The Death Ray Debacle: The Dan Delaney Mysteries, #1

By David McGill

In June 1935 Takapuna inventor Victor Penny was attacked by foreign agents seeking what the newspapers dubbed a 'death ray'. The government secretly shifted him to Somes Island in Wellington harbour to develop the weapon. The novel of this true story is told by Temporary Acting Detective Dan Delaney, seconded to Special Branch, forerunner of the Security Intelligence Service.

Special Branch is monitoring the German Club in Auckland, an increasingly shrill supporter of the Nazi regime. The unconventional Auckland theatrical scene has made sensational headlines with the alleged murder of his wife by impresario Eric Mareo, his accuser the bisexual dancer Freda Stark, lover of his deceased partner. A mysterious German/Jewish refugee has been involved in both the German Club and this Bohemian scene, making her a person of interest to the young detective and a recently arrived German diplomat.

The detective and a helpful Scotland Yard adviser pursue and are pursued by spies determined to steal Penny's blueprint. Round-the-clock protection is provided for Penny by armed soldiers on the supposedly secure Somes Island government facility, used to imprison enemy aliens in the Great War. Corruption on the island is uncovered by the detectives as they face lethal force to acquire an invention all major countries are actively chasing.

Using private, media and archival sources, the author reveals the hidden layers threatening a country emerging out of the Depression with little idea of the forces about to plunge it into another world war. Foreign agents want Victor Penny's game-changing weapon, but also control of New Zealand's role in the coming conflict. The author's 52nd book depicts New Zealand at the crossroads of change, for better and for worse.

 

'Mixing history and fiction into a good old yarn.' Jim Sullivan, Sounds Historical, Radio NZ

 

'New Zealand's first spy story.' The Wellingtonian.

 

'He creates the period very well with the clothing and the language and the police force … Clever denouement quite unexpected  … a curious story well told.' Harry Broad, Radio NZ

 

'A fast-paced action spy story … builds to a great climactic finish. If this is ever made into a film the director will need not look any further for an accurate chronicle.' Tim Gruar, Booksellers NZ 

 

'McGill's writing shines where he is building a sense of place and time. It's particularly strong on the minutiae of life in that period.' Karen Chisholm, creator of Australian Crime Fiction blog.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Silver Owl Press
• Release date: Jun 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9780992262235

David McGill

David McGill is a New Zealand social historian and fiction writer who has published 60 books. Born in Auckland, educated in the Bay of Plenty and at a Christchurch seminary, he trained as a teacher and did a BA at Victoria University of Wellington. He worked as a feature writer for The Listener, Sydney’s The Bulletin, London’s TVTimes, wrote columns for the Evening Post in Wellington and edited a local lifestyle magazine before becoming a full-time writer in 1984. His book subjects include Ghost Towns of New Zealand and the country’s first bushranger, local and national heritage buildings, Kiwi prisoners of war, the history of the NZ Customs Department, a biography of a criminal lawyer, a personal history of rock music, a rail journey around the country, historical and comic novels, several thrillers and six collections of Kiwi slang and recently seven Dan Delaney Mysteries. He collects owl figurines and reads thrillers. His website www.davidmcgill.co.nz includes blogs related to his books and synopses and reviews by clicking on covers.

Book preview

The Death Ray Debacle

Also by David McGill

The Dan Delaney Mysteries

The Death Ray Debacle

The Plot to Kill Peter Fraser

Christ on a Bodgie Bike

Death of an Agent

The Manger, the Mikdash and the Mosque

The Convict Stain

Back Home in Derry

Watch for more at David McGill’s site.

The Death Ray Debacle

A Dan Delaney Thriller

Book 1

David McGill

Contents

Also by David McGill

Preface

Introduction

Prelude

Auckland

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

In the Middle of Nowhere

Chapter 7

Somes Island, Wellington Harbour

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

The Aftermath

Also by David McGill

About the Author

Copyright David McGill 2015

Silver Owl Press

Ocean Rd, Paekakariki 5034

[e-mail]/www.davidmcgill.co.nz

ISBN 978-0-9922622-2-8 (print)

ISBN 978-0-9922622-3-5 (EPUB)

ISBN 978-0-9922622-4-2 (Kindle)

Cover design by Dr Jeff Simmonds

This is a work of fiction and names and characters only exist in the author’s imagination; any resemblance to real persons living or dead is coincidental.

To Vic, Evan and all exemplars of good old Kiwi ingenuity

Preface

In June 1935 Takapuna inventor Victor Penny was attacked by foreign agents seeking what the newspapers dubbed a ‘death ray’. The government secretly shifted him to Somes Island in Wellington harbour to develop the weapon. The novel of this true story is told by Temporary Acting Detective Dan Delaney, seconded to Special Branch, forerunner of the Security Intelligence Service.

Special Branch is monitoring the German Club in Auckland, an increasingly shrill supporter of the Nazi regime. The unconventional Auckland theatrical scene has made sensational headlines with the alleged murder of his wife by impresario Eric Mareo, his accuser the bisexual dancer Freda Stark, lover of his deceased partner. A mysterious German/Jewish refugee has been involved in both the German Club and this Bohemian scene, making her a person of interest to the young detective and a recently arrived German diplomat.

The detective and a helpful Scotland Yard adviser pursue and are pursued by spies determined to steal Penny’s blueprint. Round-the-clock protection is provided for Penny by armed soldiers on the supposedly secure Somes Island government facility, used to imprison enemy aliens in the Great War. Corruption on the island is uncovered by the detectives as they face lethal force to acquire an invention all major countries are actively chasing.

Using private, media and archival sources, the author reveals the hidden layers threatening a country emerging out of the Depression with little idea of the forces about to plunge it into another world war. Foreign agents want Victor Penny’s game-changing weapon, but also control of New Zealand’s role in the coming conflict. The author’s 52nd book depicts New Zealand at the crossroads of change, for better and for worse.

Enquiries: www.davidmcgill.co.nz.

Introduction

About November – December 1933 … the conduct of the (German) Club gradually took on a more sinister trend … The innocuous activities and social harmony that had hitherto existed became dissipated in an atmosphere of increasing nationalism and political fervour. This changed spirit of the Club waxed stronger with the gradual consolidation of the Nazi state … By February 1934 … the activities of the Club first came under the notice of the Auckland Police and from then on it was under constant surveillance … Scotland Yard commenced the employment of a ‘Nazi Squad’ for similar duties in 1935.

Report by Detective G A Stevenson into German organizations in New Zealand as part of an investigation of potential enemy activities in New Zealand: New Zealand Government War History/Police Narratives, 21/43d, WAII, National Archives.

In the fourth volume of the history of New Zealand policing by Graeme Dunstall, A Policeman’s Paradise?: Policing a Stable Society 1918-1945, it is noted that a number of detectives and undercover officers were used to survey and infiltrate the extreme left. Younger detectives were recruited for undercover work often without much beat experience because they showed initiative and zeal. One such example in 1935 was in the passing out of 200 police, when Commissioner George Wohlmann asked if anyone could give a description of a wanted man in the current Police Gazette. A young constable stepped forward and read the description from his notebook. The impressed Commissioner had him transferred to the Auckland Detective Office.

This is the story of the youngest and newest detective assigned to monitor the German Club in regard to foreign agents suspected of assaulting Takapuna inventor Victor Penny to steal his death ray invention – a weapon of enormous interest to European nations actively arming for the coming war.

Prelude

The feeble cries for help carried a good distance on the still and chill night air. On the back porch of their Huron Street home 150 yards away Mrs McNeill took a firm grip on the rail and peered into the shadowy gloom, as if by craning forward she could make sense of the noise. It was not an agitated night bird, and nor was it extreme enough for cats at it.

‘Dear?’ she called, and when he did not respond, she shouted ‘Dear!’

Her husband appeared, sucking to get one more mouthful of smoke out of his briar. She was bent forward, poised, the faint overhead light more concealing than revealing her figure outlined under her skirt, tensed as if she was ready to launch herself into the night. For some reason it reminded him of that trip to Great Barrier, when she was about to dive off the yacht. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he growled.

‘I think someone’s in trouble.’

‘I can’t see a thing. Probably the local wildlife. Come inside, Dilly, before you catch your death of cold.’

The grandfather was doing its Westminster chimes, striking eleven. He waited while his ears cleared, aware she had not come in. He went out to remonstrate again, and then he too heard the cry for help, followed by groaning.

‘It’s coming from the bus depot,’ she said.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Get your coat on, we’ll check. Probably some drunk.’

He led the way, momentarily wishing he had changed out of his slippers. Then he reminded himself to straighten up. After all, it was only two weeks since he was retired as a senior serving sailor, along with dear old HMS Diomede. She too was due to be retired at Devonport, but he was not convinced either him or his ship should be on the scrapheap. He was proud of the rescue work his ship’s complement had done in the Napier earthquake. The least he could do was show a capable hand in front of his wife. He automatically checked the still warm bowl of the briar stuffed in one pocket, wouldn’t want an incident. Yes, he could make out a figure collapsed against one of the bowser pumps. He was holding on to the hose, calling for help.

The rumble of a bus passing caused him to stop, his wife cannoning into him.

‘What was that?’ she said fearfully.

‘A ruddy bus.’

‘No. Listen.’

Someone was walking rapidly along the main road. Then a car accelerated away behind the bus depot. The groans were intensifying.

‘Come on!’ he reminded both of them.

As they reached a dishevelled looking man, he silently and slowly subsided to the ground.

‘Call the police,’ McNeill instructed his wife. ‘Go on.’

She did his bidding, as he crouched next to the slumped figure. He had to recall his first-aid training. Yes, check the airwaves. He was breathing, but not easily. He must get him into shelter and keep him warm, that’s what they did at Napier. But how? He was not large, but seemed quite stocky. He was only dressed in shirt, trousers and socks, no sign of a coat or boots. Of course, employ the fireman’s lift. He knelt either side of the prone shape, jigged his arm under his crutch, braced his reluctantly retired body and forced himself semi-upright. He staggered the few yards to the office, bumped inside and eased his victim to the floor. He recognised Victor Penny, lived with his wife in Napier Avenue. Night attendant at the depot. But everybody knew him as the crazy inventor.

Snap to it. Had to keep him warm.

He hurried back to get blankets, his wife informing him the police were on the way. She added she had also called Dr Stewart and Mr Taylor from the North Shore Transport Company.

‘It is Vic, isn’t it?’

He acknowledged that, pulling several blankets out of the top of the linen cupboard. ‘Best wait in case they come here,’ he said.

Penny was trying to get up, gasping ‘The papers. My papers.’

As he was swaddled, Penny mumbled about a sawn-off shotgun. McNeill reassured him the doctor was on his way. The poor chap was rambling, but with good reason. He had clearly come off the worse for the struggle, his clothes ripped, severe if unclear the form of the injuries. McNeill could see his coat and boots in the asphalt yard, along with papers scattered about. He told him not to worry, the papers were here and the authorities were on their way.

The doctor arrived, checked his pulse, noted numerous scratches and abrasions, elicited a terrible groan when he fingered his abdomen area. He shone a small torch in his eyes then looked up to answer Mrs McNeill’s question, yes, call an ambulance. McNeill frowned, he had told her to wait, but she was making herself useful.

Taylor arrived, full of exclamations and questions about Penny and what happened. The doctor told him it was best not touch anything, and wait for the police. The St John ambulance arrived and Penny was placed in it, still gabbling about his papers. The doctor told him he would inform his wife. The ambulance pulled away as the police arrived.

The police officer told Taylor to calm down. The discovery of the cashbox under the office counter with the takings from benzene and accessories had the desired effect of calming the manager. The McNeills gave their names and addresses to Detectives Turgis and Mills, who arrived shortly before midnight to begin scene examination. The detectives recovered a half-smoked cigarette near the scattered papers, but nothing else. They assured the McNeills they would look into the victim’s concerns about stolen papers. Dr Stewart told them Penny’s injuries, while severe enough, particularly the concussion and blow to the abdomen, were not life-threatening.

Which made, said Detective McWhirter when he joined his colleagues for further investigations, a rum business altogether, particularly this talk about foreign agents assaulting Penny.

The talk did not leave the Princes Street offices of the detective department, on the telephoned orders of Sub-Inspector Scott, who was attached to the Commissioner of Police in Wellington. Scott had recently been in Auckland making enquiries about the work of Mr Penny in his home laboratory. It was known among the Auckland detectives that Scott and his superior Inspector Stanley Biggart investigated matters of a political or sensitive nature.

What they did not know was that the sub-inspector was flying back to Auckland to confer with selected detectives about the activities of the Auckland German Club which, unlike its Wellington counterpart, was not there merely to appreciate German music and culture. It was a rabid Nazi Club intent on weeding out all non-Germans. Fortuitously perhaps it was also the subject of information from a visiting British official. He was interested in the Auckland experience at surveillance of German nationals in New Zealand. The official, Superintendent Jonathan Smith, was attending in an advisory as well as advised capacity the urgent meeting of those Auckland detectives charged with discovering what these Nazis were up to. Temporary Acting Detective Daniel Delaney was about to join the team and experience his first active assignment.

Auckland

Chapter One

Temporary Acting Detective Dan Delaney pulled his suit straight, checked his tie knot was in place and rapped the brass eagle’s head several times against its plate. He looked up at the gold and black-edged Gothic lettering: Anglo-German Imports. No response. He removed his notebook, checked the Albert Street address he had written down. He was reaching again for the curved beak when the door was flung open.

‘Yes?’ An elderly man with a square, ruddy face framed by thick white hair glared at him, his monosyllabic enquiry enlarged by the English plum in his mouth.

‘Sir Edward Rankin?’

‘You are?’

Dan removed his trilby, in the process bumping it against his notebook and dropping both. He crouched to recover them, stood directly against a bushy white moustache that was vibrating. He could smell the tobacco and musty tweed of his three-piece.

‘Chief Inspector Houghton,’ he managed. ‘He sent me.’

‘The office junior, eh? You have a name?’

Dan offered his name and minimal rank, but not his hand, it might get bitten off. Sir Edward grunted and told him to follow. He did, past an oak desk hosting empty wire trays, a large leather-sheathed blotting paper pad accommodating an upright Imperial considerably newer than the one Dan pecked out reports on. He took in an open inkpad, red, and a stamp, a desk calendar, an inkwell with no ink and a dried-out nib. It all looked tidy, and abandoned.

Sir Edward led the way through a dark varnished door into a room made gloomy by half-drawn drapes a match for the red Turkish carpet. His finger pointed to the nearest of two wooden chairs this side of a huge desk whose surface was swamped by piles of loose foolscap pages of correspondence, some of which Dan could see were carbon copies.

The elderly man directed his glare to his untidy desk, sighed and sat heavily in his chair. ‘Reason I rang Horton,’ he said, nodding at the desk.

‘Sorry, sir. You’ve lost me.’

‘Eh?’

The elderly man’s bushy eyebrows were elevated, his eyes baffled. Dan was beginning to wonder if he was the full quid. There was a glaze to his distended eyes reminiscent of Dan’s somewhat demented grandfather.

‘Horton, sir?’

‘Your superior, so you said. Let me see your warrant.’

Dan realised his blunder, Sir Edward meant Houghton. He handed over his card. Sir Edward scrutinised it, glanced up at him from under his eyebrow thickets, handed the card back. ‘Miss Reisz took care of all this,’ he said, waving a hand over the piles of paper. ‘And very well, I might add. Until she up and left. No warning. Just before this German chappie turned up unannounced. One of those overbearing young blighters we’re seeing more and more of.’

‘Was he from the German Club, do you know?’

Sir Edward’s glare was back on his visitor. He leaned back with a creaking of springs, his hands gripping the polished arms as he assessed another intruder. Dan was reminding himself to make mental notes of everything when he was distracted by a whirring sound, followed by a shrill sequence of cuckoo calls from the wooden bird ducking in an out of the upper storey of an elaborate black wooden clock.

‘Good Lodge man, Horton,’ Sir Edward growled. ‘If he’s sent you to quiz me about the activities of the German Club, you’re wasting your time – and mine.’

‘Sorry, sir?’

A large hand rose, silencing him. Not quite the Hitler salute, Dan thought randomly, flushing when he received a suspicious look.

‘These whippersnappers who are taking over the German Club – yes, they are same stripe as this type who barged in here – disruptive push.’

He mournfully contemplated the paper pile, blinked it away. ‘You see, they now insist on speaking German at the German Club. It makes sense where they come from, but not here. Not if they want our support. Seems they don’t. I never got the hang of the lingo, like most of us British members. Correction --former members. We all bailed out, pretty much the entire committee, Sir George, Hansen, old Thiens the president, Ashby the auditor. Well over 100 members gone, we know when we’re not wanted, left all that goodwill, of which I don’t see much with the new Nazi brooms. That fellow Schmidt has taken over. We were members for cultural and business reasons, not to spout Deutsch. That’s what my secretary was for. Now she’s gone, just before that pushy fellow turns up claiming to be from the German consulate. Has the bare-faced ruddy cheek to demand to know where my secretary is, then wanting to see my files, names of Jews in business here. Swarthy type, could have been Jewish himself. Told him where to get off.’

The old chap seemed to have forgotten he did not intend talking to an office junior about the German Club. Perhaps he could tell him about his secretary. Dan didn’t want to leave with an empty notebook. ‘Your secretary, sir, she was definitely German?’

Sir Edward looked both astonished and annoyed. ‘That’s why I took her on.’

He swivelled his chair, not a good idea, it canted with considerable protest to one side, requiring him to grab the edge of his desk. Once he was steady, he waved his free hand dismissively. ‘I don’t pry into people’s backgrounds. I keep out of the politics, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m in business, and I want to stay that way. Hitler’s on the right track with the expanding German economy, that’s all that concerns me. I like the sound of these folk autos he’s ordered Porsche to build. If Horton wants to know about politics, he’ll have to talk to the consular fellow. I wanted a quick chat with him, check the lie of the land about this fellow charging in on a respectable businessman without an appointment. Clearly he’s too busy to bother. Now if that’s all.’

Dan was obliged to stand too, and risked asking if he had an address for the German woman. Sir Edward lurched past him, pulled open the top draw of a set of metal filing cabinets, handed him several sheets. Dan looked at a letter of introduction.

‘Sterling London reference. She was only here a matter of months, but she was damned useful. I took her along to the German Club a few times, before these uppity political types took over. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get on and try and make some sense out of this dog’s ruddy breakfast.’

‘One last question, sir. Do you think Miss Reisz knew this German caller?’

Sir Edward glared at him. ‘How the devil would I know? She hasn’t returned. Nor thank God has he. I told him in no uncertain terms if he didn’t get out of my office I’d call the police. He left, but not before I got an earful. I’ll say one thing for the Germans, they know how to swear. You don’t have to speak the language, the gist is pretty obvious, schweinhund, that sort of thing. When I do call the police, fat lot of use it does me. I bid you good day.’

It was quicker to walk than bother with changing trams. He put on his trilby as some protection against the persistent drizzle and headed down Victoria Street and across Queen Street, dodging umbrellas directed by people who assumed they had right of way. He turned into High Street, feeling peckish. He stepped into tearooms, took one look at the queue and all tables full, and veered out again. From his brief experience in uniform, he knew he could have expected a cuppa, but not in civvies. He wasn’t desperate enough to call in on his brother at the Auckland Star, he’d rain questions. It was enough putting up with the weather, without Sean’s incessant badgering. Worse than a cop.

By the time he got to the top of Shortland Street he was hoping for an hospitable greeting. The woman who opened the door dispelled any chance of that. There was no greeting at all. She presented a grim face, stiffened by an excess of powder and paint work. Her steel hair was in a bun so tight it gave her eyes an Oriental slant. Her ample frame filled the doorway, supported by what, beneath a tubular dress of extravagant purple blooms, he imagined from his childhood witness of dear deceased Granny’s rather careless bedroom display, was a full-body corset of whale-bone sheathing. He showed his identity card and asked if Miss Reisz was in.

‘She is not,’ the woman said through barely parted lips, perhaps concerned at any threat to her carefully enhanced features.

Dan took out his notebook, by way of delay while he thought of a follow-up question. ‘Do you know when she will be back?’

The woman eyed his notebook as if he had produced something inappropriate, perhaps a copy of Truth newspaper.

‘No,’ she said, her lips snapping shut as emphatically as a tripped mousetrap.

Dan looked at his damp page, awaiting inspiration.

‘She has left,’ the woman conceded. ‘Good riddance.’

He looked up.

‘I’m not surprised the police are after her, gallivanting around the way she did, with those … women.’

‘Who might they be?’

‘Huh,’ she snorted. ‘The ones in the paper, who else? That foreigner, the so-called artiste everybody says poisoned his wife. She was one of them.’

‘Eric Mareo? The conductor.’

‘Huh,’ she repeated.

‘So you do not know where she has gone?’

‘No. If that is all?’

The door was shut in his face, while he was trying to think of another question. He could feel his nose tickling, the drizzle was intensifying. He couldn’t return with a damp notebook containing nothing. He sneezed, and again. Wiping his hand across his nose, he put his notebook away and directed his trilby back down Shortland Street. He’d get Mareo’s address at the library, and this time he would take a tram.

He had to come up with something substantive. He was not returning to Princes Street with nothing to show Chief Houghton, even if he had to risk stepping on the toes of the detectives interviewing Mareo on and off for the two months since his wife’s unfortunate death from