The train was almost empty and he sat alone in the second-class carriage thinking about the man. They were bluffing of course. They could play their games in Russia and Poland but not in England. He would ignore the whole thing. Put it out of his mind and forget it. He picked up his copy of Reveille and leafed through, glancing at the pictures. At no time did it occur to him to report the matter to the police or the security officer at Portland. It was just a try-on that hadn’t worked.
And as the days went by he did forget about the meeting and the threats. And he was all the more shocked when a month later he got a brochure through the post offering a special deal on Hoover vacuum cleaners. He was shocked but not scared. He hadn’t enough imagination to be scared. But he phoned the number the following day and he was given a time and a date.
The man came into the Toby Jug five minutes after Houghton sat down at one of the tables. He wasted no time after he had ordered two beers.
“What have you brought?”
Houghton passed him half a dozen back copies of the Hampshire Telegraph and Post. He pointed to one of the back pages, to a regular column headed “Naval and Dockyard Notes.”
“That’s all very useful stuff.”
The man read the column that consisted of nothing more than routine published information on ship movements and naval promotions and postings. He pushed the newspaper to one side and turned in his seat to look at Houghton.
“Is this meant to be some sort of joke?”
Houghton shrugged. “That’s all I can do for you, mate.”
“Maybe you don’t believe my warning about what could happen to you and your woman.”
“You can’t do anything in this country. You’d never get away with it.”
The man looked at him with half-closed eyes as he spoke. “I’m going to give you one more chance, comrade. If you don’t respond sensibly you’re going to be in very deep trouble.”
And without further words the man pushed aside the table and walked out of the pub.
For the first time Harry Houghton wondered if they really would dare to try something. For a couple of days he thought about it from time to time. But he was getting ready to move his belongings from the repository and the trailer he had moved into while he and Ethel decorated the cottage. It had taken months but it would be ready for Christmas and there was a lot to sort out now that he was on his own.
But when another Hoover brochure arrived in the post the first week in December he decided to ignore it. When in doubt do nothing was Harry Houghton’s motto.
11
The small shop in a side-street just off the Strand had shelves from floor to ceiling with row on row of books. Books were piled high on half a dozen tables and books were stacked on shelves up the stairs to the small second storey. In the small untidy inner office a glass-fronted bookcase held the really expensive volumes.
They were books of all kinds except fiction and the majority were about the Americas. The United States, Canada, South America and the Polar Regions. History, geography, economics, politics, flora and fauna, the arts, anything related to the Americas.
When the bell on the street door clanged a small white-haired man came down the rickety stairs and walked over to the man who had come in.
“Don’t let me disturb you if you want to browse. You’re very welcome to look around but if I can help you …”
“Maybe you can. Have you ever heard of a guy named Moore, a poet?”
“You must mean Clement C. Moore, died about 1860 or thereabouts.”
“That’s pretty good. Yes, he’s the guy. He had a book published called Saint Nicholas, something like that.”
“Ah yes. Actually A Visit from Saint Nicholas.”
“That’s the one. You got it by any chance?”
“No. I could get you a copy maybe, if you’re not in a hurry.”
“How long would it take?”
“Oh, that’s very hard to say. Months rather than weeks, I’m afraid. Especially if you wanted the original edition.”
“Yep. That’s what I wanted. Well maybe I’ll leave you my card. I’m at the US Embassy. I’ll give you a call in a few months’ time.”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
When the customer had left the white-haired man went back up to his small office and sat looking at the visiting card. The American was the naval attaché at the US Embassy. He reached for the telephone, hesitated, then slid the card into the drawer of his desk. He was fifty, a spry, healthy-looking man with a ready smile and already well-respected in London’s antiquarian book world. It was known that he was a New Zealander and only just established, but he knew his subject and had a reputation for fair dealing. He didn’t deal in the areas that most dealers covered, he was a genuine specialist and he passed on leads to other booksellers for a small commission. And even apart from business he was a likeable man. He didn’t talk about his past but that was understandable. He was a Jew and he had been in Europe before he became a refugee to New Zealand. People assumed that he had a background of persecution and concentration camps as many others did who were now in London. Nobody wanted to open old wounds, neither his nor theirs.
He and his wife lived in a typical London suburb in a modest bungalow. 45 Cranley Drive, Ruislip, was quite small. Mock Tudor with white-washed walls and fake beams with a small front garden and a drive up to the garage. His wife, Helen, was forty-seven, also white-haired and with alert eyes that were always on the edge of a smile. Obviously well-educated and capable she looked a very compatible wife for her bookseller husband.
The bookshop didn’t open on Saturdays. It wasn’t worth
