‘Are you fit, Colonel?’ Devlin demanded.
‘Never better, Mr Devlin.’
Devlin tossed him the military trenchcoat he’d stolen from the Army and Navy Club the day he’d met Shaw. ‘That should do to cover the uniform. I’m sure Mary can find you a scarf.’
‘I can indeed.’ She ran out and returned with a white silk scarf which she gave to Steiner.
‘That’s kind of you,’ he said.
‘Right, let’s move it.’ Devlin opened the cupboard under the stairs to reveal Munro sitting in the corner with his hands tied and still wearing the scarf around his eyes. ‘Let’s be having you, Brigadier.’
He pulled Munro up and out and walked him to the front door. Ryan had already got the van from the garage and it stood at the kerb. They put Munro in the back and Devlin checked his watch.
‘Nine o’clock. A long hour, Michael, me old son. We’ll be off now.’
They shook hands. When he turned to Mary she was in tears. Devlin put his bag in the van, and opened his arms. She rushed into them and he embraced he.
The wonderful life you’ll have ahead of you and the wonderful girl you are.’
Til never forget you.’ She was really crying now. Til pray for you every night.’
He was too full to speak himself, got in beside Steiner and drove away. The German said, ‘A nice girl.’
‘Yes,’ Devlin said. ‘I shouldn’t have involved them or that old priest, but there was nothing else I could do.’
The nature of the game we’re in, Mr Devlin,’ Munro said from the rear. Tell me something, just to assuage my idle curiosity. Vargas.’
‘Oh, I smelt a rat there from the beginning,’ Devlin said. ‘It always seemed likely you were inviting us in, so to speak. I knew the only way to fool you was to fool Vargas as well. That’s why he’s still getting messages from Berlin.’
‘And your own contacts? Nobody recently active, am I right?’
That’s about it.’
‘You’re a clever bastard, I’ll say that for you. Mind you, as that fine old English saying has it: “There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.” ‘
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Fog, Mr Devlin, fog,’ Dougal Munro said.
Chapter THIRTEEN
JACK Carver’s big game in the back room at the Astoria Ballroom had not gone his way at all, and if there was one thing guaranteed to put him in a bad mood it was losing money.
He broke off the game angrily at eight thirty, lit a cigar and went down to the ballroom. He leaned on the balcony rail watching the crowd, and Eric, dancing down there with a young girl, saw him at once.
‘Sorry, sweetness, another time,’ he said and went up the stairs to join his brother. ‘You’ve finished early, Jack.’
‘Yes, well, I got bored, didn’t I?’
Eric, who knew the signs, didn’t pursue the matter. Instead he said, ‘I was thinking, Jack. You’re sure you don’t want to take some of the boys along when we pay that call?’
Carver was furiously angry. ‘What are you trying to say? That I can’t take care of that little squirt on my own? That I need to go in team-handed?’
‘I didn’t mean anything, Jack, I was just thinking…’
‘You think too bloody much, my son,’ his brother told him. ‘Come on, I’ll show you. We’ll go and see that little Irish bastard now.’
The Humber, Eric at the wheel, turned into Cable Wharf no more than ten minutes after the van had left.
‘That’s the house at the far end,’ Eric said.
‘Right, we’ll leave the motor here and walk. Don’t want to alert them.’ Carver took the Browning from his pocket and pulled the slider. ‘Got yours?’
‘Sure I have, Jack.’ Eric produced a Webley.38 revolver.
‘Good boy. Let’s go and give him some stick.’
Mary was sitting at the table reading and Ryan was poking the fire when the kitchen door burst open and the Carvers entered. Mary screamed and Ryan turned, poker in hand.
‘No you don’t.’ Carver extended his arm, the Browning rigid in his hand. ‘You make one wrong move and I’ll blow your head off. See to the bird, Eric.’