The Dust and the Heat Read online

  Copyright & Information

  The Dust And The Heat

  First published in 1967

  © Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1967-2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755105168 9780755105168 Print

  0755131851 9780755131853 Kindle

  075513222X 9780755132225 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel ‘Death in Captivity’ in 1952.

  After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.

  HRF Keating stated that ‘Smallbone Deceased’ was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published. “The plot,” wrote Keating, “is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings.” It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.

  Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London: “I always take a latish train to work,” he explained in 1980, “and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.”. After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for ‘The Daily Telegraph’, as well as editing ‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’.

  Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.

  Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.

  Preface

  A ribbon of dusty road zigzagged up the shoulder of the hill, making a final twist round the very foot of the knob on which the Villa Korngold was perched.

  Three of us were sitting at a late breakfast on the verandah. Dr Hartfeldt was looking tired, as a man might be who had been called out at midnight and had been working, on and off, ever since. Professor Lindt, with his patrician face and small imperial beard, was serious, but composed.

  Our hostess was inside, making fresh coffee. I have always admired Chrissie. She makes wonderful coffee. She is a wonderful person. She must be a wonderful person to have put up with Oliver all those years.

  When she had first bought the site and planned the villa, she had said, “It will be terribly inconvenient. All our water will have to be pumped up to us. In summer, I am told, it will dry up altogether. To bring up electric light will cost a fortune. The architect tells me that they will have to blast the rock before foundations can be laid.”

  “What about sewerage. Won’t that be a problem?”

  “A great problem. Where it will go to, I don’t care to think.”

  This was only talk. I knew that nothing was going to stop them building it. She and Oliver had been in love with the site from the first moment when they had climbed slowly up the knoll, and sat on the top looking down to the river, and beyond the river to where, just visible in the clear weather, the frieze of domes and spires and flats and factory chimneys made up the skyline of modern Innsbruck.

  Dr Hartfeldt said, “One has an impression, sitting here, of looking down as a spectator on the struggles of one’s fellow men, but being happily out of them oneself.”

  “I’d rather be sitting here,” I said, “than sweating up that road with a bicycle.”

  At the farthest turning, just above the river, the tiny figure of a man had appeared. As we watched, he gave up the struggle against the gradient, dismounted, and started to push his bicycle. A thin trail of chalky white dust blew out behind him.

  “He must be coming here,” said Professor Lindt. “The road leads only to the villa. I wonder who it can be.”

  “He’ll be pretty hot by the time he gets here,” I said.

  I had been up most of the night, too, and was in that mood of relaxed fantasy which fatigue sometimes brings. The white twisting road, the hot sunshine, and the fact that we were all thinking about Oliver, chimed together.

  It is the summer of 1944, and I am in a Sherman tank, with my eyes just above the level of the turret, and I am trundling forward into one of the sweetest deathtraps of the Italian campaign.

  The Germans had had two months to prepare for our advance up the Adriatic side, and two months, for those mole-like masters of defensive warfare, was a hell of a long time. All the easy lines of approach had been cratered. The remaining ones were covered by anti-guns sited in depth, and worse – we suspected – by the turrets of German Tiger tanks dismounted and dug in, hull down, behind successive crests. It was a position which could have been taken easily enough by infantry, preferably at night. But the available infantry were all busy on the other side of the peninsula. Our own Brigadier had already refused to make this particular attack, and had been stellenbosched by a Divisional Commander who had one eye on a KBE and a Corps, and wasn’t going to let a few damned tank casualties stop him. We knew all about this before the attack started, and it had done nothing to raise our morale.

  Oliver was commanding “A” Troop at the time. I had “B”. Dumbo Nicholson had “C”, and “D” was – I’ve forgotten his name, but can remember what he looked like. A little, dark chap, with bow-legs like an ostler. Oliver got us together the night before, and when we had finished speaking our minds about our commanders he said, “There’s only one thing for
it, chaps. We’ve got to go into that bloody valley like gangsters walking into an enemy headquarters. It doesn’t matter what the orders say. One troop moves at a time, and the other three cover him. Agreed?”

  The fact that we did agree was the clearest proof of the confidence we had in his judgement. This confidence had been a plant of four years’ growth.

  The day we arrived together at the Regimental Depot of the 22nd Lancers at Weybridge, Oliver said to me, “How did you get into a crowd like this?” I said, with a touch of youthful hauteur, “As a matter of fact, my father was in the Poms in the last war, and he knows the Adjutant.” And then, since it seemed a natural question, “How did you?”

  “Oh, one of my racing pals wangled it,” said Oliver. “He thought it might be up my street.”

  “If you’re keen on riding you ought to have joined the King’s Troop. The Poms lost their horses six months ago. They’re Armoured Cars now.”

  Oliver looked at me in blank surprise, “My dear old boy,” he said, “you don’t think I’d have come within a mile of them if they’d had horses, do you? Smelly archaic quadrupeds. When I said racing, I was talking about cars.”

  “Well, you’d better not say that when you get there,” I said. “There are still a lot of senior officers who wouldn’t appreciate it. You’d better be careful.”

  “Oh, discretion itself,” said Oliver, with a grin. “To tell you the truth, this war cropped up in a nick of time. Three months later, and I’d have been in Carey Street. I’d just spent the last penny of the family money.”

  But it was I who was out of step, not Oliver. Cars were in, horses were out. And cars were things Oliver understood. Being without a nerve in his pudgy body, he could drive any mechanically propelled contrivance, from a motorcycle to a tank, at least ten miles an hour faster than its makers had thought it could be driven, and his reflexes were quick enough to get him out of the trouble he created. He had other talents and peculiarities. He was a fine shot; opposed to unnecessary exercise in any form; had a remarkable capacity for absorbing alcohol, and an endless repertoire of dirty songs and recitations. Nature had constructed him to specifications precisely apt for a modern cavalry regiment.

  It wasn’t until we got to North Africa that we discovered something more; that he had a natural tactical sense. It was something between an eye for ground and an instinct for what an opponent was going to do, and it made him a natural tank fighter. His troop called him lucky. It was a high compliment. And it was the reason why three troop commanders, all senior to him in age and appointment, were listening to him now.

  “Willie’s orders say something about advancing by bounds, two troops up,” said Dumbo Nicholson, looking at the roneoed sheet of paper clipped to his map board.

  “And why do you suppose Willie gave us orders in writing?” said Oliver. “It’s to cover himself. He knows we’ll interpret them sensibly.”

  “What about the timings? If we move one troop at a time, and all the other squadrons advance two-up, we’re going to be a bit late on all our check lines.”

  “When I was learning to drive,” said Oliver, “my instructor said to me, ‘Better ten minutes late in this world, young man, than ten years early into the next.’”

  The “D” Troop Commander said, “Pipe down, Dumbo. Oliver’s talking sense. We can tune in to each other on our intercoms. Cut out the squadron net altogether. Once we’re out of sight we can take it in our own time.”

  And that was how I reached that particular point in my history, going very slowly forward in bottom gear, up a narrow re-entrant in the foothills of the Apennines, with the practical certainty that I was a sitting duck for the first German who bothered to pull the trigger.

  Better ten minutes late in this world than ten years early into the next. Ten years? I was only twenty-five at the time. On normal expectations I had another fifty years to live. Or maybe fifty seconds?

  I turned my head slowly, from left to right, and back again, trying to pick out the danger spots. In theory this was something you could do through a periscope, but it was much more difficult, and not a lot safer. Anything that was fired at a tank was designed to go through the tank, as well as the people inside it.

  The No. 19 set behind me crackled. This was the set which connected me to the Squadron Leader. He had a second set in his tank back to the Colonel, the Colonel to the Brigadier, and the Brigadier to the Divisional Commander in his caravan, tucked away somewhere down by the blue Adriatic. It was a system which gave the higher command an illusion that they were directing a tank battle.

  I said to the operator, “Roger and out”. I wasn’t listening. All my attention was concentrated on the other set.

  “Abel to Baker,” said Oliver’s voice in my ear. “Keep a bit left, then you’ll be out of sight of that nasty line of bushes ahead of you.”

  “I didn’t much like the look of them myself,” I said. “Keep them covered whilst I see if we can get down into the bottom of the valley.”

  “There’s a pimple up on your right,” said Oliver. “It doesn’t look entirely natural. Can you see it? Half right, two o’clock – look out!”

  A pencil of yellow flame, a shuddering thump, as if a giant had slugged the side of my tank with an enormous sledge-hammer; and much later, the sound of the shot. The armour-piercing shell, fired from the Tiger on the crest ahead of me, had hit the front end of my right-hand track, deflected, and sliced through the driving compartment, taking off my driver’s head and my right foot. As the German gunner was traversing for the shots which would finish me off, stationary and helpless, Oliver finished him off instead.

  It was a fantastically skilful and fantastically lucky shot. Bear in mind that all Oliver had to aim at was an armoured slit, roughly eighteen inches wide and four inches deep, formed like the mouth of an undershot bulldog, with the lower lip protruding, and partly blocking the upper lip. On a range, with plenty of time to lay, a good shot might have done it once in twenty times. Oliver put his first shell slap through the letter box. It killed all four Germans inside the Tiger. A bit later he came up, got me and the two unwounded members of my crew out, put a tourniquet on my leg, and wirelessed for the MO. After that he got on with the battle.

  We lost one more tank, knocked out two anti-tank guns, and were the only squadron to get on to our final objective at all. Oliver might reasonably have expected a gong for what he did. Actually what he got was a bollocking from the Squadron Leader who had heard of his unofficial order party.

  I finished up in Caserta General Hospital, had the remains of my right foot snipped off, went back to England, and was fitted out with one of the new two-way-stretch artificial feet. In a lot of ways they’re an improvement on the natural article. If you get osteoarthritis, you can cure it with a grease gun.

  I kept in touch with the 22nd by writing to friends in it. I knew that they had taken part in the crossing of the Senio in the spring, and had landed up in Austria, nearly getting into a fight with Tito, and finishing up doing guard duty whilst the odds and sods of the Germany Army trickled in from Hitler’s inner fortress, some truculent still, but mostly so fed up they gave no trouble to anyone.

  I only got one letter from Oliver. He wasn’t a great letter writer.

  On a Saturday morning, three years later, I was sitting in the snack bar of the pub near Bucklersbury, known to young City men as the Royal Nob, trying to decide between tinned crab and tinned salmon as a filling between tired pieces of brown bread calling itself a sandwich. In those days, believe it or not, a lot of people in the City worked on Saturday mornings. I had finished the half pint of beer which I had carried across with me, and was debating whether, if I tried to order a second drink, I should get back to my place at the lunch counter, when a hand came over my shoulder, holding a large gin and tonic, and put it down beside me.

  “I seem to remember,” said Oliver, “that you have a weakness for this nauseating mixture. How’s the foot?”

  “Terrific,” I said. “I
played five games of squash on it yesterday. No trouble at all. How are things with you?”

  “Fair to middling. The last two years have been a bit of a grind. By and large it’s been great fun, really.”

  We were both taking stock of each other, in the way people did when they met again for the first time after the war. We’d all heard stories of ex-officers of the 1914–18 war who met their Company Commanders selling bootlaces off a tray in Victoria Street. Oliver was fatter than when I had seen him last. He looked prosperous. Clothes rationing had levelled people off, but his suit and shirt had cost at least twice as much as mine, and his shoes were the sort which came off a last, not out of a box on a shelf. He had a scar down one side of his jaw which looked too recent to be a war wound.

  “I suppose you’re a qualified accountant now?”

  “I qualified in the autumn of 1945,” I said. “The first exam after the war. They let you through if you could multiply up to five in your head. They tell me it’s more difficult now. What about you?”

  “I’m a manufacturing chemist,” said Oliver. “I don’t mind you drinking my gin, but I do draw the line at your depositing your cigarette ash in it.” This was to a stout man standing next to him. The man muttered an apology and squeezed out of the crowd. “Are you fixed up in a firm yet?”

  “I’ve got a job,” I said. “I’m not a partner.”

  “Let’s move over to the other bar. There’s a bit more room there.”

  We had two more drinks, and I was brought up to date with the doings of the 22nd Lancers and the fates of a number of my friends, but I could sense that Oliver was only going through the motions. He had never been very interested in the past.

  He was drinking double gins with single Frenches in them. The girl behind the counter seemed to know what he wanted without being told. She had dark black hair, an Irish accent and a sweater so tight it must have been knitted on her.