‘You mean, he was well placed to have done a deal with the Germans?’
‘I didn’t say that. For a start, Shanklin is too obvious a candidate. But he was certainly involved in some sort of racket out there — as I suspect many people were.’
‘But what makes you think he’ll talk to you? — always assuming he’s got something to tell you?’
‘I don’t know, I’m just taking a chance. But Shanklin’s supposed to be sociable, garrulous, a good high-class gossip, and he’s also said to be on good terms with the Press. Anyway, even if he doesn’t tell me anything, it’ll be interesting to see his reactions.’
Anna said, ‘If he was really involved in any deals with the Nazis, he’ll keep his mouth shut and warn the others.’
‘That’s part of the chance I’ll be taking. And it’s always possible that what he doesn’t tell me will be as useful as what he does. Ask any policeman.’
Toby Marchmont Shanklin, CBE, MC, was less accessible than Tom Hawn expected. Hawn’s reputation and by-line had proved a passport to the highest, the mightiest; but not so to Toby Shanklin, erstwhile executive and chief trouble-shooter for ABCO, the world’s richest and most powerful oil company.
Hawn first wrote, in a private capacity — since he was loath to involve his paper in this escapade — to Shanklin, c/o America-Britannic Consortium, at their London tower block headquarters, where he knew Shanklin still maintained an office as ‘industrial consultant’. He received no reply.
Next he wrote to one of Shanklin’s most exclusive clubs, again privately, and again heard nothing. The man was ex-directory, of course, but Hawn managed to get his address from the office files: a private mews house off South Audley Street. This time Hawn wrote on office notepaper, in his reluctant capacity of senior reporter. Shanklin replied at his leisure — a scrawled message asking Hawn to meet him for lunch at an odiously expensive restaurant in Knightsbridge. But when Hawn arrived, he was informed by the head waiter that Mr Shanklin had phoned to say that he was unavoidably detained. He never turned up.
Hawn tried ringing his home address a couple of times, at respectable hours, but in vain. Finally, at around eleven one evening, he called the Clermont Club. He was informed that Mr Shanklin was dining there. Hawn gave his name and added that it was a matter of some urgency. He hung on for ten minutes; then was told that Mr Shanklin would see him at 12.45, at his home address.
At 12.30 p.m. Hawn drove up to the entrance of the cobbled mews. It was barred with a white pole and a sentry box; the pole had a black and white sign:
PRIVATE THOROUGHFARE
ABSOLUTELY NO PARKING DAY OR NIGHT
OFFENDERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
A uniformed commissionaire came out of the box and said officiously, ‘Who do you want?’ At the name ‘Shanklin’ he became deferential and raised the pole.
Hawn edged his old grey Citroën between the double rank of Rollses, Mercedeses, the occasional Porsche.
Shanklin’s front door was of pale oak in a steep narrow house at the end of the mews. There were no lights in any of the windows. The door was flanked by coaching lamps, and had a lot of brass fittings and several locks. Hawn stared through the Judas eye as he rang the bell. No answer came from within.
He had no idea what Shanklin’s nocturnal habits were: how many backgammon games he played, and whether he then might move on to pursue the amorous delights of the nightclub below. He suspected that this might mean his hanging around here for some hours; and not wanting to be seen loitering, he risked leaving his car and strolled back up the mews to the austere empty streets in the backwaters of Mayfair. He was beginning to feel quite like a junior reporter again on a leg-job.
Shanklin’s bell did not answer until after 2.30. His voice sounded squeaky through the intercom: ‘Yes, who is it?’ Hawn told him. ‘Oh, yes, all right, come in.’ The main bolt clicked and the door snapped ajar.
There were still no lights in the windows. Inside it was very dark. A voice called from a door to his left: ‘This way!’
Hawn entered a pine-panelled room: black leather armchairs, military prints around the walls, a gas ‘log’-fire in an immense mock Adam fireplace. The floor was divided by a long table on which there was a recording machine with a telephone attachment (officially allowed in Britain only under police licence), a battery of more telephones, stacks of paper. A filing cabinet reached to the ceiling. The rest of the wall space was filled with reference books. But the oddest feature in the room was a large television set, with the sound turned off, showing what Hawn vaguely recognized as ‘Sale of the Century’. It was not a programme which he voluntarily watched, but he did know that it came on early in the evening, at weekends.
The man behind the table caught his glance. ‘My new little toy — video-recorder. Wonderful things. I’ve got Citizen Kane, Lavender Hill Mob, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. It was a present from Yamani.’
He was in his shirt-sleeves, his tie undone, and it took Hawn a moment to realize — by the light of the green-shaded desk lamp — that
