Flight From Honour

20

The middle-aged constable had just stepped outside “to make sure things were quiet”, which the desk sergeant understood meant having a quick smoke. London was never truly silent; if it did nothing else, it breathed, and stirred in its sleep. But a quarter to four was around the quietest time. The moon was down, leaving the Gray’s Inn Road a broad corridor of darkness, patched with yellow-green light from the street lamps that were already fuzzed by the pre-dawn mist. And empty, save for one stocky figure in a long overcoat humming and mumbling towards him. As he shuffled into the light from the lamp over the station door, the shadow of his hat hid his downturned face, but not the broad red beard. Now that was peculiar: the beard looked false-

– but not the heavy pistol that suddenly poked into his face.

“Be brave,” a stage-lrish accent whispered. “I love Englishmen bein’ brave. Ut gives me a chanst to see de colour av deir brains. Now: how many more av ye’s awake inside dere?”

“Th-th-three more.” The constable was dimly aware of two other figures slipping past him into the station, but most of his attention was on the red-bearded man, who called softly: “Tree more av ’em. An’ r’mimber more asleep upstairs.

“Now be turnin’ around gentle and walkin’ inside.” The pistol vanished but the feel of it rammed into his spine. At the second try, his feet recalled how to climb the steps.

Inside, the desk was empty. He was hustled through the door beside it and almost stumbled over the sergeant, flat on the floor. For a moment he thought . . . then the sergeant snarled at his boots.

“Lie down yeself.” And that wasn’t difficult at all. He heard a gabble of awakened voices from the cells below, abruptly hushed. Then silence, and the constable found time to collect his thoughts. I am a London policeman with nearly ten years’ service, he told himself. And no rotten Irish brigand can outwit-

“Be brave,” the same voice whispered hungrily. “Ah, it’s longin’ I am for wan av yez to be brave and the blood spoutin’ out an’ drippin’ av the walls . . . English blood.”

But on the other hand, thought the constable . . .

Then more feet tramped through his line of sight and another voice commanded: “On yer feet. Up! Begorrah,” it added. “And back inside.” Along with the desk sergeant he was pushed along the corridor and downstairs into a dark cell. The door was closed gently – when he himself shut it on a prisoner, he liked to make a point with a chilling slam, but the quiet snap of the lock was convincing enough. Silence again.

Then the desk sergeant said: “We’d best call and try to wake the lads upstairs.”

“Yes, Sarge,” the constable agreed. There was more silence.

“So,” the sergeant said eventually, “both together, right?” He coughed. “When I’ve cleared me throat.”

Outside, another and younger constable returning westward along Clerkenwell Road noticed the big motor-car parked beyond the junction, beside the railed garden of Gray’s Inn. It was a funny place to park, not outside any house, but its tail-light glowed, its engine rumbled faintly in the stillness, and a man was leaning against the hood, so perhaps it had some minor breakdown. The constable knew almost nothing about motor-cars but was ready to show willing on a quiet night, so marched forward. He made almost no noise, having slipped rings cut from motor tyres around his boots, a trick learnt from the older men.

He had almost reached the junction when two men came out of the police station and turned towards the car, not hurrying, but moving with purpose. A bit odd. The constable paused at the kerb. Two more men came from the station and walked quickly after the others. Definitely odd. And had that been a gleam of metal in one man’s hand?

The constable stepped forward and called: “Wait a minute.” The men started running, and so did he. By the time he had crossed the road he was going flat out but the men were scrambling into the car. Except for the one who had been leaning on the hood. He had straightened up to the rigid stance of a pistol duellist, arm and glinting metal pointing towards . . . There was a flash, smoke, and what the constable afterwards remembered as a “boom” rather than “bang”. He was so surprised he forgot to stop running. The man stayed quite still, there was another flash and boom and the constable’s head was jerked back as his helmet tried to leap from his head. He stopped then, eyes watering from the jerk of the chin-strap. When he had blinked them clear again, the car was far down Theobald’s Road.

Dagner had the car stopped in Horse Guards to let him and Ranklin walk the last two hundred yards while it delivered O’Gilroy back to Whitehall Court. A few lights burned in the War Office, but the wide streets were empty. This had become so much a self-sufficient government enclave that the police virtually ignored it at night. After a few slow paces, Dagner said: “I want O’Gilroy got back to Brooklands now, tonight. Use P’s motor-car, don’t go near railway stations. And tomorrow, abroad: make sure he takes enough kit with him now.”

“You don’t think our Irish act worked, then?”

“Of course not. Sir Basil may pretend to believe it, if he wants to concede the game to us and needs someone to blame, but if he decides to come after us . . . then God knows. But we’ll find out soon enough.” He paused, then went on in the same conversational tone: “I’m afraid I blame you for most of this evening’s problem. You weren’t alone – but you were in command.”

Quite properly, he wasn’t going to roast an officer in front of juniors. But also, Ranklin realised, he was making O’Gilroy Ranklin’s subordinate rather than a member of the Bureau in his own right. But this was one of those never-explain-never-complain situations.

Dagner went on: “If you must behave as if you’re abroad on a mission, and I’d far prefer that you didn’t, then don’t do things by halves. If you ever again decide to charge into some house ready to shoot somebody, then bloody well get on with it – and then be off like a scalded rabbit. Don’t go near the police at all. As it is, you seem to have gone one way and let O’Gilroy go another – and all the rest followed from that. So now the shooting of one tu’penny Italian bandit threatens the secrecy, even the future, of our Bureau. And I will not have that. Do you follow me?”

“Yes, sir.” The ‘sir’ was pure instinct.

“And do you agree?”

“Yes, sir.” And I do, Ranklin thought miserably. I tried to be half secret agent, half solid citizen, and the two halves don’t add up.

“On the other hand,” Dagner said, “I think Certain Quarters may have got the message that the Secret Service Bureau, while perhaps not as legendary as legend has it, is still not to be trifled with.”

But they’d only been rescuing O’Gilroy, hadn’t they? Ranklin was about to say this, then didn’t. It was his fault that any rescue had been needed.