Flight From Honour (21 page)

“Quite so . . . Who’d heard shots but says he’s never seen the man before and so on . . . Is this usual with that community?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Very close they stick, rather sort things out themselves.”

“I understand.” Then Sir Basil frowned. “But damn it, this is
London,
not the back streets of Naples. I will not have . . .” he gestured comprehensively but vaguely and finished: “. . . such things.” And topped it off with a glare at O’Gilroy.

Now Ranklin saw what the local police had been waiting and hoping for: that the house would be empty not only of witnesses but that embarrassing corpse as well. Blood-stains and bullet-holes could be shrugged off as long as nobody made a complaint. But not a body.

After a moment, Dagner suggested gently: “I’m no lawyer, but it seems to me that, since Gorman began by seeing this man stab the Senator at Brooklands, and ended by giving himself up at this station, and there are no witnesses to what happened in between, why should we doubt his word? Particularly with the evidence of the bullet-holes and the man’s pistol. Quite apart from any Other Factors.”

But Sir Basil bristled at that last. “If I’m not having London turned into Naples, I’m not having your people turn it into a Wild West show, either . . . You say you’ve got the victim’s pistol, Inspector?”

“Yes, sir. A bit of an odd one, that.” He slipped into his witness-box manner. “A new type of Webley semi-automatic, which I understand has only been issued to the Navy. In which case it should have an Admiralty stamp as well as a number, only the stamp’s been filed off.”

Ranklin said: “May I ask the Inspector if the house in Back Hill Street has any sort of reputation?”

“Nothing for certain, sir.”

“But—” looking at Sir Basil; “—since all this is unofficial and off the record anyway . . . ?”

Sir Basil nodded to the Inspector, who said: “It’s said to be the headquarters of the local Mafia or Camorra, we don’t know which – if they’re different, in London. They’re not that important, sir,” he added quickly. “The Italian population isn’t permanent enough for that sort of thing to have much of a hold.”

“But still,” Dagner took up the thread, “a place where a visiting assassin might find sanctuary?”

“Major—” and in Sir Basil’s tone it wasn’t much of a rank; “—we have only Gorman’s testimony that the man was an assassin.”

“Oh my Lord.” Ranklin had suddenly remembered, and fumbled
in his pocket. “There was a piece of paper stuck on the knife in the Senator’s back. I’d quite forgotten.” He handed the blood-stained and crumpled note to Sir Basil, who smoothed it on the table-top. Everybody craned to look.

“It appears to be the symbol,” Sir Basil announced, “of the Ujedinjenje ili Smrt – a Serbian secret society.” Ranklin was surprised he recognised it. Then he realised the head of Special Branch had to know about any conspiracy that might crop up in London – as most did, sooner or later. Sir Basil passed it to Kell, then swung around on Ranklin: “And why, may I ask, did you remove a vital piece of evidence?”

“I thought it might help us—”

“Us?
Us?
Your Bureau has absolutely no jurisdiction, no authority – you don’t even have any statutory
existence.
Yet you interpret that as licence to suppress evidence and behave like a crowd of Buffalo Bills whenever the mood takes you!”

“I can assure you, Sir Basil,” Dagner soothed, “that disciplinary action will most certainly be taken.”

“Closing the stable door after a
herd
of wild horses has been unleashed on the community.”

“Nevertheless . . .”

“No.” Sir Basil was thinking. Finally he said: “Major, I’d like to co-operate with your Bureau. But if I agree to an unofficial resolution of this matter, I’d be behaving no better than your . . . your agents. Moreover, the Surrey Police are also entitled to expect the cooperation of Scotland Yard. At present, they have an unsolved case of attempted murder – highly unsatisfactory. If we leave it like that, they have to spend time and trouble demonstrating they’re trying to resolve it whilst knowing, unofficially, that they never will – even more unsatisfactory.”

Now he was looking straight at Dagner. “But if they can connect the dead man here with the stabbing at Brooklands, they can close their books. And the only way for them to do that is through German. So by all means let him plead self-defence, and I’d be quite happy if the court accepted that. But court is where he’s going. Lock him up again, Inspector.”

*        *        *

It was well into the evening now. The public house on the opposite corner sounded busy, trams clattered and squealed at the junction, but there was little other traffic. A few yards south were the legal chambers of Gray’s Inn itself, while hardly further to the north-east lay the tenements of Little Italy, and just south of that was Hatton Garden, the gemstone district. London was full of such anomalous neighborhoods, each now becoming self-contained villages again for the night.

“Probably quite a quiet spot, later on,” Dagner said, apparently inconsequentially.

“I have a motor-car,” Kell offered. “If I can give you a lift . . .?”

“I think I’ll walk a little way . . . You feel there’s nothing left to be done?”

Kell and Ranklin were forced to accompany him as he paced along Theobald’s Road. Kell said: “He’s only had the Scotland Yard job since June, so he probably feels a new broom should be seen to sweep clean – and within the letter of the law. He may even feel his authority has been . . . well, challenged. But by morning he’ll probably decide you’ve learnt your lesson and drop the whole thing.”

“Are you sure?” Dagner asked bluntly.

“Well, no, I can’t be cert—”

“So in the morning Gorman may appear in the police court and from there things will be a good deal more difficult to untangle. I assume you feel there’s nothing you can do yourself?”

It was clear that Kell felt there was nothing he
should
be doing, but he said politely: “The trouble is that, on the face of it, the picture is complete, no obvious loose ends to involve my service. I’m sorry,” he added without overdoing the sincerity.

“The piece of paper stuck on the knife?” Ranklin suggested.

“Anybody can scrawl such a thing. It certainly doesn’t prove Serbian involvement in one Italian stabbing another.”

“But Falcone
is
an Italian senator, granted an interview by the Foreign Office—”

“And apparently up to something that interests your Bureau? However, you aren’t inviting me to interfere in
that,
I presume. If the Italian embassy kicks up a fuss, I may get dragged in. But if we start digging up the Senator’s private life, we could turn up all sorts of things that might embarrass his family – even his government. With the stabber dead, the embassy may not want to investigate his motive.”

“So,” Ranklin said, “a quiet vote of thanks to Gorman for saving everyone embarrasment and let him face a murder charge on his own.”

Kell smiled blandly. “That’s up to you. You might even feel that, given his past connections, this is a good opportunity to be rid of him.”

They were walking past Gray’s Inn gardens, Dagner peering through the railings at the wide and empty stretch of turf. “You think so? But with his own freedom – even his neck – at stake, lsn’t he likely to mention the Bureau in open court?”

“If you chose the counsel to defend him – I don’t imagine he can afford much for himself – then with you footing the bill, I think you’d find something could be worked out.”

Dagner looked at Ranklin, who shook his head slowly and said:
“If
it’s our counsel. But a few months ago, Gorman got slung in jail in Kiel. We happened to be there with Mrs Finn. The daughter of Reynard Sherring, if you know the name,” he explained to Kell. “And before I could lift a finger, she’d hired the best advocate in town and a few minutes later, Gorman was back on the street. That was just suspicion of clouting a local policeman. She has a rather American view of personal rights.”

There was a long silence. Then Kell said: “Is she likely to hear of this matter?”

“She reads newspapers.”

Dagner had been staring around as if in a strange city. Now he started walking back towards the police station. When he spoke, it was as if he were dictating notes. “I’ve met Mrs Finn, Major; I don’t think you have. And if she’s paying for the defence, I doubt we’ll have much influence on what gets said. Which leaves us relying on Gorman’s loyalty and discretion. Do you agree, Captain R?”

Ranklin knew what Dagner felt about O’Gilroy’s loyalty, so tried a different tack: “Skipping any loyalty we owe
him,
what defence can he put up that doesn’t involve the Bureau? He only knew Falcone because of the Bureau, he felt responsible for him because of the Bureau’s interest, and he used my pistol – what’s my connection with him except through the Bureau?”

The lamplight showed Kell’s knowing smile. He had, after all, had nearly four years of dealing with English police and justice, and these two were not just newcomers but, really, outsiders. “If one knows the ropes, there are ways that things can be arranged. Say, a plea of guilty to manslaughter, the police not challenging his version of events—”

“That may satisfy Sir Basil, but what about Mrs Finn?” Dagner asked. “And I’m not sure that any version of events is going to satisfy me.” He shook his head. “I don’t like the Bureau’s integrity depending on so many ifs and maybes . . . Can you see any alternative, Captain?”

“We could,” Ranklin said as casually as possible, “always kill Gorman. It would need some arranging, but perhaps in the street as he arrives for the police court hearing . . . And the Italian community would probably get the blame.”

Kell had stopped dead on the pavement, leaving the other two peering back at him in the lamplight. Pop-eyed by nature, he now looked as if he were about to fire both eyeballs across the street. “Do
what
?”

Dagner said mildly: “You must admit it would solve the problem of Gorman talking in open court. However—”

Kell stiffened where he stood. “I’m not being a party to anything like this! If you’re seriously thinking of . . . then I don’t want to hear any more.”

But he hesitated. Dagner said: “I’m only thinking of the national interest, which the Bureau represents in a peculiarly pure form.”

“
Pure
? You call that
pure
?”

Dagner affected a look of surprise. “Indeed. We certainly aren’t concerned with concepts of Truth or Justice, just with what’s best for the country and Empire. But if you don’t want to hear . . .” Kell strode away.

Dagner smiled. “Perhaps it’s as well. Just as a matter of interest, how serious were you being, Captain?”

Ranklin didn’t want to answer that, especially to himself. In battle, you sent men into
danger,
but only that. Or so you told yourself. But the murky half-lit world of spying had some sudden harsh lights . . .

Dagner didn’t press for an answer; his zigzag mind seemed to have found a new topic. “When we talked about acting
alone,
I never thought of our whole service having to do so. We seem to be quite friendless. First the Foreign Office, now the police, even Major Kell and his people . . . But so be it.” He didn’t sound overly worried. “We were considering alternatives . . .”

Ranklin already was. If, next morning, they all turned up at the police court in uniform and claimed O’Gilroy was a deserter and multiple military criminal, might the police . . .? It seemed doubtful, but surely something along those lines . . .

But Dagner was looking up and down the street. “Really quite quiet, even this early. So in a few hours . . . You’ve got all their addresses at the office? We’d better get started.”

Ranklin goggled. He hadn’t been considering
that.

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.