Flight From Honour

23

After the heat of Brooklands and the train, Ranklin called in at the flat to change his collar before reporting back to Dagner. He found half his clothes spread across the bed and Lieutenant J disapproving of his Norfolk jacket.

“What the devil’s going on?”

“It might do for a weekend ramble with royalty, but one has to maintain higher standards among foreigners, don’t you agree? You’re going on: Trieste via Paris, and I’m helping you pack. It seems somebody got around to asking where a certain aeroplane was going, jumped to a certain conclusion (the right one, I trust? – it sounded a splendid scheme) and Sir Basil turned his wrath on you: helping a fugitive from justice, conspiracy in the original death of that Italian, general suspicion of being Jack the Ripper. So Major X wants you abroad before they’ve had time to send out ‘wanted’ posters like the one for O’G. One of the girls is getting you a ticket in the name of James Spencer – you’ve got a passport saying that, I believe.”

“That’s right.” Ranklin sat down on the bed to think. “Trieste?”

“Yes. The Major doesn’t think the Yard knows about this flat, but suggested you get over to the Charing Cross Hotel and wait there, just in case. I’ll bring your luggage. I can’t find a pistol – are you taking one?”

It wouldn’t be suspicious to carry on the fringe of the Balkans, but a man with a pistol was a different man. Knowing he had it to fall back on, he might forget to use his wits.

“I don’t think so. You too often end up shooting the wrong person.”

“And which suits d’you want to take?”

“The ones with the James Spencer labels in them, of course.”

“Of course,” J murmured, impressed, and Ranklin felt cheered.

*

Although Charing Cross station had lost much of its Continental traffic to Victoria, it still had the raffish air of Paris-starts-here. It was too close (for some tastes) to the music halls of the Strand and had a reputation as a loitering-ground for unaccompanied young ladies. But its hotel rose above this with its bold Italian Renaissance interior and, of more interest to Ranklin, a virtual club of bar, billiards and smoking-rooms with a private balcony overlooking the remaining Continental platforms.

The french windows onto the balcony were open on the warm evening, blending the travel smell of steam with those of tobacco smoke, coffee and spirits, and bringing a background of whistles, clanks and babble to the peaceful click of billiard balls. Lieutenant J was, of course, an expert, but had politely just let Ranklin win a game when Dagner arrived.

“You take over, sir.” J offered his cue. “I’ll keep an eye on the trains.” He strolled tactfully out of earshot onto the balcony.

Dagner took off his jacket and studied the table. “Hm. I hope there’s no money on this. I don’t want to lose young J his inheritance . . . You’ve got your ticket? And J’s seen to your luggage? The police have been up at the office and they’ve got watchers in the street by now. We’ve been laying false trails to boat-trains at Liverpool Street and Waterloo, and had you paged at Euston and Paddington – anything to over-stretch their force.”

He failed to hole the red and went on: “I’m here partly to brief you – there’s not much I can say – but also to meet Signora Falcone. I got a telephone call from Mrs Finn, saying the Signora wanted to meet the same men the Senator met. She’s also catching the boat-train, so we’re meeting in the Conservatory in half an hour. That’s all to the good – but I thought I conveyed to you my feelings about letting Mrs Finn become involved in the Bureau’s affairs. Let alone arranging our affairs for-”

“You did, but she’d cornered the market in Signora Falcone, and there was nothing I could do while staying in character as a minor War Office wallah.” Ranklin brought off a flukey cannon. “And Mrs Finn’s worried that her brother’s getting involved in something more than just demonstrating the aeroplane.”

“I trust she didn’t get that idea from anything you yourself said.”

“I think-” Ranklin holed the red and then realised it made his next shot almost impossible; “-I think she just noticed the Bureau was interested in Falcone.”

“Hm.” Dagner metaphorically took a step back. “What a tangled web we weave . . . However, tangled webs are our business. And at least I should learn how much the Senator’s told his wife.”

Ranklin deliberately missed his shot to concentrate on what he had to say. A loyal subordinate had a duty to act as devil’s advocate, pointing out risks and flaws. “It sounds like rather too much. We also know there’s others involved but not how much they know, nor who they are. But we do know somebody in Trieste is suspicious enough to try and kill the Senator.” He took a deep breath. “If Falcone really trusted us, he could have told us more about all that – so why are we trusting him? It seems to me that we’re getting deeper into this than we planned but without learning anything more.”

Unless, of course, Falcone had told Dagner more and he wasn’t being told because he was about to go behind enemy lines, as it were. If that were so, he couldn’t argue.

Dagner straightened up without taking his shot. “We mustn’t lose sight of our own purpose: to change the whole naval situation in the Mediterranean. That seems worth a certain effort, even risk. You originally suggested we should look at Trieste for ourselves, and now you’ve placed O’Gilroy in Falcone’s camp, more or less, I think we should cover both ends.” He paused, then seemed to take a decision. “But . . . but if you uncover anything there that convinces you we should drop it, then get word to me and it’ll be dropped. Does that reassure you?”

That really was as much as Ranklin could ask – provided Dagner really meant it. And he certainly couldn’t ask that. He said formally: “Thank you, Major.”

Dagner acknowledged that with a nod, then, staring straight at Ranklin but keeping his voice gentle, said: “But do remember one thing, Captain, if it should ever come to it: you’re working for Britain, not for peace.” He bent over the billiard table again.

Mostly to change the conversation but perhaps also because it nagged him, Ranklin asked casually: “Has your wife got home yet?”

Dagner abandoned his shot and straightened up to chalk his cue. “No. No, I’m afraid she hasn’t yet.”

“I was sorry to hear about your first wife-”

“What d’you mean?” Dagner spoke quite sharply. “I’ve only got one wife.”

Confused, Ranklin stumbled over his own words. “I’m most frightfully sorry . . . chap I met . . . he said your wife had died in India . . .”

“She got ill, everybody gets ill in India. She recovered. Thank God.”

“I’m sorry, I must have . . .”

With unconscious tact, J drifted back from the balcony, winced politely at Dagner’s shot, and said: “There seems to be quite a gathering of policemen on the platform. And, I may be wrong, but I thought I saw Mrs Finn holding court down there.”

Ranklin blinked. He hadn’t thought J knew Corinna, but J seemed to know everybody. Perhaps she’d come to see Signora Falcone off. He went to the balcony.

It was dark now, the electric lights glowing coldly through drifts of steam, and although the train wouldn’t leave for nearly an hour, the controlled panic of departure had already begun. Couples and families, wearing too many clothes because they were going Abroad, stood in islands of luggage, waving for porters or swapping papers with railway officials and Cook’s agents. And right in the middle, more sensibly dressed but unquestionably for travelling, was Corinna.

‘Holding court’ was right, too. Jaded by travel, she usually tried to make an occasion of it with last-moment meetings and farewells on the platform. She was doing just that to a small crowd of flunkies – but around it moved pairs of uniformed policemen and men in dark suits without any luggage.

Ranklin stepped back, took out a James Spencer calling card and scribbled on the back: Are you going to Paris? So am I . But prefer not be seen by Signora. Meet on boat? He gave it to Lieutenant J. “D’you mind acting as messenger?”

“Delighted.” J slipped on his jacket and vanished.

“Is Mrs Finn going, too?” Dagner asked.

“It looks like it.” Then, seeing Dagner’s expression, he added: “A House of Sherring connection isn’t just a good alias, it helps open doors. She may be able to put me in touch with well-placed people over there.”

“But at the cost of telling her where you’re going.”

“Banking is also a secretive profession.” Ranklin made that as polite as he could.

“Very well, I’ll leave you to handle it your own way. I’d better get off to meet the Signora. Good luck, Captain.” They didn’t shake hands.

J came back with one of Corinna’s cards, her slanting handwriting sprawling over both sides: Thought I’d better become Andrew’s manager or agent or whatnot. They arrived Paris safe, I got a cable. Are you going on to Italy? Never mind, tell me later. I’ll be in steeping compartment 7 on the Calais-Paris train. Help yourself.

Ranklin goggled. She’d given this to Lieutenant J? Was he too much of a gentleman to have read it, or too much of a spy not to have? His bland smile could belong to either. Ranklin put a match to the card and let it burn in an ashtray.

J coughed politely. “I hate to say it, but given the police infestation, it might be time for this. We found it in the Chief’s safe.”

This was a large blond false moustache. The Commander loved disguises.

“It’s from Clarkson’s,” J said apologetically, “so the best quality. I’ve got the glue and I can make a reasonable job of it.”

Ranklin handled the thing distastefully, then put off a decision by saying: “You know everybody, don’t you?”

“Oh Lord, no. I just-”

“What d’you know about Major X’s wife?”

“She died in India.”

“Yes,” Ranklin said, then more firmly: “Yes.” But Army habit stopped him sharing his puzzlement with a junior.

He ignored J’s polite curiosity and got his mind back to the more immediate problem. Perhaps Corinna . . . he scribbled on another card: May I borrow your maid?

Half an hour later a short, slightly tubby man with a large moustache strolled on to the platform arm in arm with a younger woman. She wore the self-conscious, giggly look of one heading for a naughty weekend in Paris and was such a familiar sight to the officials and station police that they ignored them both. As Dagner himself had said, the best disguise is always other people.

Feeling uncomfortably like a man who prowls the corridor of sleeper trains in search of an unchaperoned young lady, because that was just what he was doing, Ranklin tried reassuring himself by listing the crimes he was already wanted for in London. He had released Corinna’s maid once they were on the boat – the Dover police hadn’t given them a glance – and hidden himself in the saloon for the crossing.

Compartment 7 – she had said 7, hadn’t she? He offered up a prayer and knocked tentatively. But he had misjudged the sway of the train and it became a thundering wallop. “Most masterful,” Corinna said, wearing a Japanese robe, a wide smile and perhaps nothing else. “Thank the Lord you got rid of that moustache. I saw you on the platform and nearly had hysterics. And Kitty said you behaved like a perfect gentleman; I think she was a bit disappointed. Would you like a cognac?”

She poured him one out of a silver flask from what she insisted on calling a ‘purse’ and Ranklin would have called a travelling bag, and he sat at the foot of the bed and sipped. She sat with her arms wrapped round her knees and asked: “So where are you off to, one jump ahead of the police? And what’s that all about?”

“Trieste. And the fuss is just Scotland Yard trying to balance its books. Why did you suddenly decide to go . . . well, where are you going?”

“Wherever Andrew does.” She because serious. “I don’t know what’s going on and unless you tell me, I’m sticking to that boy like a leech.”

He nodded. “I can’t blame you. But I still don’t think he’s likely to get mixed up in anything, I think Falcone had several irons in the fire and we’re only interested in one of them, but . . .”

“Is Trieste part of that? Like it’s part of Austria that Italy covets?”

Ranklin studied his tiny cup of cognac. And with her lantern-slide change of expression to a broad grin, she said: “You poor darling, you really don’t know what the hell’s going on, do you? Come up this end and let Mama cuddle you and you tell her all your troubles.”

Ranklin accepted half her invitation. “Is this how private banking conducts business?”

“Invariably. But at least take your damned overcoat off.”

“Sorry.” He laid his head tentatively on her breasts; she certainly had nothing supportive on beneath the kimono. After a while, he said in a rather muffled voice: “Something I don’t understand . . . Do you remember Major Dagner talking about his wife?”

“His second wife, you said.”

“I did, but just hours ago he told me his wife got ill but recovered. So the chap who told me she’d died must have got it wrong.” But damn it, the Scots Guards major had been specific enough about Dagner’s grief.

“I know,” she said calmly. “Adelina was talking about him-”

“Who?”

“Lady Hovedene. She said, with his medal and that Tibet stuff, he was the most eligible widower in London. And believe me, she doesn’t get those things wrong.”

Ranklin raised his head, puzzled. “But he says his wife’s on the way home.”

“Sure. But I figured that was just his act – and you seemed to be backing him. Spy stuff. Or maybe he doesn’t want people like Adelina trying to marry him off, so he pretends she’s still alive. Like me being Mrs Finn only the other way around. You don’t have to be a spy to be an out-and-out liar,” she added. “But I guess it helps.”

“But why put on the act with me?”

She went cross-eyed looking down at him. Then smiled as she stroked his silky hair. Men got so outraged at each other not being Pukka Sahibs.

“Maybe he pretends to himself,” she said evenly. “He just can’t bring himself to face it, so he believes she’s forever on the next boat home. I find that rather romantic.”

Ranklin obviously didn’t find it so. She felt she was cuddling a plank. “Or maybe you could say he’s a bit eccentric. Don’t you have to be, to be a top spy? Anyhow, what can you do about it right now? Just relax.”

And gradually, soothed by her and the rocking of the train, he did. Most of him.