Hammond Innes - The Trojan Horse

I don’t remember taking off my clothes or removing the board from the window. All I remember is the momentary joy of the cold sheets against my tired body and the restfulness of a bed.

And then daylight was flooding in through the window and there was the sound of movement in the house. I climbed out of bed. The events of the previous day seemed like a nightmare. But the stiffness of my joints bore witness to their reality. And then I saw the sun was high over the river and I looked at my watch. It was eleven-thirty. I remembered then how much I had to do.

I washed myself quickly in cold water and hurried into my clothes. Down in the kitchen I found the old woman just beginning the day’s cooking. It was Sunday and the joint was standing floured upon the table. Her husband was sitting by the fire, his feet in a pair of old carpet slippers and a dirty clay pipe in his mouth. He was reading the News of the Globe . He looked up as I came in, peering at me over the top of a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. But he made no comment, so I said, ‘You should have woken me up.’

But the old woman smiled and shook her head. ‘A nice lie in is what yer needed,’ she said.

‘That’s right,’ the old man nodded. ‘A nice lie in. That’s wot I tells the missis.’

The old woman put the joint in the oven and then set about getting my breakfast. And all the time the old man was reading out scraps of news from the paper. I sat by the fire and tried to think out my next move. The events of the past two days seemed strangely remote. But I knew that I had made progress. I had discovered that Max Sedel was a Nazi agent, and that he had a number of agents working under him. I had discovered that he was closely connected with the dummy Calboyd shareholders, who controlled, presumably through the directors nominated by them, the policy of Calboyds. I was reasonably certain that he had murdered one of these shareholders. Above all, I had found out who controlled these dummy shareholders. But had I? I had been so certain about it when in that vault. But now I was not certain. It seemed so utterly fantastic. True, Sedel had not denied it. In fact, he had said, ‘So you know all our little secrets.’ But then he might have been just leading me on. And if I myself were not certain, then how could I expect to convince the authorities. It seemed so absurd that a man like Marburg should be a traitor to the country of his adoption. What had he to gain out of it? I had suggested to myself power. And, as a capitalist, why should the man work for the downfall of England, which was the stronghold of capitalism?

Then my breakfast was brought to me and for a while I forgot my problems in the joys of bacon and eggs. But when I had taken the edge off my appetite, my mind returned to the problem. Now that I was fed, my mind seemed more inclined to deal with realities. I found myself dismissing the problem of Marburg and concentrating on the question of the engine. Marburg could wait. The engine could not. But though I racked my brains till my head ached, I could not see how I was to prevent it from leaving the country. Quite apart from the time I should inevitably waste in convincing some responsible person of my identity, I did not know where the engine was or how they intended to smuggle it out of the country.

And then there occurred one of those incredible strokes of luck that made life so incomprehensible. My mind, browsing over my problems, occasionally caught isolated scraps of the news that the old man was reading out to his wife. And suddenly my mind fastened on the name of Marburg. I looked up from my bread and marmalade. ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

‘Eh?’ The old man looked quite startled, for it was the first word I had uttered since I had been given my breakfast, and I had spoken somewhat peremptorily.

‘What was that bit you were reading out about Marburg?’ I asked.

‘D’yer mean this about the bankers sending a boat-load of munitions to Finland? A feller called Marburg organised it, so the paper says. They’re ’olding a service on board this afternoon. There you are. Read it for yourself.’ And he handed me a page of the paper.

I seized it and spread it out on the table beside my plate. A sudden wild hope made the blood beat in my temples. I found the story. It was headed — BANKER SENDS MUNITIONS TO FINLAND. My eye ran rapidly down the column. The fight for democracy … Moral obligation to help … Service of dedication to be held at 3 p.m. this afternoon on board the Thirlmere , which is lying at the Wilson’s Wren Wharf … Baron Ferdinand Marburg, who raised the fund, will be present at the simple little ceremony. Many bankers and industrialists who subscribed will also be present… Finland’s gratitude for this generous gesture was expressed yesterday by … The precious cargo is valued at close on £100,000.’ Ah, here it was! ‘The cargo consists of 25 of the latest British fighter planes … tanks … hand-grenades … anti-tank guns … and-’ So I had been right! ‘And one of the latest Calboyd naval torpedo craft as supplied to the Royal Navy.’

I sat back in my chair. The audacity of the scheme took my breath away. I could not but feel admiration for the fellow. It was so perfect. Elementary, of course. It was one of the first things I had been taught when I went into the Intelligence over twenty-five years ago. A clever agent always puts himself in the most obvious place. But there are ways and ways of carrying out that fundamental precept. Marburg chose to do it in the grand manner. And for the first time since I left the Wendover Hotel in a deed-box, I felt elated. Sedel I knew for a secret agent who would stop at nothing. To me he was a rat whom I would avoid like the plague. I hate brute force. I always have done. Probably because as a barrister my weapon has always been my brain. Marburg I could understand. He fought with my weapons. And I could have laughed with the sheer excitement of it.

It may seem strange that I no longer had any doubts about Marburg. But that column was like a sign from heaven. The whole thing fitted too well. What a way to take an engine out of the country! Put it in a torpedo boat and ship it out of the country, together with a stack of other munitions for Finland, with the Government’s blessing, a dedication service and — I glanced down the column again. Yes, there it was. ‘The Thirlmere will have a British naval escort as far as Norwegian territorial waters.’ Perfect! And all those lovely munitions, paid for by Britain’s bankers and industrialists — where were they bound for?

In my mind’s eye I saw the British naval escort of two destroyers, perhaps, swing in a wide arc as they turned for home. And the Thirlmere , instead of keeping inside territorial waters, would turn away to the south as soon as they were out of sight. And then over the horizon would come German warships. Not only would Marburg be delivering to Germany an engine that would give her superiority in the air, but with it, as a kind of garnish, a shipload of munitions.

And what the devil was I to do about it? The thought had a dampening effect on my spirits. Somehow the Thirlmere had to be prevented from reaching Germany. But how?

I turned to the old man, who was now reading the history of a divorce case to his wife. ‘I’d like to attend this service,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘But I suppose the wharf will be closed to the public?’

He took off his glasses and peered at me out of his pale blue eyes. ‘Well, wot d’yer think? D’yer expect them to invite every bloody communist in the East End to their little do? Anyway, there’s plenty more places in the world besides Finland. Wot yer want to do — volunteer? Bloody poor look out, if yer ask me. So don’t say Alf ’Iggins didn’t warn yer. Russia’s all right looked at from a distance. But you keep yer distance, me lad. That’s wot I says.’