In the morning I went to the Yard again.
I never felt quite at my ease with Sir David Carter. He was one of those men like Morris, keen and efficient, but with an air that rather kept one at a distance. I could see from his manner that the old man must have a bitter tongue when he was roused, and it was pretty evident that Norman had had some of it in his time. And yet there was some stuff in Norman—as we saw later.
Sir David greeted me with a sort of old-fashioned courtesy that made me rather ill at ease. ‘Major Norman tells me that you have been in Italy, Captain Stenning. I should be greatly interested in your account.’
He turned to Norman. ‘It would be better if Captain Stenning told us his story again from the beginning,’ he said. ‘You had better make a few notes.’
Norman sat down at a table with a writing-pad, and I started in and told my story again, from the time I left Scotland Yard till I returned to England. Sir David sat as he had sat before, his chair tilted back behind the desk, staring motionless at the ceiling. It was very quiet in the office. It was a Sunday morning and there was no traffic in the streets outside to disturb us; for what seemed a long time my voice was the only sound in the room. I had no interruptions from Norman. Now and again I was aware that he was writing rapidly; then for a time he would sit still. At last I had finished. Norman glanced at his chief, took up his notes and asked me half a dozen questions—dates, times, and names of people.
At the end, Sir David stirred and sat up. ‘A most capable piece of work,’ he said gravely. ‘One point. This friend of yours, da Leglia——’
Norman got up from the table and passed his chief a slip of paper. ‘I think this covers him, sir.’
Sir David ran an eye down it. ‘The Earl of Rennel,’ he muttered. ‘The Italian Embassy.… You are in touch with the Consul?’
‘There has been hardly time for a reply yet, sir.’
Sir David laid the paper on his desk. When next he spoke it was to me.
‘As you see,’ he said slowly, ‘this matter of Baron Mattani is extending into a wider field than the extradition of a suspected murderer. I am sure, Captain Stenning, that you will see the necessity for the greatest discretion?’
I said that I quite understood that.
There was a long silence, till suddenly he sat up in his chair and began to ask me questions about the note that I had found in my bed at Exeter. I had to go over the whole of that incident again, and at the end there was another pause.
Presently he laid off on another tack. It was rather like watching the hounds working a covert.
‘Major Norman,’ he said, ‘from your memory of the dangerous drug cases, can you locate any steady and considerable source of supply other than through Asiatics?’
Norman wrinkled his brows. ‘There are always a number of cases where the origin is evident,’ he said slowly. ‘Cases in which a Lascar brings over a parcel of the drug in the forepeak of his ship. Of the cases where the origin is obscure, I can remember very few where the origin has been non-Asiatic. That is to say, the stuff is generally traceable to some Chinaman who cannot be identified. I can remember very few obscure European cases.’
‘Verify that,’ said Sir David. ‘It is possible that the Chinaman takes rather more blame than he deserves.’
‘They would have to have a clearing-house,’ said Norman. ‘It would be reasonable for that to be Chinese.’
Sir David glanced at him. ‘There has been no indication of that up to date?’
‘Not that I am aware of.’
‘There must be a clearing-house for the division and distribution of the drug. There may be two or three.’
There was a long silence. An omnibus or two went rumbling down Whitehall. In a side street near at hand, close below the window of the office, some wandering violinist struck up the Caprice Viennoise. The prologue over, he launched into the melody; it rose and swelled about us till it drowned my thoughts, till I could recall nothing but the details of the stage tragedy that had been set to the music by a great actor. I glanced at the others. Norman was worried by it; I saw him glancing irritably at the window. The Chief sat as he had sat before, motionless, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. Presently the air drew to its sobbing, tremulous end. Sir David sat up.
‘At one time,’ he said, half to himself and half, I think, to me, ‘I considered Kreisler’s reputation to be misplaced.’
He leaned forward upon his desk and began to talk. In a moment I saw how far ahead of ours his mind had been working. ‘With the information supplied by Captain Stenning,’ he said, ‘we stand a very fair chance of detaining the vessel that brings the drug to the Scillies—unless, of course, she lies-to to despatch her launch at a point beyond the three-mile limit. We should be able to detain the launch with tolerable certainty. We might even be able to secure the aeroplane, and so to solve the problem of her identity. From all these sources it should be possible to obtain sufficient convictions to prevent the possibility of any further cargoes being smuggled in this way. At the same time, it seems to me to be extremely doubtful whether we should be able to break up the organisation in England—the clearing-house. Frankly, I do not consider it likely that we should secure either the ship or the aeroplane. There remains the motor-launch. Is the launch alone worth securing?’
He shifted his position. ‘It might be. The possession of the launch would certainly strengthen our demand for the extradition of Baron Mattani from Italy. It might or might not lead to further evidence with regard to the murder of Compton. It would be unlikely to lead to evidence concerning the clearing-house. Consider. The men taken in the launch in all probability will be entirely Italians—Fascists, no doubt. For them to give information would mean that their return to Italy would be impossible, considering the position held by Mattani. I doubt if we could get much evidence from the capture of the launch.’
I cleared my throat. ‘The aeroplane would probably tell us something, if we could get hold of that.’
Sir David stared straight ahead of him at the desk. ‘Would it tell us very much about the clearing-house?’ he inquired. ‘I rather doubt it. Suppose we were to capture the aeroplane at the same moment as the launch. We should then have the launch, the launch’s crew, the aeroplane, and the pilot of the aeroplane. I think the only one of those who would be capable of giving us any information about the clearing-house would be the pilot of the aeroplane.’
‘Very likely the pilot would know nothing about the clearing-house,’ said Norman, ‘unless he had a financial interest in the cargo. His business would be to fly the machine. In any case, it’s not likely that he would give evidence.’
Sir David was pursuing his own line of thought. ‘I put the dispersal of the clearing-house as our primary object,’ he said at last. ‘It is not going to be very difficult, I think, to put an end to this particular mode of smuggling. The capture of the launch, for example, would give such diplomatic leverage to the Foreign Office that I doubt if Mattani would be in a position to carry on—for the moment. But if the organisation in this country remains untouched, then in three or four months’ time we shall have the whole trouble repeating, with a different method of introducing the drug into the country.’
He paused. ‘I should consider no scheme of operations satisfactory that left out the clearing-house.’
I turned to Norman. ‘I don’t know how you work these things. But do you see much chance of getting a line on to the clearing-house before the 16th?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s only a week to do it in,’ he protested. ‘Frankly, I know nothing about them yet. It’s possible that one of the men here may have information that will put us on the right track, or we might have a bit of sheer luck—such as a conviction for disposal. Failing that, I should begin working it on the elimination and inquiry lines. We might get on to them within the week, but I shouldn’t say it’s hopeful.’
‘I see,’ I said slowly. ‘Then the only other line to them is through the ae
roplane.’
Sir David nodded. ‘The aeroplane might be the means of putting us in touch with the clearing-house,’ he said. ‘Wherever it lands, it must be met by the agents.’
‘They meet it in cars,’ I said. ‘The landing-place is changed from trip to trip.’
‘That makes it rather difficult,’ said Norman quietly.
It certainly did. For a moment it seemed as if we had run up against a brick wall. We just sat for a bit, looking helpless.
‘There’d be one way of doing it,’ I said at last. ‘Let the aeroplane get away with its load, and follow it in another machine. That seems to be about the only way of getting in touch with the clearing-house—unless you can do it by your usual methods.’
The Chief eyed me for a moment. ‘I know very little about aeroplanes,’ he said, ‘but I imagine that there would be considerable practical difficulties in doing that, Captain Stenning?’
I considered for a moment. ‘It would be damn hard,’ I said. ‘I think it might be done.’ I was thinking rapidly. ‘We should have the hell of a job to get in touch with the seaplane without being spotted. That’s the first thing. But if we could do that—assume that we can do that … I think we can limit her possible landing-places to one or two definite areas, and I think we can make a pretty good shot as to how she gets there.’
I paused to collect my ideas. ‘You see, we know this much. We know that she leaves the Scillies an hour or so before dawn, and we know that she flies well inland, and lands her cargo in the early morning. We don’t know where she lands. Well, first of all, as regards her range. I don’t believe she cruises at a greater speed than eighty-five—she’d be an exceptional amphibian if she did. I don’t suppose she re-fuels at the Scillies; it would complicate things and keep her there too long. It’s the hell of a job filling up a seaplane, you know. I don’t suppose she carries more than five hours’ fuel at the outside. And so I think we can put down the extreme range from the Scillies as two hundred miles, or more likely a hundred and fifty—to allow for head-winds.’
They were listening to me intently now. I asked for a map and they produced a large atlas; I opened it at a plate of Devon, Cornwall, and the Scillies.
‘First of all, about the possible landing grounds,’ I said. ‘We want a place fairly remote from the sea. It must provide a really long run—at least half a mile of smooth, level grass for an amphibian with a heavy load. It must be in a very desolate neighbourhood. I don’t know if you’ve ever made a forced landing in ordinary country? No—of course you haven’t. But the excitement it causes is tremendous; the whole countryside seems to hear of it in an hour or two. It’s the children that do it, of course. Even at that hour in the morning, a landing in ordinary farmland would be bound to attract notice.’
I stared at the map. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘there’s nowhere in Cornwall. It might be possible to work it all right on Dartmoor or Exmoor.’
‘They’d go further inland,’ said Norman. ‘What about Salisbury Plain?’
I turned up another map. ‘It’s a bit far,’ I said. ‘But it would be quite possible, and much more central for the disposal of the stuff. But anyway, the point that I’m making now is that they’ve got to fly beyond Cornwall—probably a long way beyond. Now … I’ll tell you what I should do if I was making that flight.’
I paused again. ‘Starting, say, one hour before dawn, I’d make the shortest sea passage possible. I’d have the wind up of my engine conking miles out at sea. That is, I’d make straight for Land’s End. That’s about thirty miles or so. It would still be dark when I got there. I’d fly along the coast then—no matter where I was going to. It’s easy to follow the coastline in the dark, for one thing, and at night—on the whole—I’d rather risk a forced landing on sea than on land. I should have to fly pretty low to see where I was—probably under two thousand feet.’
‘If you could be sure of that,’ said Norman, ‘it certainly might be possible to get in touch with the machine.’
‘You can’t be sure about it,’ I said. ‘But that’s what I should do if I had the job. Whether I should go up the north coast or the south depends on where I was heading for. Whichever coast I went by, I should leave it as soon as it became light enough to see my way, and head straight inland for wherever I was going. I should fly higher then if I wanted to keep out of sight.’
Sir David interposed a question. ‘Suppose that you could pick up the seaplane and follow it, and saw it land. It would still be very difficult to effect any arrests. I imagine that it would be out of the question to carry any considerable force of police in the following machine?’
‘One or two at the most,’ I said. ‘No, the arrest would have to be carried out from the ground. The part of the following machine could only be to keep in touch with the ground by wireless telephony, to tell the police where the landing is taking place and to keep an eye on any of the cars that got away.’
‘The difficulties would be enormous,’ muttered Norman.
I fully agreed with him there. At the most there would be perhaps twenty minutes in which to make the arrest from the time of landing till the agents were well away from the landing ground in their cars. If there were only one car the aeroplane could follow it and keep it in sight; if there were more than one, all but one would have to be let go.
‘Of course we might be able to get some help there with additional machines from the Air Force,’ said Norman.
We wrangled over the details of the scheme for a bit. At last Sir David pulled out his watch.
‘Get it worked out,’ he said to Norman. ‘If it comes to the worst we may have to try something of the sort. But push ahead with the elimination and inquiry for the clearing-house.’ He turned to me. ‘I am afraid, Captain Stenning, that I am sufficiently old-fashioned to prefer the conventional methods.…’
He rose to go.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘we seem to stand a pretty fair chance of getting at Mattani, one way or another.’
For a moment a wintry smile chased across his features. ‘I could view that prospect with more enthusiasm, Captain Stenning,’ he said, ‘if the House were not in session.’
With that he took up his hat from the table, bowed to us, and went out.
I lunched with Norman, and after lunch we returned to the Yard and settled down to the aeroplane scheme in earnest. When we came to put it down in black and white it didn’t seem to be so impossible after all. I discovered that the resources of the Yard are simply enormous. The chief difficulty that I could see was that of getting into touch with the seaplane at all in the early dawn. It seemed to me that the following machine would have to wait in the air on patrol somewhere about the middle of Devonshire, waiting for news by wireless from ground observation stations along the coast.
From Norman’s point of view, the chief difficulty would come after the seaplane had landed. Assuming that from the following machine I could wireless the point of landing directly I saw the seaplane put down, there would be an incredibly short space of time in which to effect the arrest. The place of landing would be quite unknown. Though I could keep in wireless touch with the ground during the flight and tell them in which direction the chase was heading, the most that could be done would be to concentrate a few police in various towns and trust to luck in being able to rush them to the spot before the cars meeting the seaplane had time to disperse. If, however, the cars dispersed before the arrival of the police, they must be followed as well as possible from the air; it was here that Norman was counting on the co-operation of the Air Force. It should be possible, I thought, for one or two aeroplanes to join in the pursuit, keeping well astern of me.
I didn’t think that there was much danger of the pilot of the amphibian getting to know that he was followed.
‘But the whole thing depends upon our having decent weather,’ I said.
I went back to my flat and rang up Joan at Stokenchurch.
‘Good-afternoon, Miss Stevenson,’ I said. ‘Stenning speaking
.’
There was a sort of bumble on the line. I shook the receiver.
‘I’m so glad you’re back all right,’ she said. ‘I’ve been—I mean—how did you get on? Did you find out anything?’
‘A certain amount,’ I said. ‘I had quite a good time, really—a very easy trip. But what I rang up for was to find out if you’d care to come and have lunch with me one day. Are you doing anything to-morrow?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘I’ll come up to Town. Where shall we meet?’
‘Not in Town,’ I said. ‘Don’t like London—too many Dagoes in the restaurants. Give me cold feet. Let’s have lunch in the country somewhere. I say—you know the Hornblower? That pub at the bottom of Aston Rowant hill. They give you a corking good lunch there.’
I heard her laugh. ‘That’ll be splendid,’ she said. ‘I can drive over there in the Cowley.’
‘Right you are,’ I said. ‘I’ll drive down from Town. I’ll probably be there at about half-past twelve.’
I drove down there on the following morning and lunched with her at the pub. I didn’t like to talk about the Mattani business at table; I remember that I was mortally afraid of anything getting out. They gave us a rattling good lunch—the sort of thing one dreams about. It was a bright, sunny day with a little wind that rustled the flowers on our table by the window. I remember that we talked about flowers and beechwoods and red squirrels and things, and when I remember that I cannot help wondering a little. Queer subjects for me in those days.
We walked out a little way on to the hills after lunch, at my suggestion. I wanted to get away from the waiters and people at the hotel before launching out on my story. We walked slowly—she because it would have been rude to outwalk me, and I because I had lunched too well to hurry. And as we went I told her all about Italy and da Leglia.