‘Crazy son of bitches at the Bureau,’ the one walking suddenly called out to his partner.
The man by the fire said something so low that it was unintelligible to Max.
Then the first one continued his complaint: ‘Nobody’s coming along this road, for God sake. Not even Santa Claus.’
More grumbling from the one by the fire and Max made his way around the roadblock, following the road at a distance of a hundred yards or so. He would have to go the rest of the way on foot. If there were a roadblock this far from Brantley, then the roads closer to the estate would be crawling with police, he figured. He kept the moon to his left as he made his way; the rough layout of roads was in his head. He should come to an intersection soon and then he would have to head directly south.
After an hour of walking, he skirted the intersection he was looking for, bypassing yet another roadblock, this one manned by six police. They do mean business, he thought, and grinned into the night as he continued walking stealthily off the roads. The game pleased him: to win against all odds, that would be a lovely thing.
After another hour he had to leave the road systems completely and head cross country, for police were stationed at odd intervals along the roads and he could not risk being seen. He reckoned Brantley was, in fact, just over the next rise. It was hard going up the hill and the moon went behind dense cloud cover for a time. He floundered off course and before he realized it he stumbled into a barnyard, the great black hulk of the barn looming up suddenly in front of him.
A dog nearby set up a staccato barking and a door opened suddenly to his left. Max dove to the first cover he could find, which turned out to be a muck heap, but at least it was warm. He watched as a tall reedy man in a wool shirt and baggy work pants came out onto the porch of a small farmhouse, carrying a lantern in front of him. The timid light lit up the whole of the darkened barnyard, and Max quickly took note of his surroundings: the barn; the ramshackle house; a plough he had almost dived onto just by the pile of muck he was hiding behind; a dog kennel next to the barn with a short-legged dog setting up a racket still.
‘Quiet, Brutus,’ the man on the porch called, and the dog stopped barking, but still whined as it looked directly at Max not fifteen feet distant.
Max then noticed that the man carried a shotgun in his left hand. He held the lantern up to the night, peering into the darkness, and Brutus gave another yap.
‘Shut up, you mongrel!’ the man growled, and the dog obeyed, its tail curling under its rump.
The man looked to right and left once more, sniffed the night air, then went back into the house, slamming the door in back of him.
Max sat still for another few minutes, breathing shallowly, not making a sound. Then finally he got to his feet and the dog began to whine at him again.
‘Shh, Brutus,’ Max whispered, and he could see the dog’s ears in silhouette perk up at the sound of its name, and its tail began to wag. Max passed out of the barnyard unmolested, reached the crest of the hill, and began the downward ascent. He could see a house in the distance with lights on and surrounding it seemed to be an army of more campfires.
Jesus! he thought. They do have Appleby protected. He moved on stealthily, half bent over to the ground, for there was little cover now as he approached the gates to the estate.
As he reached a safe watching position just across the road from the main gates and hid in a clump of bushes, all hell broke out across the way from him. There was confusion and shouts and lots of motion. A pair of policemen even ran by the bushes where he was hiding to aid in the disturbance at the main gates. Soon he saw a car driving down to the gates and saw in the light illuminated now by more than a dozen torches and lanterns Fitzgerald himself get out of a black car along with a big rough looking fellow, the one who he had taken as a human shield at the Willard, and also by yellow vest. Max stilled his thoughts, listening to what was going on across the way.
‘Good job, men,’ the big one said to the officers at the gate who Max now could see were holding a man by his arms, a gun to his head.
‘For God sake!’ Fitzgerald shouted. ‘You fools. That’s not the German. That’s my land manager, Ned Blakely.’
‘I told ’em, Mr Fitzgerald,’ the lanky man whom the police were holding called out. ‘But they wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Your what?’ the big man said, exasperated.
‘I told you, Lewis. It’s Blakely. He was coming over tonight to discuss spring planting. I thought it would help to pass the time.’
‘Brilliant,’ yellow vest said in a voice full of irony.
Max was beginning to enjoy the show.
‘Well, you heard what Fitzgerald said,’ Lewis told his men. ‘Uncock that gun and let the fellow go.’
The men did as ordered and Blakely shook his rumpled coat free of their hands.
‘Come on Blakely,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘I’ll give you a stiff drink back at the house. Sorry about this.’
Max continued to watch as the men got back into the car, first Blakely, then Lewis, and then yellow vest and Fitzgerald as they were caught in a silly male dance of ‘No, you first’ and vied for last position. Fitzgerald won, but not without a clumsy sort of brushing against each other, mistaking who would go first. But finally the car was packed and set off back to the main house, the police on duty chastised for being too quick on the draw.
Max stayed in position for several more minutes. I know two things now, at any rate, he thought. One: Appleby is still at Brantley. And two: there is not a chance in hell for me to get through the police lines to him.
Feet moved by the bushes where he was hidden and stopped. He could see the scuffed toes just inches from him; see mud splattered on the blue serge cuff. His entire body tensed. So busy had he been watching the scene and plotting his next move, that he thought he would be invisible to all watchers. Now he was not so sure. He reached silently for his gun. They won’t take me without a fight, he determined. Perhaps I should feign sickness; pretend that I’m just one of them who had to sneak off into the brush to relieve himself.
The policeman lit a cigarette, and Max could now see his face in the yellow globe of flame: hawk nose, long black moustache, thick fingers curling around the cigarette as he breathed smoke in deeply and then let it trail out slowly through his clenched teeth.
Max had his gun out now and eased the safety off.
Another deep inhalation, and then the guard moved away.
Max breathed deeply; his racing heart began to calm down.
I can’t stay around here hoping for a chance meeting; for a lucky shot if and when Appleby makes an appearance outside. That would be pure stupidity. I have a matter of hours to get to the Englishman now. How to do it? There were some uniformed soldiers at the main gate, Max now noticed, but their uniforms were different than his. The tunics were longer and they wore no puttees.
I could ambush one of them, he thought. Kill him, hide his body and take his uniform and get close enough to the house to … To do what? he wondered. There are sure to be more inside: bodyguards who will let no unauthorized person close to Appleby.
Max waited for the smoking policeman to walk further away, and then moved out of his hiding place in a crouch, heading back up the hill. Several hundred yards from the road, he turned and surveyed the scene again. Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way. He thought of the silly incident at the gate and smiled at the incompetence of the police.
Suddenly a plan came into his mind, complete and perfect; all of a piece. It was as if he had been planning it all along.
I’ll need to go back to the hobo camp for this, he told himself. I’ll need help. He turned the plan around in his mind’s eye quickly again, like a jeweler examining a diamond before making his cuts.
It had been a long day for Fitzgerald. The grotesque mix-up over Blakely had capped it off. He had spent an hour with the land manager in his downstairs office once he’d calmed the man with a stiff whiskey. But neither of them had really
felt in the mood to go over planting schemes after all the turmoil. They had sat silently for the most part, listening to the wall clock tick. He and Blakely had an unspoken sort of male friendship in which words played little part. They had hunted grouse together on the estate and plotted fields. They talked for a time of Mrs Blakely who had been recently ill, and then of the European war, and Fitzgerald had felt himself going mute on the subject. He was no longer so sure about anything, the necessity for war included. But it was much too late for such second thoughts.
By ten he was on his way upstairs to join Catherine who had retired half an hour earlier. Adrian, true to his word, had had a bed made up for him in the root cellar off the basement. His watchers, Scott and Paxton, were keeping post down there with him.
Yes, a long day, Fitzgerald thought as he reached the first landing and headed for their corner bedroom. He knocked lightly before entering the room. Catherine turned from the mirror of the low make-up table where she was seated. She wore a white muslin nightgown cut high to her throat. A brush was in her hand.
‘I think I’ll let my hair grow out again,’ she said, smiling at him as he entered. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that would be a lovely idea. If you want to.’
‘But what do you want, Edward?’ She pulled the brush through her short thick hair, looking at him now in the reflection over her shoulder.
‘I like it long.’ He took off his jacket and let it drop on the bed, watching her as she fidgeted more in front of the mirror.
‘What are you looking at?’ she said.
‘The woman I love.’
He thought he saw tears come to her eyes; her hand trembled as it brushed her hair. ‘Edward …’ she began.
‘Look,’ he said at the same time, their voices sounding together.
He nodded at her, but she said, ‘Go on. What?’
‘I haven’t been quite truthful with you,’ he said. ‘And it makes me ashamed. You’ve put your life at risk for your uncle, for his telegram. At the theater, now here again you’ve come to be with me. Expressly against my orders, may I remind you.’
‘Don’t be a stuffed shirt, Edward. What is it you want to say? How have you been untruthful?’
‘The damned telegram. There, I said. At first I had my doubts about it. The British government is not above forgery. But initially that did not matter to me. And I lied to you about that. I let my political goals take precedence over my oath to you as a husband. I apologize.’
‘And now?’ she said. ‘Any more doubts?’
‘Absolutely none at all.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘Thank you, Edward. I am grateful to you, more than you will ever know. That was important for me.’
It was as if he blushed at such praise, she thought.
‘And what is it you were going to say?’ he asked.
And then she told him about the mysterious ‘South African’ who had saved her from rape. His face went white when she recounted this. She told him of losing her journal and how she suspected that this was the same man who came dressed as a soldier to Poplars this morning.
‘He was very kind to me after … after the incident. Talked to me. Helped me work through the shock.’
‘But you never said a thing about it to me.’
‘No, darling,’ she said. ‘I suppose I was too embarrassed, too angry at myself for being caught in such a weak position.’
‘How awful it must have been for you.’ He came to her, cupping her head in his large hand tenderly.
‘I do believe Niel suspects me of some relationship with this M as a result. He behaved quite strangely this morning. I had to ask him to leave the house.’
‘He’s a jumped-up corner policeman. If he’s bothered you, I’ll have his badge.’
‘No, no, Edward. Just to let you know. The man is very ambitious. I do believe he hopes to make his career with this case. With or without our cooperation.’
He looked at Catherine with deep affection.
‘Maybe we’ve both dealt in half-truths with each other long enough. Maybe it’s time for a new beginning.’
It was as if she gave herself up at that moment, he thought, let her body sag completely into his, and he picked her up, took her to the bed, and lay her down like a rag doll.
‘You’re exhausted from all this. You need a good night’s sleep. I’ll bed down in the spare room next door.’
She grabbed his hand as he was backing away. ‘No. Stay. Stay with me. Make love to me.’
Later they slept curled together like spoons as they had when first married.
Outside, the wind came up out of the south, blowing warm, and the moon appeared again from behind the clouds, buttery yellow on the snow-covered fields. An occasional clicking of rifle against bandolier and the rustle and creak of leather belts sounded from the men on duty outside the house, but Fitzgerald and his wife did not hear: they slept together deep and dreamlessly, almost innocently.
SEVENTEEN
It was a solemn breakfast. Mrs Monroe had laid on her best approximation of the English country house extravaganza, even down to the kippers on the groaning sideboard in the dining room, but Lewis was the only one with any appetite.
Fitzgerald never ate large breakfasts, but was feeling damn fine this morning, as if a new life had been granted him. Catherine and he had rekindled the love that had been smoldering all these years: it was a wonder. Yet as usual he hid behind a controlled facade, restraining himself from smiling or from acting as happily as he felt. Old habits die hard.
He looked across the table at Appleby who had obviously had a rough night: dark pouches hung under his limpid eyes. Appleby nibbled on a golden brown slice of bacon, sipped on tepid tea, wearing his best diplomatic gray morning coat for the meeting with Wilson, but seemed far from confident he would ever get to meet with the president.
Niel had joined them, as well, and he ate toast and drank coffee, eschewing any of the animal fat. He had treated them to a long disquisition on the evils of same, and the healthy joys of vegetarianism, to little of which any of them had listened. Now Niel had resumed silence, except for the crunch of his unbuttered toast between his tiny white teeth.
Catherine had not yet come down, and Fitzgerald found himself wishing he could simply remain in bed with her all day long. He loved the feel of her skin next to his; the warm yeasty smell of their lovemaking coming from under the blankets. He felt as if last night were the beginning of a new life for them; as if he should give up public life and devote himself to this farm and his wife. Perhaps there might even be children. That would be a lovely thing, he thought. Children in this old house.
‘God, that is a chilly root cellar you’ve got, Edward,’ Appleby suddenly said, breaking in two the bacon he was holding and dropping both pieces disgustedly onto the blue and white china plate in front of him.
Fitzgerald could no longer restrain himself. ‘I don’t know why you’re acting so glum, Adrian. You’re out of the woods now. You’ll be meeting with Wilson in a few hours and on your way back to England by tomorrow evening.’
‘Let’s not get over confident,’ Niel said, looking up from his toast once again.
‘Do you really think so?’ Appleby looked at Fitzgerald with real hope.
‘Yes,’ Fitzgerald said, then caught a reproving look from Lewis whose mouth was full of eggs and cottage fried potatoes at that moment, but whose eyes squinted coldly at the suggestion.
‘We won’t let down our guard, of course,’ Fitzgerald added. ‘But it seems to me if our German were going to strike, he would have done so last night. He would never risk approaching Brantley in broad daylight.’
He glanced automatically out the window to the back orchard, its trees bare, but dappled now in sunlight which reflected warmly off the melting snow. A pair of policemen patrolled by the window at that moment, their cheeks red in the morning air. What a day! he thought.
Rein in your emotions, man, he told himself. Don’t get sl
ipshod and fuzzy like a schoolboy in love at this juncture. Save it for tomorrow, or even this afternoon. For now concentrate on keeping Adrian alive. You’ve begun something with him and you, as a man of your word, must finish it.
He heard Lewis begin to speak about the arrangements for Adrian’s trip to Washington, and how he would be meeting with his commissioner later in the morning to personally fill him in on the progress of the case, but he did not really attend to it.
Catherine suddenly entered the breakfast room, looking crisp and fresh in a pale green cashmere sweater and matching skirt. Fitzgerald rose with the others and noticed with a queer pride how their eyes followed her as she piled a plate high with eggs and bacon from the sideboard, filled a cup with dark steaming coffee and joined them, smiling as if this were her graduation day.
‘Did you all sleep well?’ she said, as the men sat again.
‘Adrian has complaints about the root cellar,’ Fitzgerald said lightly.
‘Poor Uncle,’ she cooed, buttering her toast.
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ Appleby said. ‘I might have caught pneumonia down there.’
‘More likely that fate will befall poor Scott or Paxton,’ she said. ‘Their faces still looked blue from last night’s chill as I passed them in the hall.’
She smiled at them all, and saved a special warmth for Fitzgerald, looking him directly in the eyes and then suddenly winking at him. He found himself flustered and embarrassed at this.
The German Agent Page 22