NINETEEN

For Danny and his friends, the discovery of the underground maze was such an injection of excitement into their lives that they almost forgot that the main purpose of the mission was to track Nick Mostert.

The ability to walk unseen around the town, while under it, became a compelling pre-occupation. The idea of drawing up Mostert-watching rosters went by the board. After school, and once homework was done, it would have taken physical force to keep any of the four out of the tunnels.

Forget about the Invisible Man. Here were four Invisible Boys, watching the comings and goings of the townsfolk, catching some of its prominent citizens in unguarded moments.

There was old Trevor Smale, outside his drapery shop, digging in his ear with a motion that suggested he might be winding up some mechanism within his head; then staring at the finger as though he expected something to bloom from it. Further up York Road, Steve Kalendas would emerge from his Grand Tearoom to engage in serious nasal mining when he felt sure no one was looking.

They discovered too that some people of the town had set routines, like Mrs Howlett and Mr Fuller. Yet although they met so regularly, those two embraced as if they hadn’t seen each other for months. Billy Miller said it was something called harmones, but Charles Perkins said no, that was a kind of mouth organ.

Pondo Harrington and Alf Apple also kept regular hours. They appeared to have a standing arrangement to meet black people at three every afternoon on a plot next to the police station. Pondo would appear in his shirtsleeves, look about quickly and from the folds of his blazer produce bottles of a brown liquid and money would change hands.

Yet as the four watched, and moved around the central grid of streets, they found that Nick Mostert’s life also followed a pattern. Later in the afternoon, though not every afternoon, he would park his De Soto just above the forecourt of Buhl’s Motors, cross York Road and turn the corner to the Grosvenor Hotel.

But the assignations they were watching for, the slipping of a piece of paper to the hand of some seemingly casual passer-by (in their minds, that piece of paper would contain vital radio co-ordinates or the venue for the next U-boat landing) never happened. Not the first week, nor the next.

In fact, Nick Mostert kept his head down, walked wide of everyone and acknowledged almost nobody.

George Trebble was frustrated, and had been ever since the break-in at the Drill Hall. Here he was, in a position where he might have held the Grosvenor bar regulars enthralled about the events of that night, and their implications for national security.

But Colonel Fyfe King had decided, and Digger had agreed, that no one outside the hierarchy of the NRV should be informed.

So George had been unable to tell even his friend, Gerald Wilson, of the likelihood that the Nazi spy who had been active at various areas of the coast had now moved to Umtata. Or if not he, then an accomplice.

At the same time, George had come to realise that he himself could have been responsible for that spy’s action, having told the pub at large in a loose-tongued moment that Digger had a file of confidential documents.

Nick Mostert had not returned to the Grosvenor bar for some days after his meeting with John Moore.

The first time he did, Gerald Wilson had commented, ‘It must have been good, finding out how things were going at your old base.’

George Trebble added, ‘And we hear the two of you had a fine old chat about flying, the technical aspects and so forth.’

Mostert smiled and said, ‘Well, Moore’s still a youngster, still pretty new in aerial combat. There are some things you only pick up once you’ve done a few missions. I just tried to help him out a bit.’

A week later, in the Grosvenor bar, Gerald Wilson was in his cups.

It didn’t happen often, but when Gerald consumed more whisky than usual, the combination of his bulk and drunken volubility ensured that he held the centre of everyone’s attention.

Tonight he appeared to be into a repertoire of bar room ballads. He made a hash of “Eskimo Nell” and was halfway through doing the same to “One-Eyed Riley” when he suddenly fell backwards off his stool, hit the floor with a crash that rattled the bottles on the shelves, and began to snore loudly.

George Trebble was the first to act. ‘Phone a doctor!’ he yelled at Baldy the barman. He undid Gerald’s shirt, exposing a continent of flesh, and began to apply First Aid. He looked like Jonah, trying to ride the whale.

Alf Apple knew the best place to find doctors. He sprinted around the corner to the Umtata Club. Ten minutes later, Ian Ross was on the scene, stethoscope in hand.

He ran it over the large belly, checking Gerald Wilson’s heart beat. Then he slapped him lightly on the cheeks. The snoring stopped and Wilson lifted his head.

‘I’m taking him straight to hospital,’ said Dr Ross. ‘He might have had a small stroke. Some of you can give me a hand to put him in my car.’