Pursuit of a Parcel (12 page)

Garrett appeared to be drinking cocoa laced with whisky out of an immense cracked china cup with a pattern of pink rosebuds all over it.

Antony went over and helped himself. When he turned with the drink in his hand Garrett was frowning at him over the edge of his own distressing brew.

“Well—what do you call yourself, coming along at this hour and breaking up my night's rest? I've got an office, haven't I? Who do you think you are?”

Antony laughed and clinked his glass against the rim of the flowery cup.

“Well, officially I'm a corpse.”

“In whose office?” said Garrett.

“Oh, the Gestapo. They think they got me. If they didn't think so, I shouldn't be here now. Officially I'm a corpse, and I gather that Cornelius has been spreading the glad news over here. In fact I was prepared for a rather more enthusiastic welcome.”

Colonel Garrett took no notice of this. He took a pull at the cocoa, slammed the cup down on the mantelpiece, and said, “What's Cornelius doing over here?”

Antony shrugged. “Cutting his losses, I imagine.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Not here. I saw him in Holland.”

“Well, what about it? Go on—you've got a tongue haven't you? What's he been up to?”

Antony approached the hearth. He set down his glass on the mantelpiece and leaned an elbow beside it. The warmth of the fire came up gratefully. He was alive, and he might so easily have been dead. He glanced up, caught Garrett's savage stare, and began to speak.

“Well, I saw him. He was just the same as he always is—pleasant—friendly—non-committal. He told me he was clearing out, he gave me to understand that he intended to come and see you, and he said he had sent me a parcel.”

Garrett exploded. “A parcel?”

“Yes, sir. I'll come back to it if you don't mind. I gathered that he was clearing out because his boss in Berlin had decided that he was double-crossing him.”

Garrett drove at the fire with his heel. The log crashed down. “He owned to working for Berlin?”

“Oh, quite frankly—that's how he got his information, he was as open as the day about it—but all
pour le bon motif.
He said you knew.”

Garrett nodded. “Knew he was in with them. The point was—
is,
for that matter—who is he really working for? Does he fob them off, or is he fobbing me off? Or is he just playing his own dirty hand and not giving a damn for either side? That's what you were sent to find out. We might get badly let down if that last batch of stuff he sent isn't straight.”

Antony said, “Yes.” He was frowning too, in an effort to bring all of Cornelius into focus—not just the words he used, but the way he used them, the way he looked, the impression made at the time. He went on slowly, almost haltingly, in response to a jerky prod from Garrett.

“Get on, can't you! If they suspect him in Berlin, why isn't he dead? Can you tell me that?”

“Yes, I can. That's to say, I can tell you what Cornelius told me. He was had up on the mat and told he was for it. According to him he had expected something of the sort and was ready for it. He said, or he says he said, ‘All right, but if I'm for it, you're for it too.' He then went on to explain that he held a trump card, this being a dictograph record of some very indiscreet remarks which the little man had made about the Führer when he was out of favour in the spring. You'll remember the story. Con says he went down to a lady friend's, got drunk, and said a lot more than was good for him. Con told him he had the record of what he had said, and told him he had arranged for it to be forwarded to Goering if anything happened to Cornelis Roos. He also mentioned that he was liable to die suddenly if he was beaten up or anything like that. It's quite a tale, isn't it?”

“Do you mean to tell me that he got away with a bluff like that?”

Anthony's shoulder jerked. “He said he did.”

“And you think he was telling the truth?”

“Well, not all the time. The bit about Goering sounded like bluff to me, but—again according to Cornelius—the little man swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. I think—I thought at the time—that Con really did have an interview on something of those lines. He was pleased with himself when he was telling me about it. That's a thing you get when you're talking to anyone—something they can't hide—don't try to as a rule—and—well, it was sticking out all over him how clever he'd been, and how he'd scored them off.”

Colonel Garrett was filling his pipe.

“Sure it wasn't because he thought he'd scored
you
off?”

“I don't think it was that. I've known Con all my life, and I'm sure he was pleased about the bluff he'd put up. Mind you, I don't know how much of it
was
bluff, but I imagine that the little man must have been very indiscreet. If he was drunk he may not have known exactly what he did say. But if any of the story is true—and I think it is—it's quite clear to me that he isn't going to stick at much to eliminate the evidence, and that is where we come to the parcel.”

Garrett drew at his pipe.

“Glad we're coming to something!” he said.

“Sorry, sir—I had to lead up to it a bit. You see, Cornelius says he put the cylinder with the record of what the little man really did say into a nice strong box and had it smuggled over here addressed to me.”

Garrett snatched his pipe from his mouth and said,
“What?”

Antony smiled his charming malicious smile.

“It goes on being quite a tale. The parcel arrived at Philip Merridew's office about five minutes before it was wrecked by a bomb. It was addressed to ‘Antony Rossiter, Esq. By hand.' One of Mr. Merridew's clerks rescued it. Now, Frank, this is where things begin to hot up. The clerk's name is Emanuel Holt. He lives in a dull, peaceful road called Adelaide Terrace, but the minute he gets my parcel it stops being peaceful. He gets burgled—house ransacked, nothing taken. Fortunately, being one of the ultra-conscientious kind, my parcel accompanied him and his family to their shelter—the burglary was of course during the usual air raid. Next day someone tries to get into the house while he is out, says he is from the water company, is repelled by Mrs. Holt, who rings up the company and finds they haven't sent anybody. Emanuel then gets fussed and carts the parcel down to Wayshot.”

“Wayshot?”

“Philip Merridew lives there when he isn't in hospital. Emanuel seems to have had some idea that there would be a safe there. There isn't. He gave Delia the parcel and returned to Adelaide Terrace, since when there seems to have been an attempt to murder someone at Wayshot, and Delia has put the parcel into the local bank.”

Garrett drew at his pipe. Then he said in his nastiest voice, “Been busy since you got back—haven't you! How do you know all this?”

Antony blushed. Under Garrett's stare he could feel himself doing it. About ten years dropped from his age as he said, “Delia told me—Delia Merridew.”

Garrett withdrew his pipe slowly. The effect was that the decks were being cleared for action. He repeated Antony's last words on a growling note.

“Delia Merridew—Delia Merridew—she told you!” The growl broke into an angry bark. “And what did you tell Delia Merridew? Can you tell me that?”

“I didn't tell her anything.”

“Oh, I suppose she rang you up! In Holland? Or in the middle of the North Sea?”

“No, I rang her, sir—when I got back, just before I came here. We are engaged.”

Colonel Garrett made the brief explosive sound which is sometimes written “Tchah!” It expressed impatience carried to the point at which violent action may be expected.

As a matter of fact nothing happened, except Garrett's views on matrimony and the crass, mindless folly of the young men who plunge into it, with particular application to Intelligence work and Antony Rossiter. The words in which these views were expressed were as offensive as conviction and years of practice could make them. If Antony had not heard it all before, he might have been goaded into losing his temper. As it was, he achieved a respectful silence, until with a final “Tchah!” Garrett turned to replenish his revolting cup. The cocoa gushed from its chipped brown jug, two lumps of sugar were flung rattling in, and an extra dollop of whisky tipped from the bottle.

Antony said mildly, “All the same, sir, if I hadn't rung Delia up, we shouldn't know that Cornelius was over here.”

Garrett drank and spluttered into the cup. Antony was left with the impression that he had just said “Tchah!” again. He waited to see if there was going to be anything more. Apparently there was. In the manner of a dictator presenting an ultimatum Garrett demanded, “What did she tell you, this Delia Thingumabob?”

Antony maintained his air of respect.

“Merridew, sir. She told me a Mr. Brown had called on her yesterday, some time in the late afternoon. As soon as they were alone he dropped the Brown and told her that he was Cornelius, that I was dead, and that he wanted the parcel he had sent me. He appeared to have tracked it from Mr. Merridew's office to the Holts, and from the Holts to Delia.”

Garrett took another draught.

“And I suppose she gave it to him,” he growled.

“Oh, no—the bank was shut. You forget I told you she'd put it in the bank.”

“Best place for it! What's Cornelius want it for anyhow?”

Antony relaxed against the mantelpiece.

“Well, there you have me. The whole point of sending the parcel to me was to have it out of the Gestapo's reach whilst Con got away to America—the idea being that if anything happened to him or there was an attempt at any funny business, the parcel with the cylinder inside would be forwarded to Goering. There seemed to be an idea that he would be delighted to get his hands on it. But why Cornelius didn't leave well alone and get on with going to America, I don't know.”

Garrett shoved his cup on to the mantelpiece with a thrust that set it rocking.

“What's he doing monkeying round after this damned parcel? Why hasn't he been to see me? He's been working for me, hasn't he? And now he cuts me out and goes chasing about the country—” He broke off. “Here, he's not a British subject, is he? Your father didn't adopt him legally?”

Antony shook his head. “It wasn't worth while. You see, they were always in some Dutch possession, and Cornelius went into the firm. He never was in England except when my mother died and he came over for the funeral.”

Garrett grinned. “Well, that simplifies things. If he's an alien we can pull him in and ask him what he's up to. Sounds fishy to me—the whole damn story about the parcel sounds fishy. And I'd like to have a look at it. The bank was shut yesterday, but it'll be open again at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. What's your young woman going to do if he comes along and asks for his parcel then?”

Antony smiled. “She won't be there, sir. I told her she'd better catch an early bus and come up to town.”

Garrett picked up his cup, tossed off the horrid dregs, and set it down again with a clatter.

“What's wrong with your going down to Wayshot?”

“I don't know—I could of course—”

“Much better,” said Garrett. “Go down, see Cornelius, tell him the parcel's addressed to you and you intend to see what's in it. Bring him back here. If he makes any bones about it, ask him if he wants to be arrested. What's wrong with that?”

“Well, I shall have to ring Delia up again.”

Garrett grinned maliciously. “Not from here you don't, my lad! Cut along back to wherever you're staying and do it from there. By the way, where
are
you staying?”

“John Norton lets me use his flat. He's away, but I've got a key.” He scribbled on a bit of paper and laid it on the mantelpiece. “That's the address and the telephone number. When do I rejoin?”

Garrett stooped to pitch another log on the fire.

“When you're told to,” he growled.

Antony came out into the street and began to walk in the direction of John Norton's flat. The distance to go was about three quarters of a mile. It was as dark as low-lying cloud and as an hour past midnight could make it. The nearer guns had been silent all this while. It had been quiet up there in Frank Garrett's room, but here in the open the air sounded with a distant vibration and the fanning of wings a long way off. A faint flicker of light came and went on the unseen horizon, as sheet lightning comes and goes behind the hills on a summer night, making the darkness visible and fading into it again.

He found his way pretty well. It was when he turned the second corner that he became aware of the footstep behind him, and that it had been behind him for more time than he could swear to. He thought he must have been hearing it for quite a while before he began to think that it might be following him. There were fifty yards to go to the next turning. The footstep went behind him all the way. He judged it to be a matter of ten yards behind.

He took the corner, felt a railing on his left, and followed it to where it was broken by one shallow step and three deeper ones. At the top of the steps he stood pressed against the smooth paint of a door and waited for the footstep to overtake him. It stopped at the corner. Obviously the man stood there and listened—a leery fellow. He ought to be hearing Antony's footsteps going away from him down the street. When he didn't hear them, what was he going to think, and what was he going to do?

He stood there quite unseen, not even a darker smear on the black dark that was the corner.

There was one of those flickers of light. Antony had the momentary impression of a tall man standing there just as he had pictured him—listening. He thought there was a movement. He thought the man looked quickly right and left. And then the flicker was gone and it was all smooth dark. The footsteps had begun again. Coming this way? No—going straight on across the road. The sound flattened a little on the wood blocks of the roadway.