No More Dying

by David Roberts

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. I don’t say he trusts me but I think we have established some sort of relationship. He doesn’t like Liddell’s chaps and, when it occurred to him that I might be one of them, he almost threw me out of the car. I don’t know what Liddell did to him but, whatever it was, it’s made him very wary of the security services.’

  ‘I expect he knows MI5 has a file on him as long as my arm,’ Churchill said comfortably. ‘Of course Joe doesn’t trust us. He’d be mad to. He knows we want him gone and he’s very bitter about being sidelined by Roosevelt who leaves him out of any important negotiations.’

  ‘Why doesn’t the President fire him?’ Edward asked.

  ‘He can’t until Kennedy does something demonstrably irresponsible. He’s got a powerful Irish constituency back in the States and Roosevelt can’t afford to alienate them. He needs Kennedy to stay where he is because, if he went back to Washington, he could create a lot of problems. From Roosevelt’s point of view, Kennedy’s safest here – whatever stupid things he says. His advice can be safely ignored and three thousand miles is about the distance Roosevelt likes him.’

  ‘Well, sir, I will write a report for Chief Inspector Pride and he can then decide how to proceed. It’s a ticklish business with the political situation as it is.’

  ‘Quite,’ Churchill said drily. ‘You’ve got to go carefully, my boy. Accusing the American Ambassador or his son of murder on the eve of war won’t endear us to the people of that great nation.’

  ‘I believe that Casey Bishop, Kennedy’s security officer, knows something,’ Edward said. ‘He certainly ought to if he’s doing his job. Verity is lunching with him today. I know him from Cambridge, of course, but he seems to have got a bit of a thing about her. She may come back with something interesting.’

  Churchill looked at him and seemed about to say something but obviously thought better of it. If Edward wasn’t worried about his fiancée lunching with an attractive American who had a ‘thing’ about her, who was he to show surprise. ‘Feminine wiles, eh?’ he risked.

  ‘That sort of thing,’ Edward agreed, unperturbed.

  9

  Verity had taken some trouble with her appearance – though she would have denied it. She found Casey attractive and she knew he liked the look of her. She wasn’t going to lead him on exactly but she wanted to extract all the information she could from him.

  As it happened, she had never eaten at the Hyde Park Hotel before but the Grill Room, presided over by Monsieur Favret, was a very pleasant place for luncheon and had the advantage of being within walking distance of the embassy.

  Casey was waiting for her. He apologized for rushing her to the table but apparently something had ‘blown up’, as he put it, and he had to be back at his desk by two thirty.

  ‘I’m real sorry to have to hurry but I hope the next time . . .’

  He seemed to know his way around and explained that he used the Grill whenever he wanted to entertain away from the embassy.

  ‘Favret knows what I like. In fact I almost always have the same thing – smoked salmon, rognons sautés Valenciennes and cheese. I hate eating too much at lunch but don’t let me stop you. I guess you need feeding up.’

  ‘Why does everyone keep on saying I need fattening up? I’m not a chicken or a pig or something.’

  ‘Hey!’ He held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘I didn’t mean anything. I wanted to say how beautiful you looked but I thought I shouldn’t since this is only the second time we’ve met and you’re engaged to my friend.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Verity said, sipping the champagne the waiter had brought them without being asked. Clearly this was also what Casey normally drank there. ‘I know what you’re thinking, “Poor Edward getting himself married to such a bad-tempered harridan.”’

  ‘Lucky Edward’s what I think.’ He leant across the table and his perfect teeth gleamed whitely. ‘But, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to discuss Edward throughout the meal. I’d rather discuss you. What you believe in, what you think . . .’

  ‘Well, that will be pleasant,’ she teased. ‘In my experience, with the exception of Edward, all the men I go out with like to talk about themselves. I suppose they have to preen. In my – admittedly limited – experience the male of the species is much more vain than the female. But I don’t suppose you agree.’

  ‘I can’t generalize but, if I did, it would be to say that I like British women more than American. The trouble is we put our special woman on a pedestal and worship her until we bore each other to death. You English seem to be more direct, down to earth and . . .’

  ‘Rude?’

  ‘Forthright. You have views and you’re not afraid to express them.’

  ‘I hope so but don’t judge Englishwomen by me. I’m a reject. Instead of being a good little wife with two children and a string of pearls round my neck waiting meekly for my man to get back from the office and wail about his tough day flirting with his secretary, I go out and make trouble. I’ve told Edward that, much as I love him, I won’t be obedient and I certainly won’t stay at home. All his friends will commiserate with him and say, “I told you so.”’

  Verity leaned over the table and gave Casey the benefit of her powerful personality. He too leant forward and there was a moment when the spark of sexual attraction between them crackled like a firework.

  ‘Cigarette?’ he said at last, taking out an elaborate gold case and opening it for her with a practised flick of the finger.

  She took one and, as he lit it for her, his hand touched hers. She sat back and dragged on the cigarette, looking at him thoughtfully. Waving the smoke away, she said, ‘Edward would be cross with me.’

  ‘Why, because you are lunching with me?’

  ‘Oh no, he trusts me absolutely.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ he asked, smiling wolfishly.

  ‘Yes. My days of jumping into bed with attractive men are over. I’m getting married very soon.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t contemplate one last adventure before you shut up shop?’

  Verity was shocked. Was there a streak of vulgarity in this man? ‘That’s not why he would be cross.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘Because I’m still recovering from TB and I shouldn’t be smoking.’

  It did the trick and Casey leant back in his chair as though avoiding her germs. Their smoked salmon arrived and they stubbed out their cigarettes.

  ‘Tell me about Eamon Farrell,’ she directed him.

  ‘Ah! I wondered if you would ask. A little bird tells me that you and your . . .’ he hesitated, ‘future husband rather fancy yourselves as sleuths . . . amateur detectives. Is that right?’

  Now he was teasing her – even insulting her. ‘Don’t forget that I’m also a journalist. You had better make me promise not to repeat anything you tell me in the New Gazette . . .’

  ‘Or the Daily Worker,’ he added. ‘No need to worry. There’s nothing of interest to say about him. He was a nice, clean-living American who did his job well and I’ll miss him.’

  ‘Was he an old friend of Mr Kennedy’s?’ she probed.

  ‘Yes, the old man knew his father and took him on after he had done a stint at the Boston Globe. I’m told that, if he had stayed, he would have made a first-rate journalist.’

  ‘So why did he give it up to take on Mr Kennedy’s publicity?’

  ‘He admired him and there was a brief period when we thought the old man might have become President but that isn’t going to happen. Eamon soon understood that. The Ambassador has – what shall I say? – a few too many skeletons in the cupboard. Now there I go! You must promise not to quote me on this!’

  ‘Also, he was in love with Kick.’ It was a wild guess but she had hit the mark.

  ‘How on earth did you know that?’

  ‘It was the way he looked at her when we had dinner with the family. He obviously adored her. I’m not surprised. She’s a lovely girl but it is common knowledge that she’s in love with . . . s
omeone else.’

  ‘That’s right and Eamon knew it. He loved her but not in that way. In any case, the old man would never have let him marry his daughter. He was aiming much higher.’

  The waiter cleared away their plates and, while he did so, they were silent. When he had gone, Verity said, ‘It must be quite a battle running security at the embassy.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Casey asked shortly. ‘Well, you’re right in the sense that Mr Kennedy doesn’t take kindly to being told what he can and can’t do.’

  ‘Meaning . . .?’ She felt rather uneasy and wondered if she had gone too far but she couldn’t draw back now. ‘That girl Dr Channing brought – Lulu – Mr Kennedy seemed to like her?’

  Damn! she thought. Why had she said that? She was pretty certain that David Griffiths-Jones was using Lulu to trap Kennedy so he could be blackmailed and, if he ever found out she had warned Casey about her, he would be very angry. However, she didn’t approve of blackmail even if it was done with good reason – for the sake of the Party. Well, what did it matter anyway? Soon she wouldn’t be a Party member. The thought almost panicked her, as if she was being expelled from school, as she so often had been.

  ‘You think it’s a set-up?’ Casey asked with interest. ‘I thought so myself, but who would she be working for?’

  ‘Don’t ask me!’ Verity replied airily, feeling that she had already said enough.

  ‘Thanks for the tip, anyway. Now, is there anything you want to ask me?’

  ‘Yes, there is. Do you think there’s any connection between Tom Wintringham’s death and Eamon’s?’

  ‘You obviously think so.’

  ‘Murder isn’t yet so common in England that one can believe two bodies “discovered” more or less by the American Ambassador within a few miles of each other is pure coincidence. And the way they were killed by a knife in the neck. They must be connected, mustn’t they?’

  ‘You don’t think Mr Kennedy killed either of them, I hope?’ Casey’s snort of derision spurred Verity on.

  ‘No, of course not. If he had, he’d hardly be anywhere close when their bodies were found.’

  ‘Mind you,’ Casey said in a low voice, ‘and this is off the record, I’m sure he could – maybe even has – killed an enemy if it was absolutely necessary. Not over here though – not in a job which means so much to him.’

  ‘Someone close to him, then?’

  ‘You don’t give up easily, do you? I assume you mean me?’

  ‘As you said about Mr Kennedy, I think you could if you had to.’

  He laughed. ‘You let me take you out to lunch and then call me a murderer? Not cricket, eh?’ he added in an exaggerated English accent.

  ‘No, I don’t think you would stoop to murdering anyone. You’re too clever for that. However, I imagine you have “heavies” to do the job for you.’

  ‘You think I’m too clever?’ Casey looked pleased. ‘Nah! You’ve been reading too much Dashiell Hammett. That’s not the way it works in real life.’

  You’re vain, Verity said to herself. I thought so. You think you’re smart but I wonder . . . She put on her most admiring voice, hoping to appeal to his sense of self-importance. ‘Would you know if there was someone in the embassy . . . or a friend of the family perhaps . . . who was . . . I don’t know . . . doing something he or she shouldn’t? I mean, you must suspect that whoever killed Eamon may kill again. For the head of security, that must be a worrying thought.’

  Casey grinned as the waiter served the kidneys. ‘Are you happy to keep to champagne or would you like . . .’

  ‘I’ve drunk enough. Otherwise I’ll sleep all afternoon.’

  ‘But not with me,’ he said as the waiter retreated.

  ‘Not with you. Don’t try and make me feel sorry for you. I’m sure there’s no shortage of women in your life.’

  ‘None like you,’ he responded quickly. When she did not reply, he went on, ‘You’ve given me something to think about. Let me talk to a few people and, if I find anything, I’ll get back to you. I don’t know why I should but there’s something about you, Verity, which makes me want to invent excuses for seeing you again.’

  After lunch he put her in a cab and walked back to Grosvenor Square. Were things getting out of control? He rather thought they might be and decided he must take firm action to avoid a precipitate termination of Mr Kennedy’s tenure as United States Ambassador to the Court of St James.

  ‘We’ve had some bad news,’ Liddell said, pacing the room. ‘Our German source says it’ll happen soon.’

  ‘The attack on Churchill?’

  ‘What else? Or did you think Herr Hitler has announced he’s sorry he’s caused so much trouble and wants to resign?’ Liddell snarled.

  ‘The invasion of Czechoslovakia – that’s what I thought you were going to say,’ Edward replied mildly. He knew that Liddell was under a fearful strain. Would he ever be forgiven if he let the only person who might save Britain be murdered right under his nose?

  They were in Edward’s rooms in Albany. Edward thought Liddell’s visit must be because he could not stay in his office without going mad with frustration and anxiety.

  ‘So Der Adler isn’t dead?’

  ‘We killed Der Adler and they have resurrected him or, more likely, found someone else to take his place.’

  ‘Von Trott could have been telling the truth. What are you doing to keep Churchill safe?’

  ‘The whole works. I’ve tightened security around him. Walter Thompson’s armed but Churchill’s a nightmare to guard. He simply refuses to lie low and wait till we’ve caught the bastard. Says he hasn’t got the time.’ Liddell laughed but there was no humour in it. ‘I’d admire his sheer recklessness if it wasn’t so damned irresponsible. His food is tasted before he eats it. We even examine his cigars.’

  ‘Nothing else? No clues as to who Der Adler is?’

  ‘Nothing! We have put in an official request for help to the Americans but they continue to say they know nothing. Blast and damn! What are we not doing?’

  ‘Has Pride had a chance of examining the files on the two murders?’

  ‘He’s started. He’s very thorough but if Der Adler committed the murders – and it’s a big “if” – have we the time for an exhaustive investigation? By the way, he says he’s going to talk to you tomorrow.’

  Edward nodded. ‘What about the Italian connection – those knives?’

  ‘It turns out they can be bought in Seven Dials without difficulty.’

  ‘Maybe, but presumably we have people in Rome?’

  ‘We have spies in Mussolini’s court. That’s no problem. You know the Italians,’ Liddell added contemptuously, ‘they can’t keep a secret.’

  ‘Well, it’s just a hunch but put out the word and see if anything comes back. You never know.’

  ‘What about you? You trip over corpses in your usual way but that’s not what we want. We want information. We’ll have corpses enough in six months and Churchill must not be one of them.’

  ‘“So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, and Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.”’

  ‘What the hell does that mean,’ Liddell asked irritably.

  ‘Sorry, nothing – just that death is the last enemy. What about the IRA?’

  ‘We rounded up two of the three men Wintringham told Miss Browne he had seen talking in that pub. The trouble is that talking in a pub isn’t illegal so we had to let Danny O’Rourke go. We’ll have to let MacDade go tomorrow. I’m sorry to say that we haven’t found the one they call “Bomber” Kelly because he’s the most dangerous of them. He’ll be picked up soon no doubt.’

  ‘Have you got a photograph of him? If you have, I’d like to see it in case . . .’

  ‘Good idea. We circulated it to ports and airports. I’ll get it sent over to you. It was taken about three years ago when he was in custody in Northern Ireland. They thought he’d planted a bomb which killed a police officer but they were never able to
prove anything against him.’

  As he saw Liddell out, Fenton informed Edward that a Mr Rooth had rung from a public telephone box.

  ‘Did he leave a message?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fenton passed him a sheet of paper which Edward scanned impatiently.

  ‘Ah! I would never have guessed it,’ he said. ‘It sheds a new light on things, that’s for sure.’

  From the bed where they had just made what passed for love, Lulu watched Joe Kennedy dress. He was covered up to his neck in a thick pelt of hair which she found both attractive and, at the same time, repellent. He did not resemble any man she had ever slept with and she had slept with more than most women of her age. He had a heavy Boston accent – at least he had told her it was Boston – which she had some difficulty understanding. She thought he looked working-class, almost uncouth, not at all like an ambassador – not that she had ever met one before. She was surprised how easy it had been to ensnare him and she almost pitied his simplicity. He put on his spectacles and continued to tell her about his success in Hollywood but not the stories she wanted hear about Errol Flynn whom she had seen in Captain Blood and very recently in Robin Hood. She had longed to be Olivia de Havilland and be clasped in his strong, manly arms. Instead of which she had to sleep with this old man.

  She pulled the sheet over her breasts and tried to concentrate. Why did old men always talk about money?

  ‘When I got to Hollywood, nobody knew how to depreciate, amortize, capitalize – the very thing that makes for success or failure in any business.’

  He did not tell her about the women – how he had raped Gloria Swanson, destroyed her marriage and her film career. At the same time as he was bedding all the women he could buy, he was married to Rose who swore she would make him pay for his infidelities. She made him hand over clothes, jewels – anything she wanted – but it didn’t make for a happy marriage and the children suffered.

  Given the sins he so cheerfully admitted to, Lulu wondered if David Griffiths-Jones’ attempt to blackmail the Ambassador would succeed. David seemed to believe that times had changed and, although a Boston hoodlum could get away with murder – literally – in the United States, in England the United States Ambassador could not afford even to be caught in adultery let alone anything worse.