Authors: Antony Trew
“2310.”
“So we take the
Hagenfels
out just ahead of her.”
“That’s right.”
“What time do you come alongside the
Hagenfels
?”
“2200. Should have the situation under control within fifteen minutes. There’ll be seven of us, and with their
liberty-men
ashore we’ll easily cope with ten or eleven Jerries. They won’t be expecting us. Won’t have time to arm, though we must reckon on the night watchman carrying a revolver.”
Three Africans came down the road, and conversation on the bench stopped until they’d passed. Widmark turned the sheets of his newspaper, frowning at the picture of a torpedoed merchant ship sinking in heavy weather.
“We’ll tackle the upper deck and fo’c’sle as soon as we get
on board,” he said. “The crew live for’ard. The officers will probably be in Lindemann’s cabin—the steward nearby. There’ll be a night watchman on the upper deck, and a greaser or two in the engine-room. That leaves two or three men in the fo’c’sle. Should be a piece of cake. Don’t start anything in the Captain’s cabin unless the Jerries raise the alarm. Wait for us to join you. But if we haven’t arrived by 2230 you’ll know we’ve come to a sticky end.”
“The chap I’m going to mark,” said Johan, “is that big bastard who looks like a prize-fighter.”
“Heinrich Schäffer,” said Rohrbach.
“That’s it. Heinrich. He’s my baby.”
Widmark looked at Johan’s fifteen stone. “Don’t be brutal,” he said dryly.
“That’s nice, coming from you,” Johan said and
immediately
regretted it.
Rohrbach came to his rescue. “Well, that’s about all for now, isn’t it, Steve? Hadn’t we better get back and brief our oppos. Johan and I’ve got a date with the girls. They’re lunching with us.”
Widmark looked at him curiously. “You’ll be seeing Cleo?”
There was something in Widmark’s voice, a wistfulness perhaps, Rohrbach had not heard before. “Yes. Nice girl, isn’t she?”
Widmark got up and folded the newspaper deliberately. Down the Rua San Rafael bright patches of sunlight were scattering the shade from the flamboyants which spread their branches like scarlet umbrellas. At the end of the street the sea shimmered with heat and the horizon melted into the sky. “Yes,” he said quietly, “she is.” Then he walked away, down the road towards the sea.
At lunch Widmark sent for the head waiter, a Goan with whom he had already established a sound customer-client
relationship
. He began circumspectly: would there be any difficulty
about getting a picnic lunch from the hotel if he decided to drive down to the Maputo elephant reserve for the day. The head waiter assured him there wouldn’t be. After that there were various questions about Maputo until finally, as the Goan was about to leave, Widmark said with studied casualness: “Who’s the man sitting inside the window behind me? Bald with sunglasses. Looks like somebody I know, but I can’t place him.”
The head waiter walked down the veranda, came back and held the menu in front of Widmark. He was a discreet and understanding man, the Goan. “It’s a Mr. Jules Kemathi, sir.”
“Kemathi—Kemathi——” Widmark repeated the name softly. “No. That doesn’t ring a bell. And yet——”
He looked at the menu, then at the table-cloth, then at the head waiter. “Where’s he from?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll find out.”
Widmark shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not important. I just wondered. Feel I know him. I’ll have the iced consommé.”
The head waiter saw the possibility of a tip. “It’s no trouble, sir.” He raised his voice. “The iced consommé, sir.”
Towards the end of the meal he was back at Widmark’s side, bending over him, holding the menu with studied solicitude. “He came a week ago, sir. From Egypt.”
“From Egypt,” echoed Widmark quietly. “Happen to know what part?”
“Alexandria, sir.” Then louder: “Try the scampis, sir. Bought on the market this morning. Excellent. I can
recommend
them.”
When the head waiter had gone, Widmark thought about Kemathi. From Alexandria. How many more from Alex.? And yet, of course, that was exactly what Kemathi looked like. Straight out of the Levant. Hence the oily look. But what was he doing here and why was he following Widmark? That was a question which had to be answered. Kemathi was from
Alexandria. Widmark had been well known in Alex. Could there be any connection?
Was
Kemathi an enemy agent? Lourenço Marques was said to teem with them. And if he were, could the Germans draw any worthwhile conclusions from his visit to the
Clan
McPhilly
? He doubted it. What more natural than that a British naval officer, even if recently invalided, should go on board a British merchant ship in a foreign port. Widmark thought, I’m getting nervy. Must keep a grip on myself, and not see something sinister in every goddam thing that happens.
As he went through the lounge Olympia Stavropoulus bore in sight on a converging course, aglitter with jewels; tall, erect, her bosom, mien and bearing more imperial than ever. She swept past him with a swish of silk, a trail of Chanel behind her; but he might have been a chair for all the attention she paid him. Never again, he decided, did he want to see Alex., or anyone from that ancient city.
Later that afternoon Widmark drove into town and parked in the Praça McMahon. From there he walked to the Gorjao Quay passing down long lines of railway trucks. Between the rails lay pools of water from the afternoon’s thunderstorm, and steam was still rising from the tarmac. At the far end of the quay he stopped and looked across the Espirito Santo to the Catembe side where he could see the beach at Ponta
Chaluquene
with its array of small craft. Off shore were the wrecks of old lighters, and behind the beach a cluster of bungalows with iron roofs. He was as near now as he could get to the German ships. Absorbed in his thoughts he watched them: the
Dortmund,
the
Aller
and then to the right the
Hagenfels
and behind her the tall masts of the sailing ship.
The
Hagenfels
still rode to two anchors, the gangway hoisted clear of the water. Men moved about her upper deck.
The tide was ebbing and the ships lay with their bows upstream towards Matola; in the distance he saw a tanker at the oil berths, to its left the mangrove swamps and beyond
them the low line of the Lebombos. The sky was streaked with grey cloud, and smoke curled up from an unseen fire. In the foreground the river was all greys and silvers, the smooth surface mirroring the hot sky.
Widmark noted the position of the German ships, of the Italian
Gerusalemme,
and of the berth where the
Clan
McPhilly
would anchor near the
Hagenfels
. In the anchorage down river towards the harbour mouth many ships were waiting to go alongside the Gorjao Quay. It was on the far side of the Espirito Santo, off the Catembe shore and past Ponta Chaluquene, that his party would make their approach in the fishing boat and he took good note of what he saw. The night would be dark and they could not afford mistakes.
Walking back along the Gorjao Quay he saw that the Portuguese gunboats were still there. Satisfied, he went out through the dock gates to the Praça McMahon.
Widmark got back to the Polana at seven that evening and stopped in the lounge for a drink before going up to his room. The waiter had brought the whisky and soda and he was signing the chit when he heard Di Brett’s “Do you mind if we join you?” Tense and on guard he stood up. The Newt was with her. With studied indifference Widmark said: “If you want to.” She introduced the Newt, the men looked at each other with blank faces, Widmark mumbled “How d’you do?”, more drinks were ordered and they sat down. Di Brett took a mirror from her handbag and fiddled with her lips. “Well—what have you done with yourself to-day, Stephen?”
He held his glass up to the light, looked at it, then at her, and finally at the Newt. “Nothing,” he said. It was as near being rude as made no difference and the Newt blushed for him. He looked at Widmark coldly. “You here on
holiday
?”
Widmark nodded, his eyes on a tall figure coming from the foyer into the lounge. The light was behind the man so that his face was in shadow. As he approached, two small scars on
his left cheek stood out clearly. Widmark stiffened, his mind preoccupied once again with the problem of where he’d seen the face. The tall man stopped in front of them, the trace of a smile on his lips, his eyes on Widmark. He clicked his heels, and bowed. “Lieutenant-Commander Widmark?” The German accent was unmistakable. The men stood up. Di Brett watched them, frowning.
Widmark’s face was blank. “What do you want?”
The tall man relaxed. “Merely to renew an old
acquaintanceship
. I saw you at Ressano Garcia the other day and thought it was you, and now——”, he looked round the crowded lounge, “I came here to see friends and again I see you, so I thought I’d come and say ‘hallo.’ May I sit down?”
Widmark thought quickly. It wouldn’t be difficult to be rude to this fellow and get rid of him, but if he did he’d lose the chance of finding out who he was, so he said: “Yes, of course. But let me introduce you. Your name?”
The tall man bowed. “Von Falkenhausen. Baron von Falkenhausen.” The name meant nothing to Widmark. He introduced the Baron to Di Brett, and then looking at the Newt and raising his eyebrows, he said: “Didn’t get your name, I’m afraid.”
“James Newton,” said the Englishman unhappily.
They sat down. The Freiherr got to work quickly. “You don’t remember me?” He leaned forward, brown eyes smiling.
Widmark was cold, guarded, full of suspicion and curiosity.
“Frankly, I don’t.”
“Alexandria, 1941—in the Montelémar!”
That made Widmark look at him really hard. The
Montelémar
was a night club, a favourite stamping ground for naval officers, and he’d spent a good deal of time there one way and another. “There’s something familiar about you. Those scars,” he admitted. “But I still can’t place you.”
“Don’t you remember Swiss Fritz, the barman?”
Widmark started. That was it. By God! That was him.
Of course. “But you had black hair and a waxed moustache!”
Von Falkenhausen laughed. “What a lot of time I spent waxing that moustache and how I
loathed
it, especially in the hot weather.”
“Why the disguise?” Widmark said it in his chilliest manner.
The Freiherr shrugged his shoulders. “In war these things are necessary.”
“So you were a spy?”
“Call it that if you like. I was serving my country.”
There was an awkward moment, until the German said: “And you, Commander, what are you doing here?”
Widmark felt inclined to be rude but he realised that it wouldn’t help. “Holidaying. I’m out of the Navy. Invalided. Asthma. Live in Johannesburg these days.”
“Invalided out?” The German’s eyebrows lifted in polite concern. “Not, er,
removed
from the Active List?” The brown eyes smiled but it was a quizzical, insolent smile.
“May I ask what you mean?” If the Freiherr had known Widmark well he’d have realised that trouble was coming.
“Well, Commander, you were not called ‘The Butcher’ for nothing, and you
did
return to South Africa rather suddenly.”
The colour went from Widmark’s face. He stood up, hands clenched, eyes bright with anger. “Like most members of your race, Baron, or whatever you call yourself, you lack manners. Will you now please
go
!”
Von Falkenhausen saw the thinly controlled rage and hesitated, caught off guard by this sudden onslaught. Then he stood up, bowed to Di Brett and the Newt and said: “My apologies” and, without looking at Widmark again, crossed the room to a table on the far side where he joined a group of local Germans. Di Brett was pale. “That was horrible, Stephen. I loathe scenes. Did you have to?”
Without answering, Widmark left the room.
In the far corner of the lounge a plump, balding man in sunglasses put down his paper, stubbed out a cheroot and
moved silently towards the door through which Widmark had gone.
Much later that night, it was in fact ten minutes before
midnight
, von Falkenhausen heard the bell of his flat ringing downstairs; three shorts in quick succession. Looking at his watch, he smiled. His visitor was punctual. There was the sound of a key turning in the latch, of footsteps on the stairs, the door opened and Di Brett came into the study, her blue raincoat and scarf accentuating the cornflower blue of her eyes.
Von Falkenhausen jumped to his feet and took her in his arms. “
Liebling
!
” he said, “You are not only the most beautiful woman in the world but the most punctual.”
The Freiherr was a man of great charm and he understood perfectly the psychology of women.
Di Brett took off the blue raincoat and scarf and for some moments they sat on the settee busy with the small play of a man and woman in love; then von Falkenhausen laughed, said: “Duty before pleasure, Helga,” and jumped up and poured her a mixed vermouth, packing the glass with ice.
He stood waiting, drink in hand, while she finished fussing with her hair and lips; then she took the glass and said: “Thank you, Ernst. It looks lovely.” He poured himself a whisky and soda and sat down next to her. “Now,
lieb
ling,
what have you to tell me?”
Sipping her drink, she looked at him over the rim of the glass. “It was an awful moment this evening when that Widmark insulted you. I could have killed him.”
Von Falkenhausen shrugged his shoulders. “It was my fault. I was in too much of a hurry. But I wanted to see how he reacted to the shock of recognition.”
“Well, you certainly saw!”
“Yes. It was interesting. His anger was not only because I called him ‘The Butcher.’ It was also shock because I had turned up here out of the blue and recognised him.”
“Do you believe the asthma story?”
“Of course not! Why the false addresses for him and his friend McFadden, and their choice of different hotels?”
She stroked the scars on his cheek with the back of her fingers. “Ernst, it is even more than that.”
“What d’you mean?” He watched her with a half smile, indulgently, as if she were a child.
“James Newton and Stephen Widmark pretended not to know each other this evening and I had to introduce them. It was just before you came. But last night, very late, I saw
them go into Newton’s room together.” She watched his face, seeing what effect this would have and she was not disappointed. He blinked with astonishment. “Good God! Another one.”
She nodded. “There’s more to come, Ernst. I was in Newton’s room myself to-night——”
“Was that not risky?” he interrupted. “He might have come in and caught you.”
She fluttered her eyes at him. “Grow up, Ernst! I was
with
him.”
Von Falkenhausen frowned. “Did you——?”
“No, of course not. But
he
would like to have. That is how I got there. You men are all the same. You have only one idea.”
“It’s a very good one, Helga,” said the Freiherr
complacently
.
“Anyway, the visit was worthwhile. I saw some things I wasn’t meant to see.”
“Such as?”
“Charts. Two of them. On the table. I looked at them and said ‘What are these, James?’ and he was embarrassed and said: ‘Oh, some local charts. I’m a yachtsman. Borrowed them from a chap in the harbour. Wanted to see what sailing conditions were like here.’ There was also a book on the table. It was called
Africa
Pilot,
Vol.
III
.”
The Freiherr’s eyes gleamed. “Ah! The sailing directions. This is tremendously important, Helga! Widmark, McFadden, and now Newton. All pretending to be strangers to each other. I wonder if Newton’s a naval officer?”
“I’m sure he is, Ernst, in spite of the moustache. They all speak the same language, the same clichés. He always says ‘Let’s get under way’ if we are to go anywhere. Or if I’m late he says ‘You’re astern of station.’ In the morning when it’s time for a drink before lunch he says ‘Well, the sun’s over the yardarm now.’ That is what they all say. I didn’t spend two years in Cape Town and Durban for nothing.” She paused. “What are they here for, Ernst?”
For some time he sat silent, frowning at the problem. “I
don’t know‚” he said at last. “Those charts and sailing directions puzzle me. You know that heavy sinkings are taking place between here and Durban. The U-cruisers are not wasting time, and the raiders
Köln
and
Speewald
are also about. The British must suspect that we give raiders and U-boats information about sailings from Lourenço Marques. Somehow Widmark and his men are here in that connection. It
must
be that. But the charts and the sailing directions, I wonder?” he said softly, “I wonder?”
She looked at him archly, her eyes just clear of the edge of the glass. “Are you pleased with me, Ernst?”
“But of course,
liebling
.” He took her in his arms and gave her a long kiss. “You have been
brilliant
! Now let us go to my room and see if you can be equally brilliant in bed.”
She tweeked his nose affectionately. “Don’t be vulgar, Ernst.” He picked her up and carried her into his room.
Next morning von Falkenhausen was in Herr Stauch’s office when the doors opened at eight o’clock, and to him he confided Helga Bauer’s news. They discussed the problem at length, but Stauch’s nimble brain could not add much to the
Freiherr’s
conclusion that Widmark and his men were in Lourenço Marques on counter-espionage. Urgent inquiries were set in train and by noon useful information had been elicited. None of the three men had visited the British or South African Consulates or were known there; Stauch had trustworthy contacts at both places and the information could be relied upon. This caused the mystery to deepen. Telephone inquiries to Ressano Garcia, and thereafter to Johannesburg, revealed that Newton, like Widmark and McFadden, had given the frontier post an address in Johannesburg at which he was not known. But the Germans were still not any the wiser.
The Freiherr switched the subject. “Anything from the Wilhelmstrasse?”
Stauch shook his head. “Nothing. She remains at
twenty-four
hours’ notice.”
Von Falkenhausen got up and paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. “It will come soon‚” he said
confidently
. “There will be four days of no moon from to-morrow. The signal will come soon.”
“Unless they postpone it again.” Stauch scratched at his stomach.
“I think it’s unlikely. This is the first time she’s on
twenty-four
hours’ notice.”
“Well, I hope it’s soon, this business——”
Von Falkenhausen interrupted him with a low whistle. “
Mein
Gott
!
Is Widmark here in connection with that?”
“With what?” Stauch mopped the perspiration from his face with a large handkerchief.
“The sailing of the
Hagenfels
.” Von Falkenhausen’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe the British have picked up a hint from somewhere. Perhaps the people in the harbour. They may have seen the provisions going on board over the last few weeks. Then the information goes to the British consulate. Thereafter to Simonstown. Then Widmark and his men are sent here to keep a watch on things. To check the rumour about sailing. To keep the ship under observation. To report the moment that she has gone, so that interception can quickly take place outside.”
“It’s possible.” Herr Stauch was grudging, irritated that this quite feasible explanation should have occurred to the Freiherr and not to him. “But why the charts and sailing directions?” He said it triumphantly, his small eyes bright with pleasure at this spanner in the works.
“That is a mystery,” conceded the Freiherr. “But there’s one possible explanation. Widmark may be checking whether there is an alternative route the
Hagenfels
can take out of Lourenço Marques other than the Canal do Sul and Inhaca. Maybe to look, also, for places along the coast where she might hide.”
Stauch shook his head gloomily. “There’s a daily air reconnaissance by the South African Air Force from Durban. No eight thousand ton ship can hide from that.”
“Nevertheless, Herr Stauch, I have suggested a possible reason for the charts and sailing directions. Unless you can think of a better one, I suggest we pay some attention to it.”
Stauch winced at the reproof, and disliked the Freiherr more than ever because he suspected he was right.
“Now we shall go on board the
Hagenfels
and discuss this matter with Kapitän Lindemann. We can also question Moewe about the charts. He may have some ideas.”
“Very well, Herr Baron.” Stauch was submissive again, hating the other man. “As you wish.”
They went on board the
Hagenfels
just before lunch and explained to Lindemann the purpose of their visit; he sent for Günther Moewe, who produced charts of the approaches to Lourenço Marques and of the coast north and south of the port.
It was Admiralty Chart no. 644, the Bay of Lourenço Marques, that decided them in the end that the Freiherr was probably right and that Widmark and Newton had been checking alternative routes. At this stage, Lindemann suggested that the
Hagenfels
should not take the normal passage by way of Canal do Sul and the pilot vessel at Cabo da Inhaca, but should alter course to the north after passing the Ribeiro Shoal and take the rarely used Canal do Norte, keeping as close inshore as possible.
“In this way we avoid the pilot vessel, we keep to territorial waters, and by daylight we should be a hundred miles to the north. We can turn to the east, get out into the shipping lanes and steer a southerly course before the morning air patrol gets here. Then we will seem to be a vessel inward-bound for Lourenço Marques.”
All agreed with the soundness of this plan and von
Falkenhausen
voiced their thoughts: “Even if Widmark and company spot our sailing—and it won’t be easy on a dark night—they won’t know which passage we’ve taken. We’ll be
seventeen
miles out, and not a light showing, before we alter course at the Ribeiro Shoal.”
The steward, Müller, brought a tray and over large steins of chilled beer they again discussed the problem of what Widmark, Newton and McFadden were doing in Lourenço Marques and agreed that it must be counter-espionage of some sort; either in connection with breaking the German system for passing information about the movements of Allied ships, or to intensify the watch on the
Hagenfels
in case she made for the sea—or both.
At this stage Moewe said to Lindemann: “Since the signal may come from the Wilhelmstrasse at any moment, Herr Kapitän, do you think it wise to have a party on board
tomorrow
night?”
Lindemann knew his second officer well enough to know that this was said for the benefit of the Freiherr and Herr Stauch, and it confirmed his belief that Moewe was untrustworthy.
Herr Stauch’s small eyes narrowed and his voice was censorious. “
Another
party, Kapitän?”
“Yes‚” said Lindemann. “We have a few guests coming on board after dinner to-morrow. If you wish, it can be cancelled.”
Von Falkenhausen held up his hand imperiously, and Günther Moewe wetted his lips in anticipation of the slating the Captain was about to receive.
“Certainly not!” said the Freiherr. “Of course the party must go on. Otherwise the people concerned may conclude that the
Hagenfels
is sailing. How do we know to whom they will not talk? No! The party is essential, and what is more I have two other guests for you, Kapitän.”
Lindemann was puzzled, and Stauch and Moewe, with the sad faces of bloodhounds called to heel, showed interest again.
“They are Di Brett, better known to you as Fräulein Helga Bauer, and her friend, Mr. James Newton, a very un-naval looking gentleman who I’m convinced is a British naval officer.”
Lindemann remained calm, but not Herr Stauch. “Is this wise, Herr Baron?” he protested excitedly. “To bring such a man on board?”
“What can he learn by coming on board? You are forewarned. You must feed him with so much incorrect information that he will leave the
Hagenfels
convinced that we cannot take her to sea. That is why I want him on board. If his job is espionage this is the best thing that can happen. Do you understand?”
Grudgingly they admitted that they did, while Lindemann made no secret of his admiration for the Freiherr’s idea.
“There is one other reason why I want him on board,” continued von Falkenhausen. “I shall be coming to the party myself—somewhat later than your other guests—and I may confront Mr. James Newton with what I know about him. He doesn’t look a very tough customer, and I think he may talk if he’s frightened. By the way, who are the other guests, Kapitän?”
Lindemann smiled, faintly embarrassed. “Two local ladies, Herr Baron. Senhoras Mariotta Pereira and Cleo Melanides and their two men friends. One is a German from South Africa, his name is Rohrbach, and the other an Afrikaans farmer from the Western Transvaal, le Roux. Moewe is also bringing off a lady—Fräulein Hester Smit. That is the entire party.”
The Freiherr was thoughtful, his searching brown eyes on Lindemann. “What do you know about these men, Kapitän?”
“I understand that le Roux is anti-British and that
Rohrbach
, under the pretence of being a German Jew, is passing information to our side.”
“You
understand
! Do you not know them?”
“No. But they are friends of the young ladies.”
Von Falkenhausen drummed on the desk, his forehead puckered. “Rohrbach—Rohrbach—I do not know the name. But then of course it might be anything. The Abwehr do not tell us of these men unless we have to contact them. And the ladies?” For a moment his face relaxed and he smiled, “They are—
ladies
—I take it?”
Lindemann nodded stiffly. “Most certainly they are, Herr
Baron. I would not permit the other sort in my ship. One is Portuguese and the other Greek. Fräulein Hester Smit is Afrikaans and, like so many of her people, pro-German. I can vouch for them. But they will talk, of course, if there is trouble on board.”
“There will not be trouble, I hope, Kapitän. Possibly, if
Mister
Newton becomes difficult, we may have to ask him and Mrs. Brett to leave, but there will be no rough stuff—of that I can assure you. We may stage a bluff, to frighten him into talking, but no more. Of course,” he shrugged his shoulders, “we cannot guarantee Mr. Newton’s safety
after
he leaves the
Hagenfels.
Unfortunate accidents do occur—especially in harbours when a man is drunk.”
“What sort of accidents, Herr Baron?” Lindemann’s blue eyes searched the Freiherr’s.