Tuba, banjo, three saxophones, drums, piano, trumpet and trombone all started up at once and, oblivious to the other dancers, Mrs Cornelius and Bishop Beesley began to Charleston, still holding each other very close. When Mrs Cornelius next noticed Mrs Beesley, the bishop’s wife was quietly leaving through the exit onto the main corridor. Mrs C. felt triumphant. Po-faced bitch! Didn’t she believe in a feller enjoying himself?
“Ai’m afraid yore waife ’as decided to leave us,” she said into his plump, red ear.
“Oh, dear. Perhaps she’s gone to lie down. I wonder if I shouldn’t…?”
“Oh, come on, bishop! Finish the dance!”
“Yes, indeed. Why not?”
The lights dimmed, the tone of the music sweetened and Mrs C. and Bishop B. began to foxtrot again. It was very romantic. Everyone on the floor sensed the mood and got smoochy. Mrs Cornelius’s bosom began to heave and she wriggled her bulk against Bishop Beesley’s, who responded by moving his hand over her bottom.
She murmured, as the music subsided, “You feel like it, don’t you?”
He nodded eagerly, smiling and clapping. “I do, dear lady. I do, indeed.”
“Would you like to escort me to mai cabin door?”
“I should like nothing better.” The old dog was almost panting with lust. She winked at him and put her arm in his.
“Come on, then.”
This was what she called a shipboard romance.
They went into the passage and turned left, searching for the right cabin number in the dim, blue light.
They slipped surreptitiously past number 46 and Mrs Cornelius searched hastily for her key as they approached number 38. She produced it with a flourish and inserted it delicately into the lock, turning the levers with a soft double click. She stood there coquettishly, a hand on her hip. “Would you care for a nip of something to keep out the cold?”
He snorted.
He darted a quick look up and down the corridor, and dived into the cabin, his mouth closing on hers, his hands caressing her huge breasts. His breath was oddly sweet, almost sickly, but she quite liked it.
She hitched up her skirt and lay down on the bunk. He pulled down his gaiters and flung his sticky body on top of her. Soon they were bouncing up and down in the narrow bunk, all the aluminium-work creaking. They were shouting and grunting in unison as orgasms shook their combined thirty-eight stones of flesh when the door opened and blue light filtered in from the corridor. A spotty youth stood there, peering in. Evidently he couldn’t see clearly. “Mum?”
“Oh, fuck me! It’s orlright, son. Git along, will yer? I’m busy at the minute.”
The boy, who was probably in his mid-teens, continued to stand there, his mean, ratlike features those of an idiot, his large eyes dull and uncomprehending.
“Mum?”
“Bugger off!”
“Oh,” he said, as his eyes got used to the dark, “sorry.”
The door closed.
Mrs Cornelius clambered from the bunk, scratching her pelvis. “Sorry abart that, bishop. Fergot ter lock it.” She pulled the bolt into its socket, then stumbled back, her knickers still around one ankle. She unbuckled her corsets and let them drop and was about to remove her dress when the bishop seized her by the hair and pulled her head down towards his penis which rolled back and forth like the mast of a storm-tossed ship. His eyes continued to stare thoughtfully at the door.
In the passage the boy grinned at his mum’s antics and, dressed only in his raincoat, boots and socks, continued to search for a vacant lavatory. He listened to the vibrations from the vessel’s great engines, listened to the faint sound of the wind as it slid over the monstrous silver hull, listened to the distant music of the jazz band. He ran his hand through his long, greasy hair and wished that he had a monkey suit he could wear. Then he’d go to the dance and the janeys had better look out for their virginity! He shuffled down a side passage and then slid open the door onto the observation deck. The lights of the city were past now and the airship seemed to be flying over open countryside. Here and there were a few flickering lights from small villages or farmhouses. Even from this height he didn’t much fancy the country. It made him nervous.
He looked up at the blackness above. There were hardly any stars out at all and a thin rain seemed to be falling. Well, at least the weather would be better in Calcutta.
The ship shivered as it turned a degree or two, correcting its course. The distant music wavered and then altered. There was something almost hesitant about the way the ship moved. The youth stared forward and thought he saw in the distance the white-topped waves of the Mediterranean. Or was it the Bay of Biscay? Whatever the name of the sea, the sight of it meant something to him. For no reason he could understand, the sight filled him with a sense of relief. They were leaving Europe behind.
The youth watched eagerly as they began to move out above the water. He grinned as he saw the land fall away. Apart from the crew, he was the only one to notice this change.
THE LOCOMOTIVE
Wondering how he had come to be involved in this revolution in the first place, Colonel Pyat swayed forward to have a word with the driver of the armoured train. Dirty steam struck his face and he coughed painfully, his eyes watering. He tried to rub at his eyes with his free hand, but the train snaked round a bend and forced him to reach out and grab the other steel handrail on the observation platform. The train travelled over a vast plain of burned wheat. In all directions the landscape was flat and black, with the occasional patch of green, white or yellow which had somehow escaped the flames. Colonel Pyat would be glad to get into the hills which he could just see on the horizon ahead. He opened the plate-armoured door of the next compartment and found that it was deserted of soldiers. Here there were only boxes of ammunition and light machine guns. He made his way cautiously between the stacks. Perhaps military responsibilities were the simplest a right-thinking man could shoulder without feeling feeble. Certainly, the responsibility of commanding an armoured train was preferable to the responsibility he had left at home. On the other hand, he could have been helping the sick in some relatively safe hospital behind the lines, not heading willy-nilly towards the Ukraine and the worst fighting of the whole damned civil war. 193– had not been a good year for Colonel Pyat.
He tried to brush the soot off his uniform and succeeded only in smearing more of the stuff over the white buckskin. He sat down with a thump on an ammunition box and, scraping his match on the barrel of a machine gun, lit a small cheroot. He could do with a drink. He felt for the flask in his hip-pocket. It was there, all slim brass and silver. He unscrewed the top and raised the lip to his mouth. A single drop of brandy fell onto his tongue. He sighed and put the flask back. If they ever got to Kiev, the first thing he would do would be to requisition a bottle of cognac. If such a thing still existed.
The thin strains of a piano accordion drifted down the length of the train from behind him. The vibrant, gloomy voices of his troops began to sing. He got up, the cheroot held tightly in his teeth, and continued on his way.
I should have stayed in the diplomatic corps, he was thinking as he opened a door and saw the huge log tender looming over him, its chipped black enamel smeared with streaks of green and yellow paint where someone had tried to obscure the previous owner’s insignia. There was a door in the tender, leading to a low passage through which he had to pass to get to the engine footplate itself. He heard the logs thumping and rattling over his head and then he had emerged to find the fireman hurling half a tree into the yellow, roaring furnace. The driver, his hand on the acceleration wheel, had his head sticking out of the observation port on the left of the loco. Two guards sat behind him, their rifles crooked in their arms, their legs dangling over the edge of the footplate. They were half asleep, their fur shakos tipped down over their foreheads, and they didn’t notice Colonel Pyat’s arrival. The footplate smelled strongly of the cedar wood which was now their main fuel. Overlaying this was the well-defined odour o
f human sweat. Colonel Pyat leaned against the tender and finished his cheroot. Only the fireman knew he was there and the fireman was too busy to acknowledge his presence.
Throwing the butt of his cheroot at the blasted fields, he stepped forward and tapped the driver on his naked shoulder. The thickset man turned reluctantly, showing a face covered in dirty fair hair; his red-rimmed eyes glared through the black mask of soot. He grunted when he saw that it was Pyat and tried to look respectful. “Sir?”
“What sort of time are we making?”
“Not bad, sir, considering everything.”
“And Kiev? When should we get there now?”
“Less than another eight hours, all things being equal.”
“So we’re not much more than a half a day behind schedule. Splendid. You and your crew are working wonders. I’m very pleased.”
The driver was wondering why they were bothering to go to Kiev in the first place, but wearily he responded to his commander’s attempt at morale-building. “Thank you, sir.”
Colonel Pyat noticed that, having tried for a second to look alert after they had noticed him, the guards had resumed their earlier slumped postures. “Mind if I stay on the footplate for a little while?” he asked the driver.
“You’re the commander, sir.” This time the driver couldn’t stop the sardonic, edgy note in his voice.
“Ah, well.” Pyat turned. “I won’t bother you, then.”
He ducked into the passage under the tender and stumbled through to the other side. As he tried to get the door open, he heard a faint cry from behind him. A rifle-shot sounded. He went back through the passage. Now both guards were on their feet, shooting into the air.
“Look, sir!” One of them pointed ahead.
They were almost upon the lowest of the foothills and something was moving just behind the nearest ridge.
“Better take it easy, driver.” Pyat grabbed for the cord to ring the alarm bell through the rest of the train. “What do you think they are?”
The soldier answered. “Land ’clads, sir. At least a score of them. I saw them better a moment ago.”
Pyat tugged the alarm cord. The driver began to slow the train which was now about half a mile from a tunnel running under a high, green hill. Even as they watched, a pair of racing metal caterpillar tracks appeared on the roof of the tunnel, pointing directly at them. Then they saw a gun-turret above the tracks as they descended. The long 85mm cannon swung round until it pointed directly at the engine. Pyat and the rest threw themselves flat as the gun flashed. There was an explosion nearby, but the locomotive was undamaged. The driver looked to Pyat for his orders. Pyat was inclined to stop, but then he decided to risk a race for what might be the safety of the tunnel (if it hadn’t been mined). There was a chance. The tank barbarians rarely left their vessels. Some hadn’t seen direct sunlight for months. “Maximum speed,” he said. The fireman stood up and dragged more logs off the tender. Pyat yanked open the firedoor. The driver pulled his acceleration wheel all the way round. The train hissed and bucked and lurched forward. Another 85mm explosive shell hit the ground, this time on the other side of the train. The tunnel was very close now. On either side of it there emerged a motley collection of land ironclads, half-tracks and armoured cars, mobile guns, all armed to the teeth. The vehicles were painted with streaks of bright, primitive colour and decorated with shells, bits of silk and velvet. Strings of beads, strips of ermine and mink, bones and severed human heads. Pyat’s suspicions were confirmed. This was the roving Makhnovik horde which, months before, had swept down from beyond the Volga, bringing terror and nihilism. The horde was virtually invulnerable. It would be pointless, now, to stop.
The train entered the darkness of the tunnel. Already Pyat could see daylight at the other end. Then, from behind, came a massive explosion and the locomotive was hurled forward at an incredible speed. They came out of the tunnel with wheels squealing, with the whole loco rocking, and in a few seconds had left the tank barbarians far behind.
It was only later, as the driver began to slow the locomotive, that they realised they had also left the greater part of the train behind at the tunnel. Evidently a shell had broken the coupling between the first carriage and the tender.
Pyat, the driver, the fireman and the two guards laughed in relief. The train sped on towards Kiev. Now there was a very good chance that they would not be off schedule at all.
Pyat congratulated himself on the democratic impulse which, originally, had led him to join the men on the footplate. There were some advantages, it seemed, to democracy.
THE STEAM YACHT
Una Persson shivered. She wrapped her heavy black mink more tightly around her slim body. The silk Erté tea gown beneath the coat was cold and unpleasant against her flesh. She was feeling old. It was as much as she could do to stay awake. She smiled to herself and made a few long strides through the clinging fog, over the deck to the rail of the yacht.
She could see nothing at all of Lake Erie and she could hear nothing but the dull flap of the waves against the Teddy Bear’s white sides.
They were fogbound. They had been lying at anchor for days. The wireless had broken and there had been no reply to signal rockets, sirens or shouts. Yet Una was sure that a dark launch had passed close to the yacht at least twice in the last twenty-four hours. She had heard the purr of its engine several times during the previous night.
The yellow-white fog shifted and swirled like something sentient and malevolent. It was as if she were trapped in some dreadful Munch lithograph. She hated it and wished bitterly that she had not accepted the owner’s offer of this cruise. It had been so boring in New York, though. She really disliked Broadway much more than she disliked the West End.
She drew the red-and-black silk scarf off her tightly waved, short-cropped hair and wiped the moisture from her hands and face. Why was everything so frightfully bloody?
She went back to the companionway behind the wheelhouse, paused, shivered and then daintily began to descend on high-heeled slippers, trying to make as much noise as possible on the iron steps.
Arriving in the corridor leading to the guest cabins, she noticed that some wisps of fog had at last managed to creep in. Now it was scarcely warmer here than it had been on deck. A ‘brooding’ silence. Were they to die here, then? It began to seem likely.
She tried to pull herself together, straightening her shoulders, putting a bit of bounce into her long step, bearing up manfully.
She went into the owner’s large cabin, remarking, not for the first time, the incredible American vulgarity of it. It had been designed to look like a Tudor hall, with oak beams on the roof and pewter plates on the walls, claymores and tapestries. An electric Belling heater, built to resemble a log fire, only barely managed to take the chill off the cabin. The cabin had looked like this when the yacht had been purchased from its previous owner, but no attempt had been made to change it. It made her feel ill. It made her nervy.
The owner stood with his back to the cabin, staring out of the square, diamond-leaded porthole, into the fog. Once he leaned forward and, with his handkerchief, wiped condensation from the glass.
“Do you see any faces you recognise?” asked Una, attempting to sound friendly.
“Faces in the fog?” He glanced back at her and smiled. “All faces are foggy to me, my dear. It’s my loss, I suppose.”
Una gave vent to a dramatic sigh. “You and your old angst, darling! What would you do without it, I wonder?” She bent forward and pecked him on the cheek with her carmine lips. “Oh, it’s so cold.” She crossed to the genuine Tudor sideboard and picked at a dish of mixed nuts. “When will this boring fog lift?”
“Why don’t you make the most of it? Relax. Pour yourself a drink.”
“A tot of rum? I can’t relax. The fog’s so sinister.” She ended this sentence on her famous falling note but then she let it rise again, almost without pause. “I like to do things, Lob.” The pathos and the warmth in her voice was so str
ong that Prinz Lobkowitz was quite startled, as if he had found himself once again at the theatre where he had first seen her act. “I don’t mean silly things,” she continued. “Worthwhile things.”
“Good causes?” He was ironic.
“If there’s nothing else.”
There was a sound on the water. The faint putter of a motor.
She crossed eagerly to the window and, standing beside him, peered out. She moved her head this way and that as if there was a particular angle at which she would be able to see through the fog. She saw a gleam of water, a shadow.
He put his arm around her shoulders. She was so womanly at that moment. But she shrugged him away. “Can you hear it? A motor boat?”
“I’ve heard it frequently. It never comes very close.”
“Have you tried shouting to it? Using your loudhailer, or whatever it’s called?”
“Yes. It never answers.”
“Who can it be?”
“I don’t know.” He spoke almost in a whisper.
She looked searchingly up into his face. “You sound as if you have a good idea, though.”
“No.”
It was a lie.
“Oh, be as mysterious as you like. But you’re rather overdoing the atmosphere, don’t you think?”
“Not deliberately.”
She went back to the sideboard and helped herself to a Balkan Sobranie cigarette from the silver box, lighting it with a flourish at the flamingo-shaped table lighter. Puffing pettishly, she began to pace.
He watched her. He loved to see her act. She was so talented. He was glad they were marooned, for it meant he could watch her almost all the time.
“You’re wonderfully selfish,” he said. “I love you. I admire you.”
“I love you, too, Lob, darling, but couldn’t we go and love each other somewhere warmer? Couldn’t we go back to one of those cities? Chicago or somewhere? Couldn’t we risk the fog?”
The English Assassin Page 16