Spy’s Honour

29

Lenz’s office had that institutional look of grime scoured in by constant cleaning. The desk was big and worn, the papers on it neatly stacked, the large photograph of the Kaiser as an Admiral stared down sternly from the wall behind. But the framed photograph of his wife and sons on the desk was turned so that the visitor would realise the Hauptmann was a loving family man really, one to be trusted.

“A man has given evidence,” he said unemotionally, “that he heard Gorman asking in a Kneipe for a man to attack the detective who was following him. He has signed a statement.”

“I see.” Ranklin was being at least equally calm. “The detective himself didn’t see or hear this happening?”

“He may have gone to the toilet, he cannot say. He was hit on the head and does not remember for half an hour before he was attacked.”

“Yes, I was wondering how you’d get round that problem,” Ranklin agreed. “Very neat. The man who so dutifully came forward to bear witness – he’s of good character and so forth?”

A little warily, Lenz said: “Why must he come to us if he is not telling the truth?”

There had to be a reason, of course, but Ranklin didn’t think the police had provided it. And that wasn’t his gentlemanly view of the police prevailing, either. Why should they trump up an assault charge for O’Gilroy when to let him run loose might prove him a spy?

“Did you know this man already?”

Lenz allowed himself a small smile. “No, he is not from Kiel. From Hamburg.”

“Ah, yes. Now, may I see Gorman?”

“When the doctor has finished.”

Ranklin’s voice hardened. “He resisted arrest, did he? So the magistrate may infer from the marks on his face that he’s of a violent disposition?” I’m beginning to think like O’Gilroy – at least about the police. Lenz may not have started this affair, but he’s making sure it finishes his way.

There was a clatter in the hallway outside and the door sprang open, letting in the protests of some junior policemen and, ignoring them, Kapitanleutnant Reimers. His face was set and his eyes angry. He saw Ranklin, calmed himself with a quivering effort and asked very politely: “Mr Spencer, would you do us the great kindness of waiting outside for just one minute?”

Ranklin almost hurried out. So, he guessed, Reimers had not been consulted about arresting O’Gilroy. That seemed to make it an odds-on bet that O’Gilroy would soon be floating free. Bruised, but free.

He leant against a wall and lit a cigarette. But just how, he thought, is a Captain of detectives expected to feel when one of those detectives gets hammered flat? And how would the other detectives feel if the Captain does nothing – even when somebody rolls up with a sworn statement about who caused it? How would I feel if it was a man from my battery who’d got pulped by local townees?

Lenz is no Sherlock Holmes, and no cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie either, but he’s been in command of men all his working life. So he instinctively did the right thing for his men, his service – and forgot the bigger task.

The door opened again and Reimers said: “Please come in, Mr Spencer. I fear we have not quite got this problem sorted out yet …”

Lenz was behind his desk looking doggedly righteous. Ranklin sat down without being asked and went on with his cigarette.

“The situation,” Reimers said, “appears to be that the witness will say he overheard Gorman attempting to hire a man to attack the detective. Gorman will obviously deny this – ”

“Excuse me,” Ranklin said, “but in between, the witness will be asked to describe the man Gorman spoke to and the police will be asked why they have not found that man. The witness will also be asked why he did not warn the detective – obviously he has no fear of approaching the police – or take some other action to prevent this attack. Some questions about his character, his trade, his Hamburg address may also be gone into. Then Gorman will deny it happened and ask how he could have benefited from it.”

Reimers nodded and looked at Lenz.

Lenz said: “The evidence of the detective …”

“Excuse me again,” Ranklin interrupted, “but the evidence of the detective will be that he remembers nothing. Nothing to clear Gorman, nothing to convict him. As far as he knows, he may have been knocked down by a cab or struck by a thunderbolt.”

Reimers stroked his whiskers, hiding a small smile. “A more complicated case than we imagined, Herr Hauptmann. Perhaps one for the highest court in the land.”

“We have a sworn statement,” Lenz growled.

“Perhaps it would be well to question the witness further. At best the case is not complete: you have not found the attacker – or the cab or thunderbolt. And as Mr Spencer was kind enough not to say, the detective can tell the court nothing except that he did his work so badly that he was identified by a foreign servant, and that he could not defend himself on his own streets. Should we force him to say that – for so unsure a result?”

It was a crafty argument, and Ranklin warmed to Reimers. Then realised that was just what Reimers wanted.

What Lenz might have said then was lost in a growing hubbub in the corridor outside, a perfunctory knock and the immediate entrance of a stout white-haired man in a black suit and very high collar.

Lenz knew him. “Rechtsanwalt Loder – Kapitanleutnant Reimers – Herr Spencer …”

Behind the lawyer came two younger men, one obviously Loder’s clerk, the other wearing a blazer and an eager expression. He pounced on Ranklin. “Mr Spencer. I’m Don Byrd with a Y, Mr Sherring’s secretary. We got here as fast as we could. Mrs Finn’s outside in the automobile. Loder’s supposed to be good, we got him through the vice consul. Now what’s the situation?”

As far as Ranklin could tell, the situation was a fast dialogue between the lawyer and Lenz, with Reimers looking as if he had just dropped in to report a lost battleship, his naval uniform having nothing to do with this case at all.

Before Ranklin caught the pace of the dialogue, it ended. Lawyer Loder shook hands with Lenz, then turned: “Herr Spencer?” He reached out his hand slowly and ceremoniously, shook Ranklin’s hand, bowed slightly, and announced in a polished mahogany voice: “Your servant is free.”

“Boy,” Don Byrd whispered, “I never saw even a lawyer make a buck so fast before.”

The only visible sign on O’Gilroy was a split lip, but he was moving stiffly. “They knew enough not to hit me where it’d show, not with me clothes on. But I’m all right, ma’am.”

Corinna was all for laying charges and lawsuits against the police. But Loder preferred winnable cases and was learned enough in law to know that every policeman not proven to have been home in bed would have witnessed O’Gilroy’s resistance to arrest. And Ranklin was learning: “Call it experience – for us. The one who got it didn’t need it.”

Then he got Don Byrd on one side and muttered: “I want the name and any address of that ‘witness’, if you can.”

Byrd looked at him sharply, but then smiled. “Sure. We must have paid for that much already.”

In the back of a big, and presumably hired, Mercedes tourer, Corinna was arranging cushions and rugs around O’Gilroy who leered at Ranklin and murmured: “Jest like the sergeant-major used to do.”

“Shut up, you,” Corinna said briskly. “You’re both moving aboard Kachina. It isn’t safe to walk the streets of Kiel,” she announced to the street. “Especially with police protection. Antreiben,” she told the chauffeur.

They went a quarter of a mile to O’Gilroy’s guesthouse and then had to unpack him so that he and the chauffeur could go in to collect his luggage. Waiting in the car, Ranklin tried to thank Corinna for her help.

“Oh, skip it. From what Don said, you’d done most of the work already. But why did the police pick on Conall?”

Ranklin told her a censored version of O’Gilroy’s night on the town: no artistic poses or warships and no mention of the attack on O’Gilroy himself.

“If they were following him, that means they suspected you from the moment you hit town, doesn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Because you knew this Navy man who died?”

Ranklin nodded.

“You’re walking on eggs. So what happened today?”

“Somebody went in and laid evidence that he’d heard O’Gilroy trying to hire someone to scrag the policeman.”

“So who’d do that? – and why?”

“I’m working on a theory.”

After that, they drove to the Club for Ranklin’s belongings; there was also a message from Mr Kay, saying he would be there at six and happy to answer any questions Mr Spencer might have for him.

“If you don’t mind,” Ranklin said, “I’ll stay here and meet this chap, then hire a boat and come out later.”

“Okay.” But she looked dubious. “You’re sure there won’t be any more trouble?”

“No. I mean, yes. If there is, I’ll signal you. I’ll set the Clubhouse on fire, all right?” He turned away, then suddenly remembered O’Gilroy’s mission. “What about the services to Korsor?”

“There’s two every day – one German, one – Danish, d’ye say? That one’s the Son-den-wind, or something like that.” Sensibly, he hadn’t written anything down.

“Sondenvind, I expect.”

“Could be. She goes out about now, be back noon tomorrow.”

“That’ll have to wait until then.” But as he watched them walk out onto the jetty, the chauffeur almost invisible under the luggage (he must be well paid for that loss of dignity), he began wondering about how to board the Sondenvind unseen. Because if that link was as vital as it might be, it was one that Lenz and Reimers must never even suspect.