Johnny Under Ground Page 16

  “Really? From whom?”

  “From Annie,” said Henry, backing his hunch that Mrs. Meadowes had been less than frank.

  It seemed that his guess had not been right, however, for Smith relaxed visibly. “You can ask her, of course,” he said, “but I doubt if you’ll get much joy. It’s none of my business, of course. None at all. But if you’ll take a word of advice from an old pal of Emmy’s, let it drop, old man. Just let it drop, eh?”

  Outside the showroom Henry slipped into a phone booth and contacted his office with a couple of queries. He then repaired to his favorite pub for a late lunch.

  By the time he got back to Scotland Yard the answers were on his desk. The first report assured him that no airline had any record of a Mr. and Mrs. Smith flying to Paris on Saturday afternoon or evening. A Mrs. Smith, alone, had traveled on the 2.15 P.M. plane, a Miss Smith had caught the 4.50, while no less than three separate Mr. Smiths had booked on the 5.30, 7.15, and 11.59 flights. It was, of course, impossible to check on individual rail-and-boat travelers, but the Hotel Etoile had confirmed the Smiths’ visit. They had most certainly been in Paris, and had arrived there by train. Henry felt the depression that always accompanied an exploded theory.

  The second report, however, cheered him up a little, for at least it gave him a lead. It stated that, in accordance with his request, a check had been made on telephone calls outgoing from the number of Supercharged Motors that day. Most of them were local calls of no significance; but, within five minutes of Henry’s leaving the showroom, a call had been put through to Whitchurch.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE AIR MINISTRY had been puzzled, but cooperative. Certainly, said the Squadron Leader who had finally agreed that Henry’s request was “his pigeon,” certainly the Chief Inspector might visit what was left of Dymfield. But he doubted if there’d be much to see. Just a few broken-down buildings and overgrown runways—most of the airfield had been handed back as agricultural land. The Officers’ Mess had disappeared altogether, of course. As for the Operations Block—yes, it was still there, on Care and Maintenance. It was used for occasional training courses. The Squadron Leader agreed to provide Henry with a junior officer, armed with the necessary authority and keys, to act as a guide; he was also happy that Emmy and Detective-Sergeant Reynolds should complete the party.

  So it was that the four of them set out from London on Friday morning, a bright, shiny day. The countryside was looking new-washed after the rain, and the pale blue sky was scudding with small white clouds. Henry drove the police car himself, with the Sergeant sitting stiffly beside him. In the back Emmy tried to make conversation with the young officer, who had introduced himself as Pilot Officer Simmonds.

  He looked, Emmy thought, far too young to be in uniform at all, let alone to hold a commission. He couldn’t be more than nineteen. Then she remembered that at the same age she had held an equivalent rank and rather more responsibility. Suddenly she laughed aloud. Pilot Officer Simmonds looked startled.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Emmy. “I was thinking.”

  “Oh, yes?” said Simmonds politely.

  “I was thinking that one doesn’t really grow older; it’s just that other people grow younger.”

  “Oh, really?” Simmonds was definitely alarmed now.

  “You haven’t an idea what I’m talking about,” said Emmy. “But just you wait for twenty years or so.”

  “Er—yes, Mrs. Tibbett. I’ll do that.”

  The conversation languished. Emmy had gathered that Simmonds had recently completed his flying training course and was temporarily at Air Ministry waiting for a posting, which he hoped would be overseas. He showed a most correct reluctance to talk about the new aircraft on which he had trained, and an amused tolerance when Emmy mentioned the antiquated models of her own epoch. It was like chatting to a jet pilot about one’s experiences in a Tiger Moth. She gave up.

  The Dymfield operational site looked extraordinarily unchanged. The buildings were shabbier, of course, and to Emmy’s eyes had suffered the inevitable shrinkage of places revisited; but the Guardroom was still there, and the grass and concrete mounds with their heavy metal doors looked the same as ever—to an outsider, bleak and forbidding, leading to underground caverns of concrete; but to Emmy, warmly welcoming and secure, her own remembered domain.

  Simmonds produced a key and unlocked the main gate into the compound. Emmy ran ahead and arrived at the door of the Operations Room. There she paused, with her hand on the big iron handle, and listened to the footsteps coming up the concrete path behind her—and the years fell away.

  “Hey, Blandish!”

  “What…? Oh, yes sir.”

  “Less of the ‘sir’ from you. There’s nobody listening, idiot.”

  “It’s not that; it’s a question of discipline, Beau. All the other junior officers have to…”

  “To hell with the other junior officers. Going on duty, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re early. It’s only ten to two.”

  “I know. But I didn’t want to be late. After all, it’s a very special afternoon, isn’t it?”

  “I’m glad you’re going to be on duty, Emmy. I’ll be in safe hands.”

  “Don’t be silly. You won’t need any help.”

  “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I was—I was hoping to catch you. To say ‘good-bye.’”

  “Good-bye? Whatever do you mean?”

  “I’m going to—that is, I’ve put in for leave. Starting tomorrow. Barbara is—oh—you know how she is. So I’ve arranged a surprise for her. Three weeks in Scotland.”

  “But Beau, there’s the tennis match next week and—why didn’t you tell us you were going away?”

  “Didn’t know myself. Spur of the moment, half an hour ago. As a matter of fact—can you keep a secret, Blandish?”

  “You know I can.”

  “Well, then, try this one for size. I’m not coming back to Dymfield. I’ve applied for a posting.”

  “A—posting…?”

  “I think you know why, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t.”

  “Well, think it out…”

  “Beau.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ve never given me my photograph, the tennis team one.”

  “I haven’t got it. Lofty gave it to Annie to sign and she’s to pass it on to me, but she hasn’t yet.”

  “So I’ll never get it now.”

  “Of course you will, idiot.”

  “But not with your signature…”

  “Well, don’t look so tragic. You can send it to me at my new station and I’ll sign it for you. Okay?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there, woman. Go on in. It’s five to two.”

  “Beau, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right. Steady as a rock.”

  “Be careful this evening. Please be careful.”

  “I’ll be careful, all right. D’you think I want to break my neck?”

  “I must go now. Good-bye, Beau.”

  “Good-bye, Blandish.”

  “Here we are then, Mrs. Tibbett. This is the Operations Room entrance, isn’t it? Let’s see, Operations Room—this is the key…” There was a click as the key turned, and then Pilot Officer Simmonds pushed open the black door. “Better let me go first.”

  “No, I’ll go,” said Emmy. “I know where to find the light switches.”

  “Be careful, Mrs. Tibbett! There’s a steep flight of steps…”

  “I know.”

  Slowly, Emmy went down the familiar concrete steps in the darkness. Automatically, her hand reached out to the panel of light switches. As the lights came on, the three men came clattering down behind her. The young Pilot Officer was whistling the latest pop hit, and the Detective Sergeant remarked that it smelt a bit musty down here. Emmy turned to
her left, and walked down a short corridor, through a heavy soundproof door, and into the Operations Room.

  It was like coming into an empty theater. The central area of the large underground room was flooded with light. Here, more than six feet below the glassed-in gallery where Emmy stood, the big map-topped table filled the semicircular space. A section of the eastern coastline of England was boldly drawn and the whole surface squared like graph paper for grid reference. Red and blue arrows—relics of the last training operation—showed the tracks of nonexistent aircraft approaching the coast. Around the table lay the paraphernalia of the plotters—the telephone headsets, the boxes of colored arrows, the sticks, like billiard cues, for pushing the arrows into position out of arm’s reach.

  Henry came into the gallery and stood beside Emmy in the dimness, looking down on the floodlit table. It took very little imagination to people the room with young figures in pale blue battle dress, and to visualize the red arrows as the actual paths of Heinkels or Dorniers and the outgoing blue tracks as the courses of defending Typhoons.

  Henry put his arm around Emmy. He could feel that she was shivering.

  “That’s the plotting table,” she said, unnecessarily. “We worked up here. It was always dark up here on the gallery, so that we could see the table more clearly.”

  “Dismal old holes, these, aren’t they?” said Simmonds. “And what with steam radar, and horse-drawn aircraft—it’s a wonder to me they did as well as they did.”

  Emmy was nettled. “A certain amount of skill entered into it, you know,” she said. She was pleased to find that the spurt of irritation improved her morale.

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Tibbett. Of course.”

  Young Simmonds had gone very pink, and Emmy realized that she must have spoken more sharply than she had intended. She also realized, with a pang, how old and awe-inspiring she must appear to this boy.

  Henry made a painstakingly thorough investigation of the Operations Room. He questioned Simmonds about old records and was not surprised to hear that they had long since been destroyed. He also learned that there was no permanent staff at Dymfield.

  “Well,” he said at last, “I don’t know what it was that Lofty hoped to find here, except atmosphere.” He turned to Emmy. “Just one thing. Could you show me, on the table here, the approximate course of Guest’s aircraft?”

  Emmy picked up a plotter’s rod. “Radar picked him up here.” She indicated a spot about ten miles to the northwest of Dymfield. “He was circling, gaining height. At about angels fifteen, fifteen thousand feet, he stopped stooging about and set a course on zero-nine-zero which is due east—heading for the coast.” The rod moved over the enormous map. “That’s when I called him up and got his answer. He came out over the sea in a wide loop, something like this…” The rod traced a circle, which crossed the coast, then turned northward, and finally came inland again. “I couldn’t make out what he was doing. And he wouldn’t answer my radio calls. Then he turned east again, about here…” The rod hovered just inland, some fifteen miles north of Dymfield. “That was when we got the ‘Tally-ho’ call. Then, due east, losing height all the way. We lost him about here…” She marked a point about twenty-five miles out to sea. “The radar stations couldn’t get him any longer, because he’d gotten too low by then. He must have gone into the water about here.” The rod touched a spot a few miles farther on. “Not so far off the Dutch coast.”

  “And nothing was ever found?”

  “Not that I know of. Some bits of wreckage were washed up, I believe, but nothing identifiable. There were quite a few wrecked aircraft strewn around in the sea in those days.”

  “Supposing the aircraft had come right down, almost to sea level, and then carried on toward Holland? Would it have looked any different on your table?”

  “Well—no. But it would never have survived over the other side. The German guns would have gotten it.” Emmy paused and then said, “You’ve been talking to Annie, haven’t you?”

  “I’m only trying to consider all the possibilities,” said Henry.

  “But we all know what happened…”

  Henry looked across to the other side of the gallery where Pilot Officer Simmonds was giving an elementary lecture on radar to a fascinated Sergeant Reynolds. Then he said, “I’m afraid, darling, that you’ll have to face the fact that the official explanation is pretty unsatisfactory. And don’t forget that Lofty was murdered.”

  Emmy nodded. “I’m not really frightened,” she said, “but I do wish I understood.”

  “So do I,” said Henry.

  When they were out in the pale sunshine again, Emmy said to Henry, “Sammy was perfectly right. I can’t wait to get to the local pub and have a stiff drink.”

  “Right,” said Henry. “We’ll have lunch now and come back to look at the rest of Dymfield afterward. Where’s the best place to go?”

  Emmy considered. “We always used the Duke’s Head in Dymfield village. Heaven knows what it’s like now. It used to be excellent.”

  The pub turned out to be as good as Emmy had remembered, even though the landlord she had known had left some years before. The thatched and half-timbered exterior had not changed for three hundred years, nor had the oak-beamed bar parlor. The parking lot had recently been enlarged and a splendid rotary grill installed in the dining room, but the bitter beer tasted the same as ever.

  After lunch Henry looked at his watch and said, “We’d better be off soon.” He gave Emmy a meaning look, which she interpreted correctly as a hint to go and powder her nose.

  When she came back the three men were standing near the door, chatting and laughing. There was a moment of silence as they saw Emmy.

  Then Henry said, “I was just thinking, darling. You don’t really want to spend the afternoon hanging around a drafty airfield, do you? Why don’t you stay here and have another cup of coffee. We won’t be very long.”

  “Hey, what is this?” Emmy demanded, laughing. “Did I disgrace myself this morning? Or are you three up to something?”

  “Of course not,” said Henry. “It’s just that I don’t think it will interest you…”

  Emmy was about to insist on going with them, when she checked herself. She knew Henry so well, and was so accustomed to cooperating with him, that in normal circumstances she would have appreciated instantly that he wanted her to stay at the Duke’s Head for some good reason which he could not at the moment explain. With a jerk she realized that this was not a sentimental journey for Emmy Blandish, but a murder investigation for Henry Tibbett. She said, “No, you’re quite right. And I think it’s clouding over. I’ll stay here.”

  Sitting on the chintzy window seat and watching the car drive off toward Dymfield, Emmy felt desolate. At first she put it down to a rather childish sense of being unwanted, but after a minute or so she pinned down the unpleasant sensation and identified it for what it was. It was fear.

  She shook herself. This was ridiculous. Soon Henry and the others would be back. She tried not to think about the hints Henry had dropped concerning her own safety; but little stabbing tremors kept rising in her mind, like water snakes breaking the surface of a dark pool. She was quite alone. The hotel seemed deserted.

  Then she heard the whisper of tires on the gravel of the parking lot. The car itself was out of her range of vision, but she heard the engine being switched off, the bang of a slammed door, and footsteps. In her state of nervousness these simple sounds took on a sinister significance; and as the heavy footsteps crunched nearer and nearer, she felt herself going rigid with fright. And then she laughed aloud with relief, for around the corner of the house came the familiar beanpole figure of Hildegard St. Vere Prendergast. She threw open the window and called, “Hey! Vere!”

  “Good lord. What on earth are you doing here, Emmy?”

  “Having lunch. At least, I was. Come and cheer me up. I’ve been abandoned by my husband and I’m horribly bored.”

  Vere came in, stooping low to avoid cracking his head
on the beam over the doorway. He greeted Emmy, rang the service bell, and said, “So Henry’s not with you?”

  A sour-faced waitress appeared, obviously far from pleased at being summoned. Her expression lightened, however, when she saw Vere.

  “Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Prendergast. I didn’t realize it was you.” She gave Emmy a speculative look. “How’s Mrs. Prendergast, then?” she went on pointedly.

  “Fine thanks, Dora. She’s in London today. Now, be a sport and get us a drink.”

  Dora glanced at the clock. “Fred’s just shutting up the bar, but I dare say I could get something for you, Mr. Prendergast.”

  “Good show,” said Vere. “What’s it to be, Emmy?”

  “Oh, just coffee for me, thanks.”

  “Coffee’s off,” said Dora with satisfaction.

  “Then a cup of tea…”

  “Tea’s not started yet.”

  Vere laughed. “You see? Alcohol or nothing. Have a brandy.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “Two large brandies, Dora my love.” He watched the waitress as she disappeared into the bar, and then said, “Po-faced old biddy. Have to butter her up a bit or we’d never get a drink in this place.”

  “It’s funny to think this is still one of your locals.”

  “I’d hardly call it that. We come here quite a lot in the summer… So Henry’s not with you, eh? Where is he?”

  For a moment Emmy hesitated. Then she said, “As a matter of fact, he’s at Dymfield. The airfield, I mean.”

  Vere did not appear surprised. He nodded and said, “Pity. I must just have missed him. On his own, is he?”

  “Two brandies, eight and sixpence if you please, Mr. Prendergast.” Dora had reappeared with a small tray, which she put down on the table noisily.

  Vere put some coins on the tray, raised his glass, and said, “Down the hatch!” And then, “What’s he doing at Dymfield? Nothing left of it now. I think you said he was on his own.”

  “No, he’s got a Sergeant with him—and a rather touching little Pilot Officer from Air Ministry.”

  “Touching?”