Flight From Honour

22

“He has been drinking,” the Padrone said.

“Is he drunk now?” Jankovic demanded.

“He has been drunk.” The Padrone’s hands made delicate but imprecise movements, trying to pass the message that Silvio would be as unpredictable as an unexploded shell. He didn’t know what to make of Jankovic, who spoke a fluent if strange Italian but had a glowering low-browed face like a Slav farmer.

Jankovic growled to himself and asked: “What happened here last night?”

“Ah-” the Padrone was on surer ground here; “-first, the police arrested the man who broke into my house here and murdered Silvio’s cousin. Then, in the night, a gang broke into the police station and rescued him. That is quite unheard-of. The police are most angry, yet they have not raided everywhere and arrested everyone, as one would expect. And there is also talk of the Irish. I think the house-breaker, and murderer, was Irish.”

“Irish?” Jankovic was baffled. But it added another layer of bafflement for others, too, and he shrugged it off. “Take me to him, then.”

The Padrone’s dignity was already ruffled by the night’s events, but expediency warned him not to get indignant at this brusqueness. Anyway, it would be wasted on a Slav. He led the way upstairs.

Silvio sat hunched on the unmade bed, red-eyed and fiddling with a pistol. The drink – mixed marsala and grappa, according to the empty bottles – was oozing out of him and he smelt like a pig farm.

Jankovic looked down and said: “You didn’t kill him.”

“Of course we killed him!” Silvio tried to spring up and got half way before toppling back.

“He’s in hospital,” Jankovic went on. “The nearest hospital to the flying field under an assumed but Italian name, so he hasn’t learnt anything even from having your cousin scratch his back.”

“Bozan killed him,” Silvio insisted, waving the pistol. The Padrone moved a little more behind Jankovic, who didn’t seem to care.

“I was there this morning. Also, Signora Falcone is coming, probably to take him home. What are you going to do about it?”

Silvio calmed down, or at least pointed the gun at the floor. “Go to the hospital and kill him.”

“And his police guard?” Jankovic sneered. “We knew you came from a circus, but we thought we’d hired the lions, not the clowns.”

“It was you who fouled things up in Brussels!” Silvio yelled. “We could have stabbed or shot him there easily. Bozan could. Oh, Mother of God.” He began weeping and wiped his nose, mostly with the pistol. “I’m going to kill that Irish bravo, too. It was he who murdered poor Bozan.”

“All right,” Jankovic said, suddenly reasonable. “All right. If Falcone goes back to Italy, the bravo will probably go with him. So I’ll tell you what we’ll do: we’ll go to Italy, too, and you can kill them both there. Yes, I know we aren’t supposed to kill Falcone in Italy-” as Silvio’s sodden memory churned up an objection; “-but it that’s the only place left to us . . .

“And,” he added sharply, “it would help if you were sober by then so you don’t mistake your own arse for the Senator and shoot that instead.”

Too tense to light a pipe, Ranklin puffed a cigarette as he paced the worn turf – baked almost to concrete by the long summer – outside the shed. It was past noon, and even hotter than yesterday, with a gently swirling crowd murmuring like a distant waterfall. He let his hand brush against his empty side pocket and felt a pang of anxiety as he remembered the police had kept his revolver as ‘evidence’. He had to remind himself that crowds did not breed assassins as a natural process. But not feeling really safe in the sunny English countryside without a pistol in his pocket was, he thought gloomily, yet another milestone on his personal road.

He trod out his cigarette and, with nothing better to do, almost immediately lit another. He daren’t get distracted by starting a conversation with anyone, he just had to wait and watch. And convince himself that O’Gilroy was merely caught up in the mob on the road and not . . .

Then, unmistakable above the heads of the crowd, came the black box-shape of the Sherring Daimler – and an unfamiliar man in a dark suit standing on the running-board and waving some official card. Ranklin first assumed that Corinna had borrowed a Club official to clear their path, but there was something too solemn about the man’s face and demeanour. He didn’t belong.

Corinna shot out of the car without waiting for anyone to open the door, and scurried across. “I don’t know what in hell’s going on,” she muttered, “but we collected a policeman at the hospital who-”

Then the solemn man arrived at a fast lope, hand outstretched aggressively to clasp Ranklin’s. “Captain Ranklin? I’m Inspector Jeffries, Surrey Police. Thank you, madam.” He tipped his bowler hat at Corinna in a gesture one step short of saying “Scram”.

Behind him, Ranklin was vaguely aware of a woman in a tweed suit stepping from the car and walking confidently towards the shed, as if she knew aerodromes. Corinna gave Inspector Jeffries a sharp look, then followed. Ranklin hadn’t dared mention last night’s shenanigans on the telephone, but she certainly knew something was going on.

“Glad to meet you, Inspector,” Ranklin said, casually looking him over. He had prominent dark eyes in a thin face but the solemnity came mostly from the downturned moustache, and he held his head cocked forward in a deferential gesture that Ranklin didn’t believe. A man content to dress so anonymously might be good at his job.

“I believe,” Jeffries said, “you were a witness to the assault on Senator Falcone – or Mr Vascotti, as he seems to prefer at the moment – yesterday afternoon, sir.”

“A sort of witness. But I made a statement to . . . in London.”

“Yes, sir. Your name was sent to us by the Metropolitan Police. By Sir Basil Thomson of Scotland Yard.”

“Really.”

“May I ask what you’re doing here today, sir?”

“War Office business.”

“Of what nature is that, sir?”

“Just the usual confidential War Office business.”

Jeffries seemed to hesitate. Perhaps he’d expected Ranklin to plead the secrecy of the Bureau, not put up the whole Army as an earlier line of defence.

He tried to outflank it with a confiding smile. “That wouldn’t be, would it, sir, just an alias to hide your real job?”

Ranklin looked him quietly up and down, but Jeffries was used to that look from people who thought the police should use the servants’ entrance. However, Ranklin then said: “You don’t seem to have the current Army List on you – it’s a bulky volume, I agree. So you can’t look me up. In that case, all I can offer is my card, my driving licence, and what else would I have . . . ?”

“That’s quite all right, sir, no need at all.” Then casually but swiftly: “Where’s Gorman?”

The frontal attack almost flustered Ranklin, but then he remembered the connection was undeniable, and that the more he concentrated on the name Gorman, the better for O’Gilroy. “I’m sorry, I really have no idea.”

That became a lie as he said it. The motor-bike sputtered out of the crowd behind Jeffries’ back, stopped beside the shed, and O’Gilroy began leisurely unstrapping a travelling bag from the pillion seat.

“Not even where he lives?”

“I’m afraid not. Inspector-” Ranklin had to say something to hold Jeffries’ attention on himself; “-my connection with Gorman is entirely professional. Again, your best bet is to ask the War Office. No, I suppose the Yard will already have done that. Let me see, what else can I suggest . . . ?” He looked around as if seeking inspiration and saw that O’Gilroy had vanished into the shed. Would Corinna have the chance – and the sense – to warn him who Jeffries was?

Then she was walking quickly towards them, setting off a flare of a smile towards Jeffries and saying: “Hope I’m not interrupting, but the Signora’s given the go-ahead and Andrew wants to be off right away.”

Ranklin tried to make his smile meaningless. “Fine. Ah – is he going alone?”

“No, he’s taking some new mechanic, one who’s learning to fly.”

Ranklin thought: I love you. Well, actually I don’t know whether I do or not, but right now I love you. He said: “Perhaps the Inspector already told you, but he’s looking for a man called Gorman.”

She knew the name as O’Gilroy’s usual alias. “Who’s he? What’s he done?” Behind her, two of Andrew’s mechanics began taking down the flimsy shutters and stacking them to one side.

Jeffries would rather be asking than answering, but Corinna tended to have first choice in these matters. And Jeffries couldn’t turn his back on her, either. “He was in custody, madam, in London, charged with murder.”

Corinna’s eyes widened. “Gee! Of whom?”

“I’m not clear about that myself, madam, but the important thing is that he was in custody and he escaped. Aided by a group of men who stormed a police station in the early hours of this morning-” Jeffries turned his sombre look on Ranklin, not noticing, or perhaps caring, that the Oriole was being gently manhandled out of the shed; “-speaking in stage-Irish accents and who shot at and nearly killed a constable.”

Suddenly Corinna was taking this seriously. “You mean really hurt him?”

“He wasn’t actually hurt – by sheer good luck. The bullet went through his helmet.”

The equally sudden bathos was too much for Corinna, who tried to stifle a giggle, and managed to choke out: “Yes, I guess that counts as pretty close.”

“We don’t regard it as a laughing matter, madam.”

“No, no, of course not. And so you’re looking for him. And for the whole gang, too, I guess?”

Jeffries hesitated, looking at Ranklin again. “We’d like to catch the whole gang, and we have some idea of who they are. But they regard themselves as untouchable.”

“You mean they’ve got some political protection, just like our New York gangs? Didn’t know you were so modern . . . Hold on a moment, I’ve got to see Andrew off.” The Oriole was well onto the grass, with Andrew, in his calf-length leather jacket, superintending the preparations for start-up. There was already another figure in the cockpit, but under the shadow of the wing and wearing goggles, so even Ranklin couldn’t tell who it was.

Corinna went up to hug Andrew and, judging by the resigned way he kept nodding his head, give him a sisterly lecture about keeping to the proper side of the sky and wrapping up warm. Then he swung himself up into the cockpit, making the machine rock stiffly.

Jeffries asked: “Where’s he off to?”

“I’ve no idea.” Which was more or less true. As long as it was abroad . . .

The propeller was swung, the engine caught first time in a swirl of smoke, and settled down to the now-familiar buzz. Two mechanics seized the wing struts and helped steer it away across the grass, swung it into the light breeze and stepped aside. The buzz hurried a little, the aeroplane moved, its tail came up and, after a couple of long bounces, swayed into the air.

Ranklin should have felt a sag of relief, but the departure had been too casual to merit it. He reckoned himself well-travelled, but ‘going abroad’ always meant a fuss of steam-whistles, men shouting orders and crowds waving. He couldn’t yet believe a little aeroplane scuttling across a hundred yards of grass in a few seconds had actually gone abroad. And neither, of course, could Jeffries. People didn’t yet think of aeroplanes as going anywhere.

Perhaps there was a lesson for this island race in there somewhere, but it was too big to worry about now. He put on a bland expression. “You were saying, Inspector?”

Jeffries said reflectively: “Just that these people seem to think they can hide behind some cloak of national secrecy.”

Ranklin nodded gently. “That’s what they’ll have been told to do, no doubt.”

“And hide even their mistakes.”

“Especially their mistakes. I imagine.”

“I dare say you’re right, sir.” Jeffries looked pensive. “It’s a real problem, that, when you’ve got two organisations, both on the same side, both doing their duty as they see it, and meeting head-on as you might say. Somebody really ought to sort it out – for the good of the nation.”

Instinctively sympathetic, Ranklin might have grown confiding – which was probably just what Jeffries wanted; he was no simple flatfoot.

But then Corinna returned wearing a rather set grin. “Whoof! Always a strain watching your brother being a daring bird-man. Any more revelations about underworld London?”

Jeffries looked enquiringly at Ranklin, who smiled vaguely.

“It doesn’t look like it, madam.” He raised his hat to her. “I’ll bid you good day.”

She watched him well out of hearing, then turned to Ranklin. “Sounds like you had an exciting night after I dumped you at Esher. Who did Conall kill?”

“The man who stabbed Falcone.”

“Ah. It’s kind of tough, the way you give Conall all the dirty work.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. Is that Signora Falcone?”

“Come and say hello.”

All Ranklin had seen, at a distance, was the tailored tweed suit in the soft grey-blue and green of Donegal’s rain and meadow, and an elegance of movement. But closer . . . She must once have had a flawless, delicate beauty. But it had been a beauty that relied on perfect detail. Now, although she could hardly be fifty, the years had roughened the detail and Juliet hadn’t grown into Cleopatra. Corinna had once said that “beyond a certain age, a woman needs either intelligence or cheekbones”, knowing smugly that she had both. Ranklin found himself hoping the Signora wasn’t intelligent, either: it must be terrible to know you looked as if you had once looked beautful.

But she had kept her figure, and the elegance at least was ageless. She smiled, showing good teeth, and murmured: “Delighted to meet you, Captain.”

“My pleasure, signora. May I ask how the Senator is?”

“Tired. He’s lost a lot of blood. But he should make a full recovery. I believe you were there, yesterday?” Her voice had no trace of the Irish, but probably never had. Plenty of Dubliners saw themselves as ‘West Britons’ and Dublin as just down the road from London.

“I was. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to stop . . .” Ranklin spread his hands helplessly.

“It wasn’t your fault, he should have asked for police protection. He knew he was in danger.” You wouldn’t have realised her husband had nearly been knifed to death less than a day ago, but perhaps her control was part of the elegance. “And he wants . . . ah, things to go on as if nothing had happened.” She glanced at a little gold wristwatch. “I need to send a cable saying the aeroplane’s on its way . . . and get a ticket for Paris myself . . . It looks as if I shall be missing lunch.”

“My office can fix your ticket,” Corinna said. “And if you want to go to the hotel to do something about the Senator’s things, you can cable from there and I can order some lunch while you do it. And take you back to town after.”

Signora Falcone already had the grateful smile in place before she had decided to accept. “That’s most kind of you, my dear. Then – do you mind if we . . . ?”

To the casual bystander, Corinna was just being helpful to a lady with problems. To Ranklin, she had her teeth into the Signora and wasn’t going to let go until . . . he couldn’t guess. As he handed them into the Daimler, already crowded with Signora Falcone’s luggage, Corinna said casually: “Sorry we didn’t have time to chat, Captain. Do call some time soon.”

Dagner might not like it, but it looked as if the only way to Signora Falcone was now through Corinna. He’d better get back to Whitehall Court; this couldn’t be explained on the telephone.

Oatlands Park, the hotel where Falcone had taken refuge, stood on the site of a royal hunting lodge and now looked like several yellow-brick-and-stone country houses run together. It was fronted by a wide lawn studded with huge old cedars and, on a day like this, a dozen small tables and clumps of chairs. Among the late lunchers and early tea-sippers, the two women twirled their parasols on their shoulders and picked over tiny sandwiches in an atmosphere as delicately rigid as china lacework. Neither knew quite what to make of the other or how she fitted in.

“So you’re meeting Andrew at the aerodrome in Paris tomorrow,” Corinna said, “to show off the airplane to a friend . . .”

“A most important Italian who’s very interested in flying, although he isn’t actually connected with it, and Giancarlo wanted him to see . . .” Signora Falcone had picked up the fluent Italian gestures; now her hand traced a graceful if rather fluttery flight. “In Italy it helps to have as many influential people on your side as possible, whether they know anything about machinery or not.”

“I understand. And when Andy gets it to Turin next week, he’ll demonstrate it to your military men?”

“And politicians and so forth, whoever we can get to come.”

“And that’s all he’ll be asked to do?” Corinna persisted.

“Oh yes.” She smiled. “What else were you thinking?”

“Oh, nothing, I guess.”

And before Corinna could think of another approach, Signora Falcone asked smoothly: “Tell me, who is this Captain . . . Ranklin? . . . who seems to be always around?”

“A friend. And something to do with airplanes in the War Department here. I think he’d like to take up Andrew’s airplane except for the British being stupid about monoplanes.” She could always find time for a bit of saleswomanship where the family was concerned. “It’s really a great machine. Very modern.”

“I’m sure it is,” Signora Falcone said. “That was why Giancarlo chose it, he saw its worth immediately.” Then she looked casually around, a small smile loaded to fire if anyone caught her eye. But no one did and she turned quickly back to Corinna and lowered her voice. “I’d like to confide in you. As – if I can put it this way – you aren’t English, either . . .” She let her voice fade. Like her movements, it was very controlled.

“Why, sure, go right ahead.” Corinna tried to look open to confidences but closed to their repetition. It came out as a friendly grin.

“I hope this doesn’t sound fanciful, but it does seem that Giancarlo, before he was attacked, was in touch with somebody from, well-” her smile was disarming; “-the British Secret Service. I do assure you I’m not romancing-”

“No, of course not.”

“I’m sure I could find their address eventually, but if I’m catching the boat-train tonight, I’d rather like to have just a little word with them first. Just to make sure there’s nothing . . .” The delicate gesture indicated those petty details one likes to sort out with the Secret Service before heading for Paris.

Corinna’s grin stayed, but behind it she was thinking very quickly.

The pause prompted Signora Falcone to explain further: “Giancarlo meets so many influential-”

“As it happens,” Corinna said slowly, “I do believe I know somebody . . .”