When constables Melrose and Perkins checked the Oxshott emergency ward and discovered that the man who had given his name as Corbett was indeed Mr. Corbett and a “milkman to boot,” as Perkins put it to Inspector Logan, there was relief and embarrassment all around. Relief for Logan because he hadn’t completely bungled the attempted catch of Mr. Wilkins, whose wife had lied about him being home to protect her milkman lover. Embarrassment for Mrs. Wilkins, who, following the inspector’s threat to charge the milkman, admitted to Logan and the two constables that her husband was in Southampton, where he was ostensibly assessing damage wreaked upon a convoy for the purposes of apportioning government reimbursement to the shipping lines whose merchant ships had been requisitioned.
Logan and the two constables took the 6:20 to Southampton. They were delayed at Woking because of track torn up by a Russian rocket attack between Woking and Basingstoke, necessitating a detour via Farnborough and Guildford and a late arrival in Southampton at 10:30 p.m. A light drizzle was falling through the blackout as they got out of the Southampton police car and approached the Westward Arms pub on the Southampton dockside. The contrast between the cold, bleak darkness from which they had come and the hearty, warm, noisy pub was striking, Logan commenting that he hadn’t seen such thick clouds of cigarette smoke since prewar days.
“Whole ruddy navy must be here,” said Perkins.
Wilkins was well dressed in a brown suit, but even his tailor couldn’t hide his beer belly.
“ ‘Ello, ‘ello!” someone called out at the sight of the policemen. “Anybody smell coppers?”
There was ragged laughter, someone else shouting, “You’re for it!” to the bar in general. Wilkins was turning, with a pint of Guinness in one hand and a gin and orange in the other, when he saw the inspector in his tweed jacket, cap still on, and the two constables by his side. His face changed from a merry pink to ash white.
“Mr. Wilkins? James G. Wilkins of Hemes Street, Oxshott?”
Wilkins nodded, someone shouting at him, “I want you to ‘elp us wiv our inquiries?”
Logan had the charge card out and was reading Wilkins his rights, Perkins and Melrose watching their flanks. It was a tough crowd — mostly merchant seamen getting well and truly sozzled after the harrowing Atlantic run.
“Come along,” Logan told Wilkins. Wilkins looked pained. “What’ll I do with these?” he asked plaintively, looking at the drinks.
“I’ll ‘ave the Guinness, mate,” said a distinctly Australian drawl. “Who’s the lolly water for?”
“It isn’t lolly water,” Wilkins said.
“No worry,” said the Australian, “I’ll drink it, too.”
Perkins drew the inspector’s attention to a young woman getting up from one of the cubicles. Logan nodded, and Perkins made his way through the drinkers toward her. Wilkins was still standing immobilized, holding the drinks.
“Might as well give them to Ned Kelly,” Logan advised him, indicating the Australian. “We’ll give you a chit for them if you like,” Logan added, intent on following procedure to the letter.
“Jesus,” said the Aussie, laughing, “free booze!”
Logan feared a rush on the bar. “Cuff him, Melroad.”
Melrose did as he was told and, amid a solid chorus of boos and “You bastards!” led Wilkins out.
“I’m innocent,” said Wilkins, looking about in the darkness, feeling the pull of the handcuffs.
“Of what?” said Logan as he hit the cold, bracing air.
Wilkins looked from one policeman to the other. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s a start,” said Logan. “Eh, Melroad?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Melrose dutifully.
‘“You have the lady, Melroad?” asked Logan.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Into the car, then.”
Logan was jollier than Melrose thought he had a right to be. They’d darn near botched what Oxshott station was already dubbing the case of the “pummeled pumpkin.” Nevertheless, Melrose felt a sense of achievement himself, and the warmth from the “lady” against him helped. Then, as they were leaving the dockside, he caught a glimpse of one of the ships in the convoy, her list near to capsize point, and he wondered how many men had died on her because of spies. He heard Logan calling in Scotland Yard’s CID. The Criminal Investigation Division would add an extra shine to Logan’s glory. If Wilkins talked.
In Berlin’s Alexanderplatz it was 11:45 p.m. and also raining, but here no rights were being read to the prisoner, and the crowd of one of the suburban “committees against terrorism” were a sullen lot, dragged out in the rain as witnesses to what happened to anyone found spying against the newly declared people’s German Democratic Republic. Behind them, there was the smell of chicory from the ersatz coffee being brewed in the police station.
What made the charge even more serious than usual was that the prisoner had been found wearing a uniform of the people’s antiaircraft battery. The Alexanderplatz was chosen because, while it was some distance from the point of arrest, it afforded the authorities maximum propaganda value, for television cameras were already installed overlooking the Platz, and the population at large could see the penalty for actions against the state.
“Could I please,” asked the prisoner with great dignity, “leave a message for my wife and family in Frankfurt?”
“No,” answered the stabfeldwebel who had arrested him at the roadblock, “you may not.”
As they blindfolded him, Leonhard Meir thought of his son, who had fought at Fulda Gap, and wondered whether he was alive or dead. As the stabfeldwebel pinned the white paper disk on Meir’s boiler suit, Meir started to say something, but his throat was so dry, no sound came.
As the shots rang out across the vast Platz, the citizens of Lübars had already turned to head home.