petty officer to commissioned officer unusual, but justified (a) by a shortage of officers, (b) by Lieutenant Craig's remarkable abilities.
'Lieutenant Craig was twice decorated (D.S.O., D.S.C.) and three times mentioned in dispatches. He took part in seventeen major raids against the enemy in Greece, Italy, and North Africa, was twice captured and twice escaped. All the boats he commanded inflicted severe damage on the enemy. (Details withheld. Their information is still partially secret.)
'Lieutenant Craig is a man of outstanding courage and very high intelligence. (By the end of the war he was fluent in French, Italian, and Greek, proficient in Arabic and German.) All the officers and men with whom he served were impressed by his qualities as a man of action.'
Marshall put the paper back on the chief's desk and waited.
'Is there anything you want to ask me?' Seddons asked.
Marshall hesitated. The memo had given him enough to gamble on, no more. At last he said, 'The bomb, sir. Inspector Maynard gave me a list of things it might have been.'
Seddons said, 'Well?'
Marshall said, 'I think it was plastic, sir.' This time the chief didn't smile; he grinned. 'Why?' he asked.
'Craig ran a shipping line,' said Marshall. 'His ships were tramps. They sailed up the Baltic, picked up cargo all over the place, then moved down through the North Sea, into the Atlantic-France, Spain-then on into the Mediterranean. Here's a typical run, sir.' He took a notebook from his pocket. 'This is the Rose of Tralee last year. Danzig, Hamburg, Antwerp, Rabat. Rabat is in Morocco, sir. In Danzig the Rose of Tralee loaded agricultural machinery and shoes from Czechoslovakia. In Hamburg they took on cars, sewing machines, and sports equipment. The shoes were unloaded at Antwerp. The machinery and sports equipment went on to Rabat.' Marshall paused and took a deep breath. What he was going to say now, what he had to say, would earn him savage mockery if he was wrong. At last he said, 'I don't think his manifests told the truth. I think the agricultural machinery and the sports equipment were arms for the Algerian insurgents.' Seddons said nothing, and he went on: 'I don't think Sir Geoffrey Gunter knows. Craig probably gave him the flat rate for the job and kept the gun-running perks himself.
'There's another thing. Craig speaks German, French, and Arabic. And every year he went abroad for six weeks to look for customers. I think that could have been a good cover for his gun-running contacts.'
'Go on,' said Seddons.
'Craig was a planner. He worked things out and he had a cold nerve. Men followed his leadership too. There would have to be a man on his ships he could trust, and the man he would want would be the master. But whoever it was would trust Craig's judgment'-he tapped the memo-'if this means anything at all.' 'Why plastic?' Seddons asked.
'The French settlers don't like people helping the Arabs,' Marshall said. 'They've got their own organizations- the A.F.L. and so on. And they've also got their own terrorist groups. And they're dirty fighters. Fanatics. They've used a lot of explosives too. Mostly it's been plastic. That's why I thought-' His voice trailed off. 'I'm very sorry, sir. I know this must all seem ridiculous. But it's the only thing that fits the facts.'
Seddons said, 'I had a man in to see me this morning. He was from the Special Branch, seconded to some cloak-and-dagger outfit I'd never heard of.' He smiled with a realist's amused tolerance, and this time Marshall smiled too.
'He was looking for a man,' Seddons said. 'It might or might not have been Craig. He didn't know. He wasn't prepared to tell me how he was going to find out. But the man he was looking for was wanted urgently-very urgently. When I told him that Craig had been murdered he asked if he'd been plastique. You know what that means? It's French for blown up-with a plastic bomb. Pity he couldn't have got here a bit sooner.' He gave Marshall a third smile.
'You've done very well,' he said. 'Anything else?'
'Yes, sir,' said Marshall. 'One more thing. I'd like to trace Mrs. Craig's brother, Charlie Green. He's the only one who visited Craig regularly, and that was to borrow money.'
'You think he's mixed up in this?' Seddons asked.
'He might be,' said Marshall. 'Anyway, he's the only lead we've got. The Craigs' charwoman gave me a description, and he bought a motor bike a while ago. We might trace him through that. He's the sort of bloke that changes his lodgings pretty regularly. I think he might have a bit of a record, sir.'
'All right, you carry on. It's your case,' Seddons said. Marshall rose, then hesitated.
'There's just one more thing, sir. The Rose of
Tralee is due in Genoa tomorrow. I think someone should let her skipper know what's happened. He could be next on the list.'
'Good idea,' said Seddons, and Marshall went out at peace with the world. Seddons hadn't the heart to tell him that the man from Intelligence had suggested the same thing.
CHAPTER 3
Craig had spent a night at a cheap hotel in St. Pancras, then he moved to another, more expensive one in Bays-water. This he selected with great care. There had to be nothing furtive about it, nothing seedy. It had to be the sort of place that the police would treat with respect. He chose the Rowena, which was small, and full of junior executives, and was invariably packed whenever there was an exhibition at Earl's Court. He signed the register as John Reynolds, and gave a Manchester address. Reynolds had been his commanding officer in a raid on Crete. He had died in Craig's arms, his body torn by a burst from a Schmeisser machine gun.
He had a drink in the bar and told the barmaid he was an incorporated accountant. She accepted the information without noticeable enthusiasm, but even so Craig talked, on and on, about anything at all that he thought would bore her, until the poor girl gritted her teeth to hide her yawns. That was good. If he bored her enough she would warn off the others, the good chaps up for a few days who might be looking for an extra bloke to take to a strip-club. John Reynolds mustn't be the bloke they would invite; his clothes were right-he'd bought them that morning at Simpson's-but his personality was all wrong. He was a bore, and he talked. Moreover, he hadn't bought the barmaid a drink. They would ignore him, and he had to be ignored. If he weren't, he might die.
He went to a public phone booth then, and made a call. A girl's voice, bright and alert, said 'Baumer's Exports. Good morning.' 'Mr. Baumer, please.'
What he got was Baumer's secretary, and a confused, apologetic story of urgent business for Mr. Baumer, who would be away for some time. Craig hung up. Mr. Baumer would be away forever. In the phone booth somebody had left an Evening Standard. His story was there, on the front page, but they hadn't managed to get a picture of him. He'd been careful about pictures. Those snapshots from the Navy would be with the police now, but they wouldn't be much help. They were twenty years old. He was surprised to find what an effort of will he needed to read about himself. He had avoided newspapers and radio ever since that shattering, obscene noise. He wanted no details of what had happened to Charlie, and he was finished with Alice now. For her sake he had to be. Even Alice couldn't disapprove of desertion if it was to keep her alive. He forced himself to read on. Alice was still unconscious, and the man they had thought was Craig had been blown to bits. Poor Charlie had been in his shoes once too often. He put down the paper and rang another number. A small, infinitely polite voice said, 'Mr. Hakagawa speaking.'
'This is Craig.'
Breath hissed, quickly, at the other end of Jhe line.
'I wasn't killed,' Craig said. 'They got somebody else by mistake. I've got to see you, Hak. It's urgent.'
'Yes,' said Hakagawa. 'Come now, please.'
The Japanese hung up, and Craig went to look for a taxi. On the way to Kensington he thought about Baumer, and wondered where he'd gone. The states maybe, or Brazil. Baumer had always wanted to five in Rio, and he had enough money, after the last trip. But they'd be looking for Baumer, as they'd looked for him, and hating Baumer even more, for the men who hunted were anti-Semites, an idea they'd borrowed from the Nazis, as they'd borrowed militarism and the Fuhrerprinzip and their one overwhelmingly important creed, the everlasting superiority of the white man. Craig shivered. He knew they would find Baumer. If they killed him quickly he would be
