SMETHWICK'S G GARAGE, Carlisle: Carlisle: "Morning, Missus. When you've got a minute..."

"Be right with you, officer. Just let me attend to this gentleman...twelve and sixpence, please, sir. Thank you. Good-bye...."

"How's business?"

"Terrible as usual. What can I do for you?"

"Can we go in the office for a minute?"

"Aye, come on...now, then."

"Take a look at this picture and tell me whether you've served that man with petrol recently."

"Well, it shouldn't be too difficult. It's not as if we get hordes of customers pa.s.sing through...ohh! D'you know, I think I have served him!"

"When?"

"Day before yesterday, in the morning."

"How sure are you?"

"Well...he was older than the picture, but I'm pretty sure."

"What was he driving?"

"A grey car. I'm no good on makes, this is my husband's business really, but he's in the Navy now."

"Well, what did it look like?"

"It was the old sort, with a canvas roof that comes up. A two-seater. Sporty. It had a spare petrol tank bolted to the running board, and I filled that too."

"Do you remember what he was wearing?"

"Not really...working clothes, I think."

"A tall man?"

"Yes, taller than you."

"Have you got a telephone?..."

WILLIAM DUNCAN was twenty-five years old, five-feet-ten, weighed a trim 150 pounds and was in first-cla.s.s health. His open-air life and total lack of interest in tobacco, drink, late nights and loose living kept him that way. Yet he was not in the armed services. was twenty-five years old, five-feet-ten, weighed a trim 150 pounds and was in first-cla.s.s health. His open-air life and total lack of interest in tobacco, drink, late nights and loose living kept him that way. Yet he was not in the armed services.

He had seemed to be a normal child, if a little backward, until the age of eight, when his mind had lost the ability to develop any further. There had been no trauma that anyone knew about, no physical damage to account for sudden breakdown. Indeed it was some years before anyone noticed that there was anything wrong, for at the age of ten he was no more than a little backward, and at twelve he was just dim-witted; but by fifteen he was obviously simple, and by eighteen he was known as Daft Willie.

His parents were both members of an obscure fundamentalist religious group whose members were not allowed to marry outside the church (which may or may not have had anything to do with Willie's daftness). They prayed for him, of course; but they also took him to a specialist in Stirling. The doctor, an elderly man, did several tests and then told them, over the tops of his gold-rimmed half-gla.s.ses, that the boy had a mental age of eight and his mind would grow no older, ever. They continued to pray for him, but they suspected that the Lord had sent this to try them, so they made sure Willie was Saved and looked forward to the day when they would meet him in the Glory and he would be healed. Meanwhile, he needed a job.

An eight-year-old can herd cows, but herding cows is nevertheless a job, so Daft Willie became a cowherd. And it was while herding cows that he saw the car for the first time.

He a.s.sumed there were lovers in it.

Willie knew about lovers. That is to say, he knew that lovers existed, and that they did unmentionable things to one another in dark places like copses and cinemas and cars; and that one did not speak of them. So he hurried the cows quickly past the bush beside which was parked the 1924 Morris Cowley Bullnose two-seater (he knew about cars, too, like any eight-year-old) and tried very hard not to look inside it in case he should behold sin.

He took his little herd into the cowshed for milking, went by a roundabout route to his home, ate supper, read a chapter from Leviticus to his father-aloud, painstakingly-then went to bed to dream about lovers.

The car was still there on the evening of the next day.

For all his innocence Willie knew that lovers did not do whatever it was that they did to one another for twenty-four hours at a stretch, so this time he went right up to the car and looked inside. It was empty. The ground beneath the engine was black and sticky with oil. Willie devised a new explanation: the car had broken down and had been abandoned by its driver. It did not occur to him to wonder why it had been semiconcealed in a bush.

When he arrived at the cowshed he told the farmer what he had seen. "There's a broken-down car on the path up by the main road."

The farmer was a big man with heavy sand-colored eyebrows, which drew together when he was thinking. "Was there n.o.body about?"

"No-and it was there yesterday."

"Why did you not tell me yesterday, then?"

Willie blushed. "I thought it was maybe...you know...lovers."

The farmer realized that Willie was not being coy, but was genuinely embarra.s.sed. He patted the boy's shoulder. "Well, away home and leave it to me to deal with."

After the milking the farmer went to look for himself. It did did occur to him to wonder why the car was semiconcealed. He had heard about the London stiletto murderer, and while he did not jump to the conclusion that the car had been abandoned by the killer, all the same he thought there might be a connection between the car and some crime or other; so after supper he sent his eldest son into the village on horseback to telephone the police in Stirling. occur to him to wonder why the car was semiconcealed. He had heard about the London stiletto murderer, and while he did not jump to the conclusion that the car had been abandoned by the killer, all the same he thought there might be a connection between the car and some crime or other; so after supper he sent his eldest son into the village on horseback to telephone the police in Stirling.

The police arrived before his son got back from the phone. There were at least a dozen of them, every one apparently a non-stop tea drinker. The farmer and his wife were up half the night looking after them.

Daft Willie was summoned to tell his story again, repeating that he had first seen the car the previous evening, blushing again when he explained that he had a.s.sumed it contained lovers.

All in all, it was their most exciting night of the war.

THAT EVENING, Percival G.o.dliman, facing his fourth consecutive night in the office, went home to bathe, change and pack a suitcase. Percival G.o.dliman, facing his fourth consecutive night in the office, went home to bathe, change and pack a suitcase.

He had a service flat in a block in Chelsea. It was small, though big enough for a single man, and it was clean and tidy except for the study, which the cleaning lady was not allowed to enter and as a consequence was littered with books and papers. The furniture was all prewar, of course, but it was rather well chosen, and the flat had a comfortable air. There were leather club chairs and a gramophone in the living room, and the kitchen was full of hardly used labor-saving devices.

While his bath was filling he smoked a cigarette-he had taken to them lately, a pipe was too much fuss-and looked at his most valuable possession, a grimly fantastic medieval scene that was probably by Hieronymous Bosch. It was a family heirloom and G.o.dliman had never sold it, even when he needed the money.

In the bath he thought about Barbara d.i.c.kens and her son Peter. He had not told anyone about her, not even Bloggs, although he had been about to mention her during their conversation about remarrying, but Colonel Terry had interrupted. She was a widow; her husband had been killed in action at the very beginning of the war. G.o.dliman did not know how old she was, but she looked about forty, which was young for the mother of a twenty-two-year-old boy. She worked on decoding intercepted enemy signals, and she was bright, amusing and very attractive. She was also rich. G.o.dliman had taken her to dinner three times before the present crisis blew up. He thought she was in love with him.

She had contrived a meeting between G.o.dliman and her son Peter, who was a captain. G.o.dliman liked the boy. But he knew something that neither Barbara nor her son was aware of: Peter was going to France on D-Day.

And whether or not the Germans were there waiting for him depended on whether they caught Die Nadel.

He got out of the bath and took a long, careful shave and asked himself, Am I in love with her? He was not sure what love ought to feel like in middle age. Not, surely, the burning pa.s.sion of youth. Affection, admiration, tenderness, and a trace of uncertain l.u.s.t? If they amounted to love, he loved her.

And he needed to share his life, now. For years he had wanted only solitude and his research. Now the camaraderie of Military Intelligence was sucking him in: the parties, the all-night sessions when something big broke, the spirit of dedicated amateurism, the frantic pleasure-seeking of people to whom death is always close and never predictable-all these had infected him. It would vanish after the war, he knew; but other things would remain: the need to talk to someone close about his disappointment and his triumphs, the need to touch someone else at night, the need to say, "There! Look at that! Isn't it fine?"

War was grueling and oppressive and frustrating and uncomfortable, but one had friends. If peace brought back loneliness, G.o.dliman thought he would not be able to live with it.

Right now the feel of clean underwear and a crisply ironed shirt was the ultimate luxury. He put more fresh clothes in a case, then sat down to enjoy a gla.s.s of whisky before returning to the office. The military chauffeur in the commandeered Daimler outside could wait a little longer.

He was filling a pipe when the phone rang. He put down the pipe and lit a cigarette instead.

His phone was connected to the War Office switchboard. The operator told him that a Chief Superintendent Dalkeith was calling from Stirling.

He waited for the click of the connection. "G.o.dliman speaking."

"We've found your Morris Cowley," Dalkeith said without preamble.

"Where?"

"On the A80 just south of Stirling."

"Empty?"

"Aye, broken down. It's been there at least twenty-four hours. It was driven a few yards off the main road and hidden in a bush. A half-witted farm boy found it."

"Is there a bus stop or railway station within walking distance of the spot?"

"No."

"So it's likely our man had to walk or hitchhike after leaving the car."

"Aye."

"In that case, will you ask around-"

"We're already trying to find out whether anyone local saw him or gave him a lift."

"Good. Let me know...Meanwhile, I'll pa.s.s the news to the Yard. Thank you, Dalkeith."

"We'll keep in touch. Good-bye, sir."

G.o.dliman put the phone on the hook and went into his study. He sat down with an atlas open to the road map of northern Britain. London, Liverpool, Carlisle, Stirling...Faber was heading for northeast Scotland.

G.o.dliman wondered whether he should reconsider the theory that Faber was trying to get out. The best way out was west, via neutral Eire. Scotland's east coast, however, was the site of all sorts of military activity. Was it possible that Faber had the nerve to continue his reconnaissance, knowing that MI5 was on his tail? It was possible, G.o.dliman decided-he knew Faber had a lot of guts-but nevertheless unlikely. Nothing the man might discover in Scotland could be as important as the information he already had.

Therefore Faber was getting out via the east coast. G.o.dliman ran over the methods of escape which were open to the spy: a light plane, landing on a lonely moor; a one-man voyage across the North Sea in a stolen vessel; a rendezvous with a U-boat, as Bloggs had speculated, off the coast; a pa.s.sage in a merchant ship via a neutral country to the Baltic, disembarking in Sweden and crossing the border to occupied Norway...there were too many ways.

In any case the Yard must be told of the latest development. They would ask all Scots police forces to try to find someone who had picked up a hitchhiker outside Stirling. G.o.dliman returned to the living room to phone, but the instrument rang before he got there. He picked it up.

"G.o.dliman speaking."

"A Mr. Richard Porter is calling from Aberdeen."

"Oh!" G.o.dliman had been expecting Bloggs to check in from Carlisle. "Put him on, please. h.e.l.lo? G.o.dliman speaking."

"Ah, Richard Porter here. I'm on the local Watch Committee up here."

"Yes, what can I do for you?"

"Well, actually, old boy, it's terribly embarra.s.sing."

G.o.dliman controlled his impatience. "Go on."

"This chappie you're looking for-knife murders and so on. Well, I'm pretty sure I gave the bally fellow a lift in my own car."

G.o.dliman gripped the receiver more tightly. "When?"

"Night before last. My car broke down on the A80 just outside Stirling. Middle of the bally night. Along comes this chappie, on foot, and mends it, just like that. So naturally-"

"Where did you drop him?"

"Right here in Aberdeen. Said he was going on to Banff. Thing is, I slept most of yesterday, so it wasn't until this afternoon-"

"Don't reproach yourself, Mr. Porter. Thank you for calling."

"Well, good-bye."

G.o.dliman jiggled the receiver and the War Office operator came back on the line.

G.o.dliman said: "Get Mr. Bloggs for me, would you? He's in Carlisle."

"He's holding on for you right now, sir."

"Good!"

"h.e.l.lo, Percy. What news?"

"We're on his trail again, Fred. He was identified in a garage in Carlisle, and he abandoned the Morris just outside Stirling and hitched a lift to Aberdeen."

"Aberdeen!"

"He must be trying to get out through the east door."

"When did he reach Aberdeen?"

"Probably early yesterday morning."