‘You know the old saying, Michael,’ Devlin told him. ‘When you’re a fox with a pack on your tail you stand a better chance if you look like a hound.’ He turned to Mary and smiled. ‘And now, girl dear, another cup of tea would go down just fine.’
It was at that moment that the poor girl fell totally in love with him, what the French call coup de foudre, the thunderclap. She felt herself crimson and turned to the cooker. ‘Of course, Mr Devlin. I’ll make some fresh.’
To its members, the Army and Navy Club was simply known as the Rag. A great gloomy pala/zo of a place in Venetian style and situated on Pall Mall. Its governing committee had been renowned since Victorian times for its leniency towards members disgraced or in trouble, and Sir Maxwell Shaw was a case in point. No one had seen the slightest necessity to blackball him over the business of his detection under Regulation i8B. He was, after all, an officer and a gentleman who had been both wounded and decorated for gallantry in the service of his country. He sat in a corner of the morning room drinking the Scotch the waiter had brought in and thinking about Lavinia’s astonishing telephone call. Quite unbelievable that now, after so long, the summons should come. My God, but he was excited. Hadn’t felt such a charge in years.
He called for another Scotch and the same moment a porter approached him. ‘Your guest is here, Sir Maxwell.’
‘My guest?’
‘Major Conlon. Shall I show him in?’
‘Yes. Of course. At once, man.’
Shaw got to his feet, straightening his tie as the porter returned with Devlin who held out his hand and said cheerfully, ‘Harry Conlon. Nice to meet you, Sir Maxwell.’
Shaw was dumbfounded, not so much by the uniform, but by the dog collar. He shook hands as the waiter brought his glass of Scotch. ‘Would you like one of these, Major?’
‘No thanks.’ The waiter departed and Devlin sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘You look a little shaken, Sir Maxwell.’
‘Well goodness, man, of course I am. I mean, what is all this about? Who are you?’
‘Does the Falcon still wait?’ Devlin asked. ‘Because it is now time to strike.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘No buts, Sir Maxwell. You made a pledge a long time ago when Werner Keitel recruited you and your sister to, shall we say, the cause? Are you in or are you out? Where do you stand?’
‘You mean you’ve got work for me?’
‘There’s a job to be done.’
‘The invasion is finally coming?’
‘Not yet,’ Devlin said smoothly, ‘but soon. Are you with us?’
He’d been prepared to bring pressure to bear, but in the event, it was unnecessary. Shaw gulped down the whisky. ‘Of course I am. What do you require of me?’
‘Let’s take a little walk,’ Devlin said. ‘The park across the road will do fine.’
It had started to rain, bouncing from the windows. For a moment, there wasn’t a porter in the cloakroom. Shaw found his bowler hat, raincoat and umbrella. Amongst the jumble of coats there was a military trenchcoat. Devlin picked it up, followed him outside and put it on.
They went across to St James’s Park and walked along the side of the lake towards Buckingham Palace, Shaw with his umbrella up. After a while they moved into the shelter of some trees and Devlin lit a cigarette.
‘You want one of these things?’
‘Not at the moment. What is it you want me to do?’
‘Before the war your sister used to fly a Tiger Moth. Does she still have it?’
‘The RAF took it for training purposes in the winter of thirty-nine.’
‘She used a barn as a hangar. Is that still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the place she used to land and take off? The South Meadow, I think you called it? It’s not been ploughed up for the war effort or anything?’
‘No, all the land around Shaw Place, the land that used to be ours, is used for sheep grazing.’
‘And South Meadow is still yours?’
‘Of course. Is that important?’