street, Queen Anne's Gate still retains a good deal of its mellow eighteenth-century charm. Notwithstanding the fact that most of its houses have been altered for the use of government departments, Time and the Office of Works have not yet succeeded in wholly eradicating that gracious atmosphere of a bygone London, towards the final destruction of which their relentless energies are apparently directed. Even to-day the spectacle of a sedan chair in that sedate backwater would seem far more in harmony with the general background than the haughty and contemptuous swish past of the customary Rolls-Royce.

Unlike the majority of its neighbours, number 17A had no official door-plate decorating its discreet but pleasant-looking exterior. It was a narrow, three-storey house with long, old-fashioned windows. The only modern thing about it was an electric bell, and having pressed this, Owen straightened up expectantly and threw away the end of his half-smoked cigarette. For some obscure reason he was conscious of a vague and rather irritating feeling of nervousness.

Almost immediately the door was opened by a middle-aged manservant who had the air and appearance of a retired sergeant of marines. His hard blue eyes submitted the visitor to a swift but searching inspection.

“I wish to see Captain Greystoke.” Owen produced a visiting-card. “I have an appointment with him for eleven-thirty.”

“Yes, sir. The Captain is expecting you. If you will come with me I will take you up to him at once.”

Crossing a circular-shaped hall, they ascended a steep flight of stairs. On arriving at the first landing, the man halted outside a room on the right. In response to his tap somebody rapped out a curt “Come in,” and the next instant Owen found himself being ushered into a high-ceilinged, oak-panelled apartment, the bow windows of which looked out over St. James's Park. Its only occupant, who was seated at a table in the centre, pushed aside some papers and rose to his feet.

“Lieutenant-Commander Bradwell, sir.”

Captain Greystoke, a short, stockily-built man with a determined mouth and a pair of remarkably shrewd eyes, stepped forward and held out his hand.

“Ah, Bradwell, glad to make your acquaintance.” He imprisoned Owen's fingers in a sudden crushing grip, and then, releasing them abruptly, glanced across at his henchman. “I don't want to be disturbed for the next quarter of an hour, Barnes. If anyone rings up put them through to Mr. Everett.”

“Very good, sir.”

The door closed quietly, and moving back to the table, Captain Greystoke picked up a box of cigars.

“Try one of these, unless you prefer a cigarette. If you do, you'll find some in that box over there.”

“Thank you, sir.” Owen helped himself to an imposing-looking Cabana, and feeling a trifle surprised at the unexpected friendliness of his reception, sat down in the chair towards which his host had made an inviting gesture. Captain Greystoke resumed his former seat, and for a moment the two of them faced each other in silence.

“I expect you have been wondering why I invited you to look me up.” The speaker smiled pleasantly. “The fact is I had a letter from your skipper, my old friend Carmichael. He told me about this unfortunate business of your suddenly going colour-blind. I understand that it happened on your way home from China.”

“That's so, sir. Came on without the slightest warning.”

“He mentioned that you had been before a Medical Board at Plymouth, and that they were sending you up to Town to consult a specialist.”

Owen nodded.

“Have you seen him?”

“I had an appointment yesterday, sir. He examined me thoroughly, and then—well, then he what you might call passed sentence. He told me that my chances of recovery were about one in a thousand.”

“Bad as that!” Greystoke leaned back in his chair. “I am sorry—very sorry. Afraid it must have been rather an unpleasant dose to swallow.”

“I was more or less prepared for it. I could see what I was up against by the M.O.'s manner at Plymouth.”

“Still, I don't imagine it would ease the blow to any great extent.”

“Not that you'd notice, sir.” Owen smiled crookedly. “When one's whole career is suddenly knocked edgeways—”

“Mustn't talk like that, Bradwell.” The elder man shook his head. “I'm not trying to minimise the disaster: it's a heartrending thing to happen to anyone, especially to a fellow of your age. I realise exactly what it means to you; but as far as its putting an end to your career is concerned—well, that's absolute nonsense. You don't imagine that in the present state of affairs we are going to allow a man with your record to slip through our fingers?”

A tinge of colour mounted into Owen's tanned cheeks.

“You think they could still find some use for me, sir?”

“Plenty of uses. When the balloon goes up—as it very soon will—every experienced officer will be absolutely invaluable. In a sense, Bradwell, you're lucky. If this had occurred five or six years ago you wouldn't have stood a chance. They would merely have opened the door politely and bowed you out. As it is, you can make your mind quite easy. Strictly between ourselves, I have already brought your case to the notice of the Second Lord, and I can guarantee that in a very short while you will find yourself posted to a job ashore in which the trouble with your eyesight won't handicap you in the slightest. I know it isn't the same thing as having a commission afloat, but whatever the work is it will be just as essential to the Service, and, if it's any consolation, you will probably stand just as good a chance of being blown to smithereens. There will be no ‘cushy billets' this time—the Luftwaffe will look after that for us.”

“It's very kind of you, sir, and I am extremely grateful.” Owen paused. “I don't know why you should have troubled yourself—”

“As I mentioned before, I have been in communication with Carmichael.” Greystoke tipped off the end of his cigar. “He seems to have rather a high opinion of you, Bradwell. I won't tell you what he actually said or it might make you conceited.”

Owen smiled uncomfortably. “That's—that's Captain Carmichael's way, sir. He is always ready to do a good turn to anyone who has served under him.”

“I doubt it. I am inclined to give him credit for being a trifle more selective than you appear to imagine. Anyhow, his judgment is good enough for me, and I have reason to assume that it carries a certain amount of weight at the Admiralty. Otherwise. I should not have been empowered to make a certain suggestion which may or may not appeal to you.”

Owen's face lit up hopefully. “I should be very interested to know what it is, sir.”

“When you were out in China did you happen to hear anything about a man called Medlicot—Lieutenant A. G. Medlicot? He must have been a year or two junior to you.”

“I saw that he had died, sir. There was a notice in one of the papers just before we sailed for home.”

“Yes, he died rather suddenly. In fact—this is absolutely private and mustn't go any farther—he took his own life by shooting himself through the head.”

Owen raised his eyebrows. “What on earth made him do that, sir?”

“I imagine that it was partly remorse and partly because he considered it to be the best way out. If he hadn't committed suicide he would have been arrested and tried for treason.”

“Treason!”

“I am afraid that is the only word one can use.” The speaker paused. “It was a bad business in every way. Medlicot was a bit of a genius in his own line, and for nearly a year before he died he had been conducting experimental work on some new gadget in connection with submarines. There is no need to enter into further details at the moment. All that matters is that the invention panned out very satisfactorily, and we were just congratulating ourselves that we were one up on the Boche when we learned through an agent that a complete copy of the plans had been sent over to Berlin, and that our Nazi friends were already hard at work on them. As you can well believe, this was something of a facer.”

Owen moistened his lips. “You mean that Medlicot had sold them?”

“There was no other conceivable explanation. Only four people had the necessary knowledge, and three of them were men whom it would be quite ridiculous to suspect. Besides”—Greystoke gave the faintest possible shrug—“we have a written confession which settles the matter beyond question. He must have posted it just before he shot himself.”

“It seems unbelievable.” Owen sat for an instant staring silently at his companion. “I ran across Medlicot once at Harwich, and he struck me as being a thoroughly decent fellow. What made him do such a damnable thing?”

“Ah! Now we are coming to the point. You know your way about the West End, Bradwell. I don't want you to think that I have been delving impertinently into your private affairs, but I am informed that you are one of those fortunate mortals who are not entirely dependent on their pay, and that when you have a spot of leave you generally put in a day or two in Town. Is that correct?”

Owen nodded. “My father left me quite comfortably off, sir, and I have a good many friends in London. I like to look them up every now and then.”

“Quite so. Ever heard of a man named Mark Craig?”