‘You could say so. A plane from France will be dropping in and in the not too distant future.’
Shaw’s face became extremely animated. ‘Really? What for?’
To pick up me and another man. The less you know the better, but he’s important. Does any of this give you a problem?’
‘Good heavens, no. Glad to help, old man.’ Shaw frowned slightly. ‘You’re not German, I take it?’
‘Irish,’ Devlin told him. ‘But we’re on the same side. You were given a radio by Werner Keitel. Do you still have it?’
‘Ah, well, there you have me, old man. I’m afraid we don’t. You see, back in forty-one the government brought in this stupid regulation. I was in prison for a few months.’
‘I know about that.’
‘My sister, Lavinia, you know what women are like. She panicked. Thought the police might arrive and turn the house upside down. There’s a lot of marsh around our place, some of it bottomless. She threw the radio in, you see.’ He looked anxious. ‘Is this a problem, old man?’
‘Of a temporary nature only. You’re going back home today?’
That’s right.’
‘Good. I’ll be in touch. Tomorrow or the next day.’ Devlin ground out his cigarette. ‘Jesus, the rain. That’s London for you. Never changes,’ and he walked away.
When he turned along the terrace at the side of the house at Cable Wharf, the rain was drifting across the river. There was an awning stretching from the cable of the motor boat over the cockpit. Mary Ryan sat under it, safe from the rain, reading a book.
‘Are you enjoying yourself down there?’ Devlin called.
‘I am. Uncle Michael’s in the kitchen. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, I’m fine at the moment.’
When Devlin went in, Ryan was sitting at the table. He’d covered it with newspaper and was stripping a Luger pistol, oil on his fingers. ‘God help me, Liam, I’ve forgotten how to do this.’
‘Give me a minute to change and I’ll handle it,’ Devlin told him.
He was back in five minutes wearing dark slacks and a black polo-neck sweater. He reached for the Luger parts and got to work oiling them, then putting the whole weapon together expertly.
‘Did it go well?’ Ryan asked.
‘If meeting a raving lunatic could ever go well, then yes,’ Devlin told him. ‘Michael, I’m dealing with an English aristocrat so totally out of his skull that he’s still eagerly awaiting a German invasion and that’s when he’s sober.’
He told Ryan about Shaw Place, Shaw and his sister. When he was finished, Ryan said, ‘They sound mad, the both of them.’
‘Yes, but the trouble is I need a radio and they haven’t got one.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I was thinking about the old days, when I came over to handle that active service unit. They got weapons and even explosives from underworld sources. Am I right?’
Ryan nodded. ‘That’s true.’
‘And you, Michael, as I recall, were the man with the contacts.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Come off it, Michael. There’s a war on, black market in everything from petrol to cigarettes. Just the same in Berlin. Don’t tell me you aren’t in it up to your neck and you a London cabbie?’
‘All right,’ Ryan put up a hand defensively. ‘You want a radio, but the kind you want would have to be Army equipment.’
‘That’s right.’
‘It’s no good going to some back-street trader.’
There was a silence between them. Devlin broke the Luger down and wiped each piece carefully with a rag. ‘Then who would I go to?’
Ryan said, ‘There’s a fella called Carver – Jack Carver. Has a brother called Eric.’
‘What are they, black marketeers?’
‘Much more than that. Jack Carver’s probably the most powerful gangster in London these days. Anything, but anything that goes down, Carver gets a piece. Not just black market. Girls, gambling, protection. You name it.’
‘I used to know a fella in Dublin in the same line of work,’ Devlin said. ‘He wasn’t so bad.’
‘Jack Carver’s the original bastard and young Eric’s a toad. Every girl on the pavement is terrified of him.’