The Cambridge Key
Nicholas Hallum
8 June 1937
The man in the dark suit drew his mackintosh closer around him, pulled the bowler hat lower over his eyes. He held a heavy umbrella near to his side and walked with a fast and unpredictable gait. An air of anxiety hung over him, as if someone dogged his steps.
The man took a turn around St James Park, ducked into a shop, and then used a public loo. A few moments later, a large, heavyset gentleman with unkempt hair and the rolling gait of a sailor or a drunk emerged from that same loo, a bristly moustache upon his lip, heavy brow and thick reddened cheeks set in an expression of firm concentration.
He hoped that any observer would wait for the first man: the sharply dressed Eton boy with the bowler, the clearly identifiable mackintosh, and the furtive look in his eyes. And the observer would be wrong to do so.
For the two were, of course, the same man. He had merely added a large moustache, cheek inserts, rouge, and a slight bit of stage-craft that accentuated one’s brow. He’d transformed the collapsible bowler into a Homburg. Contrary posture and a new gait added to the look; the mackintosh rolled up and stuck under his belt added to his girth. These things were not so difficult, if only one went about one’s business in an efficient manner.
After crossing a variety of streets, and doubling back on his own tail several times – looking in the gutter as if he’d lost something, or staring into the glass windows of shops in an effort to catch a glimpse of any tail that might be lingering – he was somewhat assured of his success. Feeling oddly gratified, the officer approached the small pub on the corner.
In one last excess of caution, he went to the chips shop next door, changed out of the moustache, and put the mackintosh back over his shoulders. He then sidled quickly out the back door of the shop and into the rear entrance of the Eagle and Child pub.
Now he looked like something in between the heavy sailor and the furtive Eton lad. Perhaps a third man, if one were watching closely? He had decidedly lost the drunken gait and the aura of general lassitude, which was all to the best, because he did indeed wish to make a positive impression on the gentlemen who had so graciously gathered at his request.
Inside the pub, he spotted the group at once. Quietly, he went to the table.
‘ I’m from Bletchley Park,’ he said. The assembled faces looked up at him, beneficent, all perhaps slightly inebriated. He’d missed the first round.
‘ Yes, yes, you’re the very chap we’ve been waiting for,’ said a large man who looked like a butcher. His voice was very loud and he stood up too rapidly from the table, nearly knocking his half-empty beer mug onto the floor.
‘ There goes Jack again,’ said an amiable man with a beard. He was smoking a pipe and gave the officer a wan smile. ‘ Always welcoming some incoming messiah.’
The SIS officer gave an inward sigh. Had these Oxford dons taken precautions at all on the way here? These men hadn’t the slightest clew how to conduct themselves on matters of security to the British Crown. They’d responded to his request, but to what end? Catching at straws, that’s what the Foreign Office was doing now.
The officer gently lay down his heavy umbrella, holding it back from the table just before impact so that the extra weight wouldn’t make an audible thunk. With five pounds of lead in the reinforced haft, the umbrella was a regular shillelagh. He scanned the gathered faces, chatting amiably to each other, ordering from their host.
