The Sons of Adam (60 page)

‘Bah! Six men! Is worth it.’

Alan laughed again and changed the subject. ‘You seem very well connected.’

‘Ah no! I have a little money. I make nice entertainments. I have some good friends.’

Alan nodded, as though indifferent, but the truth was that he’d noticed how the Italian officials had fawned around Oil-Blaze like bees around a honeypot.

Alan thought of Lottie. Early in their marriage, they’d come to Rome on holiday. It had been an enchanted time. Right now, it seemed there was little prospect of such togetherness again. He didn’t care how unreasonable he was being, but he wanted the old Lottie back. He didn’t want her to be running hospitals – still less to be changing dressings in some ghastly amputations ward. He leaned hard against the wrought iron of the balcony rail, feeling the hard metal across his waist, the cool air across his face.

Oil-Blaze was still talking, listing his friends and boasting of his connections.

Alan only half listened. In the room behind him, no doubt officials were being bribed, state secrets being whispered, quiet deals being done. Alan shook himself from his trance. He had work to do.

‘I may need a little help finding friends,’ said Alan with careful consideration.

‘Ah, yes?’

‘Friends to make sure that the Alanto tender offer receives the consideration it deserves.’

‘You are right, you are right.’

‘But it needs to be done discreetly. If it were to get out, our chances wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.’

‘No, no, but listen, perhaps I may be able to help …’

Evening drew into night. An arrangement was made. Money passed hands and more was promised. Oil-Blaze – Gianfranco Marinelli, to give him his proper name – turned out to be extremely helpful; extremely receptive to Alan’s needs.

And by the time Alan went to bed that night, he was satisfied he had done everything he could to assure himself of success. He felt he almost literally couldn’t lose.

It was 5.30 p.m., Texan time. The date was 19 September 1932.

At the offices of Norgaard Petroleum, things were winding down for the day. Except that today wasn’t normal. Today wasn’t ordinary. Today the Italian government was due to announce the results of the tender, and the entire company was breathless to hear the news.

First of all, there was bureaucracy. The Italian government was releasing the news in the US through their embassy in Washington. Some problem with the telegraph services there meant everything was held up. Lyman Bard had hung on the phone all day, as though doing so could make the news faster.

But at last, 5.31 p.m., his patience was rewarded. The telegraph began to chatter, the magic letters began to spill forth.

Bard ripped the telegram off the machine. He snatched one quick glance at it, then began to run.

He ran fast, he ran wildly. He ran towards Tom’s office, skidding like a schoolboy on the polished parquet floors, grabbing at the walls to spin him faster round the corners. Colliding with a stenographer, he would have knocked her down, except that he put both arms round her, waited till she’d regained her balance, then shot off, planting a big kiss on her astonished forehead.

He reached Tom’s office and hurtled in.

‘We got it, we got it!’ he yelled.

Tom knew instantly what he meant. Joy and relief burst through him like a flood. ‘We got the deal? We got it?’

‘Hold up, pal. This son-of-a-bitch is addressed to you. I ain’t read it yet.’

‘But you’re smiling,’ said Tom, grabbing unsuccessfully for the magic telegram.

Bard snorted with delight. ‘OK,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe I peeked. I got as far as the “we are delighted” bit.’

Tom grabbed for the telegram a second time and got it. Marinelli had advised Tom that Alanto was bidding at three or four cents under Shell’s prices, and Tom had placed his bid at six cents under, just to make absolutely sure. Winning wasn’t a vast surprise, but it was sure as hell a nice way to end the day. Bard slammed down the intercom button on Tom’s desk and called for ‘Champagne, wine, whiskey, cake, and a whole damn chorus line of cancan girls.’ He continued to whirl around the room, a one-man hurricane of pleasure.

Tom tried to ignore Bard as he focused on the telegram.

At exactly the moment that Lyman Bard was skipping like a puppy round Tom’s office, it was 11.36 p.m. in England.

Alan was at home, where he’d given a dinner party that night. Things were winding up. Servants yawned discreetly. The kitchens had fallen silent. Outside the house, streetlights puddled on rainy tarmac. The guests had mostly gone home, taking their furs and their cars and their chatter with them. The rest were saying their goodbyes. All except Guy, who dawdled still.

‘Not tired?’ said Alan, wishing that his brother would leave.

‘Not tonight.’

‘The hours you keep!’

Guy was no longer an officer in His Majesty’s Armed Forces. Further promotion had eluded him. A long spell in the field, probably in East Africa or North-East India, appeared to be the next step for him. Detesting the idea, Guy had arranged things so that he slipped sideways into a senior civilian position at the War Office.

‘I’m used to it,’ said Guy. ‘Billiards?’

‘Yes, yes, perhaps just one game, and then I really must …’

They took cigars and brandy up to the billiard room, where Guy set the balls up. ‘A shilling a point?’

‘Can’t we just play?’

Alan was mediocre at best, whereas Guy was skilled. He generally played for money and generally won. There was a hungry intensity around his play for money, which Alan found difficult to stomach. Guy shrugged and began to knock the balls softly around the table. There was something almost hypnotic about the dazzling green baize, the dimness all around, the clicking balls. Guy finished knocking around and stood up to chalk his cue.

‘I apologise for keeping you up. I know you want to get to bed.’

‘Yes, it’s just that we’ll be very busy at the office tomorrow.’ An understatement. The Italians should have announced the result of the tender today, but their embassy had closed before they’d sorted out their problems with the telegraph. The news was promised first thing tomorrow and Alan – and all of Alanto Oil – was breathless to hear it.

‘There was something I wanted to speak to you about.’

‘Yes?’

Alan was surprised. He and Guy weren’t close, never had been. He could almost not recall a time in the last ten years when his brother had been urgent to talk to him.

‘I understand from – well, from my driver, if you must know – he overheard a conversation here which implied you were looking for … for Tom.’ Guy spoke Tom’s name as though the person was known to Alan but scarcely familiar at all to Guy himself.

Alan’s surprise mounted. Suppressing a glimmer of annoyance at talkative servants, he said, ‘Your driver is perfectly correct. I am looking for Tom.’

‘Tom is dead. He died in France.’ Guy spoke the words stiffly, looking at his brother with a fixed stare, then he bent down and played three shots in quick succession, scoring twice with a neat cannon shot, then making a difficult pot.

Alan’s irritation mounted. ‘Tom is alive. He wasn’t killed. He was wounded and taken prisoner. He spent the war at a prison camp in Hetterscheidt, near Düsseldorf. He left the camp in nineteen eighteen and returned to England.’

Guy licked his lips, which dried up again instantaneously. ‘He’s in England? How do you know this?’

‘I didn’t say he was in England. I said he returned here. He then left again for the United States and is living there under an assumed name. I know all this because I found it out.’

Something in what Alan had said caused Guy to relax just a little. He indicated that it was Alan’s turn to play. Alan took his shot badly and set up an easy double pot for Guy. Guy took the shots, then a well-judged safety play, which left Alan with nothing to do.

‘If he’s in America under an assumed name, it would seem as though he’s fairly keen to disappear.’

‘Yes, but it’s a two-way business, disappearing.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘I mean he won’t be disappeared much longer if I have anything to do with it.’

‘He’s under a borrowed name, anywhere in the United States. It won’t be –’

‘I’ll find him.’

‘It won’t be easy.’

‘I said I’ll find him.’ Alan suddenly realised he was quite angry. He had never forgiven Guy for volunteering Tom’s services that terrible wartime night. Part of him had always held Guy responsible for Tom’s death; counted him as little more than a murderer. He got a grip on his emotion and said in a quieter voice, ‘I am obtaining a list of men who entered the United States through Ellis Island during the relevant period. British males of the right age. I have some good leads. I’ll find him.’

Guy nodded. It was Alan’s turn to play, but Guy bent down again and drove the balls round the table. There was something extraordinarily easy in his poise. Even in middle age, Guy was a handsome man. A dinner jacket suited his frame and face, the way it never did Alan’s. Alan ran a finger inside his shirt collar, where a loose stud was chafing his neck.

‘Perhaps it would be better to leave things alone. He wanted to go. It would be simple enough for him to find you.’

‘For God’s sake, Guy! This is Tom we’re talking about!
Tom!
Do you really think I could know he was alive and not find him?’

‘Whatever he may have done? Whatever caused him to run and hide?’

‘What the devil do you mean?’

‘Do you ever remember what I said to you that time you came to see me in hospital in Amiens? The time I got a bullet in my leg?’

Alan shrugged. He was angry. He knew Guy was bound to have some half-arsed justification for his murderous behaviour towards Tom. Right now, he didn’t care. ‘I don’t give a damn,’ he said.

‘Do you remember where I was, when I was shot?’

‘In a trench, I think you said. There was a war on, as I recall.’

‘That’s right. I was in a trench.’

Alan shrugged again, rudely. ‘So?’

‘So how is it that I was wounded in the leg?’

There was a short silence as Alan took in the question. Then he stepped back and, in stepping back, struck the light over the billiard table with his cue. The big brass light began to swing heavily across the table. Alan put up his hand to stop it but, not removing his eyes from Guy, he was unable to find it and the light continued to swing.

‘Well?’

‘I know why he vanished. I tried to tell you at the time.’ Alan groped for a seat and sat, not taking his eyes off Guy for a moment.

‘Well?’ he said again.

‘I was running back from the front that day. The Germans had shelled the telephone exchange and our runners kept being killed. Brigade staff had no idea what was going on. I was sent to find out.’

Alan nodded. That much he knew.

‘Coming back, I ran into Tom coming the other way. It was just after you and he … after you’d …’

‘After you had sent me to find him in bed with Lisette. You can speak the truth. It won’t hurt. Not now.’

‘The truth?’ Guy half laughed. ‘The truth? Very well then. If you like. Tom shot me. He was angry with me – I can’t say I blame him – but you know your bloody twin just as well as I do. There were no limits with him. None. He shouted at me, struck me, then shot me. He was pointing his bloody gun at my head and it was only because I knocked his hand that –’

Alan listened with a cold rage growing inside him. ‘That’s not true, I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t do that. He was hot-tempered, but he’d never –’

‘You don’t have to believe me.’ Guy spoke bitterly. ‘I know what you’re like when it comes to the bloody gardener’s boy. Just a moment. My briefcase is in your hall.’

Guy left the room. Alan closed his eyes and rubbed his face. With his eyes closed, it came back. The slippery chalk. The bursting shells. The greeny smoke. Alan realised he’d seen the scene that Guy was describing in his dreams. Not once, but hundreds of times. He’d never been able to see the faces of the people in his dream and so had never understood its significance. Alan felt sickened by his new knowledge.

Guy re-entered the room, holding a sheet of paper. ‘There were witnesses. I kept a note of their names. I’ve no doubt that you and your brilliant detective skills will be able to find them. I think you’ll find they confirm everything.’

Alan took the paper as though sleepwalking. He looked blankly at the names. Privates Hemplethwaite, Jones and Carragher. Details of regiment and company.

‘That’s why Tom vanished,’ said Guy. ‘He knew there’d be a court martial. He knew there could only be one sentence. That’s why I put his name forward for that bloody raid. He was done for either way. I thought it better for everyone, Tom included, that he died the hero. There’s nothing pretty about death by shooting squad. I’m sorry, old chap, but that’s how it was.’

The time: 5.39 p.m., Texas time.

Lyman Bard’s caterwauling had quietened down for a moment and Tom was able to read undistracted.