Margery Allingham's Mr Campion's Fox by Mike Ripley

Author:Mike Ripley
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781780106380
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2015-01-20T16:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

Night Exercise

As darkness began to fall over the North Sea, a small freighter bearing the registration of a Baltic port but flying no national flag altered course towards the East Anglian coast.

‘If we maintain this speed,’ said the bosun, consulting a chart, ‘we’ll be at the rendezvous in just under three hours.’

‘Good,’ answered the captain in the same language. ‘When we get near to landfall I’ll take the wheel. I want you personally to replace the forward look-out and be sure our passenger makes the transfer without falling in and drowning.’

‘Our passenger is going ashore?’

‘So he says, but that’s none of our business,’ said the captain, the stem of a dead pipe rigid between his clenched teeth.

‘Will we be doing any of our usual business?’

‘There’s the usual case of wódka for our friend but we should not expect any goods from him this time.’

‘Pity. My wife was very appreciative after the last trip.’

‘And your girlfriend too, I’ll bet. Don’t make them any promises about future supplies either. I’ve a feeling this could be our last trip here.’

‘Because of our passenger?’

The captain nodded his head in silent agreement, his unlit pipe keeping time like a conductor’s baton.’

‘Is our British friend expecting our passenger?’ the bosun persisted.

‘I don’t know; that’s his problem.’

‘Just who is this Dieter character?’

‘It’s best we don’t know, lad, because then he’d be our problem,’ said the captain grimly.

Rupert had spent the late afternoon in a pair of borrowed wellington boots searching the fields, copses and ditches of land ten miles north of Gapton with Torquil Sandyman and a group of volunteers drawn from the brewery’s workforce. As the light dimmed, whistles were blown and the searchers mustered on the Lowestoft Road where a tractor with a low flat trailer was waiting to collect them.

The tractor deposited them at the brewery yard where three police cars were parked with their headlights on. In the arena of light they provided was a trestle table in danger of buckling under the weight of glasses and jugs of beer being served by the sisters Mister putting all their wartime NAAFI experience into the roles of ministering angels. There was not enough light to identify the liquid they were dispensing, but smell and taste confirmed it was a Sandyman product and Rupert overheard one thirsty searcher identify it, with satisfaction, as ‘a fine glass of mother-in-law’ which he knew was an affectionate term for a mixture of two ales: Old and Bitter.

This was neither the time nor place, however, to exchange tasting notes or pleasantries. The overriding mood of the gathering matched that of the evening, being dark and gloomy, and it was not lightened when Superintendent Appleyard strode into the circle of light and took command.

‘Ladies,’ he began, acknowledging Hyacinth and Marigold, ‘and gentlemen, I’d like to thank you all for your efforts and in particular Mr Sandyman and his father for allowing you time off work. With your help, we have searched rough ground and farmland to a radius of ten miles of Gapton.

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