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Authors: Hammond Innes
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Something must have gone wrong over that wire. And if it had, I was in a proper mess. It was hardly likely that Ogilvie would understand my explanation. Thank God Vayle didn’t hold a King’s commission. His civilian status made a lot of difference.
Mason took me straight into the inner office. Wing-Commander Winton was seated in a chair beside Ogilvie’s desk. They looked up as I entered. I saluted. “You wanted to see me, sir?” I was rigidly at attention.
“Did you give a Waaf named Sheldon a telegram to send for you to-day?”
So I was right. I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Is that the telegram?”
He handed me an inland telegram form. The message I had scribbled on the back of an envelope in the Naafi that morning was written on it in a clear feminine hand. “Yes, sir, that is the telegram.”
“It’s incredible, Gunner Hanson—quite incredible. You realise that by implication you are accusing Mr. Vayle of something that you don’t dare to state? What are you accusing him of?”
“I was not aware that I was accusing him of anything.” I replied.
“Then why do you write to your friend asking for full details about him? You must have had some reason for it.”
“It was a purely private communication to a colleague on my newspaper, sir.”
“Nothing is private once you are in the Army. You are fortunate at this station in that there is no censorship as such. But this telegram was so startling that the postmistress at Thorby thought it wise to ring up Station H.Q. to find out whether the Waaf in question had authority to send it.” He paused and glanced across at the Wing-Commander. “Perhaps you would like to question the man, sir.”
The C.O. Thorby was a big, heavy-jowled man with steady, alert eyes. He came straight to the point. “As Mr. Ogilvie says, this telegram of yours accuses Mr. Vayle by implication of something that you are evidently unwilling to put down on paper. You require from your friend details of Mr. Vayle’s life prior to 1936. You say it may be of vital importance. Perhaps you would explain.”
I hesitated. Winton was easier to talk to than Ogilvie. Probably because he had had more experienceof men. But I was uncertain what line to take. In the end I decided on frankness. “I sent that wire because my suspicions had been aroused, sir,” I said. I then went on to explain how the German pilot had stopped talking the moment he saw Vayle, how I had learnt that Vayle had spoken to the pilot before he went before the Intelligence officer, and how I was doubtful whether the pilot would have taken the line he did without guidance. “I could find out nothing about him prior to 1936, sir,” I finished. “So I decided to wire my colleague and see whether he could discover something of Mr. Vayle’s background. I was bearing in mind the fact that a plan of the ground defences of the aerodrome had already found its way into enemy hands.”
“I see. In other words, you suspected Mr. Vayle of being a Nazi agent?”
The C.O.’s heavy brows were drawn downwards over his eyes and he spoke very quietly. I sensed a menace in his words. But I could do nothing to stave it off. I said, “Yes, sir.”
“You realise that the proper course would have been to explain your suspicions to your commanding officer or alternatively to have asked him to arrange for you to see me? If you had done so I should have been able to tell you that Mr. Vayle came to this station from a well-known public school, and that we have the most complete confidence in him. Instead, you start a little personal investigation without any authority to do so.” He gave me a suddenly keen glance. “What were you before you joined up?”
“Journalist, sir.”
He glanced at the address on the telegram. “
The Globe
?”
“Yes, sir.
“And this man Trent—what is his position on the paper?”
“Crime reporter, sir.”
“I see. A sensation-seeking paper and a sensation-seeking man.” I was conscious of a very
Mason took me straight into the inner office. Wing-Commander Winton was seated in a chair beside Ogilvie’s desk. They looked up as I entered. I saluted. “You wanted to see me, sir?” I was rigidly at attention.
“Did you give a Waaf named Sheldon a telegram to send for you to-day?”
So I was right. I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Is that the telegram?”
He handed me an inland telegram form. The message I had scribbled on the back of an envelope in the Naafi that morning was written on it in a clear feminine hand. “Yes, sir, that is the telegram.”
“It’s incredible, Gunner Hanson—quite incredible. You realise that by implication you are accusing Mr. Vayle of something that you don’t dare to state? What are you accusing him of?”
“I was not aware that I was accusing him of anything.” I replied.
“Then why do you write to your friend asking for full details about him? You must have had some reason for it.”
“It was a purely private communication to a colleague on my newspaper, sir.”
“Nothing is private once you are in the Army. You are fortunate at this station in that there is no censorship as such. But this telegram was so startling that the postmistress at Thorby thought it wise to ring up Station H.Q. to find out whether the Waaf in question had authority to send it.” He paused and glanced across at the Wing-Commander. “Perhaps you would like to question the man, sir.”
The C.O. Thorby was a big, heavy-jowled man with steady, alert eyes. He came straight to the point. “As Mr. Ogilvie says, this telegram of yours accuses Mr. Vayle by implication of something that you are evidently unwilling to put down on paper. You require from your friend details of Mr. Vayle’s life prior to 1936. You say it may be of vital importance. Perhaps you would explain.”
I hesitated. Winton was easier to talk to than Ogilvie. Probably because he had had more experienceof men. But I was uncertain what line to take. In the end I decided on frankness. “I sent that wire because my suspicions had been aroused, sir,” I said. I then went on to explain how the German pilot had stopped talking the moment he saw Vayle, how I had learnt that Vayle had spoken to the pilot before he went before the Intelligence officer, and how I was doubtful whether the pilot would have taken the line he did without guidance. “I could find out nothing about him prior to 1936, sir,” I finished. “So I decided to wire my colleague and see whether he could discover something of Mr. Vayle’s background. I was bearing in mind the fact that a plan of the ground defences of the aerodrome had already found its way into enemy hands.”
“I see. In other words, you suspected Mr. Vayle of being a Nazi agent?”
The C.O.’s heavy brows were drawn downwards over his eyes and he spoke very quietly. I sensed a menace in his words. But I could do nothing to stave it off. I said, “Yes, sir.”
“You realise that the proper course would have been to explain your suspicions to your commanding officer or alternatively to have asked him to arrange for you to see me? If you had done so I should have been able to tell you that Mr. Vayle came to this station from a well-known public school, and that we have the most complete confidence in him. Instead, you start a little personal investigation without any authority to do so.” He gave me a suddenly keen glance. “What were you before you joined up?”
“Journalist, sir.”
He glanced at the address on the telegram. “
The Globe
?”
“Yes, sir.
“And this man Trent—what is his position on the paper?”
“Crime reporter, sir.”
“I see. A sensation-seeking paper and a sensation-seeking man.” I was conscious of a very
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