“Message received. Am now in Cornhill, will wait further broadcast but am standing by to take over.”
A little later the man in the Morris said, “Olga calling Redfern— Jaguar now turning into Leadenhall Street. Will you take over, please. Over and out.”
The set clicked off and Redfern acknowledged. Staring ahead, the man in the Morris watched a grey Standard Ten cross the head of Gracechurch Street into Leadenhall Street just before the lights changed. When they changed again the Morris went straight on into Bishopsgate and lost interest in the proceedings. The grey Standard cruised along behind the Jaguar, followed it across Aldgate and the top of Hounds-ditch, where it gathered speed down Aldgate High Street and Whitechapel High Street, then veered to the right into the Commercial Road. In Sidney Street, farther along, another car waited, its passenger listening to a broadcast from the Standard which told him that the Jaguar was now moving into his area. In districts north, south, and west of Tower Hill other men listened and heard that they would not be needed after all, that the chase was moving away from their pre-arranged positions. As the receiver in the Sidney Street car died, the passenger nodded to his driver and the fresh car pulled out a little ahead of the Jaguar and then allowed itself to be overtaken as the Jaguar went fast under the railway bridge by Stepney East and the Regent’s Canal Dock.
In the Rolls-Royce-engined van marked J. C. Grimes, Fishmonger, Shaw had been keeping a listening watch on all reports, and Thompson, his driver, had kept the van in the general vicinity of the Jaguar without ever once coming across its track so that he could be seen; the idea being that when the cue came through they could take over for what Shaw hoped would be the kill. He would take over once they were well clear of Tower Hill, and he felt reasonably confident that a fishmonger’s van appearing on the scene some while after the Jaguar had started on its journey would not be remarked upon. Twisting in his seat towards two men crouched in the back he spoke to one of them, “All right, Pelly?”
“We’re fine, sir, apart from the stink of fish.”
Shaw grinned slightly and nodded. To Thompson he said, “She’s fast. Think you can keep behind her all right? They may open up more later on if they’re heading out of London, and we’ll probably have a longer run than the others anyway.”
Thompson said, “You’re not worried with this little beauty, sir, are you? It’s easy. Only trouble’s going to be the traffic.”
His hairy brown hand reached for the gear-shift, and the van moved on across some traffic-lights. Shaw glanced sideways at him, saw the steady eyes, watchful of the road ahead now. Thompson, the ex-Petty Officer who had once been Latymer’s own coxswain when the Old Man had last commanded a ship at sea, and who was now his personal driver, was just about the best hand behind a wheel that Shaw had ever known, and that was why he’d asked Latymer to let him have him for this job.
In the back of the Jaguar the girl sat between the two men, one of whom held a revolver pressed into her side. They didn’t speak; now and again one or the other of them turned and looked over his shoulder through the rear window. The driver, too, kept glancing into his mirror. But there was no sign of any pursuit, no car that appeared to keep behind more than ordinarily long.
As the Jaguar went deeper into London’s East End, Gillian Ross felt her stomach turn to water. Her mouth was trembling. After a while she asked, “Where are we going?”
The man on her right gave a soft laugh. He said, “You’ll find out soon enough. You’ll be going a long way, sister.”
In the fishmonger’s van the radio crackled in Shaw’s ears, and he listened, then flicked a switch.
He said, “Rescue answering Vanity… message received. Very good, will take over now.”
Switching off, he said, “Right, Thompson, we’re in. They’re in Limehouse, heading along the East India Dock Road. Get on to ’em now.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Thompson put his foot down, going as fast as he could through a maze of back streets. Soon after, the van took a right-hand turn into the East India Dock Road.
Shaw watched anxiously. “Can’t see her, Thompson.”
A moment later Thompson said, “She’s coming up behind now.”
Shaw relaxed, sat back in his seat. He said, “Good! She’s all yours, then. I’ll leave it to you — you know the best distance!”
“Don’t you worry, sir.”
The Jaguar overtook the van and then kept straight ahead for a while. Just beyond Victoria Dock Road it turned off into Silvertown Way, and then went through the criss-cross of side-streets that made up Canning Town, approaching the river again somewhere, Shaw judged, behind the Customs House in Victoria Docks.
He felt pretty confident they hadn’t been spotted, that the driver of the Jaguar had no suspicion whatever that he had been tailed by a series of cars. But, so far, it had been easy enough in those busy main thoroughfares. Now, it was trickier — much trickier. Lorries were unloading at the tall grey warehouses, and the streets were admittedly far from empty; but there wasn’t so much general traffic now. The van, innocent though it looked, might soon become a little obvious to the men ahead. On the other hand, if he dropped back too far, this was precisely the kind of neighbourhood in which the Jaguar could disappear for good…
A little later the Jaguar slackened speed and then turned down a side street to the left. Shaw, watching the line of buildings, said, “Keep right on across that turning, Thompson. I’ve a feeling it may be a cul-de-sac.”
“Yes, sir.”
The van held its course, crossed the head of the turning, going slow. Looking left, Shaw caught a brief glimpse of the Jaguar disappearing through some big gates in a high wall at the end, beyond which there seemed to be a biggish yard. Shaw could see the high side of a warehouse, and over the gateway was a sign in the form of an arch, in gilt lettering fixed to a metal framework. The sign read: Emco (Importers) Limited.
Shaw snapped, “Right, Thompson. Journey’s end. Stop her and back up until you’ve got a clear view of that cul-de-sac.”
The van stopped and backed, pulling up on the opposite side of the road just clear of the turning. Thompson took his hands off the wheel, rubbed them together. “Well, sir. Now what?”
“This is where Pelly and I go in and take a look round.”
The ex-sailor asked pensively, “Sure you wouldn’t like some help, sir?”
Shaw grinned, put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’d like nothing better than to have you along, but I’ve got something else for you and Archer to do.” He looked round at Pelly and Archer in the back. “Righto, you can hop out now.”
“Glad to, sir!” Pelly, a squarely built, homely man, slid back towards the rear door of the van. “Apart from getting cramp, I’m nearly asphyxiated.” He grimaced, screwing up
deep-set eyes in a leathery face. “One thing about this Outfit, sir, we do go in for plenty of authenticity.”
Shaw gave a brief, tight smile. “Take a deep breath then, Pelly. It’s going to get a whole lot fishier before long!” As the two men clambered out of the back, he turned to Thompson again. “There’s a call-box over there — see it?” Thompson nodded. “Give me a minute or two after I’ve left you, then ring the Admiralty. Speak to Mr Latymer personally. Tell him where I’ll be — Emco’s warehouse in—” He glanced through the window. “Calcutta Street, Canning Town. After you’ve done that, come back to the van and keep an eye on what comes out of Calcutta Street. Archer had better scout around for a back exit and watch that. Ring Mr Latymer at once if that Jag appears again, and then wait for Pelly and me. If the Jag doesn’t come out, give us a full hour from now. If we haven’t appeared again by that time you’ll report to the Chief by phone — after which, of course, you’ll be under his orders again. Clear?”