Death In Captivity
Death In Captivity
First published in 1952
© Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1952-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| | EAN | | ISBN | | Edition | |
| | 0755105095 | | 9780755105090 | | Print | |
| | 0755131835 | | 9780755131839 | | Kindle | |
| | 0755132203 | | 9780755132201 | | Epub | |
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel
‘Death in Captivity’
in 1952.
After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.
HRF Keating stated that
‘Smallbone Deceased’
was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published.
“The plot,”
wrote Keating, “
is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings.”
It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.
Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London:
“I always take a latish train to work,” he explained in 1980, “and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.”.
After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for
‘The Daily Telegraph’
, as well as editing
‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’
.
Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.
Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.
The Camp – Evening and Night
‘Is it true, Captain,’ asked Colonel Lavery, ‘that Pantellaria has been invaded?’
‘Quite true,’ said Captain Benucci.
He added, without a great deal of conviction, ‘After heroic resistance our gallant troops, greatly outnumbered, were forced to yield. Many laid down their lives but their deeds live on. Our Duce will not forget them.’
‘Quite so,’ said Colonel Lavery. ‘I believe you had something you wished to discuss with me.’
‘It arises from the invasion of Pantellaria. That affords me, so to speak, my context for what I wished to say. From now on there may be other assaults – small assaults, you understand – on outlying islands in the Mediterranean. Your troops may even land in Sicily.’
‘So,’ said Colonel Lavery.
‘Frankly, if they make such an attempt, I do not think that many will survive it. Our German allies are there in great strength. However, there may be temporary successes. All this may serve to inflame the prisoners. They may try to organise something.’
He paused for a moment and added, ‘Something stupid.’
‘We have some very high-spirited officers here,’ agreed the Colonel.
Captain Benucci seemed suddenly completely serious. He turned his head so that his black eyes looked directly into the Colonel’s washed-out blue ones, and he said, ‘If any such thing were encouraged, you yourself would incur a terrible responsibility.’
‘Yes,’ said the Colonel.
He looked out of the little window, across the bare, stamped earth of the exercise ground, at the red-brick boundary wall. Without troubling to move his head he could see three platforms, on each of which stood two men. One man controlled a searchlight, the other a machine gun mounted on a tripod. He visualised, for a moment, an unarmed crowd attempting to scale the walls. When he turned back he found that Captain Benucci was still looking at him.
‘I demand your full cooperation,’ went on the Italian. ‘Otherwise I shall not answer for the consequences. If any untoward incident were to take place, no one would regret it more than myself.’
‘On the whole,’ said the Colonel, ‘I’m inclined to agree with you.’
Silence fell again in the wooden, cabin-like room.
Shrill in the distance sounded the yelps of the Italian soldiers as they herded the last of their obstinate flock into the five big huts. From the Italian quarters a bugle was blowing for evening mess.
It was the Colonel who broke the silence.
‘Is that just a general warning,’ he said, ‘or have you any concrete suggestions?’
‘Two suggestions,’ said Benucci. ‘First, I was told – I do not know if it is true – I am naturally not in the confidence of the people concerned – that there might be some attempt to rush the wall. The people who made such an attempt might rely on the fact that the sentries would hesitate to shoot down unarmed men. Such a suggestion is fallacious. They would shoot them.’
‘I can assure you that I know of no such plan at the moment.’
‘Even if the ordinary soldiers might hesitate to do their duty, I am giving orders that, during the hours of darkness, one of the pair on each sentry platform shall be a member of my own regiment, the Carabinieri. That order will come into effect tonight.’
‘Very well,’ said the Colonel.
‘Secondly, I must insist that the rule is observed,
without exception,
that no one shall move from hut to hut after evening roll-call when the huts have been closed. After all, it is not a difficult rule to keep. Each hut is self-contained. Each hut has dormitories, latrines and kitchen. The camp was designed with forethought.’
‘It was indeed,’ said the Colonel. During the short period of his captivity, he had been confined, in varying degrees of discomfort, in a museum, a station hotel, a castle and a monastery. Campo 127 was easily the best camp he had ever seen.
‘There is no reason at all to leave the hut from the time it is locked after evening roll-call, until after breakfast, when morning roll-call has been completed. If a prisoner should be sick, you have your own medical man in each hut. Even if he should die’ – Benucci showed his white teeth for a moment under his clipped moustache – ‘he will keep till morning.’
‘Oh, quite,’ said the Colonel.
‘Yet, in spite of this, during the last two months there have been three cases of prisoners being found outside their huts after dark – for trivial reasons, in each case.’
The Colonel nodded. He knew that a certain amount of ‘visiting’ went on.
‘In each case the guards have shot high, as a warning. Those were their orders. The orders have now been changed. They will shoot to kill.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said the Colonel. As always, with Benucci, he wondered how much of it was truth and how much propaganda. He remembered the last case of ‘visiting’ only a few days previously, and a quite impenitent Roger Byfold saying, ‘As a matter of fact, I’d just gone over to make up a fourth at bridge in Hut A. One of them spotted me on the way back and the silly bastards spent five minutes shooting all round me.’
‘I quite understand,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll give something out. Is that all?’
‘That is all.’ Captain Benucci clicked his heels and walked stiffly out of the room. The Colonel went to the window and watched him, as he strutted away towards the main gate of the camp, a solitary, dapper little figure.
It was nine o’clock of a perfect summer evening. The sun had disappeared, at last and reluctantly, behind the buttress of the Apennine Mountains which ran up to the west of the camp. It left behind it the deep blue, almost green, light which the sky drew from the hidden Adriatic.
It was the moment in the day which the Colonel liked best. The last of the five big huts was locked, and the last of his obstreperous four hundred children was locked away in them. He, a few senior officers, his Adjutant and half a dozen camp officials, had rooms in the end of the sixth hut, which held the camp offices, the stores, the library, the barber’s shop – dignified names for tiny, partitioned cubicles.
As a privilege the outer door of this sixth hut was not locked at night. It was, incidentally, a privilege that the Colonel was determined to maintain.
He shuffled the papers on his table into some sort of order, for his bedroom was also his office, and went to look for his Adjutant.
Room 10 in Hut C – which was the end room on the south side, next to the kitchen – had a neat label on its door headed ‘Smokey Joe’s’. Underneath, in the same meticulous handwriting, were six names, in two sets of three: