Beneath Gray Skies by Hugh Ashton

drunk, and Dowling’s billfold was significantly emptier and his notebook significantly fuller with his pretended journalistic notes by the time he left the bar. He’d learned nothing of any interest to his mission, though.
     
    “Feel free to come back any time, sir,” called the barman as he left. About a hundred yards down the street, Dowling heard footsteps running behind him. Closing his fingers round the butt of the Browning automatic that C had insisted he carry with him at all times, but keeping the pistol out of sight in his pocket, he stopped and turned.
     
    -o-
     
    O ne of his bar companions had followed him. Half-expecting to be robbed, Dowling looked for the rest of the gang, but could see no-one. As if he’d guessed Dowling’s thoughts, the other spread his hands wide, keeping them in clear view as he walked forward.
    “I didn’t speak to you back there, but I heard what you were saying about them damn’ Confeds,” said the smaller, somewhat ratty-looking man in American-accented English. “By God, I am glad to be out of that place!”
     
    “The bar back there?” asked Dowling, deliberately misunderstanding.
     
    “No, the goddamned Confederate States of America, may the devil take Jeff Davis’s rotten soul to hell!”
     
    “My sentiments exactly. How long have you been out of the Confederacy, then, Mr.—”
     
    “Call me Pete. A few years now. Since the end of the European War, anyway. Life here is real tough, but at least there ain’t no slaves here and there’s folks who believe in freedom and equality for everyone, not just the rich folks.”
     
    “They don’t all think that way in this country,” warned Dowling.
     
    “I know that, and that’s why I’m going to tell you what I’m going to tell you. There’s a group of no-good scum call themselves National Socialists. They say they’re a worker’s party, but that’s a load of horseshit, if you’ll pardon my French. They’re no better than Jeff Davis and his lot. In fact they’re workin’ alongside Jeff Davis. There’s a ship called the
Robert E. Lee
came into port just the other night from Savannah, Georgia.”
     
    “But German ports don’t allow Confederacy ships to dock,” objected Dowling.
     
    “So they don’t. But I know the
Bobby Lee
. See, I jumped ship from her in Martinique before I came here. She was flying a Panamanian flag a few days back, and she had another name on her, but I knew her right enough when I saw her come to berth. So I watches her, and guess what?”
     
    “Tell me.”
     
    “Just after sundown, the gangplank comes down, and lots of men walk off the
Bobby Lee
and into this big warehouse and they never come out again. And they was all dressed sort of queer.”
     
    “How do you mean? Uniforms?”
     
    “No, that’s my point. They sure as hell weren’t uniforms. They all looked as though they had each other’s clothes on. There was one tall guy, looked just like a scarecrow with his pants legs halfway up to his knees, and his coat sleeves up around his elbows. And then, this is the good part, so listen up close now, a whole load of them brownshirts, the National Socialist private army boys, came by and went into the warehouse an hour or so later. All of ‘em with swastika armbands. Now,” grinning triumphantly. “What do you make of that?”
     
    “Where’s this warehouse?”
     
    Pete grinned. “Interested? I’m sorry to tell you, sir, that this will cost you some money.”
     
    “I’m always happy to spend money in a good cause, Pete, and if I can get this story into my newspaper, it’s a bloody good cause, I tell you.”
     
    “You’ll pay me in British pounds? These German marks aren’t worth a bucket of warm piss now, and they’re getting to be worth less every day. But I don’t have to tell you that.”
     
    “Good old British pounds sterling it shall be. But I don’t have the money with me. I’m going to have to get it from my hotel for you, if you’re