Текст книги "A Bitter Field"

Автор книги: Ludlow Jack

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Noel McKevitt and Sir Thomas Inskip were not, in the strict sense, friends; the social milieus in which they moved were too far apart but they did share a certain philosophy, which made their conversation of more import than mere gossip. First of all they were united in their staunch Protestant faith – the vicar of their local church had introduced them – and secondly Sir Thomas had at one time been part of the intelligence community, which to McKevitt meant he was reliable.

Such an occupation had long been left behind by the older man; Inskip, a high-flying lawyer by profession, was a member of the Government, having been given by Stanley Baldwin, the previous incumbent of Number 10, the office of Minister of Defence Procurement, this despite the generally held opinion that he possessed a staggering degree of military ignorance.

Churchill, who had lobbied for the creation of what was, in effect, a minister for rearmament, had expected the job would be given to him. Baldwin thought differently; he had no desire to have someone so bellicose in his government, quite apart from the signal such an appointment would send to the dictator states he was determined to mollify.

Once deprived and Inskip appointed, a furious Churchill, with his usual facility for the killer phrase, had called it ‘The most cynical appointment since Caligula made his horse a consul.’

Inskip’s other trait was a blind loyalty to the serving prime minister, which manifested itself as strong support in the Cabinet for the policy of appeasement. Having lost ministerial office once in the National Government landslide at the start of the decade, Sir Thomas was not about to act in a way that would find himself out in the cold again, and it had to be said his aims were honourable.

Though he had never been a front-line soldier, he harboured, along with many of his contemporaries in age and experience, a horror of a repeat of the blind slaughter of 1914–18, the evidence of which, in maimed ex-soldiers, widows and unmarried women, was still very obvious even after all these years, a subject he had laboured long the night before at the Downing Street dinner for the French delegation.

In some sense Sir Thomas had helped to form McKevitt’s thinking on Czechoslovakia, a country he had insisted was impossible for Britain and France to defend, an opinion he was willing to share with anyone who would listen, and who should be more inclined to do so than the man appointed by the head of MI6 to oversee matters in that country?

‘Mark my words, Noel,’ Inskip had pronounced after church one day. ‘If we seek to aid that country we will end up with stalemate and a repeat of the Western Front, with all the death such a futile exercise produced. I would not sacrifice a single soldier for such a policy and thankfully neither will the PM.’

McKevitt did not question Sir Thomas’s assertion, he took it as fact, assuming, which was quite natural, that a man who spent much of his time with soldiers, seamen and airmen discussing their needs, with a quite brilliant legal brain, had been given a bona fide opinion by those who would have to execute such a course of action.

Yet it was also the case that McKevitt saw war as predictable; you could not hold the Berlin Desk and watch the rise to power of the Nazis without accepting that conclusion. In Hitler’s magnum opus he demanded Lebensraum for the German people. If one nation needed to expand it could only be at the expense of another.

In addition, and this had been his primary intelligence target, within the higher reaches of the German General Staff it was a common gossip that another war was inevitable, with the date of 1945 almost pencilled in as the time at which they reasoned Germany would be ready both economically and militarily to confront their old foes.

If it was to come, then McKevitt was of the opinion it should be when Britain was ready for it, perhaps with the Americans as allies. In the meantime Hitler needed to be diverted to the east and as far as the Ulsterman was concerned he could go as far as he wanted in that direction.

Yet it was axiomatic that the department for which he worked would have to expand dramatically over the next few years to confront a range of emerging dangers and McKevitt had enough personal arrogance to see himself as ideally suited to head the more powerful entity.

Sir Hugh Sinclair had been good in his time but he was now sixty-five and must be nearing retirement, so when he was worried about being sidelined in a way that obviously diminished his standing, it was quite natural to call at Inskip’s office and express his concerns.

‘Sir Hugh is up to something in my backyard, Sir Thomas.’

‘I judge by your tone you have no idea what that is?’

‘While I see my superior as deserving of my respect, sir, I am also a servant of the government of the day, and what concerns me is that he is stepping outside his brief of support for the declared policy and at a very dangerous time.’

That had no need to be mentioned; even the proponents of the ‘policy’ were becoming uncomfortable with the word ‘appeasement’, which had originally been coined as a description of the need to satisfy the legitimate concerns of the dictator states. In a couple of years it had morphed into a means, in too many minds, to let them do whatever they wished to avoid conflict.

‘Deliberately so?’

‘We occupy a murky arena, Sir Thomas, so I would not wish to be so specific. But if my concern is genuine I have no means of finding out the truth. Right now I believe he might be colluding with the Government of Czechoslovakia to produce some rabbit that will force our country into an anomalous position.’

That too required no spelling out; the press, with the exception of the Daily Mail and The Observer, was split on appeasement, with even The Times occasionally posing awkward editorial questions, while the public mood was febrile and uncertain. In the social circles in which Sir Thomas moved – his club, his legal chambers and the drawing rooms of people of property – it had unqualified support.

But out in the country, certainly in the industrial north, the mood was not, by the accounts he was receiving, the same. His position involved him in visiting the factories and workshops where armaments were being designed and produced, an unpleasant task to a man as fastidious as he but one that could not be avoided. Even some of the military officers he was obliged to deal with were beginning to voice doubts.

‘If he is engaged in such a venture, Noel, then he is exceeding his brief. Are you sure he is not just seeking information in the normal manner?’

‘If he was doing that in Central Europe, Sir Thomas, he would go through me.’

Inskip nodded slowly; oversight of the intelligence service was outside his responsibilities but he knew who to talk to. ‘I shall have a word with the Home Secretary.’

‘I wonder,’ McKevitt advanced gently, ‘if it might also be wise to alert the prime minister?’

Quick to see a way to underline his loyalty, while not willing to appear to be guided by the man to whom he was talking, Inskip, the highly paid and quick-witted barrister, produced a ready answer. ‘An idea I had already considered, Noel. If what you say is true, Neville will be incandescent.’

‘Would you wish me to act as a conduit, sir?’

That involved a look into the Ulsterman’s eye, which was steady, as it should be for a man seeking in no way to hide his own hopes and ambitions, this while Sir Thomas Inskip was wondering if such an association and the information it could produce would help him to where he wanted to go, to one of the great offices of state in the gift of the prime minister: the Exchequer, the FO or the position of Home Secretary.

‘It can do no harm,’ he nodded. ‘I will instruct my civil servants that, should you call me on the telephone, you are to be put through to me on my private line. Now, if you will forgive me, Noel, I must dash – I’m invited to lunch at Cliveden by Lady Astor.’

McKevitt thought that a perfect way to tell him they were very different people; Sir Thomas Inskip thought so too.

‘Hey, Doc, I ran into a friend of yours down the Jewish Emigration Centre yesterday, nice kid called Elsa. Went kind of weak at the knees when I mentioned you, like she had a crush on you or something.’

That strident greeting, said in a loud and carrying voice, turned every head in the lobby of the Ambassador Hotel, busy with all sorts of folk; for a man who liked to be discreet it was anathema.

‘Do you ever talk softly, Corrie?’

‘Only when I carry a big stick.’

The arm was taken with the same force as previously and Corrie Littleton found herself propelled to a quieter corner of the hotel, an act that did nothing to diminish the interest of the other folk present.

‘Is that how you got pretty little Elsa out of the cradle?’

‘We’re just good friends.’

‘Well we’re not, so ease off with the third degree.’

‘Sit down and shut up, Corrie, and listen to what I have to say to you.’

‘That adds up to three things I don’t want to do, buster!’

He had to drop his voice. ‘But you would like a trip to the Sudetenland, wouldn’t you?’

About to produce a scathing response, she must have seen in his look that he was serious; she sat down quickly and he joined her. ‘You on the level?’

‘Better than that, Corrie, I think I can get you an interview with Konrad Henlein.’

‘Early morning and you’re drunk already! That guy hasn’t given an interview to a non-German newspaper for two years and the last one, from what I hear, was one of your Brits called Ward Price who the guys tell me is a Nazi himself and a prize shit.’

‘He works for a bigger one called Rothermere.’

‘What the hell, we’ve got Charles Lindbergh.’

Cal knew she was stalling. ‘Henlein is holed up in the Victoria Hotel in Cheb and if you put in a request for an interview it will be positively received. Do you want that I should go find another journalist to offer this to?’

That shut her up; there was nothing like professional rivalry to achieve her silence.

‘I am talking about just you and him, an exclusive, as well as a look around the town and Henlein’s home base in Asch, with maybe the chance to talk to the locals, and me along to interpret and make sure you don’t get yourself shot by some ardent Nazi thug.’

‘No cops?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t you mean why you?’

‘No, Doc, I mean “why?” You might come across as all charm, Cal Jardine, but you are one devious son of a bitch.’

‘I’ve always admired your command of the English language.’

‘One of these days I’ll give you my personal dictionary, but right now I would like to know what is in this for you.’

‘Typical, you try to do someone a favour—’

‘Cal, I don’t give a goddam what you are up to, I just want to know what it is that you get out of this offer.’

He had known he was never going to get away without an explanation, but he had enjoyed guying her a little. ‘Care to go for a walk?’

‘What’s wrong with right here?’

Thinking of Snuffly Bower and his paranoia, Cal replied, ‘Lip-readers.’

As they exited the hotel, to a salute from the liveried doorman and a look that asked if they wanted a cab, Corrie spotted Vince Castellano and her body movement presaged a greeting.

‘Don’t say hello,’ Cal whispered, ‘Vince will follow us.’

‘To?’

‘To make sure nobody else does, or gets too close to hear what I am going to say.’

‘Part of me is saying I should get my arm out from yours and walk away.’

‘But the other part is screaming “story”, yes?’

They walked several paces before she answered. ‘So, shoot.’

‘I need to go up there to do a bit of a recce. Don’t ask why or what because I won’t tell you, on the very good grounds that it is best you don’t know.’

Expecting an objection Cal was surprised she remained silent; maybe learning to be a journalist had cured her of shooting from the lip.

‘You will have your accreditation by tomorrow and I will drive us both to Cheb, where you will be taken to meet Konrad Henlein for a full interview at his headquarters.’

‘What’s the angle?’ Cal explained about Henlein’s aim of appealing to the likes of the American German Bund. ‘They’re Nazis, Cal, and on his side already.’

‘He also wants to get his message across to the other Germans in the USA. It’s a big community and it might get him a better hearing in Washington.’

‘Depends what I write.’ That was both true and significant; Corrie had gone from doubtful to committed. ‘How the hell did you arrange this and who the hell did you set it up with?’

That he ignored. ‘He won’t speak to the press from the other democracies and I doubt he would be happy with any of the big American names who are over here and have already made their positions plain.’

‘Whereas?’

‘You are an unknown quantity.’

‘You’re avoiding the question.’

‘Let’s just say I know the right people, have a job to do and I will be travelling as your chosen escort and interpreter under a false identity.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Look, I am a guy you have never met before until you arrived in Prague, but we got along.’ He outlined what she had to do to get a response, which he assured her would be positive even if she insisted on her own German-speaker being present. ‘And it might be a good idea when we get there to let them think we are lovers.’

‘I think this is where I bale out,’ she snapped, in the manner of the girl he knew so well.

‘This is your chance to do so,’ he replied, determined she should know he was serious. ‘Once we’re committed you will have to live with whatever lie suits.’

‘You mean I might be interrogated.’

‘Meaning you are going to be in amongst people who are suspicious as hell and they will probe you, your motives and your connection to me. And as for pretence, you are going to have to act like you have some sympathy for what Hitler is trying to do. It’s the only way you’ll get the story you want.’

‘I get to write what I think?’

‘You get to come back to Prague and file, which, once it appears in your magazine, should make all those guys you drink with in the bar, who think you are a novice, want to cut your throat.’

‘You been watching me?’

‘Not me.’

‘People you know?’ He nodded. ‘One question, why are you doing what you’re doing?’

‘The idea is to keep whole the country we’re in and stop a German invasion. If I can do what I want, it may be possible to get Britain and France to stand up to Hitler.’

That made her ponder, but in reality it could only be one of two things: he was either acting for those he had worked for in Ethiopia or the Czechs themselves. She knew what he thought about Fascism, given she had heard him talk about it too many times to be in doubt about his feelings.

‘Look, there is danger in this, I won’t lie to you, but it is more to me than to you. In a sticky spot you can always claim you were deceived about me, wave your press credentials and scream for the American ambassador.’

‘How do we get to this Cheb?’

‘I told you, by car, which I will drive.’

‘Long journey?’

‘Depends on checkpoints and things I don’t know about. Could be four hours, could be ten.’

‘When do we leave?’

‘As soon as we get the go-ahead. You happy with what you’ve been told?’

‘Like hell I am, but if I’m going to be sitting in a car with you for all that time I guess it will give me a chance to grill you properly.’

‘My real name and what I am up to is off-limits and I need your word on that.’

That made her stop walking and look up at him and there was a note in her distinctive cracked voice, deeper that usual. ‘You telling me, Doc, that you would accept my word?’

How do you say to someone, I know what you are made of; I have seen you embrace danger and a cause when you could have walked away; struggle through tents full of the dead and dying doing a job for which you had no training and do it superbly; that, in fact, for all the sparring we indulge in, you are admirable?

‘Corrie,’ Cal replied, ‘you might be a pain in the backside but you’re an honest pain in the backside, so if you give me your word I know you will keep it.’

‘Boy, are you a master of the compliment.’

‘Do we have a deal?’

They had walked ten paces before the answer came, which pleased Cal; he did want her to think it through.

‘We do. Do I wait to hear from Henlein?’

‘Yes, but I will know the response before you do.’ That got raised eyebrows. ‘Pack a small bag and be ready to go at a moment’s notice, but don’t call down for a porter or say anything to the hotel desk. I will call you on the internal phone and you can carry it down yourself. And try to stay out of sight of any of your colleagues, who are bound to ask where you are going if they see luggage.’

She giggled. ‘Mata Hari lives.’

‘Corrie, this is not funny. If anyone does spot you and asks, say you’re going to check up and try to get a story on the plight of those Jews seeking to get out over the Rumanian border.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The summons for Sir Hugh Sinclair to attend a private meeting at 10 Downing Street with the prime minister was uncommon indeed – he normally briefed the Home Secretary – so much so that it engendered in him a desire to know what was going on before he obeyed the summons.

So he telephoned next the First Lord of the Admiralty, Duff Cooper, who was a member of Chamberlain’s Cabinet, albeit one who was vocally unhappy with the present policy, though only in private conversation. That required Cooper to make some enquiries before ringing back.

‘Neville thinks you are up to something, Quex.’

‘It’s my job to be up to something, Freddy.’

‘I can’t be certain, but I think Inskip has been whispering in Neville’s ear that you are acting against Government policy.’

‘Indeed. No details I suppose?’

‘Sorry, old chap, can’t oblige.’

‘Thanks anyway, Freddy.’

‘Be just like being had up before the beak, I shouldn’t wonder.’ That was followed by a laugh from a man who did that a lot. ‘And what a beak.’

When Sir Hugh arrived in Downing Street it was to see fishing rods being loaded into the back of the PM’s Humber, along with a basket for his catch, making the head of SIS wonder how anyone could call standing flicking his rod by a riverbank at this time of trouble correct behaviour. When he was shown into the Cabinet room it was to find the PM dressed in tweeds and plus fours, obviously ready for departure.

Normally in a wing collar and black coat, such country apparel did not improve Neville Chamberlain’s appearance; he was still the pigeon-chested fellow of caricature, tall with his slight stoop and that vulture-like face dominated by dark heavy eyebrows over the nose about which Duff Cooper had made his jest.

The only person present was his newly appointed cabinet secretary, Edward Bridges, so fresh to the job that he took no part in the conversation; surprisingly he took no minutes either as Chamberlain began to speak in that rather high voice of his, not, Quex noted, while looking him in the eye.

‘Sir Hugh, I would like your latest appreciation of the state of affairs over the Sudetenland.’

‘I briefed the Home Secretary only two days ago, sir.’

‘I’m well aware of that; has anything altered in the meantime to change your opinion of events?’

‘No, sir, I fear that Lord Runciman’s mission is mired in intractability, that whatever President Beneš offers will be rejected and that the whole of Henlein’s campaign is being orchestrated from Berlin.’

‘You have taken no unusual steps in Czechoslovakia that would fall across the line of Government policy?’

‘No, Prime Minister, and neither would I contemplate such a course.’

‘Matters are coming to a head, Sir Hugh, perhaps as soon as Herr Hitler’s leader’s speech at Nuremberg. I want nothing between now and that occasion to in any way give the German Chancellor or the leadership of the Sudeten German Party cause for concern. It could be, in short, turned into a flashpoint from which things would either be said or done from which even the best intentions could never recover.’

‘Do you have any specific instructions, sir?’

‘Only that your task is to support the elected government.’

‘As always.’

Only then did Chamberlain look directly at him and there was nothing benign in his eye.

‘Your car is waiting, sir,’ Bridges said, failing to disguise that he had been instructed to remind his boss, in short, to curtail the exchange as soon as the PM had issued what amounted to a warning.

‘Ah yes. Do you fish, Sir Hugh?’

‘Sad to say, only in troubled waters, Prime Minister.’

‘They can be smoothed by application, but not by anyone acting in excess of their instructions.’

What had been said to him and by whom? There was no point in asking with the beak nose bobbing in dismissal. As he exited the heavy door Quex was tempted to look at the watch he wore in his waistcoat, to let Chamberlain know that he had dragged him up from Victoria for an interview that had lasted all of two to three minutes and that in consequence he was annoyed to be treated worse than a servant; he did not do it from a lifetime’s habit of concealing his emotions.

Making his way down Whitehall and then across Parliament Square and along Millbank, with the tip of his unnecessary brolly beating out an increasingly angered tattoo on the pavement, it did not take long to nail the potential culprit who had engineered this event but the question remained as to what to do about it.

If it was McKevitt, then he was entitled to his concerns about policy; Quex did not run a dictatorship but an organisation that had ample room for the free airing of views, even of dissent.

But the protocol was that such a thing was internal, it was not to be taken outside the walls and if the Ulsterman had done so it was not merely because he disagreed but that he had another motive, and given his ambition was close to an open secret, that did not take long to arrive at either.

Still ruminating on that, he returned to his office to find the latest telegram transcript from Peter Lanchester, which told him what was being planned in Czechoslovakia, which in order to approve meant all he had to do was nothing. Was it the right policy to pursue?

In a very acute sense it went right against what he had just been told by the PM – it was active when Chamberlain wanted passivity and if the truth emerged it would not be a warning he would be given but the door.

Two problems combined in one solution: he needed to check the machinations of McKevitt, keep the operation that Lanchester had alerted him to in progress while ensuring if it all went tits up the blame lay squarely at another door. The finger was soon on the intercom buzzer to his secretary.

‘Ask Noel McKevitt to come and see me, would you, as soon as he has a moment free?’

Translated that meant ‘immediately’ and was taken as such by the recipient. McKevitt knew that Inskip had passed on his concerns, just as he knew their knowledge of each other and shared interests were well known.

That meant Quex was going to be hauled in and told to mind his p’s and q’s on Czecho and he had enough respect for the man to think it would not take his boss long to unearth the connection; the call from the top floor told him he already had.

He was thus well prepared to face Sir Hugh Sinclair’s wrath with the certain knowledge that he was fireproof – there was no way he could be sanctioned for merely doing his job and if he was it would go all the way back up to Downing Street; the man under threat was the man he was going to see.

‘Noel, nice of you to respond so quickly. Do take a pew.’ As his backside hit the chair, Quex followed up that jolly greeting. ‘I’ve just had an interesting chat with the PM.’

‘Really,’ McKevitt replied, putting as much marvel into the tone as he could and also wondering why the old man’s secretary had stayed in the office, taking a chair well away from the discussion.

‘Aye, he’s worried about Czecho – and who can blame him, what?’

Beware of the cat that smiles, McKevitt was thinking, for if the old man was not actually grinning his tone was too jocular for what he had just gone through.

‘Wants nothing to upset the apple cart,’ Quex continued, ‘and as I pointed out to him, that will not be easy, what with the Hun stirring things up. Look what they did to Kendrick in Vienna.’

And what, McKevitt thought, has that got to do with the price of coal?

‘He fears an incident that will somehow compromise his sterling efforts to sustain the peace. What chance do you think there is of something cropping up in, say, Prague, that the Germans could exploit?’

The temptation to say ‘You would know better than I’ was one that had to be suppressed.

But he was not going to give this old sod the answer he wanted, which was that such a scenario was unlikely, so that, at some future date and backed by the testimony of his secretary, he could openly claim to have asked for a reassurance only to find it not forthcoming. Best seek to be non-committal, not definite, opaque.

‘Sure, if they tried anything, it might be there all right.’

‘Exactly my point to the PM, they may attempt a repeat of what happened to Captain Kendrick.’

‘Prague is not Vienna, sir.’ Presented with a chance to be sarcastic he was not about to pass it up. ‘The Gestapo has, as far as I’m aware, no power of arrest there.’

‘True, but any accusation that excessive numbers of our chaps in situ, and you know the numbers better than I, are involved in using their skills to aid the Czechs might appear in the German papers at any time.’

‘I felt that more muscle was needed there, sir; it is after all the present hot spot in my area of responsibility and it could impact on its neighbours.’

‘And very apposite that was to move more men in, but how will the Hun see it? What if they publicise the number of our Prague agents in the same way they splashed on Kendrick, with the added information that the establishment has increased threefold. Shipping in more bodies might come back to haunt us, and even if it’s untrue what they claim, the mud, the PM fears, might stick and, I have to tell you, he was even more alarmed to hear we had reinforced the station recently, thus increasing such a risk.’

‘I considered it worth an extra effort to keep the Government informed.’

‘And, my dear chap,’ Quex cried, ‘it was a brilliant ploy at the time, which I told the PM.’

‘But not now?’

‘No, it now involves a risk Mr Chamberlain does not want to take! With his agreement I’ve decided to pull out all our chaps in Prague, including those you have shipped in from other stations. They, of course, can go back to their previous posts.’

The thought could not be avoided: he’s heard about my request to search for new arrivals and he wants to put the mockers on it to give his man, and now I am convinced there is one in place, a free run.

‘Only it has to be done with maximum discretion, Noel, and we cannot risk even a coded cipher. So I want you to go to Prague yourself and close down the operations there. It must not, I repeat not, be revealed to either the press or the Germans that we have done so.’

‘To ensure discretion will take time. Embassy folk have wagging tongues.’

‘Yes, it will, though shipping the extras back should be straightforward.’

‘When do you want me to go?’

‘I would have thought soonest done soonest mended, wouldn’t you? You can go in on a diplomatic passport, so I would like you to drop everything else and travel as soon as you can.’

McKevitt made a good fist of looking thoughtful, but he had come to one conclusion while Quex was still talking. ‘It might be best to get everyone out as soon as possible, over a day or two, including the regulars, and stay around to clear up anything outstanding myself.’

‘Good thinking, I’m sure with you there any risks will be sealed down tight.’

Making his way back to his own office, McKevitt was nearly laughing. The old man had just handed him the keys to unlock his suspicions and, while he was there, he would find out what was going on and put a stop to it, but not before he had laid at the door of those who needed to know the truth that Sir Hugh Sinclair was not only losing his touch, he was actively thwarting the policy of those who employed him.

Odd that Quex was happy too, for Jardine, by the time McKevitt got there, would be long gone from Prague and the Ulsterman had no way of connecting anything to him, doubly so given he was travelling under an assumed name.

The man might seek to stir things up but that would only play into Quex’s hands, and if it all went up in the air and an incident did occur, how could he carry the can for anything, when the head of the relevant section was on site and in control?

For all Veseli’s certainties it was an anxious two days and a testing exchange of telegrams before on the Saturday morning the invitation came from Henlein’s press office to say the visit was on and that two rooms were waiting for Corrie in the Victoria Hotel.

Moravec phoned Cal to confirm, again without using either his name or hers, that Corrie would be given full access to the SdP leader on the Sunday. Cal then called the Ambassador Hotel and alerted Corrie that he was on his way and for her to be ready to move.

Throwing economy to the winds – it was Moravec’s money after all – Cal had hired a really luxurious and very powerful German-made car, a dark-green Maybach Zeppelin with a soft top, a V12 engine and a top speed that exceeded a hundred miles an hour if you had the courage to push it hard.

It was also a very weighty car which, apart from a tank, would smash to bits anything it hit – if he had to run he wanted to do so in something hard to catch and impossible to knock off course. He had also bought a good camera, a long lens and several rolls of film, as well as a hunting knife which he would just leave in the car to be found if anyone wanted to search; hiding it would only make it seem suspicious.

‘I like the bins,’ Vince said, when Cal tried on the pair of rimless spectacles he’d bought. ‘You’ll look a bit like Himmler now you’ve got your barnet cut short.’

Cal ran a hand across his now-short red-gold hair, then nodded to the telegram he had compiled for Peter Lanchester, lying by the open book of short stories.