Flight From Honour

15

On Monday, Ranklin handed Dagner a brief report on Saturday’s events and, ten minutes later, was called in to discuss it. For the first time, Dagner wore plain clothes, a dark grey lounge suit that was brand new. So probably he had worn uniform last week simply because, after years in India, he was waiting for his tailor to run him up some London clothes. Ranklin should have thought of that, and felt ashamed of his glib hints that Dagner abandon uniform.

“D’you think Mr Sherring’s aeroplane fits Senator Falcone’s needs?”

“He appeared to be talking seriously about it.”

“Then let’s hope . . . Now, about the Senator being followed. You obviously did the right thing in moving him to a hotel in the country-”

“I’m afraid he may now suspect who I really represent. He did comment.”

Dagner smiled sympathetically. “Can’t be helped. But the man trying to follow him from the Ritz: positively didn’t speak English?”

“Quite sure.”

“And dressed unsuitably . . . I know nothing about these organisations, but does that sound like, say, the Austrian KS to you?”

Ranklin noticed he knew enough to call the Austrian secret service by its initials, though. “No, they should be better than that. But if they wanted to keep their hands clean, they might have hired some assassin.”

“Yes, there’s always that. And if Falcone doesn’t want a bodyguard, we can’t insist. But I want to keep tabs on him . . . If he approaches Mr Sherring again, will we know through O’Gilroy?”

“Not necessarily. But I should hear from Mrs Finn.”

“Ah yes.” Dagner smiled, perhaps relieved that the lady’s name had finally come into the open. “I must say I’d very much like to meet her myself . . .”

To see if she were suitable? But he still welcomed the idea. Once Corinna had met Dagner, Ranklin could at least mention him in conversation.

“I’m sure she’d be delighted. Should we say tea at one of the big hotels?”

“Excellent. I look forward to it.”

* * *

It rained the next morning so perhaps, with October only a week away, autumn had finally arrived. Ranklin got out his winter overcoat and looked at it critically. It was made of tan broadcloth and only ten years old and so still perfectly wearable, but the cut was a bit full for today’s fashion. He liked that shape – damn it, he was that shape – but suppose he had one day to look fashionable? . . . Well, he’d see. Meanwhile, perhaps he needed one of the new Burberry weatherproofs for a day like this. The trouble was, the advertisements always showed them on men as tall and thin as lances. On him, it would look like a tent. And Burberry never put prices in their advertisements . . . It could wait.

So, feeling better for having at least identified a problem, he put the overcoat away and walked upstairs to the office. Dagner didn’t get in for half an hour, wearing a brand-new topcoat that fitted his slim figure perfectly. Ten minutes later he called Ranklin in to make a “morning report”, a carry-over of Army procedure that hadn’t happened when the Commander was in charge. For one thing, it would have implied that somebody apart from himself knew what was going on.

Ranklin summarised how the training was going, then added: “And I had a word with Mrs Finn yesterday evening. She suggests we meet for tea at the Carlton tomorrow, if that suits you.”

“Certainly.”

“And she’s heard from her brother Andrew. Senator Falcone has made a firm offer to buy the aeroplane outright, provided he gets the right to make it in Italy and Andrew gets it out there and flies a demonstration. Andrew wants to agree, the price seems right, but there’s a snag: he apparently offered it to the Royal Aircraft Factory at Farnborough to test for our Army, and since they agreed, it’s become, as it were, sub judice. He can’t take it out of the country until it’s been tested. He’s pretty sure they’ll turn it down, there’s a virtual ban on monoplanes for military use, but nevertheless . . . And Falcone seems in a bit of a hurry.”

But Danger was just nodding contentedly. “That seems to be just the sort of problem the Senator anticipated, and that we agreed to sort out for him as our part of the deal. Do you know who should speak to at the War House to get the tests cancelled or postponed?”

“No, but I can pop across there and find out.”

“Splendid. You’d better get on with it. It’s nearly half-past ten now and you’ll need to catch them between getting in and going out for lunch.” Dagner, it seemed, was not impressed by the hours worked at the War Office.

Ranklin himself saw the War Office as a cobweb. Most of it was immobile and just clinging on, but if you kept trudging and didn’t get stuck, you ultimately found a spider who was ready to take a decision. By the time he got back with the name of the man to talk to, Dagner himself was out to lunch and there was a message to telephone Corinna at the Sherring City office.

“Good Lord, you don’t care much if a girl doesn’t get any lunch, do you?” her voice crackled. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Listen: you asked me about Birmingham Small Arms, right? It turns out they’re trying to raise cash so I asked them to come and talk and a Mr Viner will be here at three. He wanted to bring their new product to show me and for your sake alone I said Yes, so you’d better be here. Three o’clock, okay? As James Spencer, I think, devoted employee.”

He had been in the Sherring office in Paris, a stately affair on the Boulevard des Capucines, but never the London one. Perhaps Sherring believed in local colour, because this was positively Dickensian, all rambling passageways and cock-eyed right angles. Corinna was waiting in a low-ceilinged room overfilled with leather chairs, bookshelves of ledgers, mahogany and green glass-shaded lamps that must shine all day. It looked a bit deliberate and made her, dressed in emerald green and gold, seem like a butterfly in a funeral parlour, but she sprawled unselfconsciously in one of the big chairs with papers strewn across the thick carpet.

The only decorations in the room were an old chart of the world, a portrait, and a ship model in a glass case. It was an ocean-going paddle-wheel steamer of maybe sixty years ago, still carrying two fully rigged masts, and beautifully crafted. Knowing he was behaving as any visitor would, Ranklin headed straight for it and stared in admiration. “Is this the ship that founded the family fortunes?”

“That’s the story,” she agreed. “Actually Pop says you English don’t trust a bank that doesn’t have a ship model in its partners’ room, so he bought it when the shipping line went broke.” She nodded at the portrait, of a large, ugly man with fully rigged white whiskers. “But that really is my grandfather, unless Grandma was way ahead of her time.”

Ranklin smiled. “Before we get down to more sordid business, I’ve news about your brother’s aeroplane: there may now not be any problem about Farnborough stopping it leaving the country. So if you’re happy about Falcone’s offer in other respects, it can probably go ahead.”

Corinna stumped back, frowning. Then said carefully: “I’d like to see Andrew bring this off. He’s tried so many things (probably not hard enough but he has tried) and nothing’s ever quite . . .” Her voice trailed off, then renewed itself. “Pop never approved of Andrew going in for engineering, wanted him to come with him into the bank. And everything Andrew did, it seemed to Pop just like playing with toy trains – that’s the impression he gave. But if this airplane really worked and people bought it, it would justify everything else Andrew’s tried. The confidence it would give him, he’d really be out from under Pop’s shadow . . .

“So I want to help, as much as I can. But not too much, not so it shows. Do you think Senator Falcone’s really on the level?”

“As far as I can tell . . . Of course, I know nothing about the financial side-”

“No, I can take care of that. But if it’s really any good, why hasn’t your Army snapped it up? – because an Englishman didn’t make it?”

“No. We can be that way, all right, but the aeronautical people aren’t. The problem is that we’ve got a prejudice – virtually a ban – on monoplanes for military use. O’Gilroy told me something about this. They aren’t supposed to be strong enough, and there’s been crashes where aeroplanes fell apart in the air. I do see some of this: if you take a biplane with two layers of wing and join them with vertical struts and criss-cross wires, you’ve got a box structure, like a box girder in a bridge. But a monoplane’s just a single plank. You can add all the slanting struts and wires you like – as Andrew has – but it still hasn’t the inherent strength of the box shape of a biplane.”

“You do sound as if you know something about it.”

“I didn’t spend my entire two years at Woolwich learning how to open champagne.” Ranklin showed a flash of real annoyance.

“No, of course not.” Corinna was so used to Ranklin seeming a little boy lost in this modern world that she forgot how much of it was a pose. Parts of the world, particularly the part where mans ingenuity could destroy other men miles away, he knew far better than most. She went on: “Do other countries have the same prejudice against monoplanes?”

“I doubt it, or nobody would make the things.”

“So I could be worrying about nothing – except for your interest in Falcone. And whoever’s trying to kill him, of course.”

“I told you: we just like to know what arms Italy’s buying. As to who’s trying to kill him, d’you think we’d let them roam free if we knew who they were?”

“Um, I guess not . . . I just never know how sincere you are with your clothes on. All right. Mr BSA’s due any minute.” She looked Ranklin up and down critically. “You don’t look exactly partnership rank. More like a bank teller. I’m sure it’s an impenetrable disguise in Whitehall, but . . . Take your jacket off.”

“What?”

“I’m not talking about your pants. Just get your jacket off. Look as if you owned the place. Or a few per cent of it.”

A year ago Ranklin wouldn’t just have refused, he would have denounced her to the Commissioners in Lunacy. Now he meekly took his jacket off.

“Better,” she said, “but the necktie doesn’t look expensive enough. Try one of Pop’s.” She found a couple in a drawer, chose one and watched Ranklin put it on. “Remember, it isn’t you, it’s James Spencer. And you won’t see it when it’s on.”

But dressing a little oddly was a help in remembering he was playing a part. James Spencer was an alias he had used before, the name of a school friend who had gone to the bad thereafter. Fatally, he trusted.

She sat down again. “Now tell me more about BSA.”

“Er, well, they make small arms-”

“And Daimler automobiles and motor-buses, too. How do they stand with the Government on the arms side? Are they going to buy this new machine-gun?”

It might seem inconsiderate of her to ask such questions, but neither of them had any shame about prying into each other’s privileged knowledge, leaving the other to draw the line and not taking offence when they did. One of these days, Ranklin knew vaguely, it was going to go horribly wrong, but even without that, their relationship could have no tomorrow. Anyway, the arms trade had few secrets. Once you had a patent on something new, you shouted it from the highest rooftop you could find, and in as many languages as possible.

“They make a lot of the Army’s rifles, but I haven’t heard of any tests of this new gun. A decision’ll be a long way off.”

She made a note, then said: “It’ll cost them to tool up for mass production of something like that. Perhaps that’s what the new issue is about . . . I don’t really understand this.” She wrinkled her brow at a paper. “They’re steadily profitable, and I’d guess their shareholders would snap up a new issue with no need for an underwriter.”

“What does underwriting mean – in this context?”

“Underwriting share issues is pretty new, and Pops still a bit leery about it. We guarantee them a price by buying whatever shares we can’t sell in the market. So we take the risk and they pay us a commission for it. Only I can’t see a risk here, and that bothers me.”

“Are most of the other firms you deal with either London or foreign?”

“I guess so. Why?”

“Britain isn’t just London and then bits with trees and cows on. This is Birmingham Small Arms, and probably Brummagem caution. They keep their cleverness for shaping bits of metal and play very safe with hard cash.”

“A belt-and-suspenders town? Thanks, that helps.” She glanced at her wristwatch and scooped up a handful of papers from the floor. “He should be here any moment. You’d best sit by the corner of the table and hand me these papers as I ask for them.”

Ranklin sat as ordered, coughed drily, tapped the papers into a neat pile with his fingertips and tried to make his boyish face look dour.

“You’ll do,” Corinna smiled.

By contrast, Mr Viner of BSA looked cheerful. Even his moustache was cheerful, which Ranklin hadn’t thought possible outside the music halls. It was also ginger and bristly like his hair, and he had light blue eyes and a frequent smile. Ranklin reckoned they were much of an age, but Viner was taller, slimmer and brisk in his movements.

Along with him came a uniformed chauffeur carrying a box about four and a half feet long, made of polished wood with brass fittings. Assuming that was the machine-gun, it was certainly far lighter than any Ranklin had met. Viner smiled and patted the box. “Our trump card, Mrs Finn. Thank you, Henry, that’s all.” He had an oddly flat voice, as if an accent – Brummie? – had been carefully washed out and nothing found to replace it.

The chauffeur withdrew, Viner sat down and let Ranklin pour him coffee, while Corinna apologised that her father was incommunicado on a train from Madrid. Viner just smiled boyishly and the conversation spiralled gently into business circles. Money, it seemed, was tight and interest rates up; the latest Hungarian loan had had to guarantee an extra half per cent and that in gold; the Paris market was, well, let’s not talk about that; the Germans are buying gold in South America, I hear; fifty million working days lost to strikes in this country last year . . .

“But not at BSA.” Viner grabbed the chance to become specific. “Our record is very good indeed – you only have to look at our dividends-”

“You’ve paid fifteen per cent for the last ten years bar one,” Corinna said, without looking. “Most satisfactory . . . and now you’re issuing three hundred thousand new cumulative B preference – James?” Ranklin passed her what he hoped was the relevant paper; “-thank you . . . paying six per cent, to expand the Daimler factory. But in fact you’ve already done that, so you’re really seeking to replenish your working capital – have I got chat right?”

“The times being what they are – alas-” the ‘alas’ was very perfunctory; “we expect new orders for rifles at any time now. The Army still hasn’t fully re-equipped with the shorter model Lee-Enfield . . .” Ranklin confirmed this with a slight nod, in case Corinna needed it. “But just let me show you what we’re convinced is the true future . . .”

He unlocked the box and lifted out a fat-barrelled gun with a conventional rifle stock. Wood and metal gleamed dully in the lamplight and Corinna put on a look of false interest; Ranklin’s was real.

“This,” Viner said proudly, “is our Secret Weapon. The Lewis aerial machine-gun. Invented by Colonel Lewis, a countryman of yours, Mrs Finn, with – if I may say so – typical Yankee ingenuity. And on which we hold worldwide rights – except in the United States, of course. A real revolution in warfare, not least because of its lightness. A mere twenty-seven pounds fully loaded with a forty-seven-round magazine-” Ranklin had been wondering how you loaded it. Viner reached into the box and brought out what looked like a big cog-wheel and fitted it flat atop the gun; “-so it’s ideal for use from aeroplanes.”

“You’re going to put that thing on airplanes?” Corinna said.

Viner seemed surprised, then tried to look apologetic. “That’s progress, Mrs Finn – in this modern world. Actually, we say that just to advertise how light it is. We certainly won’t be limited to the aeronautical market. We expect most of our sales to be for ordinary battlefield use. It can be carried and used by just one man – or woman, if you care to . . .”

“No thank you. But,” she relented, “I’m sure James would.”

So for the next few minutes she watched, with decreasing tolerance, as Viner and Ranklin reverted to being little boys. They put the magazine on and off, cocked the action, clicked the trigger; Viner, Ranklin noticed, was religiously careful about pointing the empty gun in a safe direction at all times. He also learned that the Lewis was air-cooled and fired from an open bolt: “An important safety feature,” Viner explained, “since a round doesn’t sit in the hot breech after the gun’s been firing and perhaps ‘cook off as we say.” It also meant you had to make sure both breech and magazine were empty if you wanted to uncock it by pulling the trigger, but as James Spencer, Ranklin didn’t think he should realise that.

“I think, James,” Corinna said at last, “that Mr Viner came here to talk finance.”

Viner was immediately the perfect businessman, but Ranklin went on playing, at the risk of sunburn from Corinna’s glare on the back of his neck. There was another, loaded, magazine in the box and he took it out to try its weight, then thumbed one of the cartridges loose. It was the normal .303 Army round. He re-examined the gun and found a Birmingham proof mark.

“Underwriting share issues is fairly new for us,” Corinna was saying, “and I’m not sure we’d be ready to take the whole amount. But a hundred thousand of it-”

Viner looked boyishly sad. “We’re very confident about this issue being taken up, and that we’ll be able to place the entire amount through just one house – at four and a half per cent.”

Ranklin said: “I see you made this particular gun: have you actually gone into production already?”

“No, we’ve just hand-built half a dozen to demonstrate to our – and other European – armies.”

Corinna wore a puzzled frown. “Don’t you have any problems selling to armies who . . . well, they could be your enemies next week?”

Viner misunderstood her concern. “Oh, no. Britain is devoted to Free Trade – in fact, there’s no problem about shipping weapons anywhere in Europe, or further afield. We’ll have no difficulty in fulfilling any export orders – which we confidently expect.”

Corinna was ready to let the subject drop. Ranklin wasn’t. “Are any particular European countries interested?”

Viner put on a deliberately wan smile. “I’m sure you understand we have to maintain a certain diplomatic silence.”

“Of course,” Ranklin said, thinking Right, then, I’ll have to find out in my own way. He picked up the gun again, ignored Corinna’s reignited glare, and resumed fiddling with it.

Viner was saying: “I’m afraid we’re thinking of the whole three hundred thousand or noth-”

“And I think we’d be more interested at five per cent.”

Viner got to his feet. “I don’t think we’ll need to go that high.” He took the gun from Ranklin to put back into its box. “I’m sorry your father wasn’t here, Mrs Finn. I think he’d have appreciated rather more-”

Ranklin said: “It’s still cocked.”

“Oh? – thank you. I find that men are more ready to-” and he pulled the trigger to uncock the gun.

The magazine was off, so it was only one shot, but in the partners’ room of a private bank it was louder than Ranklin had expected. But Viner had properly pointed the weapon down and away so only the panelling suffered, though Grandpa’s portrait got a bit of a fright.

In the ear-ringing silence, somebody said: “Fucking hellsfire,” and it sounded like a woman’s voice, but that was impossible, so Ranklin put it down to his stunned hearing. Then the room was flooded with Sherring employees and he found himself taking charge. “See if there’s any casualties on the far side of that wall. Where’s a place for Mrs Finn to lie down? And I think some brandy would help. No need to call the police just yet. Meanwhile, thank you-” He took the weapon from Viner’s trembling hands, uncocked it again, and laid it in the box.

“Thank you, James,” Corinna said, her voice shaky. “No, I don’t need to lie down, but brandy sounds a good idea.” Somebody found a decanter and glasses. “The rest of you can go now, the show’s over.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Viner said, his smile long gone. “Somehow a round must have-” He looked at Ranklin, puzzled.

“Perhaps you’d best stick to percentages.” She took a healthy swig at her glass and shuddered. “Ah, that’s better. Now, where were we? I seem to remember something about us agreeing to underwrite a hundred thousand – at five per cent, wasn’t it? A nice round shilling in the pound. I’m sure you can square that with whoever you find as principal.”

“I say, five per cent seems a bit-”

“But with building repair costs the way they are in this modern world, surely that isn’t too unreasonable?” Her voice had firmed up, though her smile was wide and friendly. “Now perhaps you’d get that thing out of here before it declares war again.”

Ranklin helped Viner pack up the gun and its pieces, then insisted on carrying it downstairs for him. “Quite a change from the usual financial confab,” he puffed cheerfully (it might be lightweight, but was still a machine-gun and the stairs were awkward). “Makes it an afternoon to remember.”

Ahead of him, Viner was shaking his head. “I feel such a fool . . . And now I’ve got to tell another bank that we’ve already committed a third of the issue. It’s really most awkward. Look, when you had the gun, did you-”

Ranklin didn’t want to dwell on that. “Considering that you nearly shot the boss’s daughter, I’d say you didn’t do too badly. Silence, as they say, is also golden. Getting back to Continental interest, would that include Italy?”

Outside on the pavement they found a policeman staring solemnly up at the building. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but somebody reported hearing a gunshot. D’you know anything about that?”

Viner looked at Ranklin, who said: “In a private bank? I hardly think so, Constable. But these old buildings are very sound-proof and my friend was telling me such interesting things about Italy . . .”

A little surprised that the short, tubby man in shirt-sleeves who carried big boxes around seemed to be in charge, the policeman said: “It wasn’t from this building, then, sir?”

“You could wait and see if they wheel out any casualties . . .” Ranklin shrugged as well as he could without dropping the box. “But probably just a motor-car backfiring.”

The policeman nodded gravely. “Thank you, sir.” But he only moved far enough to stare at the next building.

“Now,” Ranklin said. “Were you going to tell me about a certain Italian senator?”

“Was I?” Viner was looking around for his motor-car, and escape.

“I’m pretty sure you were, but . . .” Ranklin glanced pointedly at the policeman a few yards away.

“No deals have been done at all, just . . . Look, can you assure me that this . . . accident isn’t going to get talked about?”

“I feel on the brink of being sure.”

Viner hesitated for one last moment, then muttered: “God knows how he managed it, but we had Lord Curzon asking if we could help out. The Italian ended up with two of the things, and we’ve only got half a dozen.”

“Lord Curzon?”

“That’s what I said. Ah, there’s my motor.”

“And ammunition?” But that was a silly question; you could pick up British Army ammunition anywhere. Ranklin watched the motor-car drive off, reflecting that Dagner had enlisted a very big gun to get Falcone his small guns. Strictly, Curzon was now just an ex-Viceroy and out-of-office politician, but he wasn’t somebody a government contractor said No to. He might he Prime Minister of the next Unionist administration.

So it was just part of the ‘deal’ they’d done with Falcone. Should he mention to Dagner that he’d uncovered it? Perhaps not: it might seem that he’d been prying. Ranklin suddenly became aware that he was standing on a London street without his jacket on. Only the financial district, of course, but even so . . . He hurried back indoors.

Up in the partners’ room, Corinna was sitting and quite visibly shaking, her face pale even in the yellow lamplight. “I’m sorry . . . suddenly come on . . .” She gulped more brandy. “He could have killed me.”

A dreadful sense of guilt was clouding Ranklin’s judgment, and he almost said: “So could a passing motor-bus” but realised the light touch was wrong. So he put his arms around her and hugged her tightly. It was awkward, with her still sitting, but hardly less awkward than when she was standing, given her height. It was something they did best lying down.

Her shivering vibrated through his own body, then stopped, and he felt her take a deep breath. He said fiercely: “That idiotic bastard. I ought to have him jailed.”

As he’d hoped, she became magnanimous. “No, it was just stupidity. And it ended well enough . . . I’m okay, now. Here, finish this.” She gave him the brandy glass. “He wouldn’t have agreed to split the issue if he wasn’t feeling guilty. The trouble is, I can’t okay anything more than a hundred thousand and I’d like to have taken the lot. But I’ll take five thousand and a bullet-hole.”

“Only five thousand? – isn’t that rather small beer?”

“You’ve been reading the socialist newspapers again. Most of our earnings are from half a per cent here, a quarter there – steady stuff from clients who come back year after year. A big coup is rare, risky – and probably makes enemies, because if you suddenly make a pile, it’s usually because somebody else has suddenly lost it.” She found her purse and took out a small mirror. “Oh Lord, gunfire doesn’t improve one’s looks. Are you going back to your office?”

“Got to, I’m afraid.”

“You’d better get along: this is going to take time. We’re meeting at the Carlton tomorrow, then? And thank you. You’re pretty good under fire.”

Which made Ranklin feel even more guilty . . . Still, he had helped her make ?5,000.