The Unlikely Spy(46)

15


LONDON





While Harry Dalton was still on the Met he was considered a meticulous, shrewd, and relentless investigator who believed no lead, no matter how trivial, should be discarded. His big break came in 1936. Two young girls had vanished from an East End playground, and Harry was assigned to the crack team of officers investigating the case. After three sleepless days of digging, Harry arrested a drifter named Spencer Thomas. Harry handled the interrogation. At daybreak he led a search party to a secluded spot along the Thames Estuary, where Thomas had told him he would find the mutilated bodies of the girls. In the days that followed he also found the bodies of a prostitute in Gravesend, a waitress in Bristol, and a housewife in Sheffield. Spencer Thomas was locked up in an asylum for the criminally insane. Harry was promoted to detective-inspector.

Nothing in his professional experience had prepared him for a day as frustrating as this. He was looking for a German agent but he didn't have a single clue or lead. His only recourse was to telephone local police forces and ask for reports of anything out of the ordinary, any crime that might be committed by a spy on the move. He couldn't tell them he was looking for a spy; that would be a breach of security. He was fishing, and Harry Dalton hated fishing.

The conversation Harry had with a police officer in Evesham was typical.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Harry Dalton."

"Calling from where?"

"The War Office in London."

"I see. What would you be wanting with me?"

"I want to know whether you've had any reports of crimes that might be committed by someone on the run."

"Such as?"

"Such as stolen cars, stolen bicycles, stolen ration coupons, petrol. Use your imagination."

"I see."

"Well?"

"We did have a report of a stolen bicycle."

"Really! When?"

"This morning."

"That could be something."

"Bicycles are bloody valuable these days. I had an old wreck rusting in my shed. Took it out, cleaned it up a bit, sold it to a Yank corporal for ten quid. Ten quid! Can you believe it? That thing wasn't worth ten shillings!"

"That's interesting. What about the stolen bicycle?"

"Hold on a minute--what did you say your name was?"

"Harry."

"Harry. Hold on a minute, Harry. . . . George, did we hear anything more about that missing bicycle up on Sheep Street? Yeah, that one. . . . What do you mean he found it? Where the hell was it? . . . In the middle of the pasture? How the hell did it get there? . . . He did! Christ Almighty! You with me, Harry?"

"I'm still here."

"Sorry, false alarm."

"That's all right. Thanks for looking into it."

"No problem."

"If you hear of anything--"

"You'll be the first to know, Harry."

"Cheers."

In the late afternoon he had fielded dozens of telephone calls from policemen in the countryside, one more bizarre than the next. An officer from Bridgewater called to report a broken window.

Harry said, "Look like a breaking and entering?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Because it was the stained glass window at the church."

"Right. Keep your eyes open."

The police in Skegness reported someone trying to get into a pub after hours.

Harry said, "The man I'm looking for may not be familiar with English licensing laws."

"I'll look into it a little harder then."

"Good, keep in touch."

He called back twenty minutes later.

"It was just a local woman looking for her husband. Terrible drunk, I'm afraid."

"Damn!"

"Sorry, Harry. Didn't mean to get your hopes up."

"You did--but thanks for checking it out."

Harry looked at his watch: four o'clock, shift change in Registry. Grace would be coming on duty. He thought, Maybe I can make something out of this day. He took the lift down to Registry and found her pushing a metal cart brimming with files. She had a shock of short, white-blond hair, and her cheap, bloodied wartime lipstick made her look as if she were tarted up for a man. She wore a schoolboy's gray woolen sweater and a black skirt that was a little too short. Her heavy stockings could not hide the shape of her long, athletic legs.

She spotted Harry and smiled warmly. Within the world of Registry, Grace was the exception. Vernon Kell, the founder of the Service, believed only members of the aristocracy or relatives of MI5 officers could be trusted for such sensitive work. As a result, Registry was always populated with a staff of rather beautiful debutantes. But Grace was a middle-class girl, the daughter of a school-teacher. She spotted Harry and smiled warmly. Then, with only a sideways glance of her bright green eyes, she told him to meet her in one of the small side rooms. She joined him a moment later, closed the door, and kissed his cheek.

"Hello, Harry darling. How have you been?"

"Fine, Grace. Good to see you."

It started in 1940 during a night raid over London. They sheltered together in the underground and in the morning, when the all clear sounded, she had taken him to her flat and to her bed. She was attractive in an unconventional way and a passionate, uninhibited lover--a pleasant, convenient escape from the pressure of the office. For Grace, Harry was someone kind and gentle who would help pass the time until her husband came back from the army.