by John Gardner
Marcel Tiraque’s grandfather had emigrated to the United States as a young man in the mid-19th century. He married reasonably well, having established six small restaurants. ‘Marcel’s father, Claude, made them into what they are today – which is part of a well-known chain and includes twelve hotels,’ Dick said. ‘Old Claude invested well, nurtured his vineyard, and made enormous gains. His son Marcel had no desire to be a tycoon. He put others in charge and lived off the considerable profits. He’s almost sixty years of age now, and he moved to Switzerland when he was barely twenty. No fool, spoke several languages, knew his way around, but could not do much about his build and looks – which, you will have noticed, Arnie, have similarities with a punchy ex-pugilist.’
‘With muscles to match, even at his age,’ Arnold said.
‘Quite. A cultured, wealthy hoodlum, that’s how you can best describe our Marcel. Also one who yearns for the glamour of adventure, even when there’s no glamour attached.’ He stopped for a moment, as though for a dramatic pause, then continued –
‘Living in Switzerland, speaking several languages, always longing for adventure. A natural, right? The Service recruited him, as a sort of loner, in the mid-thirties. Didn’t tie him down to the embassies but worked him, mainly through Caspar – once they’d got Cas back into the fold. They hit it off very well to begin with. Tiraque became Night Stock, an important courier for us, so that was right up his alley. He had business cover in Geneva and Zurich – a dummy company he set up for income tax purposes actually, though they did produce high-quality paper. He sold quite a lot of it to the Nazis, which gave him a small profit on the side, and expedited his movements to and fro – to France, Holland, Belgium, even Germany: though it was mainly France, and almost totally work for SOE and Caspar. You know from the Enquiry that he serviced Tarot in the early days, and even later. There was some evidence about preparing Felix – the Frenchman Jules Fenice – for the Romarin op, I recall.’
‘Yes.’ Arnie tested his own memory. ‘He took in a lot of stuff after D-Day, including the details of Romarin. Gave them the warning codes, the DZ, and the instructions to steal transport. After which he disappeared “in the carnage and chaos of battle,” according to Caspar after the Board asked if he could produce this Scarlet Pimpernel Night Stock.’
‘That’s about it.’ Dick’s eyes appeared to twinkle. ‘You don’t know how apt the Scarlet Pimpernel name is, Arn. Night Stock took stuff in and brought stuff out – including people. The Germans, for some unaccountable reason, never once latched on to him.’
‘What about – ’ Naldo started, but Dick held up his hand. ‘There’s one other thing you should know about Tiraque. He was a ladies’ man. No, that’s really the wrong word. In Tiraque’s book if it wore skirts you nipped it, follow me?’
They nodded.
‘Satyr,’ Naldo said. ‘I was going to – ’
Again he was cut short. This time by the telephone. Dick grabbed it and, in a second, they realised that it was Paris back to him in exceptionally quick time. They heard Dick curse in French, and rapidly issue new instructions. From the conversation and Dick’s face they could see the news was not good.
‘Flown,’ he said. ‘Bloody up and left. During the night, from what my people could make out. Tiraque and his wife. Apartment empty. Clothes and jewelry gone. Not a scrap of paper in the place either. They’re following it up and I’ve told them Switzerland’s as good a bet as any.’ He stood up and looked out onto the rose garden. A breeze had sprung up and the bushes were shaking. The sky seemed to drop closer to the house, and it looked as cold as a winter’s day. ‘Blast!’ Dick said to himself, and did not even turn around when the telephone rang again.
On the fourth ring, Naldo answered it. It was C, calling an immediate meeting at Northolt. ‘Caspar’s cracked it,’ he said with some glee. ‘Thinks he’s found a clue in one of the last letters. Thinks it might point us to Harold.’
‘It have something to do with Saint Augustine, Chief?’ Naldo asked, as though disinterested.
‘How the hell d’you know that?’
‘Flash of inspiration, this morning. Haven’t been able to check it yet.’
‘Well, I’m damned. Get over as quickly as you can, and bring young Farthing.’
Dick had turned from the window. ‘That the Chief?’ Naldo nodded.
‘A word.’ Dick held out his hand and took the receiver. ‘Dick, Chief. You calling an O Group? Right, yes, I’d like to be in on it. Young Arnie’s run one of the girls to earth and we’ve lost her again.’ He paused as C spoke at the far end. Then – ‘Yes, Chief. It’s okay, they know… Yes, I told them… No, Jo-Jo – but please don’t mention it to Caspar. We need to talk with him first. We’ll be there, Chief. Yes.’
Naldo went off in search of Barbara to break the news to her. They would not, after all, be driving to her parents’ in Surrey. As things went she took it well. She called Naldo’s job by six different four-letter words; his superiors had both their lineage and sexual predilections questioned; and Naldo himself was dismissed with a string of abuse which would have gladdened the heart of any sergeant major. She then burst into tears, and Naldo had to console her, which took the best part of an hour.
Sara said she could quite well telephone them, and stay on – the others were to travel to Northolt in Naldo’s Humber. If her parents were really old Army, Sara argued, then they would understand. She even offered to speak with the Burvilles herself.
At last they were gathered in the hall saying their goodbyes. ‘With any luck I’ll be back late tonight,’ Naldo told Barbara.
In the car, Dick said, ‘You’ll be lucky if you’re back by next month, the way things’re going.’ Then, just as Naldo was about to start the engine, he saw Sara running down the steps toward them.
Naldo wound down the window.
‘A telephone call for Arnold.’ Sara’s cheeks glowed in the late-afternoon cold.
‘American accent? Sort of dry voice?’ Arnie asked. Sara nodded. ‘He says it’s most urgent. He’s apparently here. In Haversage anyway.’
‘You can’t put him off forever, Arn.’ Naldo had already opened the door.
Arnie made a disgruntled noise, a cross between a harsh cough and a low cry of pain.
In the hall, the telephone was off its rests, waiting for him.
At the far end of the line, Fry’s voice was reduced to a croak. ‘At the bottom of Red Hill, on the right, there is a public recreation ground. It’s next to the Church-of-England boys’ school.’
‘I know it, but I’m on my way to London.’
‘And I’m on my way to Washington, with you close behind me, I suspect. I’ll wait by the old cricket pavilion just inside the gates. How long?’
‘Ten minutes, and then only ten minutes with you. I’m under discipline to the Brits.’
‘Not if Fishman withdraws you.’
‘Has he?’
‘Not yet. But I’ll see it happens very quickly. Hurry. The air’s cold and damp. Doesn’t do me any good to stand outside for long.’
The Humber, containing Dick and Naldo, was parked on the far side of the road, outside the gates that led into this ‘public recreation ground’ – a rotting pavilion, seats for the elderly, and long grass, rising toward a wire fence. There were also ancient swings for children, made of stout wood and thick-linked chains. In the dusk their framework looked like a gallows. A notice said that adults caught using the swings would be prosecuted. Uncharacteristically, Fry was not beside the pavilion. He sat, breaking the law, on one of the swings, his shoes scuffing the asphalt.
‘Well?’ Arnold approached him.
‘Well, indeed.’ Fry’s throat was genuinely bad.
‘I haven’t got long.’
‘Tell me what’s happening.’
‘I don’t know what’s happening. There’s been some kind of breakthrough. I’ve just been trying to get some rest.’
‘You went missing.’ His tone was accusatory. ‘I was search
ing for you.’
‘You wanted some political in-depth stuff on the girls. I went to Paris. Doing my job.’
‘Paris?’ Fry queried. ‘Then you’ll have a report for Washington.’
‘There’s no report,’ Arnie lied. Then, thinking better of it, he said it looked as though the girls had been fellow travellers, but not members of the Communist Party or the Comintern. He added, ‘I think they might have run one to earth.’
‘In Europe?’ Fry sounded sharp and concerned.
‘I believe so. In Europe.’
Fry rocked himself back and the rusty old chains creaked on the swing as the wind grew slightly stronger. It was the first really cold wind of the year. At last Fry said he had news.
‘From Washington?’
A nod in the gathering dusk.
‘Well?’
‘It would seem that the hit squad’s been at work again.’
‘Who?’
‘Screwtape.’
‘Jesus.’ He had to think for a moment to recall which was Screwdriver and which Screwtape. It was Nat Dollhiem – Klaubert’s Triangle. ‘The same way? A cyanide pistol?’
‘No, a straight revolver. Dollhiem was shot to death in a hotel room where, under normal circumstances, he would never have been seen dead – you know, that kind of hotel.’
‘When?’
‘Two days ago. That makes four, interconnected. Buelow, our two guys who were dealing with Buelow, and now Dollhiem. Marty Forman wants to pull Screwdriver in. He also wants you back.’
‘But Fishman says not yet?’
‘Fishman says not yet,’ Fry agreed. ‘I go tomorrow. Keep in touch with the Embassy, because I want you back home as well.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
In the car, he passed on the news.
‘Nasty,’ Dick said. ‘It does begin to look interconnected.’
‘We could’ve given your chum a lift,’ grinned Naldo.
‘Put a sock in it!’ Arnie all but snarled.
‘Witty chap your relative, Dick,’ Naldo laughed.
*
Cherub stood guard over the small front door of the Northolt house. He hunkered down on his haunches, looking, in the shadows, like an overgrown dog.
‘The Chiefs been waiting for nearly an hour,’ he chided.
‘We’re here now.’ Dick nodded at him, and Cherub peered at his face in the darkness. ‘Oh, Mr. Railton-Farthing, I didn’t recognise you. Nice to see you again, sir.’ Only Cherub would think of hyphenating the name.
Herbie almost blocked out the light in the hall. ‘Thought you’d all gone off with my Piccadilly friends, you was so long, eh! Thought you’d stopped for a quick one!’
‘Stow it, Herb, it’s been a rough trip.’ Naldo gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.
C and Caspar waited patiently in the pink room, which seemed even pinker than they remembered it.
‘Cas has had a wonderful breakthrough,’ C began. ‘Really wonderful.’
‘I think you’d better hear what we have to say first.’ Dick, a stranger to the Symphony team until now, took the lead. ‘Arnie has a couple of things to tell you.’
Arnold gave them the Dollhiem news first. Then – looking straight at Caspar – he told of his trip to Paris and the sighting of Jo-Jo with Tiraque.
‘They know Tiraque is Night Stock, Cas,’ Dick said gently. ‘I feel it’s time everybody should be put in the picture about him.’
‘I’ll kill the bastard,’ Caspar said, so quietly and unemotionally that everyone in the room believed him. ‘Right, Dick. With the Chief’s permission I’ll brief them on Night Stock, then I’ll go out and find him.’
‘I’ve given my people in Paris this number.’ Dick matched Caspar’s tone in coldness. ‘I’ve suggested Switzerland, but not ruled out France altogether. They’ll call Redhill first, then the private number, then here. We’ll get a sighting soon enough.’
There was an embarrassed pause. Then C spoke again. ‘Caspar’s breakthrough. We might have pinpointed Klaubert if he’s still alive.’
‘The Saint Augustine passage made sense?’ Naldo had his eyes on his uncle’s face.
‘The Chief said you’d thought of it.’ Any happiness that Caspar might have felt before had evaporated with this latest news of Tiraque and Jo-Jo. ‘Yes, it makes sense. Take a look.’ He passed his sheet of paper to Naldo and they peered at the row of ten letters. The first three had translated into the letters OFM. The remainder gave a name they all immediately recognised.
‘What’s OFM?’ Arnie asked.
‘Order of Friars Minor.’ Caspar managed a rather bleak smile. ‘I’ve checked, they are as thick on the ground as cops – in the city and the state.’ He pointed to the name. ‘It looks as though Klaubert intended to take the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience: become a Franciscan friar. It appears the Franciscans make up the bulk of the Order of Friars Minor in that particular area.’
‘A Franciscan? A Monk? To make atonement?’
‘If he’s alive, with the way things are, he might not have long to go. Unless we get to him first,’ Arnie whispered.
‘Getting Jo-Jo comes first.’ Caspar moved on the cramped settee. ‘Jo-Jo now. Then I’ll settle Night Stock’s hash for good and all.’
There was a silence, but for a tuneless humming that seemed to be coming from the tiny hall – Herbie performing his devotions to Gustav Mahler.
‘I think you should tell them, Caspar.’ Dick towered above them all in the small room.
Caspar looked around, tight-lipped. Then he spoke – clipped and hard, as none of them had ever heard him before.
‘Right, gentlemen. I’ll tell you the story of Night Stock and how I wanted to kill him once before.’
Nobody moved, but it was as though they had all gathered closer to him, to hear every word, and then put him to the question like the Inquisition of old.
Chapter Thirty-five
Phoebe said Caspar would have made a great politician. ‘I can never tell when you’re dissembling,’ she would tease him. ‘Dissembling’ was just the kind of word Old Phoeb would use when she really meant lying, Caspar thought. But the telling of tales was part of his stock in trade, and he did it remarkably well, as the Tarot Board of Enquiry had already discovered. Like all great storytellers he had that ability to transport people to other times and other places: hear unfamiliar voices and smell the air around them.
He had not specifically lied to the Board, he told himself. Only a slight bending of the truth, for he wanted to dodge the issue as far as Night Stock was concerned.
C had been determined not to get mixed up with the Enquiry – though, of course, he was, if only by the very nature of his private operation Symphony. Before Caspar went anywhere near the room where the Board met – on the second floor of the house off St. James’s – he had spoken to C about the Night Stock business. C agreed with him – ‘I don’t think we should admit to your last meeting,’ C said, not looking Caspar straight in the eye.
‘Which means,’ Caspar replied tartly, ‘that we cannot admit to one particular possibility in this whole business.’
‘True. Not to the Enquiry at least.’
‘They’ll want to know how we got particular information in and out – the details of Romarin, for instance.’
‘Oh, you must tell them about Night Stock, my dear fellow. Of course you must. But let’s hope he really has gone missing, eh?’
C’s words were tantamount to instructions, so Caspar had let it rest there. Now, in the Northolt house, he told the full truth and, as often is the case when all cards are laid on the table, the truth altered many views of the Symphony team. For with the detail about Night Stock came a new perspective.
‘I first met him in ’38 – just as I met so many new people toward the end of that year. He had already been spotted by our people in Berne, and one approach was made to test the ground. He was a vociferous Nazi-hater; it was no secret, but they told him to turn the volume down. It
wasn’t a good thing for any man to be blatant about things like that in Switzerland – not in ’38 anyway. So I was sent off to see him.’
Tiraque had two homes – one in Thun, the other on the shores of Lake Maggiore, outside Ascona. Caspar searched for him in the little fairytale town of Thun, with its perched castle that looked like something out of a Walt Disney drawing. When he finally located the house – ‘A mansion actually’ – they told him that the master was away, in Ascona. So he took the train that rambled down toward the Canton of Ticino, hard by the Italian frontier.
The house near Ascona lay right on the lakeside, square and pink with blue louvred shutters to keep the rooms cool on hot days. At the rear there was a manicured lawn which sloped down to the lake. ‘You could bathe right from the lawn, or watch the steamers plough in towards the jetty at Ascona itself,’ Caspar said.
‘The guy from Berne – Brown was it? – said someone like you would be calling on me.’ Tiraque wore dark-red bathing trunks. He had been lying on the lawn, getting all the sun he could. An elderly housekeeper had answered the door to Caspar, and left him waiting in a cool room from which the sun was excluded. The pictures on the wall were real – a Whistler and an Eakins – and the furniture seemed old and well-cared-for. The room smelled of polish and flowers. Outside – when the housekeeper took him to Tiraque – the scent was different. ‘In Ticino I swear you can smell the sun,’ Caspar said. In reality it was a mixture of cigarette smoke, sun lotion, and the cypresses, which grew everywhere along that shore.
Caspar shook hands with Tiraque, and felt a reassuringly firm grip. Tiraque’s body was almost devoid of hair, though there was a muscularity about him that seemed to give the man another dimension. Was it power, or just a sense of great physical strength? His light-coloured hair was cropped short, and the face was – as others noted later – that of a boxer, a pugilist: heavy jaw, bullethead, a slightly squashed nose, wide mouth, and amazing clear blue eyes.
‘Come along and sit down. You want something to drink? Eat?’