Beware This Boy by Maureen Jennings Page A

He spent one or two terms at Rugby before he was sent down for poor work habits. That’s no doubt why he chose the code name he did: Thomas Arnold was a headmaster there in Victorian times. His son was one of our most famous poets. He wrote the exquisite ‘Dover Beach.’ Perhaps you are familiar with it?”
    “That’s the one about the ignorant armies having a go at each other on a dark plain, isn’t it? Not that much different nowadays, if you think about it.”
    “Yes, quite. But be that as it may, we were in the midst of discussing Comrade Arnold.”
    “He giggles all the time. Very irritating.”
    “His real name is Gilbert Dix. Father a schoolteacher at a third-rate prep school. Patriotic to a fault. The scion is rebelling, I suppose.”
    “What did you get on Comrade Chopin?”
    “He is a bona fide refugee. Polish. He was arrested for so called anti-social behaviour, meaning, in his case, being an advocate of Communism. He was sent to a prison in Dachau for six months. The Nazis are using the term
concentrationcamp
, meaning they concentrate all the same kind of prisoners in one spot. Easier for administration, I assume. So Germanic, don’t you think?”
    “Sounds ominous to me.” Lev tried without much success to rub at his shoulder and hold the telephone receiver at the same time.
    “Apparently our friend had a bad time during incarceration,” continued Grey. “It’s possible the Abwehr is running him as an undercover agent, or he may be a dyed-in-the-wool true-believer communist. We’re not sure yet. His name is Dmitri Wolfsiewicz.”
    The booth was steaming up, and Lev began to draw little faces on the glass. They all had pipes in their mouths.
    “What was on the agenda last night?” asked Grey.
    “We had a lively discussion about whether we would cause injury to civilians or not. For the greater good and all that. Means justifies the ends. Neither Chopin nor Cardiff said much. Chopin never does but the Welshman is usually vocal. The runty thug said, ‘We’re not playing marbles here. Course there’ll be dead ’uns.’ ”
    “Did he indeed.”
    “No, what he actually said was, ‘We’re not playing fucking bloody marbles. This is bleeding war. People frigging die.’ ”
    “Foul-mouthed, is he?”
    “That’s putting it mildly.”
    “Was this with reference to …?”
    “Beg pardon, what did you say?”
    “Sunday’s incident. Did this have to do with Sunday’s incident?”
    “Sort of but not directly. Nobody claimed responsibility. I thought the ponce and Taffy were troubled, and maybe the Pole, but I’m not positive. They don’t give away much, these fellows. I couldn’t tell if they had anything to do with it or not.”
    “Hmm … how interesting. Anything else?”
    “The ponce had his big moment. With much licking of his chops, he declared that the chief – that is, Comrade Patrick, not yet seen – wants to close the factory down completely by Christmas.”
    “How?”
    “The very question yours truly asked. He couldn’t say right now, says Poncy, but we will know soon enough.”
    “Is this serious, do you think, or is the young man blowing air out of his anus?”
    Lev almost burst out laughing. “I think Arnold likes to pretend to be thick with the boss. He wants to be seen as the lieutenant but I think the real next in line is the Welshman. I didn’t get the impression that an actual plan had been formed as yet.”
    There was a silence at the end of the phone. Lev could hear a sucking sound as if the man were lighting a pipe. He added a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker to one of the little faces on the window.
    “Do they trust you?” asked Grey.
    “They’d be stupid if they did. I haven’t been tested yet. I just have good references.”
    “Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me. You’re going to the factory today, I assume.”
    “That’s right.”
    “I should tell you there is a policeman investigating the explosion. His name is Tyler, Detective Inspector