The Intrigues of Jennie Lee Page 29

  “Jennie? Jennie Lee?”

  The query carried in a loud and quite foreign voice. The accent was decidedly American and it came from a man striding towards her from well inside the room, the direction opposite to her stalker’s expected entrance. The youngish man was handsome, brown hair thrown back from his forehead in need of cutting, a wide face but with narrowed eyes, dressed in a neat but definitely non-English style—cotton trousers, a lumberman’s checked shirt beneath a short, zippered leather coat. He had a flat cap in his hand. At least the cap’s British, Jennie thought. He repeated her name, again much too loud for an Englishman in a public place and well before he had reached her. Jennie knew the look on her face made it clear she hadn’t the slightest idea who this person was. He read the look, slowed his progress towards her, momentarily worried, perhaps, that he had mistaken her for someone. But as he got closer he became certain. Then it came to her, this was the young man she’d met in America, more than two years ago, the factory worker who’d wanted her advice about Russia. The one she’d decided to take to bed, one cold evening in Detroit, Michigan, the one who’d taken her to breakfast the next morning. What was his name, damn it? Arriving before her, he thrust forward his right hand.

  “ReuthRer...” and before he could repeat it, the first name came to Jennie.

  “Walter!”

  His face brightened into an infectious grin. “Yes. How great to see you. The only person I know in London.”

  Jennie smiled. “This is a surprise”

  She was glad to see him. His energy, directness, innocence, was a mood-changing distraction from her problems. It would also protect her from whomever was following. She looked round the room. With characteristic good manners, no one in the room showed any sign of having noticed the small commotion the American had risen. And the owl, as she had come to think of her trail, was nowhere to be seen.

  “What are you doing in London, Walter?” They began walking along companionably.

  “I’m on my way to Russia. Here for a week waiting for my visa. Can’t get one in the States. We don’t recognise the Soviets.”

  She remembered his plan and his questions.

  “I see.” On impulse she put her arm through his. “Walter, there’s a tea shop across Great Russell Street. Let me buy you a cup.”

  He smiled broadly, as if to signal it was exactly what he’d hoped for.

  “Well, if I can get coffee, I’ll be glad to accept.” He took her arm in a manner Jennie felt a little too proprietary. But it was not the moment to disabuse Walter Reuther.

  * * *

  The coffee had been served. Reuther withdrew a packet of American cigarettes from the shirt pocket beneath the leather jacket and offered Jennie one. The sight of a cardboard matchbook and the taste of a Camel suddenly took her back to America, to the gleaming silver diner in Detroit...

  “So, you’re going to Russia after all.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Hope you’re ready for it. Things are a bit worse than they were when I went two years ago.”

  Reuther replied, frowning slightly. “The collectivisation?”

  So he knows. Good. Jennie had been following Stalin’s drive to force the peasant farmers onto vast state farms. The result had been catastrophic, according to Frank. Production hadn’t increased. Convinced the farmers were withholding grain, the state was beginning to extract every bushel they could find, leaving the rural population to starve.

  Reuther looked at her hard. “Do you think it’s as bad as the papers say?”

  Jennie nodded. “I’m afraid so. Some independent sources. Wish it weren’t true.”

  “Lots of arguments about it in the Party back home.”

  “The Party? I thought I remember you saying you were not a Communist Party member.”

  He smiled. “Almost right. Actually you asked me if I was a Trotskyist. And I said no, I wasn’t, and I’m still not.”

  “Remind me what you’ll do in Russia, Walter.”

  “Stay as far away from collective farms as I can.” He smiled knowingly. “My brother and I are going to work in a plant Ford is building a couple hundred miles east of Moscow. See for myself how Communism works.”

  “That’s wise, Walter. Will you tell me what you learn?”

  “I sure will.” The smile was both infectious and sincere. “We’re going to Germany for a few weeks on our way to the Soviets. My dad was born, grew up there.”

  Jennie’s expression changed to concern. “It could be dangerous there, especially for a party member. You mustn’t look for trouble, Walter. The Brown shirts were killing Communists before this Hitler became Chancellor. Now they’ve a hunting licence from him.”

  Reuther lowered his voice. “I know. We’ve been worried about it. Going to see some...friends...in Berlin. They’ve asked us to bring in”—he fell silent—“something to defend themselves.” He withdrew a folded paper. “Do you know where this is?” He unfolded the note and read the address as he passed it. “42 Glamis Road, near Cable Street.”

  Jennie smiled, thinking to herself, Glamis. It all started with Glamis, didn’t it?

  “Yes, I know where that is, actually. Glamis Road’s named after a castle in Scotland I used to visit. And Cable Street’s a thoroughfare in the Jewish”— ‘slums’ was the right ward, but she didn’t want to use it— “district.” Then, not even reflecting, “I can take you there if you want.”

  “That’d be great! But I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  “Not a bit of it. When do you need to go?”

  “Tomorrow early. Around eight in the morning, when there’s a lot of foot traffic in the area, they told me.”

  “Right. Where are you staying?”

  Walter brightened. “Just around the corner from here at the Gresham Hotel. 36 Bloomsbury Street.”

  Jennie rose. “See you at seven fifteen tomorrow morning.”

  She put out her hand, feeling rather American. Reuther shook it with a slightly disappointed look. What were you expecting, Mister? Her inner voice even sounded American.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “It’s a thirty-minute tube journey from here.” Jennie was optimistic the next morning as she led her new friend back from Bloomsbury Street to Russell Square. “We’ll change at King’s Cross.” He didn’t appear to notice as she searched the pavement before and behind. She had left her flat by the rear garden. She couldn’t chance being followed again.

  Reuther sounded eager. “Haven’t been in the subway here yet.”

  She tried to make her correction gentle. “Underground, Walter. A subway is what you Yanks call an underpass.” She laughed. “Made that mistake in Chicago. I said something about a subway we were going through and they told me they didn’t have one.”

  They plunged into the surging morning crowds at King’s Cross. Jennie was pleased, certain that the crush was covering their tracks. Reuther covered her gloved hand with his as they stood in the Hammersmith Line train. Jennie liked it. At Whitechapel they alighted.

  “We’ve a bit of a walk now,” Jennie observed.

  Reuther looked at his watch. “Will we get there on time? The guy was pretty specific about how long he’d wait.”

  It was ten past eight by the time they’d covered the mile or so down the Commercial Road and Lukin Street to Cable Road.

  Jennie pointed to the small side street, “Glamis Road.” Reuther nodded with relief.

  “Why don’t you wait here, Jennie? You don’t need to be party to this...transaction.”

  “Very well. I’ll nip into St Mary’s.” She nodded towards the grey stone church streaked in coal dust. “When you’ve finished, I’ll be the one inside praying for your safety in Germany.” They both laughed grimly.

  A rather longer time elapsed than Jennie expected. Enough time for Jennie to think through one more time the opportunity that might have presented itself, the opportunity to solve her problem, to put the world back to right, or at least set it on another course,
a course she might be able better to live with. She’d been running through this line of thought since leaving the teashop the day before. The train of reasoning and imagining had each time carried her to exactly the same outcome. Not a very reliable guide, your reasoning, is it, Jennie, she couldn’t help thinking. Where has it gotten you so far? Perhaps this time things might go as she hoped. If not, well, it’s your life to do with as you like, isn’t it? The thought comforted.

  When Walter finally sat down next to her, he was carrying what looked like a considerable package, wrapped in brown paper, tied professionally with string, innocent in the way a package of books from Foyle’s might have looked.

  “Walter, how are you going to smuggle that package into Germany?”

  “Well, first I’m going to unpack it, take the guns apart. Then my bother and I will spread the parts out in both our bags. But mainly we don’t expect to be searched at the German border at all, Jennie.”

  “How can you know?”

  “Because we’re going through the Saar.” Everyone knew about Saarland. This was the coal-rich German statelet the French had detached and occupied after the Great War. It was now the last refuge of Hitler’s visible opponents.

  “German customs won’t inspect bags coming from Saar because that would admit it’s foreign territory.”

  “Clever.”

  “Walter, do you know how to use a pistol?”

  “Yup, I do.” He indicated the package. “These are actually a couple of revolvers, not pistols. Webley’s...standard British Army.”

  “Can you teach me how to use one?”

  Reuther raised his eyebrows. “We’d need a firing range.”

  “I don’t think so. All I need to know is how to load, take the safety catch off, and fire...I don’t need to practice aiming.” She smiled. “After all, I am not going to fire at anyone, am I?”

  “Well I can do that anywhere...anywhere the police won’t see, that is.”

  “How about my place?”

  “That’ll be fine.” They both rose and began walking back to Whitechapel Tube stop.

  Walking side by side, not facing each other, not looking into one another’s eyes, Jennie felt able to ask the really important question.

  “Walter, can you lend me one of those...Webleys, for a day? Loaded.”

  He was silent. “Jennie, we hardly know each other. Why are you asking me to do this?”

  She drew closer to him, putting her arm through his. It felt good, natural, warm, companionable. “It’s because we hardly know each other—in fact, so far as the world is concerned, there’s no trace of our acquaintance at all. It’s the best reason to ask you.”

  “I’m probably a fool. But somehow I trust you, Jennie Lee.”

  She smiled. “You should.”

  * * *

  Back at Jennie’s flat on Guilford Road, Reuther unwrapped the package on the desk. Inside were two wooden boxes. He opened one box and removed the weapon.

  “Standard British Army revolver, I’m told.” He hefted it, checked to see it was empty and handed it to Jennie. She held away from herself with both hands, the first firearm she’d ever touched—it was as heavy as it looked, rugged, with a hexagonal barrel about four inches long—and handed it back with an inquiring look.

  It took Reuther a few minutes to explain a double action/single action revolver to Jennie. But when she understood that all she ever needed to do was pull the trigger firmly—no chambering a round, no safety catch, no cocking the gun—she was pleased. Handing her the revolver, he let Jennie fire it dry a few times, but then stopped her.

  “It’s bad for the firing pin, Jennie.” He thought a moment. “Remember, the recoil is serious on these Webleys. And unless you take some practice rounds, you’ll feel it. And without practice your second shot will probably be way off.”

  Then he broke the revolver and showed her how to load and unload.

  Removing the cartridges, he asked, “How many do you need, Jennie?”

  “One.”

  He handed it to her. “Alright, let’s see you load and set the barrel so that one bullet will be in the right place in the chamber.” Jennie took the weapon, broke it open expertly enough, but then had trouble rotating the barrel. She looked up at her instructor.

  “Sticky wicket? Is that what you people say?”

  They laughed together, reducing the tension. Then he took the revolver back and showed her how to move the barrel again. The second time was a charm.

  “Wish you could really fire it a few times.”

  “Won’t be necessary, Walter. I merely intend to frighten someone.”

  “Then you won’t be needing any bullets, right?” He’d called her bluff. Jennie smiled and held out her hand. He placed two in her palm. “Insurance.”

  Then Jennie turned serious. “Walter, I like you very much. But I think the less time we spend together the better for both of us. It wouldn’t do for us to be seen by anyone.”

  “Jennie, I was already planning to take the back way out, if there is one.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  He looked down at the Webley on the table. “How long are you going to need the piece?”

  “I’m not sure. A few days, perhaps a week. Is that too long?”

  “No, no. My brother and I are going up north to visit some factories in Manchester and Liverpool. We’ll be gone at least a week.”

  “Walter,” she took the lapel of his leather jacket. “We won’t see each other again. I’ll leave the box, wrapped up at your hotel, sometime before you get back.”

  He nodded and then Jennie pulled his head towards hers and kissed him. It was not a fraternal kiss.

  * * *

  In the event, it took Jennie a bit longer than she expected. When she called Number 10, and identified herself, the secretary told her the PM was to be at Cliveden Hall, Lady Astor’s home, for the weekend and would be back on Monday.

  Should you call him there? No reason not to. Jennie tried to think calmly. They already have logged your call in Whitehall. Yes, well... there’s no reason to make the matter look urgent.

  But after the call, she found herself breathless and trembling when she put down the receiver. It was Mosley who had Frank killed. That was sure. Could he have guessed that she knew? She had to convince herself he had no idea. Regardless of her resolve, she couldn’t control the fright that now began to assail her. But there’s no way he knows that you know. She had to convince herself.

  Thursday to Monday? There was nothing to do but wait. She couldn’t leave her flat. She might miss a call from the PM’s office. She might be followed again. She cast her eye round seeking a way to kill time. Legal tomes that held little fascination for Jennie at the best of times were completely useless distractions now. She sat down at her desk among them, some open, others on the floor, even beneath the table. She was condemned to waiting, staring at the wooden box holding the Webley revolver. She had no desire to take it from the box, heft it, load it, do anything with it. As she gazed at it, the box it became a coffin, and then a tombstone that marked the end of her life.

  Write your last will and testament, Jennie. She pulled a piece of paper from the desk drawer and rolled it into the typewriter. The fingers moved and the letters appeared across the page: I Jennie Lee, being of sound body and...she stopped. This is silly. You have nothing to leave and no one to leave things to. She could write a political testimony, an explanation of what she was about to do and why. No, you can’t. There are too many people to protect for you to tell the truth. In fact, now she realised she’d have to destroy the documents, both the ones Elizabeth had given her and the duplicates she’d received from Dorothy Wise. No, not both. You’ll need one set, you’ll take it with you when you see Tom Mosley. The childishness of the notion came to her. Why? To confront him with his treason, his villainy, before you kill him? You’re envisioning a melodrama, Jennie.

  She rose from the desk, poured herself a large neat whiskey and removed the foli
o Elizabeth had given her from beneath the grate. Then, she crumpled some newsprint and threw it into the fireplace, withdrew from the desk the manila envelope she’d taken from Dorothy. Once she’d arranged the two sheaves of paper on the grate, Jennie sat before the fireplace, lit a cigarette, sipped her whiskey and thought matters through once more. You won’t need them. You are not going to ask him to explain, justify, excuse. You’re certainly not going to vindicate yourself to him and then kill him. She’d seen too many films in which such grandiloquence allows the victim time to escape. She struck a match, bent down and kindled the newsprint. Soon the papers were burning nicely and after a few moments they were ash. She rose and finished the drink. Then Jennie returned to the sideboard and poured herself another, larger one.

  * * *

  The importuning, unceasing ring of the telephone woke Jennie at quarter past eight on Saturday morning. Looking round she saw she was not in bed, but sprawled on the chesterfield, still dressed, with a blanket pulled over her against the chill. She rose, and knocked over an empty whiskey bottle. Now, everything snapped back into place. On her feet, unsteadily advancing on the jangling instrument, she began to feel the hangover throb in her temples. Jennie couldn’t help reaching for her forehead with one hand as she grasped the receiver with the other. She paused to remember her number...then it came.

  “Museum 6428.”

  She heard an operator speaking. “Putting you through now, Cliveden.”

  “That you Jennie? It’s Tom Mosley here.” Suddenly she was completely awake. “Private office told me you rang.” He did not wait for a response before going on. “Haven’t heard from you in ages. How are you?”

  Does he suspect? Is that why he’s called?

  “Fine, Tom, fine.”

  She had to call him Tom, she knew. It would be a signal. She covered the mouthpiece and cleared her throat. Looking down at wrinkled clothes and then across the room at her face in a mirror, Jennie was glad he could only hear her voice.