Book extract: A young woman begins her work at the mysterious Bureau 8 in Jane Menczer’s first novel An Unlikely Agent

Boxes of ear trumpets and bottles containing patent cures for deafness or lotions for removing blockages in the ear were jumbled haphazardly together; the labels on the bottles were faded and grimy and everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. Squeezing past several empty packing cases, I passed behind the baize screen and climbed the metal staircase. I smoothed down my hair and drew a deep breath, then rapped out the special sequence of knocks that acted as a password.

Almost at once, the Chief peered through the peephole, before opening the door with a beaming smile. Behind him I could see Liebowitz hunched over his desk, but otherwise the room was empty. “Miss Trant! Good morning! Glad to see you here so bright and early! Now, I expect you’d like to get to work straight away. There are some letters to be typed on your desk – use the headed paper. I’m sure you know the kind of thing.”

I hung my jacket next to Liebowitz’s gabardine, sat down and eagerly leafed through the small pile of papers that had been placed next to the typewriter. The Chief had taken particular care to impress upon me the vital importance of Bureau 8’s work, so I picked up the first letter with a thrill of expectation, feeling as if I were on the edge of some great adventure. To my disappointment, I found myself perusing an obscurely worded memorandum regarding German imports of an unspecified nature, which was badly punctuated and reflected an uncertain grasp of English grammar. After several attempts I managed to complete the letter to Liebowitz’s satisfaction and was about to begin the next one when I was startled by the ringing of a bell.

Bureau 8 used the hearing appliance shop as a façade to disguise the location of its headquarters, and it had been decided that henceforth I would bear sole responsibility for running the shop. To my delight, I had been instructed that when performing my duties as shop assistant I must use an alias, and I had chosen Miss Sophie Wade; Sophie after my estranged aunt whom I still sorely missed, and Wade after the heroine of my favourite detective stories. Liebowitz, advised me to use the spy’s old trick of ensuring that I was thoroughly acquainted with the details of her character and background, so that when the time came I could “slip into the mantle” with the greatest possible conviction.

It was vital that Miss Wade was sufficiently unexceptional to avoid arousing the customers’ curiosity, so we determined that she would be a timid, taciturn woman with no living relatives and no close friends, eking out a miserable existence in a seedy lodging house close by. If a customer asked to speak to Mr Stein or Mr Flowers, then I was to fetch Liebowitz or Hampson-Smythe immediately, for these were the aliases by which they were respectively known by Bureau 8’s network of underground informers.

The bell rang again and, raising his bushy brows, Liebowitz said, “You should go down at once. Leave the letters for the time being, Remember, Miss Wade always insists on sticking to the business at hand. Helpfulness and efficiency, yes – personal gossip, no. And send the customer to Healy’s on the Strand if you can do so without arousing suspicion.”

I descended the staircase with a sense of mounting excitement. I regretted the fact that I was not required to assume a more elaborate disguise in the manner of Sherlock Holmes; nevertheless, I relished the sense of intrigue that surrounded the proceedings and made ready to throw myself into my role with zest.

A short, weasel-faced man with tow-coloured hair and a pallid complexion was tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter. He was dressed in a grubby shirt and waistcoat and a ragged pair of trousers and carried a large envelope, somewhat stained and curled up at the edges. When he saw me he pulled a face and demanded, “Who are you? There’s usually another feller in ’ere – I need to speak to ’im, on a urgent matter.”

“The manager is busy at present, sir. Can I help?”

“No, it’s ’im I want – Stein.”

“I see. If you’d like to wait, I’ll go and find out whether he is available. I won’t be a moment.”

I hurried up to the office and informed Liebowitz that someone was asking for Stein. “What does he look like?” he enquired, glancing up reluctantly from his work.

I gave a brief description of the man, and he sighed and remarked to the Chief, “It’s that blasted Towler again!” After another 10 bob, no doubt. I wonder what nonsense he’ll try to fob off on us this time. Get rid of him as quickly as you can – and don’t give him any money!”

I went back to typing, but I was still ebullient at having performed my first mission “under cover” and kept drifting into speculation about what the informer might have to say. Therefore, although the letter was short, it was a good 20 minutes before I finally succeeded in reproducing it accurately. Liebowitz had still not reappeared and I began to feel anxious. The Chief suddenly said: “I say, Smythe, perhaps you’d better go down and see what’s keeping Liebowitz.”

Hampson-Smythe nodded.

I watched as he removed a revolver from a hidden cubbyhole beneath his desk, took off his shoes and crept out of the office. A moment later there was a commotion on the stairs and he burst back in, followed by Liebowitz, who declared, “I should never have thought it possible – Towler, it seems, has finally come up with the goods! If he’s telling the truth then the Scorpions have been recruiting among some of the anarchist cells in London. What’s more, he claims they intend to move in on the trade unions next.”

The Chief gave a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be blowed! That’s the first sign of activity in this country for a good 10 years! Dig out everything you’ve got on the Scorpions, chaps. Could we have some tea in the meeting room please, Miss Trant?”

Jane Menczer’s An Unlikely Agent is published by Polygon, priced £8.99