The Hansa Protocol Read Online Free
Author: Norman Russell
Lieutenant Arthur Fenlake.’
Inspector Box and Sergeant Knollys walked back up from Waterman’s Pier. They said nothing until they had emerged from the gloomy alleysto the south of Walbrook, and were within sight of the vast meeting-hall in St Swithin’s Lane. Its windows were now dark, and the collection of ostlers and coachmen who had been there earlier, had disappeared from the street.
‘Let’s walk up to the Mansion House, Sergeant Knollys, and take a cab from there back to the Rents. This is the coldest New Year’s Eve I’ve ever known. There’s no need for us to go back into that hall. It’s nearly ten now, and they’ll be done by half past.’
Knollys did not seem to hear what Box was saying. He stopped in the lane, and glanced back towards the dimly lit alleys that led down to the Thames.
‘Sir,’ asked Sergeant Knollys, ‘what was that constable talking about? PC Peabody? For a rough-and-ready riverside character he seemed to know far more than was good for him.’
‘Joe Peabody is a constable in the River Police. He’s been a galleyman since he was a lad. He joined the force when they still had the old floating station near Somerset House. But he’s also a recruit into a special body of men who assist the security services. I don’t know much about them, but I once found myself on the fringes of some business that involved them, and the man who runs them. That’s when I met Joe Peabody.’
‘So he’s got special powers—’
‘No, Sergeant. He’s just a police constable. But over and above his daily work, he’ll do little portions of a job for someone, without necessarily knowing why he’s doing it. This time, he recognized the man in the river for what he was, and told his inspector. Bob Cross knows about Joe, and asks no questions. And it might be a good idea, Sergeant, if you did likewise.’
At the Mansion House they hailed a cab to Whitehall. Quite a throng of New Year’s Eve revellers were making themselves heard on the crowded pavements as they rattled towards the Strand.
‘You’re on duty all day tomorrow, aren’t you, sir? A bit of a tall order, is that.’
‘I don’t mind, Sergeant. Somebody’s got to step into the breach on a Sunday. It’s not as though it’s a bank holiday, like in Scotland. Mahogany, they call it.’
Knollys hid a smile behind his hand.
‘Do they, sir? Mahogany? Well, I never knew that!’
‘Oh, yes. And in any case, I’m off duty all day Monday, in lieu. I arranged that months ago with Old Growler. So on Monday afternoon, Sergeant, I shall accompany my friend Miss Whittaker to the theatre, followed by a slap-up dinner at Simpson’s.’
‘I’m sorry I won’t be able to come with you, sir. But duty calls, I’m afraid.’
Box was silent for a moment. He glanced out of the window at the crowds congregating at the brightly lit doors of public houses and taverns. Each of those men and women had a right to call upon his services. Knollys had meant his remark as a tease, but it held its own truth.
‘You’re right, Sergeant. Duty always calls. I’m thinking of that poor murdered man, Stefan Oliver. Shot in the back – for what? It’s none of our business, and in the nature of things it won’t be made public. But I wonder …. How did Joe Peabody know that I’d be up there, listening to old Dr Seligmann? And why me ,Sergeant? Maybe it’s a hint from higher up. Maybe I’m going to be drawn into this business of Stefan Oliver whether I like it or not.’
His mind conjured up once more the bleak environs of Waterman’s Pier, and the lifeless body of the Foreign Office courier. Duty had called for him, too, and had led him to his death. What had that cynical old constable said about him? Someone had delivered Stefan Oliver like a badly addressed parcel: Returned to Sender.
2
Calls of Duty
Laughing and chattering, the matinée audience erupted on to the pavement in front of the Savoy Theatre. The busy Strand was thronged with
Inspector Box and Sergeant Knollys walked back up from Waterman’s Pier. They said nothing until they had emerged from the gloomy alleysto the south of Walbrook, and were within sight of the vast meeting-hall in St Swithin’s Lane. Its windows were now dark, and the collection of ostlers and coachmen who had been there earlier, had disappeared from the street.
‘Let’s walk up to the Mansion House, Sergeant Knollys, and take a cab from there back to the Rents. This is the coldest New Year’s Eve I’ve ever known. There’s no need for us to go back into that hall. It’s nearly ten now, and they’ll be done by half past.’
Knollys did not seem to hear what Box was saying. He stopped in the lane, and glanced back towards the dimly lit alleys that led down to the Thames.
‘Sir,’ asked Sergeant Knollys, ‘what was that constable talking about? PC Peabody? For a rough-and-ready riverside character he seemed to know far more than was good for him.’
‘Joe Peabody is a constable in the River Police. He’s been a galleyman since he was a lad. He joined the force when they still had the old floating station near Somerset House. But he’s also a recruit into a special body of men who assist the security services. I don’t know much about them, but I once found myself on the fringes of some business that involved them, and the man who runs them. That’s when I met Joe Peabody.’
‘So he’s got special powers—’
‘No, Sergeant. He’s just a police constable. But over and above his daily work, he’ll do little portions of a job for someone, without necessarily knowing why he’s doing it. This time, he recognized the man in the river for what he was, and told his inspector. Bob Cross knows about Joe, and asks no questions. And it might be a good idea, Sergeant, if you did likewise.’
At the Mansion House they hailed a cab to Whitehall. Quite a throng of New Year’s Eve revellers were making themselves heard on the crowded pavements as they rattled towards the Strand.
‘You’re on duty all day tomorrow, aren’t you, sir? A bit of a tall order, is that.’
‘I don’t mind, Sergeant. Somebody’s got to step into the breach on a Sunday. It’s not as though it’s a bank holiday, like in Scotland. Mahogany, they call it.’
Knollys hid a smile behind his hand.
‘Do they, sir? Mahogany? Well, I never knew that!’
‘Oh, yes. And in any case, I’m off duty all day Monday, in lieu. I arranged that months ago with Old Growler. So on Monday afternoon, Sergeant, I shall accompany my friend Miss Whittaker to the theatre, followed by a slap-up dinner at Simpson’s.’
‘I’m sorry I won’t be able to come with you, sir. But duty calls, I’m afraid.’
Box was silent for a moment. He glanced out of the window at the crowds congregating at the brightly lit doors of public houses and taverns. Each of those men and women had a right to call upon his services. Knollys had meant his remark as a tease, but it held its own truth.
‘You’re right, Sergeant. Duty always calls. I’m thinking of that poor murdered man, Stefan Oliver. Shot in the back – for what? It’s none of our business, and in the nature of things it won’t be made public. But I wonder …. How did Joe Peabody know that I’d be up there, listening to old Dr Seligmann? And why me ,Sergeant? Maybe it’s a hint from higher up. Maybe I’m going to be drawn into this business of Stefan Oliver whether I like it or not.’
His mind conjured up once more the bleak environs of Waterman’s Pier, and the lifeless body of the Foreign Office courier. Duty had called for him, too, and had led him to his death. What had that cynical old constable said about him? Someone had delivered Stefan Oliver like a badly addressed parcel: Returned to Sender.
2
Calls of Duty
Laughing and chattering, the matinée audience erupted on to the pavement in front of the Savoy Theatre. The busy Strand was thronged with
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