CHAPTER 35
Wilde parked the Rudge outside the Bull Hotel. The evening diners and drinkers were beginning to arrive and the lobby was busy, but he pushed his way through.
‘Is Mr Eaton in his room? Mr Philip Eaton?’ he asked the concierge.
‘No, sir, haven’t seen him since this morning.’
‘Can I leave a message?’
‘Of course, sir. I’ll get it to him as soon as he arrives. I know he’s booked in tonight.’
Wilde tore a sheet of paper from the counter pad: Eaton – alarming development. Call me soonest, Wilde. Wilde folded the note and sealed it into an envelope and watched as the concierge tucked it away in the pigeonhole under Eaton’s room number.
‘One more thing,’ Wilde said. ‘Do you have an American in residence, name of Flood? Colonel Dexter Flood.’
The concierge flicked through the guestbook. ‘We have no one of that name here, I’m afraid, sir. No American gentlemen at all, to my knowledge.’
Somehow, Wilde wasn’t at all surprised. As he turned around to go, Ted Northgate pushed his bulky way through the hotel’s front door.
‘Detective Chief Inspector?’
‘Bad news, I’m afraid, Wilde.’
‘What?’
‘Eaton’s been hit by a van. He’s badly injured. Not looking at all good.’
‘Good God.’
‘I wouldn’t like to bet against it being deliberate.’
‘Is he . . . will he . . .’
‘I think he’ll survive. He’s at Addenbrooke’s – probably under the knife even now.’
This was shocking news. Wilde had to go to him, but in Eaton’s absence, he needed to talk with Northgate first. ‘Eaton had already told you everything we know, hadn’t he?’
Northgate nodded.
‘Well, there’s something else.’ Wilde quickly told him about the arrival of Colonel Flood from America.
‘I’d like to speak to this man. Do you know where I might find him?’
‘He said he was staying here, but they have no record of him. I would venture to suggest Old Hall – but what sort of excuse are you going to find to go back there again?’
‘Let me worry about that, Professor Wilde. One other thing: from what you say, there is a grave possibility that you might be in danger yourself. Please leave this to the professionals from now on.’
Wilde shrugged. ‘Of course. That’s all I ever wanted.’
*
Before going to Addenbrooke’s, Wilde rode back to the college, where he waylaid the head porter.
‘Has Bobby been back, Scobie?’
‘Bobby, sir? Haven’t you heard? He’s in hospital – up the road.’
The words hit Wilde like a physical blow. ‘Bobby in hospital? How? Why?’
‘He’s got a sore head, that’s about the sum of it. He was set upon by some young hooligan, I believe. I know he asked for you to be contacted. I’m very sorry if you didn’t get the message.’
‘I haven’t been in my rooms, or at home.’
‘Well, I’m sure a visit from you would be most kindly received.’
Two men down. If this was a battlefield, the day would be almost lost.
*
Wilde found Bobby sitting up in bed, his head swathed in bandages.
‘I’m very sorry, Professor. I was beaten from behind with some sort of cudgel.’
‘What do the doctors say?’
‘I was a bit dazed. The docs were worried I might have a brain injury, but in the event they couldn’t find one.’
Wilde grinned. If Bobby had retained his sense of humour, that had to be a positive sign.
‘I think I was out cold for a minute or two. A baker passing by got me to hospital in his van in next to no time. I woke up to the smell of fresh-baked bread. And I’m still hungry, because I missed the hospital lunch round and all I’ve had is a cuppa and biscuits. What I wouldn’t give for a slice of bread and dripping.’
Wilde sat on the edge of the brass bed. The ward was clean and bright with daylight slanting in. The sheets were starched and white and the blankets brisk and functional, tucked in with painstaking neatness. ‘You’d better tell me exactly what happened. Was this outside the Cavendish?’
‘No, sir. The German lady left on her own, as anticipated, then went down to the Queen’s bridge on Silver Street. Once there, she stopped halfway across and just gazed at the water and the wooden bridge – the Puzzle Bridge, as I call it – smoking non-stop. After ten minutes or so, another lady came up and engaged her in conversation so I tried to get near enough to listen.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘The other woman told the German woman to go with her, but she didn’t want to. She said they know – those were her exact words. The other woman said that they only thought they knew, but they didn’t know.’ Bobby scrunched up his eyes. ‘Hang on a minute, sir, I’m trying to get this straight. She definitely said something else.’
‘Take your time, Bobby.’
His eyes lit up. ‘Now I remember, sir. The other woman said she’d see him soon. Him – she didn’t say who he was, but she said she promised and that she was a mother, too. That’s it.’
‘Can you describe the other woman?’
‘Tall, thin, with an accent. American, I think, sir. I’m not good on accents, but that was my reading of it.’
‘And that was when you were attacked, was it?’
Bobby shook his head and immediately winced and clutched his temple. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t do that, sir. No, it wasn’t on the bridge. The thin one set off, going westward. After a while the German woman followed her, and I tailed them across the bridge. They were just about to get in a car, when the thin one turned round and smiled at me. I was nearly close enough to read the number plate when I was hit over the head. That didn’t knock me out, but the second blow did.’
‘I’ll make this up to you, Bobby.’
‘No, sir, you’ve already given me more than enough. But you know, I think I heard her voice again, just between the first and second blows to my head. I think she was talking to the driver.’
‘Did you hear what she said?’
‘Two words, sir – it sounded like bow bone. But that doesn’t make no sense now, does it?’
*
After some persuasion, Wilde managed to make contact with the consultant who had seen Philip Eaton on his arrival by ambulance. Dr Howell was a man of fifty with thinning hair and serious eyes.
‘Before I answer any questions, Professor, may I ask your connection to Mr Eaton?’
‘Think of me as his nearest of kin locally. We go back a long way.’
‘That doesn’t really answer my question, but in the circumstances – the circumstances being that we have no other name for a next of kin – I suppose it will have to do.’
‘Well, Dr Howell?’
‘Mr Eaton was hit with great force on his left side, and fell very badly, causing massive damage to the upper arm. I’m afraid we’ve had to remove his left arm, close to the shoulder. His left leg is fractured in several places. We are confident we can save it, but he’ll have a limp.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘No. He’s still out. Quite honestly, he’s lucky to be alive.’
‘When can I see him? It’s urgent.’
‘I’m really sorry, not today. He was a long time on the table, under a general anaesthetic.’
Northgate had said Wilde had no more part to play. But the professor knew that simply wasn’t true. He couldn’t sit at home, cowering, praying they wouldn’t come for him and Lydia. He couldn’t stand back when friends and colleagues were under attack. His hand went to his jacket pocket and he cradled the Walther.
*
The two women could not take their eyes off each other. Here in Tom Wilde’s college rooms, Lydia sized the woman up and wondered what it was about her that made men go weak at the knees. Did men not look for kindness in a woman’s face? There was none in this woma
n. Lydia forced herself to smile.
‘Can I make you tea, Miss Lancing?’
‘Oh God, what am I doing here, thrusting myself onto you like this? Is there something a little stronger than tea? And please, do call me Clarissa. I’ve rather fallen out of love with all this English reserve since being in America.’
Under the circumstances, Lydia would have preferred to stick with surnames. This woman had offered herself naked to Tom. Were they supposed to be best friends now? Lydia recognised the humbug in her jealousy. Wasn’t she supposed to subscribe to a modern world view where vows of fidelity were old hat? She was discovering that it was one thing to be sophisticated, but quite another to have the other woman push herself into your space. She was far too well mannered to say these things, of course, so all she said was, ‘Very well – then I’m Lydia. I’ll see if I can find a little whisky. Tom usually has a bottle somewhere around the place.’
‘I can’t . . . I can’t ask this of you.’
Lydia scanned the room and spotted the bottle standing on the desk, beside a pile of papers. Running some glasses to earth in the gyp room, she brought a couple back and poured two healthy measures. ‘Water?’
‘Oh, no water. Definitely no water.’
Before meeting Clarissa, Lydia had spent an hour with Horace Dill. It was exceedingly painful to see him brought so low. She thought he had very little time left. Weeks perhaps, but certainly not months.
‘Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in hospital, Horace?’ she had asked.
‘No. Now light my fucking cigar, Lydia Morris – and find me something to drink.’
Horace managed to get it all out, then fell into a vicious coughing fit. After that, he couldn’t manage to say more than the occasional word. He was so thin she thought his bones would snap with the spasms. She lit his cigar because there was no point in denying it to him. Hands shaking, he had tried to take one puff, but that was all he could manage. He held it between his thin, mottled fingers even after it went out.
At the end of the hour, in which she did her best to find out what she could about his friendship with Arnold Lindberg, she took her leave and said she would visit him again tomorrow. As she was crossing the Old Court towards Tom’s stairs, the porter had caught up with her.
‘Miss Morris, there’s a young lady at the gate, wishes to see Professor Wilde, but he’s not here. Called in and left again half an hour ago. She’s in a bit of a state, I’m afraid. Knowing you were on the premises I wondered whether it was something you might help with.’
‘Who is this young lady, Scobie?’
‘She didn’t say, but of course I do know.’ Scobie lowered his voice as though imparting a grave secret. ‘She’s the Hollywood movie star Clarissa Lancing, miss. Everyone knows she’s in town. I believe her brother’s a fellow at St John’s.’
Clarissa Lancing? Lydia had been both unnerved and intrigued. ‘Did she say what she wanted?’
‘No, miss, but she looks a bit the worse for wear. It’s not quite the sort of thing I know how to deal with . . .’
‘Very well, Scobie. Perhaps you’d escort her to Professor Wilde’s rooms?’ Lydia was both bemused and fascinated; she was about to come face to face with the siren who had attempted to lure her man on to the rocks. ‘I’ll wait for her there.’
Now here they were.
Clarissa’s hair was all over the place, her mascara was streaked and she kept clutching and unclutching her beautiful fingers. She stood up and began to pace the room, frequently stopping at the window to peer out.
‘Do you know when he’ll be here, Lydia? I’m scared.’
‘What are you scared of? Talk to me if you like. Tom and I are . . . neighbours. Why don’t you sit down?’
Clarissa fell onto the sofa again and arranged herself like a tragic heroine. She fished in her handbag and produced a carton of cigarettes. She took one and lit it with trembling hands, then offered the packet to Lydia.
Black Sobranie. Temptation came in too many forms. Lydia took one of the cigarettes.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Clarissa said. ‘This is so awful. What must you think of me? You won’t breathe a word to anyone, will you, Lydia? This could do terrible things to my career. You don’t think the porter . . .’
‘No, he’s very discreet. But what are you scared of?’
Clarissa clutched the cigarette to her mouth, then exhaled smoke, gasping as she did so. ‘Oh, something bad is happening and I don’t know what! I’m caught up in the middle of it. There are bad people and I don’t know how to get away.’
‘Have you tried the police? And what about your brother? I know Geoff quite well myself. I’m sure he could help you.’
‘There were shots in the night, you see. At Old Hall where I’m staying. And then this morning the police came around. It was terrifying. Searching everywhere and questioning everyone, demanding answers. Then after they went, he turned on me . . .’
Lydia waited.
‘I suppose I’d better tell you. It’s Milt Hardiman. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Everyone has.’ She turned her left cheek to Lydia. ‘That’s where he slapped me. Is it red? He called me a treacherous bitch and threatened to kill me. He said he’d shoot me in the head and bury me with the dog. It was all so out of the blue – I still don’t know what he was talking about.’
‘Do you want me to call the police? A threat to kill is a criminal offence.’
‘He wouldn’t do it, would he, Lydia? Please tell me he wouldn’t kill me.’
*
Wilde called Eaton’s office from the phone box on St Andrew’s Street. It was answered immediately.
‘Mr Carstairs, it’s Professor Wilde again. Have you heard the news about Philip Eaton?’
‘What would that be, sir?’
‘I’m sorry to have to break this to you, but he’s been badly injured – knocked down by a van. Clearly deliberate, whatever the police say.’
‘This is very bad news, sir. Where is Mr Eaton presently?’ Carstairs remained imperturbable.
‘Addenbrooke’s. They’ve had to amputate his left arm. Look, Detective Chief Inspector Northgate of Special Branch is already up here, attached to Cambridge police headquarters, but I wanted to be sure you’d heard the bad news.’
Barely a pause. ‘Someone will be in touch, sir. Thank you for the call.’
*
Dexter Flood looked down at the mutilated corpse of Torsten Hellquist, spreadeagled on an old wooden door on the floor. His wrists were bound to nails at the top, right and left, but the hands were broken, bloody mincemeat, the result of repeated hammerings; his naked torso was spotted with black burn marks and streaks of blood. One of his eyes had been gouged. The ankles were bound to nails at the bottom of the door. ‘He’s fucking dead! You damned halfwit – now you’ve gone and killed both of them.’
Hardiman bristled. ‘Don’t talk to me like that, Flood. We got all we could from him. And if he’s dead, so what? That’s what we want, isn’t it?’
‘When we had every last piece of information from them, that was when they were supposed to be killed. How much did you get from Birbach? Whose fucking idea was it to use mustard gas?’
‘He had a heart attack. We couldn’t know that would happen. Anyway, Hellquist’s told us everything. The Uranverein guys will make sense of it. He knew everything Birbach knew. I’d swear my life on it.’
‘Believe me, it may come to that,’ said Flood.
‘From what we know, Hellquist was the building-blocks man. He had ideas about taking Birbach’s theories and making them actually work.’
‘Which is the whole fucking point, Milt. Making it work. That’s what Berlin wants from us. And now you’ve killed him . . .’
‘But I think we got it all.’
‘You think . . . you think. Stop thinking, Milt. It’s not good for you.’
They were in an aircraft hangar, the vast folding doorway closed and locked.
‘The ques
tion is how far they’ve got. Could the Cavendish men really build one of these things?’ Flood continued.
‘The Jew woman says it might be possible.’
They glanced over at Eva Haas. She was sitting at a table near the door, under a bright table lamp. She had a pile of paper and a couple of pens and was writing, slowly and deliberately under the watchful eye of Peggy Hardiman and her chauffeur.
‘How long? Are we talking months, or years? And if years, how many?’
‘That’s for Diebner and Schumann to evaluate.’
Flood jutted his chin in Eva’s direction. ‘When will she have finished?’
‘She says it’ll take her a few hours yet. This is complicated stuff and she has to make sense of what Hellquist said. It came out in fits and starts.’
‘If she thinks she can fool us, put in some damned nonsense . . .’
‘With her boy’s life at stake, Dexter? Don’t worry yourself on that score.’
‘Do you think she’s dragging it out?’
‘Possibly, but I doubt it. She knows she doesn’t get the boy back until this has been verified.’
They had little option but to trust her. But when she had outlived her usefulness, well, that was another matter.
Suddenly, Flood hammered his fist into his palm. ‘Damn it, Milt, let’s move on this! We can’t wait for her.’ He jerked his head in the direction of Eva. She looked up, fear in her eyes. ‘Give the Scavenger the nod, Milt. Get this thing finished off.’
‘There are loose ends.’
Flood snorted with derision. ‘Forget them. I’ll be safe in Germany while you and Peggy are drinking Manhattans in Manhattan. As for Wilde and his woman, they’re going to have the hangover to end all hangovers. Come on, Milt, let’s get out of this place. You need to think about making tracks. Your driver can guard the woman.’
CHAPTER 36
He was almost at the college gate when it hit him. Bow Bone. Bobby had misheard. He was dazed by the first blow and her accent had made it worse. It was just one word, not two: Boldbourne – the airfield. The Hardimans’ private airfield, from where he had flown to Paris with Clarissa.
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