by John Lawton
‘Yes, I suppose I am. But then, I am my father’s son in so many senses. In fact I get on rather well with my father.’
‘I don’t,’ Cormack said.
‘Figures,’ said Troy, and it was Cormack’s turn to smile. ‘Why don’t you just tell me what you know?’
As Cormack told his tale, Troy found himself responding to it with a prism of feeling-to the end of the rainbow and all the way back again. He’d never understand the spooks if he lived to be a thousand. It seemed to require a degree of patriotism he could not imagine, a faith in one nation that defied intelligence. At the same time it was the biggest lie of all-all spooks were playing parts, all spooks were liars. Who, Troy wondered, did they see when they looked in the mirror?
Such dedication was a part of his father he did not understand. He would not level a simple charge of patriotism at his father-he would only reply with Johnson’s tart words if he did-but throughout his father’s long opposition to Stalinism he had seemed to retain an almost mystical faith-was that the word?-in the Russian people. Troy could not share that either. And as Cormack recounted the personal nature of the tragedy-the two Stilton boys blown to smithereens, old Walter himself cruelly murdered-it was impossible for his love of Kitty not to seep through. It popped every stitch and staple the man had put into controlling his feelings. Troy thought an age ago, before Christmas, so much younger then, that he too might have loved Kitty, but she had not given him the chance. Listening to the heartbreak in Cormack’s voice was like listening to a version of himself he’d sloughed off like a snake shedding skin.
‘What’s Stahl like?’ Troy asked.
Cormack reached for his wallet. Pulled out a piece of shiny paper, folded in quarters, and passed it to Troy.
‘Walter had me do this. I talked, the artist drew. It’s not a bad likeness.’
Troy found himself looking at the face of a mythical hero-the Wagnerian features that made up the elusive, nonsensical Aryan ideal.
‘I meant as a person.’
Cormack seemed to have to mull this one over. Odd, thought Troy, it can hardly require a deal of thought.
‘You know,’ he said at last, ‘Walter never asked me that. I worked side by side with Walter for more than two weeks, and he never asked me that.’
‘He wouldn’t, would he? Walter was in the Branch. He dealt in certainties and he dealt in facts. I’m in Murder. Facts don’t kill people. People kill people.’
‘I met him only a few times-but I read endless letters from him. And I do mean letters, not just reports. You could say it’s a rash conclusion, reading too much between the lines, but whatever Wolfgang Stahl really was, he buried long ago. The man I knew was a man he invented. He chose the code name himself. Tin Man. Hollow. He wasn’t kidding. I think Wolf was probably a talented, considerate man. The Tin Man lacked heart. It was as though he’d taken a Bowie knife to the inside of his skull and scraped his emotions back to the bone.’
Troy had not expected to hear his own words repeated back to him quite so soon, and quite so precisely, if at all. But this was his cue.
‘Let me recap. The Tin Man killed the Dutchman.’
‘Yes.’
‘You killed the German.’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you think there’s a third man at large? And that the Third Man killed Walter?’
‘I know what you’re saying. It doesn’t make sense. It’s… well, excessive. To mint a phrase, it’s overkill. But who else?’
‘Have you considered the possibility that the Tin Man killed Walter?’
Clearly he hadn’t. The pain on his face was sharp as etching.
‘No. No. I hadn’t. Truth to tell, it doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s the saddest thought I ever had to think. Worlds have collapsed for less.’
‘Captain-I’m not telling you the tooth fairy doesn’t exist, I’m just reiterating what you told me. Stahl is trained in all this malarkey. As capable of breaking a man’s neck as of shooting him at close range and vice versa.’
‘I know. Believe me I know. It’s just that in this scenario I seem to have taken on the role of the Cowardly Lion. I guess I’m shocked. Stahl and I were on the same side. Walter and I were on the same side. Stahl was my working life. Almost my raison d’etre. And Walter Stilton was the kindest, sweetest man I ever met. Here…’
Cormack dug into his inside pocket and pulled out an envelope.
‘See. Always the joker. Always a smile on his lips.’
Troy took in the letter at a single glance. The note that had become Walter’s death warrant-and there at the end ‘Wot larx’.
‘He was always saying that. A grin as wide as the Chesapeake Bay when he said it. And I still don’t know what it means.’
Troy did. It was the first thing that looked even remotely like a clue.
They had talked away the day. Supped his week’s tea ration. It was still light, but it was close to nine in the evening. Troy was flagging badly. He dearly wanted an early night.
‘Forgive me if I don’t show you out-arm’s playing up a bit-but you’ll have no difficulty finding a cab in the Lane.’
‘I was thinking of taking the subway. I’ve never actually been on it.’
‘Underground,’ said Troy. ‘Tube at a pinch, not subway. Turn right at the end of the court and head up to Tottenham Court Road. Perfectly straightforward. Central Line. Two stops to Bond Street and you’re home. Be warned, it’ll be filling up already.’
‘Filling up?’
‘Shelterers. They tend to bag their places early. Nobody waits for it to get dark anymore.’
‘But there hasn’t been a raid in weeks. Not since early May.’
‘I doubt that Londoners think a few weeks’ respite means it’s over.’
§ 75
Cal had always had a little difficulty with right and left. It seemed to go with eyeglasses and a generally poor co-ordination. The only two physical skills he had ever mastered were the bicycle and sexual intercourse, and he wasn’t too confident about either of those. Emerging from Goodwin’s Court, he turned left, and walked off in the direction of Trafalgar Square. Missing the subway sign he walked on-past Charing Cross railway station and down to within sight the river. He realised he was lost. Surely Troy would have mentioned crossing the river? But-there was another subway station. Its route map made no sense to him. Something from the Modernist school-a Mondrian or some such. A mass of coloured lines and precisely graded angles and countless interlocks, dozens of them, maybe even hundreds. He asked at the ticket booth.
‘Bond Street, guvner? You want the Bakerloo. Change at Oxford Circus.’
Bakerloo. That was easy. It was what you got when you married Waterloo to Baker Street. But he could have sworn Troy said Central-and he certainly hadn’t mentioned any changes.
The depth was startling. Washington had no subway. New York’s ran in trenches just below the surface, bolted to the Manhattan bedrock. This system required two escalators to take you down to an oppressively narrow tunnel, from which the train emerged as closely fitted as a cork in a bottle. He took a northbound train, sat in a completely empty car-he’d never seen a padded cell, but this could well resemble one-and stared at the map above the long row of seats. The train pulled into Trafalgar Square. He’d just about got the hang of it now. He’d found Bond Street on the map, though he still wasn’t wholly sure where he had gone wrong. A man got in-black hat, black suit-and sat opposite Cal, clutching a folded newspaper. Cal gave him the merest glance-the English were not inclined to impromptu chats with strangers-and went back to the map-still looking for the proof of his own error-how had he managed to miss a string of words as long as Tottenham, Court and Road?
The man took off his hat, Cal’s eyes drawn back to him by the gesture. Bald at the forehead and crown. Black hair turning salt and pepper. A small black moustache, and pale, steely-he thought the cliché insisted-blue eyes. It was Stahl. Stahl with his hair carefully shaved and dyed. He would never have kn
own him but for the intensity of the gaze. Aimed at him like gun barrels. He should have guessed. Of course he would have changed his appearance. The police sketch looked nothing like him-it looked like ‘Peter Robinson’.
‘Wolf?’ he said tentatively.
‘Calvin,’ said an accented Mid-European voice.
‘I… I… don’t know what to say.’
‘Then perhaps you should listen instead. There is, after all, so much at stake.’
Cal started forward for no reason he could think of, got up from his seat half standing. Stahl waved him back down with the folded newspaper, like a gunel sticking a gun out through the fabric of his coat pocket. At once both hammy and effective.
‘You’re not carrying a gun, are you, Calvin?’
Cal sat back in the seat, felt his bottom bump against it sharply.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not. I’m kind of off guns at the moment. Do you really need a gun? You didn’t seem to need one when you killed Smulders.’
‘Was that his name? No-a gun would have brought heaven and hell down about my ears. However, as you will observe, we are a hundred feet under London and quite alone.’
‘You surely don’t think you have anything to fear from me?’
‘No. Of course not. Just your willingness to panic.’
‘Then why didn’t you just come in?’
‘Who was I to trust? I had been safe in Berlin until someone gave me away. Someone on our side. That’s a very limited number of people.’
‘You mean you thought it was me?’
‘I didn’t know who it was, hence I suspected everyone and trusted no one.’
‘What changed your mind?’
‘Stilton.’
‘Walter? You met Walter?’
‘Stilton was beyond suspicion. He knew so little, after all. An honest copper, as the English are so fond of deluding themselves. Stilton convinced me you were innocent. An innocent, to be precise. “The lad’s guileless, could no more fib than George Washington and the cherry tree.” Said you couldn’t even keep your affair with his daughter a secret. Lies showed in your face like etching in glass.’
Cal felt he must be blushing deeper than bortsch. Was this what Walter really thought of him? Had Walter known everything?
‘Walter knew about me and Kitty?’
‘Calvin-I knew about you and Kitty. I watched her park her motorbike in Brook Street night after night. I should think the whole of Claridge’s staff knew about you and Kitty.’
‘You were watching me? All this time?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you met with Stilton?’
‘The night before he died. And the morning of the same day.’
‘How do you know he’s dead?’
‘I was there. Stilton wanted you and I to meet. I asked for somewhere outdoors with more than one way in and out. He chose Coburn Place. All three of us would have met there if everything had gone well. I got there first. I stood in the cellar of the pub next door. I was in total darkness, but I could see anyone who passed through the drayman’s hatch. I saw Stilton go by. A minute or so later a second set of feet passed by. I was about to step out, when I heard the unmistakable sound of a low-velocity bullet. A fraction louder than a silencer, nothing more than a pop, but enough to know it for what it was. Then the second man came back down the alley. I waited a couple of minutes, then I left. It was obvious Stilton had been killed. I didn’t need to see the body to know that.’
‘Couldn’t you have stopped it? I mean…’
‘I didn’t have a gun, Calvin. My only defence was to be closest to the exit. I bought this the day after.’
Stahl lifted the newspaper, to show a small revolver pointing down his leg, aimed at Cal’s groin.
‘But you did see the man who killed Walter?’
The train slithered into a station, the doors slid open. The soft hubbub of a thousand shelterers already preparing for a night’s sleep along the platforms. The whistle of a kettle on a primus stove. A smell like boiling collard greens.
‘Up to the knees, yes. I didn’t see his face.’
‘Oh hell.’
‘And,’ Stahl went on, ‘he had better taste than you, but his shoes no more matched the suit than yours do.’
Cal looked down at his shoes. Regulation army brown roundies. With the blue suit Tel Stilton had brought him from his brother’s wardrobe. Brown shoes, blue suit. Good God, what was Stahl saying? He looked up.
‘What now?’
But Stahl had gone.
Cal leapt through the door, snagged his jacket as the door hissed to on him, jerked it free and tried vainly to run after Stahl. He tripped almost at once over a man sprawled full length across the platform.
‘Ere. ‘Old yer ‘orses!’
He stumbled on. A human quagmire of arms and legs. He felt as though he had fallen into the grip of a giant octopus.
‘Wot’s a bloke gotta do to get a decent night’s kip ‘round ‘ere?’
‘Oo the bleedin’ ‘ell d’you fink you are?’
Someone reached up to thump Cal on the thigh and nearly brought him down. Someone else stamped hard on his toes. He fought his way to the exit, heard the predictable cry of ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’ following him, and way ahead saw Stahl striding up the escalator. He’d never catch him now. The blow to his leg had all but numbed the nerves. He was dragging it after him as though it were made of wood.
‘Stahl!!!’
Stahl stopped at the top. The staircase moving up beneath his feet, into an infinity of moire patterns that made Cal’s eyes swim.
‘Stahl! The shoes! What colour were the shoes?’
Cal heard his voice echo up the shaft, like shouting at God in the vault of some bizarre cathedral. But this wasn’t God, this was the Devil tempting Cal to think what he would not think. And instead of placing him on a pillar in the wilderness he had left him in the pit of darkness.
Stahl stood a second or two, looking down at Cal. Cal dragged himself onto the escalator.
‘Brown,’ Stahl answered, turned on his heel and vanished.
§ 76
He had drifted beyond his station-he was at Baker Street. At least a name he knew, but when he emerged at street level, to a darkening sky, it was not a part of Baker Street he recognised. He flagged a cab. The romance had suddenly gone out of tube travel. Where was Sherlock Holmes when you needed him?
When he got back to Claridge’s Kitty was sitting in the dark, curtains open, a summer breeze gently blowing. It seemed to him that she might have sat and waited in that position all day. Silently focused on him. Oblivious to all else. A poker face if ever he saw one.
‘Did it go all right?’
Cal did not know what to say to her. It was Troy he needed to talk to, and he did not know how to talk to Troy with Kitty present. He could not calmly discuss her father’s murderer with Troy whilst she was sitting there.
‘I guess so. I have to call Troy. Do you know his number?’
She picked up the phone, asked for a number and handed the receiver to Cal.
‘Troy-it’s me, Calvin Cormack.’
‘So soon,’ said Troy.
‘What?’
‘Never mind. I’m listening.’
‘I’ve just seen Stahl. He was waiting for me when I left your house. Cornered me on the subway.’
‘He was watching?’
‘Ever since I got here, it seems. He was… in Islington.’
Cal dearly wanted not to have to state the obvious. Let the place-name be enough for Troy and too little for Kitty. Kitty was watching him across the room, expressionless. Cal turned his back on her. Troy let him off the hook.
‘You mean he was there when Walter died?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he says he didn’t do it?’
‘He says he saw…’
Again Cal searched for a word best chosen not to cause alarm.
‘He saw…’
‘The perpetrator,’
said Troy-a bland, unemotive police term-‘He saw the perpetrator?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he can identify him?’
‘No. But he gave us a lead. An American soldier out of uniform.’
‘How on earth does he know that?’
‘The shoes. Regulation US Army brown roundies. Just like the ones I wear.’
There was a prolonged silence. Cal could hear his own breathing, coming back to him through the earpiece above the crackles and static hiccups of the connection. Kitty walked around him, came back into view still staring at him out of no particular expression, nothing he could read. Then Troy said, ‘Let me talk to Kitty.’
Cal was startled. Troy was deducing far too much.
‘She’s there isn’t she?’
‘Well… yes.’
Cal handed the phone to Kitty.
‘He wants to talk to you.’
‘Wot?’ she said flatly, paring any feeling from her voice.
‘Was your father a Dickens reader?’ Troy asked.
‘Eh?’
‘Did he read the novels of Charles Dickens? To be precise, do you know if he’d ever read Great Expectations?’
‘Only every summer holiday. Two weeks at Walton-on-the-Naze. He’d fish off the end of the pier all morning and sit on the beach all afternoon with Pip and Joe Gargery. When I was a nipper he read it out loud to us at bedtime. Read it to all of us. One after another. Same battered book, reeked of fish. I still think of Pip whenever I smell cod.’
‘Wot larx, eh?’
‘Yeah. Wot larx.’
‘Tell Calvin I’ll be round in the morning, first thing.’
Kitty put the receiver back in its cradle, weeping silently-the dam burst-great, bulbous salt-tears coursing across her cheeks. Cal put his arms around her. Almost happier now that she proffered recognisable feeling to which he could react.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wot larx,’ she said, and wept the more. Cal still didn’t know what it meant.
She wept an age. His shirt was soaked. He lifted her head by the tip of her chin and said, ‘I love you, Kitty.’
She said, ‘Yeah. Great, init?’