‘You’re a Welsh liar,’ Withers said. ‘They were flying Montgolfiers in your day.’
‘No, they were grounded, sir,’ Jonesie said. ‘It was like I told you, we couldn’t get the coke.’
‘He always caps me,’ Withers said. ‘I don’t know why I put up with Jonesie. The trouble is he runs Huxford, I’d post him tomorrow but the place would collapse. So what do we know about Sten guns, Jonesie?’
Jonesie considered again, then shook his head. ‘They were withdrawn in June of forty-eight, sir. Don’t think we’ve held any Stens since then.’
‘Not even of any kind?’
‘No sir. Not official. There’d been a flap about them the year before. Some of the lads had been cutting down pheasants with them and the local gentry got a bit cheesed. So they were withdrawn, sir, by a special AMO, and now they go poaching with the Lee Enfields.’
‘And the gentry are happy with that?’ Withers asked.
‘Oh yes sir. I haven’t heard any complaints.’
‘Keep your ear to the ground, Jonesie,’ Withers said. ‘I wouldn’t like to hear of them using Bofors.’ He turned to Gently. ‘The oracle has spoken. We’re not holding Sten guns, not even of any kind.’
‘Not officially,’ Gently said. ‘But mightn’t there be a few strays about?’
‘Over to Jonesie,’ Withers said. ‘What’s the strays situation, Jonesie?’
‘I couldn’t be precise, sir,’ Jonesie said.
‘Jonesie,’ Withers said, ‘be imprecise.’
‘Well sir, you know the lads aren’t particular when it comes to Air Force property. There’s a little quiet flogging goes on, unbeknown to the authorities. And I daresay a Sten will fetch its price if it’s taken to the right people. And returns are only figures, you know, which is very abstract information.’
‘Yes,’ Withers said. ‘I’m receiving you, Jonesie.’
‘So there may be strays,’ Jonesie said. ‘And to tell you the blind horrible truth, sir, it would be a miracle if there weren’t any.’
‘And do you know of any?’ Withers asked. ‘We want the hard facts here, Jonesie.’
Jonesie looked down his nose. ‘I wouldn’t like to swear to it on oath, sir. Perhaps the armourers can tell you, they may have some knocking about there. And maybe there were some left in stores. Though you’ll be lucky to trace them there.’
‘Loud and clear,’ Withers said. ‘Strength niner, over and out.’ He, too, looked down his nose. ‘Absorbing,’ he said. ‘Quite absorbing.’ He rose from the desk, a tall, thin man. ‘We’d better adjourn to the armoury,’ he said.
‘Does this connect with your flap?’ Gently asked.
‘I think its going to collide with it,’ Withers said. ‘But first things first. We’ll try the armoury. Jonesie, you’d better come along too.’
He strode away from the administrative block with long, rangy, stooping steps, Jonesie trotting along by his side, Gently following behind them. Across on the airfield a Proctor aircraft stood with its engine nested in trestles, from a distant dispersal came the tormented bellow of a piston engine being test-run.
‘Looks just like life,’ Withers said over his shoulder. ‘But we were due to close six years ago. Now they’ve grounded the last Spitfire there’s damn all left for us to do.’
‘What is your job here?’ Gently asked.
‘Special maintenance,’ Withers said. ‘We keep the museum stuff in the air. You want a Wimpey? We’ve got one.’
He crossed the approach road and inclined left. Jonesie neatly inclined with him. Ahead was an alley of Nissen buildings in which were parked a Hillman van and a box-like truck. The doors of the buildings had identifications painted on them like the doors in HQ. The buildings housed Radio Mechs, Instrument Reps, Armourers and Electricians.
‘The ancillary trades,’ Withers said. ‘But never mention it in their hearing. The word means a female slave, you know, and there’d be a riot if someone told them.’
He pushed on into the armoury. It consisted of a long, concrete-floored workshop. On the far side, under the windows, ran a wide bench topped with zinc. On the bench lay a couple of Brownings, one of them with its mechanism dismantled; the floor-space was occupied partly by bicycles and partly by stacks of electrically operated bomb racks. An airman in overalls was mending a puncture at the bench. Two others sat smoking, one on the bench, one on a tool-box. The armoury smelt of thin oil. The smell had a peculiar edge to it.
‘Don’t get up,’ Withers said, whisking straight through the workshop. The three men were staring guiltily and the cigarettes had suddenly vanished. At the end of the workshop two walls of grey slab enclosed a small inner room, by the door of which, mounted on hardboard, was a leave rosta and sheaf of DRO’s. The identification said: Flt. Sergeant Podmore. Withers went in without tapping. A beefy man sitting at a table whisked a duplicated sheet over a football coupon. He got up noisily.
‘Ah,’ Withers said. ‘Flight-Sergeant Podmore, Superintendent. He’s the man who’ll know most about the subject you’re interested in.’
Podmore looked at Gently unhappily, gave the sheet an extra twitch.
‘The subject is Sten guns,’ Gently said. ‘I’d like to know if you keep any here.’
Podmore cleared his throat. ‘Sten guns,’ he said. ‘Don’t know about that, sir. We haven’t held any since I’ve been here. There might be an odd one floating around.’
‘Have you seen one?’
Podmore hesitated. ‘Miller!’ he called through the door. The airman who had been mending a puncture came forward, halted, snapped his heels clumsily.
‘Dusty,’ Podmore said, ‘where’s that Mark II Sten got to — the one that’s always hung around here. See if you can find it up for me.’
‘It’s in the junk box, Sarge,’ Miller said.
‘Fetch it here,’ Podmore said.
Miller went to a box pushed under the bench, poked around it, took something out. He brought it into the office. It was the frame of a stirrup-pump butted Sten. The barrel and cocking pin were missing and the breech block slid harmlessly in its chamber. Podmore took it, exhibited it to Gently.
‘That’s the only Sten we’ve got in the place, sir. Don’t ask me when and how it got here — part of the furniture, that’s what it is.’
Gently only glanced at it. ‘Has it never had a barrel?’
‘No sir. Not that I can ever remember.’
‘Have you heard of any buckshee Stens about the station?’
‘No sir. Unless they’ve got some at stores.’
‘Yes,’ Withers said. ‘Never mind the stores, Sergeant, that’s an angle we’re coming to in a couple of minutes.’
‘Well, you never know what they’ve got stuck away there, sir,’ Podmore said.
‘Or alternatively,’ Withers said, ‘what they haven’t. Message received.’
Gently felt in his pocket, brought out the bottle, unwrapped it, stood it on the table.
‘Take a look at that, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it means to you.’
Podmore picked it up, turned it, stared with cautious rounded eyes.
‘Just what I think about it, sir?’
‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘Just what you think about it.’
‘Well sir, I’d say the bloke it belonged to had owned a gun for some time. A bottle like this goes a long way, and he’d emptied the bottle at least once. Then he got it filled with this stuff, which you can’t buy in the shops, so I’d say he was either a serviceman or had a pal who was one. Probably had a pal, sir. Or he’d have been using gun-cleaning fluid in the first place. And I’d like to know,’ Podmore said, ‘who’s been dishing this out to the civvies.’
‘So would I,’ Gently said. ‘You hold supplies of it, do you?’
‘Technical stores do,’ Podmore said. ‘We only draw it as we need it. But there’s plenty here. We’d never miss a little bottlefull like that.’ He looked suddenly through the door. ‘Dusty,’ he said. ‘Come here, Dusty.’
Miller had been shrinking out of the doorway. Now he came back, stood looking shamefaced.
‘Dusty,’ Podmore said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?’
Miller swallowed. ‘I think that’s the bottle the WO had,’ he said.
