Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens (11 page)

“Calder was in the crowd. He confirms what we’d suspected. It was a put-up job. Aimed at the American management.”

“Motive?”

“Anti-Americanism is the easiest platform for any rabble-rouser today.”

“The easiest,
and
the most dangerous,” said the Home Secretary. “An open split between ourselves and the Americans would benefit the Russians enormously. And the Chinese still more. Who were behind this show? Do we know?”

“It was paid for, if not actually run, by the action committee of the Peaceful People. The main body is respectable, above board, and full of public figures. It holds meetings, writes to the papers, and collects funds, which it hands over to its action committee, without much idea, I would suspect, of how the funds are going to be used.”

“The tail wagging the dog, eh? They’d want more than casual money to finance the sort of national pressure they keep up.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Fortescue. “I fancy they’re getting regular subsidies.”

“Where from?”

“I’d very much like to find out. But it’s not going to be easy. Some organisations are easy to penetrate. But not this particular committee. It’s too closely integrated. The members all know each other personally. They’ve worked together for years. If we tried to slip anyone in, it would simply be asking for trouble. The sort of trouble Calder ran into at the meeting.”

He told the Home Secretary about it. The Yorkshireman said, “Aye, they’re a rough crowd. What do you suggest?”

“We shall have to tackle it from the outside. Slower, but more certain. The first thing is to trace the money. It comes from somewhere abroad. Regularly, and in largish amounts. The Bank of England is confident that it’s not done by credit transfer. This money actually comes in. It’s brought in, physically. If we knew how, it’d be a start. Either the money would lead us to the man, or the man to the money. When we’ve got proof, we’ll let the Peaceful People know exactly how they’re being used. They won’t like it. And they’ll stop financing the committee. Without money they can’t function.”

The Home Secretary had listened to his exposition in silence; a silence which continued after Mr. Fortescue had finished. At last he said, “I don’t have to tell you that things are moving very fast in international politics at the moment. Personally, I’m not unhopeful. The outcome might be very good. On the other hand, it might be very bad. And the smallest thing could tip the balance. So don’t take too long.”

The offices of William Watson (Paris) Limited, Importers and Exporters, are in a small street running south from the Quai des Augustins. The head of the firm is a Mr. Mackenzie, but should you ask to see him, you will invariably find that he is on sick leave. You will be invited to return in a week’s time.

If you know the form you refuse to be put off, and enquire instead for his deputy, Mr. Rathbone. Mr. Behrens evidently knew the form. He was shown into an outer office and was passed, after scrutiny by a severe, grey-haired lady, into the inner sanctum where a surprisingly youthful Mr. Rathbone was trying his hand at a French crossword puzzle.

When the preliminaries had been concluded, he said, “Your last signal stirred things up a bit, I can tell you. Do you mind explaining what’s happening?”

Mr. Behrens said, “It’s a long story. Four men were pulled in after a strike meeting in the Midlands. A Welshman called Lewis, and three others. They had some trouble with them.”

“Was that when the superintendent got kicked?”

“That’s right. Well, they found money on all of them. New notes, in sequence. And it was hot money. Part of the proceeds of two bank jobs pulled by the Barron gang last year. But – and this was the odd part – we knew for certain, because we’d had a squeak, that the loot had left the country. It was taken across the Channel on the night of the robbery, and was out of the country before the thing broke. It was cached somewhere here, in Paris, until the heat cooled off. Then it was offered, discreetly, for sale. At a heavy discount, of course. Three months ago the Chinese bought the lot.”

“So that’s why you asked us to keep an eye on their Trade Commission.”

“That’s right. We thought it might give us a lead.”

“Well, we’ve got something for you. Whether it’s a lead or not, I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me.”

Mr. Rathbone went across to a cabinet labelled “Export Samples”, unlocked it, and extracted a folder.

“The only thing we’ve noticed which is in the least bit odd, is that one of their chauffeurs has been paying regular visits, after dark, to a small place called the Hotel Continental. It’s a moderate-sized dump in the Place Languedoc. Not too expensive, much used by business men from England, civil servants coming to conferences, Government delegates, and folk of that type. The sort of place where they serve bacon and eggs for breakfast without being asked.”

“And what does the chauffeur do when he gets there?”

“He disappears into the kitchen. What happens after that, we haven’t been able to find out.”

“Possibly he has a girlfriend among the kitchen staff.”

“Maybe. When he’s not being a chauffeur, he’s a colonel in the Chinese Army, so I think it’s unlikely.”

“Even colonels have human feelings,” said Mr. Behrens. “But I agree. There might be something in it. Could you get a list of all the guests – particularly English guests – who have stayed at the Continental during the past six months?”

Mr. Rathbone extracted a list from the folder and said, “Your wishes have been anticipated, sir. It goes back to January.”

Mr. Behrens studied the list. Two names on it, which occurred no less than four times, appeared to interest him.

The prison interview room was quiet and rather cold. Punchy Lewis, in custody, looked a smaller, less magnetic figure than Punchy Lewis on a platform. His thin white face was set in obstinate fines. He said, “It’s bloody nothing to do with you where I got the money from. It’s not a crime in this country to own money, or have they passed some law?”

“If you don’t realise the spot you’re in,” said Mr. Calder, “it’s a waste of time talking to you.” He got up and made for the door. A policeman was sitting outside it, his head just visible through the glass spy-hole.

“No-one’s persuaded me I’m in a spot,” said Lewis. “I didn’t do anything. If the police charge in while I’m speaking, and get roughed up, they can’t blame me. I didn’t incite anyone. Every word I said’s on record. I’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

Mr. Calder perched on the corner of the table, like a man who is in two minds whether to go or stay. He sat there for a long minute while Lewis shifted uneasily in his chair. Then he said, “I don’t like you. I don’t like the people you work for. And if I didn’t want something out of you personally, I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you. But that’s the position. You’ve got one piece of information I want. It’s the only thing you’ve got for sale. And I’ll buy it.”

“Talk straight.”

“You think you’re going to be charged with incitement or assault, or something like that. You’re not. The charge is receiving stolen goods. And you’ll get five or seven for it.”

“The money, you mean? Talk sense, man. I didn’t know it was stolen.”

“That’s not what the police are going to say. Do you know where that money came from? It was lifted from a bank by the Barron gang last year.”

“And just how are they going to show I knew that?”

“Be your age. They’ve already got two witnesses lined up who saw Charlie Barron handing it to you in a Soho club.”

“It’s a lie.”

“All right,” said Mr. Calder calmly. “It’s a lie. But it’s what they’re going to say all the same. They don’t like having their chaps kicked on the head. They’re funny that way.”

“The bloody coppers,” said Lewis. He thought for a moment and then added, “They’d do it, too.”

Mr. Calder got up. He said, “I haven’t got a lot of time to waste. Do we deal or not?”

“What’s the proposition?”

“I want to know where that money came from. Who gave it to you. When and where and how. Details I can check up. You give me that, and the charge of receiving goods goes out of the window.”

Sir James Docherty said to his wife, “I’m afraid I’m off on my travels. It’s Paris again.”

“Oh dear,” said Lady Docherty. “So soon.”

“Needs must, when public duty calls. Is there any more coffee in that pot?”

“I can squeeze another cup. Who is it this time?”

“I’ve got semi-official talks with de Bessières at the Quai d’Orsay. There are occasions . . .” Sir James dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee”. . . when the French Government finds it easier to make unofficial suggestions to a member of the Opposition than to the Government. Then they can disclaim them if things don’t work out.”

“I’m sure they like talking to you because they know that you’ll be Foreign Minister as soon as the electorate comes to its senses.”

“Maybe,” said Sir James. “I’ll be taking Robin with me.”

A faint shadow crossed Lady Docherty’s face.

“Do you really think you ought to, James?” she said. “He’s been away such a lot. Four times to France, and those trips to the Midlands . . .”

“My dear,” said Sir James, “you’re talking as though they were holiday jaunts. He’s not wasting his time, you know. He’s studying political economy. And what better way to study political economy than to see it in action? When he comes to France with me, he meets important people. People who matter. He can see the wheels of international politics turning. When he goes to the Midlands, it’s with an object. To study these industrial strikes at first hand.”

“Those terrible strikes. Why do they do it?”

“You mustn’t assume,” said Sir James, scooping the sugar out of the bottom of the cup with his spoon, “that the faults are all on one side. The managements can be quite as bloody-minded as the workers. More so, sometimes. Particularly the American ones.”

In the next forty-eight hours, a lot of apparently disconnected activities took place. Mr. Calder spent the time working as a porter in Covent Garden, helping to load the lorries of an old friend of his in the fruit trade. His spare time was divided between betting shops and public houses, neither of which are in short supply in that neighbourhood. The money he made in the former he spent in the latter.

Mr. Behrens, who had reserved a room at the Hôtel Continental in the Place Languedoc, spent his time making friends with the hotel staff.

Young Robin Docherty had a prickly interview with his class tutor at the London School of Economics. The tutor said that if Robin spent all of his time running errands for his father in the Midlands and trotting across to Paris with him in the intervals, he was most unlikely to complete the scholastic side of his studies satisfactorily.

The Home Secretary answered two questions and three supplementaries about the strikes and disturbances which were paralysing the motor industry. And Mr. Fortescue attended to the customers at the Westminster Branch of the London and Home Counties Bank, granting one overdraft and refusing two.

To him, on the third day, came Mr. Calder.

Mr. Calder said, “What Lewis told us has been checked. I don’t know how the money gets into this country from France, but as soon as it does get here it’s taken to a betting-shop in Covent Garden. The action committee meets in the back room of a pub, just down the road. It’s on their instructions that the cash payments are handed out from the bookmakers. That’s as far as I’ve been able to get. I can’t get any closer to these people. Some of them know me.”

Mr. Fortescue considered the matter, rotating a silver pencil slowly in his hand as he did so. Then he said, “If you’ve evidence that stolen money is passing through this betting-shop, there should be no difficulty about getting permission to listen in to their telephone.”

“You ought to get some useful tips from the course,” said Mr. Calder.

Mr. Fortescue did not smile. His eyes were on his pencil. “Some sort of arrangements must be made for the reception of the money.”

“That probably takes place after the shop’s shut. There’s a back entrance.”

“No doubt. What I mean is, they must know when to expect the money, and who’s going to bring it. If we could find that out, we could put our finger on the courier. Then we might be able to track back, from him, to the person who brings it across the Channel. We shall have to do it very carefully.”

“You will indeed,” said Mr. Calder. “These boys have got eyes in the backs of their heads.”

It was exactly a week later when Mr. Fortescue called, by arrangement, on the Home Secretary and made his report.

He said, “When you gave us permission to listen in to that betting-shop, we started to make some real progress. It was the calls after hours that interested us. They were very guarded and they came through different intermediaries, but we were able to trace them back to their ultimate source.”

“To the carrier of the money?”

“To his house.”

“Excellent. Who is the man?”

“The owner of the house,” said Mr. Fortescue, with a completely impassive face, “is Sir James Docherty.”

For a moment this failed to register. Then the Home Secretary swung round, his face going red. “If that’s a joke . . .” he said.

“It’s not a joke. It’s a fact. The point of origin of these messages is Sir James’ house in Eaton Terrace. Sir James also happens to be a member – a founder member – of the Peaceful People. Taken alone, I agree, neither of these facts is conclusive.”

“Taken together, they’re still inconclusive. You told me that the Peaceful People were backing their action committee with money. The messages might have been about that.”

“They might have been,” said Mr. Fortescue, “but they weren’t. They had nothing to do with the official business of the society at all. And here are two other facts. One of my men has been making enquiries in Paris. He has established that there is a regular courier service between the Chinese Trade Commission and the Hôtel Continental.
Which happens to be Sir James’ regular pied-à-terre in Paris.
Add to that the fact that Sir James’ visits are usually arranged at official level. And that this enables him to bring in his valise, which is said to carry official papers, under the diplomatic exemption arrangements.”