Flight From Honour

by Gavin Lyall

  “You mean they’ve got some political protection, just like our New York gangs? Didn’t know you were so modern . . . Hold on a moment, I’ve got to see Andrew off.” The Oriole was well onto the grass, with Andrew, in his calf-length leather jacket, superintending the preparations for start-up. There was already another figure in the cockpit, but under the shadow of the wing and wearing goggles, so even Ranklin couldn’t tell who it was.

  Corinna went up to hug Andrew and, judging by the resigned way he kept nodding his head, give him a sisterly lecture about keeping to the proper side of the sky and wrapping up warm. Then he swung himself up into the cockpit, making the machine rock stiffly.

  Jeffries asked: “Where’s he off to?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Which was more or less true. As long as it was abroad . . .

  The propeller was swung, the engine caught first time in a swirl of smoke, and settled down to the now-familiar buzz. Two mechanics seized the wing struts and helped steer it away across the grass, swung it into the light breeze and stepped aside. The buzz hurried a little, the aeroplane moved, its tail came up and, after a couple of long bounces, swayed into the air.

  Ranklin should have felt a sag of relief, but the departure had been too casual to merit it. He reckoned himself well-travelled, but ‘going abroad’ always meant a fuss of steam-whistles, men shouting orders and crowds waving. He couldn’t yet believe a little aeroplane scuttling across a hundred yards of grass in a few seconds had actually gone abroad. And neither, of course, could Jeffries. People didn’t yet think of aeroplanes as going anywhere.

  Perhaps there was a lesson for this island race in there somewhere, but it was too big to worry about now. He put on a bland expression. “You were saying, Inspector?”

  Jeffries said reflectively: “Just that these people seem to think they can hide behind some cloak of national secrecy.”

  Ranklin nodded gently. “That’s what they’ll have been told to do, no doubt.”

  “And hide even their mistakes.”

  “Especially their mistakes. I imagine.”

  “I dare say you’re right, sir.” Jeffries looked pensive. “It’s a real problem, that, when you’ve got two organisations, both on the same side, both doing their duty as they see it, and meeting head-on as you might say. Somebody really ought to sort it out – for the good of the nation.”

  Instinctively sympathetic, Ranklin might have grown confiding – which was probably just what Jeffries wanted; he was no simple flatfoot.

  But then Corinna returned wearing a rather set grin. “Whoof! Always a strain watching your brother being a daring bird-man. Any more revelations about underworld London?”

  Jeffries looked enquiringly at Ranklin, who smiled vaguely.

  “It doesn’t look like it, madam.” He raised his hat to her. “I’ll bid you good day.”

  She watched him well out of hearing, then turned to Ranklin. “Sounds like you had an exciting night after I dumped you at Esher. Who did Conall kill?”

  “The man who stabbed Falcone.”

  “Ah. It’s kind of tough, the way you give Conall all the dirty work.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it. Is that Signora Falcone?”

  “Come and say hello.”

  All Ranklin had seen, at a distance, was the tailored tweed suit in the soft grey-blue and green of Donegal’s rain and meadow, and an elegance of movement. But closer . . . She must once have had a flawless, delicate beauty. But it had been a beauty that relied on perfect detail. Now, although she could hardly be fifty, the years had roughened the detail and Juliet hadn’t grown into Cleopatra. Corinna had once said that “beyond a certain age, a woman needs either intelligence or cheekbones”, knowing smugly that she had both. Ranklin found himself hoping the Signora wasn’t intelligent, either: it must be terrible to know you looked as if you had once looked beautful.

  But she had kept her figure, and the elegance at least was ageless. She smiled, showing good teeth, and murmured: “Delighted to meet you, Captain.”

  “My pleasure, signora. May I ask how the Senator is?”

  “Tired. He’s lost a lot of blood. But he should make a full recovery. I believe you were there, yesterday?” Her voice had no trace of the Irish, but probably never had. Plenty of Dubliners saw themselves as ‘West Britons’ and Dublin as just down the road from London.

  “I was. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to stop . . .” Ranklin spread his hands helplessly.

  “It wasn’t your fault, he should have asked for police protection. He knew he was in danger.” You wouldn’t have realised her husband had nearly been knifed to death less than a day ago, but perhaps her control was part of the elegance. “And he wants . . . ah, things to go on as if nothing had happened.” She glanced at a little gold wristwatch. “I need to send a cable saying the aeroplane’s on its way . . . and get a ticket for Paris myself . . . It looks as if I shall be missing lunch.”

  “My office can fix your ticket,” Corinna said. “And if you want to go to the hotel to do something about the Senator’s things, you can cable from there and I can order some lunch while you do it. And take you back to town after.”

  Signora Falcone already had the grateful smile in place before she had decided to accept. “That’s most kind of you, my dear. Then – do you mind if we . . . ?”

  To the casual bystander, Corinna was just being helpful to a lady with problems. To Ranklin, she had her teeth into the Signora and wasn’t going to let go until . . . he couldn’t guess. As he handed them into the Daimler, already crowded with Signora Falcone’s luggage, Corinna said casually: “Sorry we didn’t have time to chat, Captain. Do call some time soon.”

  Dagner might not like it, but it looked as if the only way to Signora Falcone was now through Corinna. He’d better get back to Whitehall Court; this couldn’t be explained on the telephone.

  * * *

  Oatlands Park, the hotel where Falcone had taken refuge, stood on the site of a royal hunting lodge and now looked like several yellow-brick-and-stone country houses run together. It was fronted by a wide lawn studded with huge old cedars and, on a day like this, a dozen small tables and clumps of chairs. Among the late lunchers and early tea-sippers, the two women twirled their parasols on their shoulders and picked over tiny sandwiches in an atmosphere as delicately rigid as china lacework. Neither knew quite what to make of the other or how she fitted in.

  “So you’re meeting Andrew at the aerodrome in Paris tomorrow,” Corinna said, “to show off the airplane to a friend . . .”

  “A most important Italian who’s very interested in flying, although he isn’t actually connected with it, and Giancarlo wanted him to see . . .” Signora Falcone had picked up the fluent Italian gestures; now her hand traced a graceful if rather fluttery flight. “In Italy it helps to have as many influential people on your side as possible, whether they know anything about machinery or not.”

  “I understand. And when Andy gets it to Turin next week, he’ll demonstrate it to your military men?”

  “And politicians and so forth, whoever we can get to come.”

  “And that’s all he’ll be asked to do?” Corinna persisted.

  “Oh yes.” She smiled. “What else were you thinking?”

  “Oh, nothing, I guess.”

  And before Corinna could think of another approach, Signora Falcone asked smoothly: “Tell me, who is this Captain . . . Ranklin? . . . who seems to be always around?”

  “A friend. And something to do with airplanes in the War Department here. I think he’d like to take up Andrew’s airplane except for the British being stupid about monoplanes.” She could always find time for a bit of saleswomanship where the family was concerned. “It’s really a great machine. Very modern.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Signora Falcone said. “That was why Giancarlo chose it, he saw its worth immediately.” Then she looked casually around, a small smile loaded to fire if anyone caught her eye. But no one did and she turned quickly
back to Corinna and lowered her voice. “I’d like to confide in you. As – if I can put it this way – you aren’t English, either . . .” She let her voice fade. Like her movements, it was very controlled.

  “Why, sure, go right ahead.” Corinna tried to look open to confidences but closed to their repetition. It came out as a friendly grin.

  “I hope this doesn’t sound fanciful, but it does seem that Giancarlo, before he was attacked, was in touch with somebody from, well—” her smile was disarming; “—the British Secret Service. I do assure you I’m not romancing—”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I’m sure I could find their address eventually, but if I’m catching the boat-train tonight, I’d rather like to have just a little word with them first. Just to make sure there’s nothing . . .” The delicate gesture indicated those petty details one likes to sort out with the Secret Service before heading for Paris.

  Corinna’s grin stayed, but behind it she was thinking very quickly.

  The pause prompted Signora Falcone to explain further: “Giancarlo meets so many influential—”

  “As it happens,” Corinna said slowly, “I do believe I know somebody . . .”

  23

  After the heat of Brooklands and the train, Ranklin called in at the flat to change his collar before reporting back to Dagner. He found half his clothes spread across the bed and Lieutenant J disapproving of his Norfolk jacket.

  “What the devil’s going on?”

  “It might do for a weekend ramble with royalty, but one has to maintain higher standards among foreigners, don’t you agree? You’re going on: Trieste via Paris, and I’m helping you pack. It seems somebody got around to asking where a certain aeroplane was going, jumped to a certain conclusion (the right one, I trust? – it sounded a splendid scheme) and Sir Basil turned his wrath on you: helping a fugitive from justice, conspiracy in the original death of that Italian, general suspicion of being Jack the Ripper. So Major X wants you abroad before they’ve had time to send out ‘wanted’ posters like the one for O’G. One of the girls is getting you a ticket in the name of James Spencer – you’ve got a passport saying that, I believe.”

  “That’s right.” Ranklin sat down on the bed to think. “Trieste?”

  “Yes. The Major doesn’t think the Yard knows about this flat, but suggested you get over to the Charing Cross Hotel and wait there, just in case. I’ll bring your luggage. I can’t find a pistol – are you taking one?”

  It wouldn’t be suspicious to carry on the fringe of the Balkans, but a man with a pistol was a different man. Knowing he had it to fall back on, he might forget to use his wits.

  “I don’t think so. You too often end up shooting the wrong person.”

  “And which suits d’you want to take?”

  “The ones with the James Spencer labels in them, of course.”

  “Of course,” J murmured, impressed, and Ranklin felt cheered.

  *

  Although Charing Cross station had lost much of its Continental traffic to Victoria, it still had the raffish air of Paris-starts-here. It was too close (for some tastes) to the music halls of the Strand and had a reputation as a loitering-ground for unaccompanied young ladies. But its hotel rose above this with its bold Italian Renaissance interior and, of more interest to Ranklin, a virtual club of bar, billiards and smoking-rooms with a private balcony overlooking the remaining Continental platforms.

  The french windows onto the balcony were open on the warm evening, blending the travel smell of steam with those of tobacco smoke, coffee and spirits, and bringing a background of whistles, clanks and babble to the peaceful click of billiard balls. Lieutenant J was, of course, an expert, but had politely just let Ranklin win a game when Dagner arrived.

  “You take over, sir.” J offered his cue. “I’ll keep an eye on the trains.” He strolled tactfully out of earshot onto the balcony.

  Dagner took off his jacket and studied the table. “Hm. I hope there’s no money on this. I don’t want to lose young J his inheritance . . . You’ve got your ticket? And J’s seen to your luggage? The police have been up at the office and they’ve got watchers in the street by now. We’ve been laying false trails to boat-trains at Liverpool Street and Waterloo, and had you paged at Euston and Paddington – anything to over-stretch their force.”

  He failed to hole the red and went on: “I’m here partly to brief you – there’s not much I can say – but also to meet Signora Falcone. I got a telephone call from Mrs Finn, saying the Signora wanted to meet the same men the Senator met. She’s also catching the boat-train, so we’re meeting in the Conservatory in half an hour. That’s all to the good – but I thought I conveyed to you my feelings about letting Mrs Finn become involved in the Bureau’s affairs. Let alone arranging our affairs for—”

  “You did, but she’d cornered the market in Signora Falcone, and there was nothing I could do while staying in character as a minor War Office wallah.” Ranklin brought off a flukey cannon. “And Mrs Finn’s worried that her brother’s getting involved in something more than just demonstrating the aeroplane.”

  “I trust she didn’t get that idea from anything you yourself said.”

  “I think—” Ranklin holed the red and then realised it made his next shot almost impossible; “—I think she just noticed the Bureau was interested in Falcone.”

  “Hm.” Dagner metaphorically took a step back. “What a tangled web we weave . . . However, tangled webs are our business. And at least I should learn how much the Senator’s told his wife.”

  Ranklin deliberately missed his shot to concentrate on what he had to say. A loyal subordinate had a duty to act as devil’s advocate, pointing out risks and flaws. “It sounds like rather too much. We also know there’s others involved but not how much they know, nor who they are. But we do know somebody in Trieste is suspicious enough to try and kill the Senator.” He took a deep breath. “If Falcone really trusted us, he could have told us more about all that – so why are we trusting him? It seems to me that we’re getting deeper into this than we planned but without learning anything more.”

  Unless, of course, Falcone had told Dagner more and he wasn’t being told because he was about to go behind enemy lines, as it were. If that were so, he couldn’t argue.

  Dagner straightened up without taking his shot. “We mustn’t lose sight of our own purpose: to change the whole naval situation in the Mediterranean. That seems worth a certain effort, even risk. You originally suggested we should look at Trieste for ourselves, and now you’ve placed O’Gilroy in Falcone’s camp, more or less, I think we should cover both ends.” He paused, then seemed to take a decision. “But . . . but if you uncover anything there that convinces you we should drop it, then get word to me and it’ll be dropped. Does that reassure you?”

  That really was as much as Ranklin could ask – provided Dagner really meant it. And he certainly couldn’t ask that. He said formally: “Thank you, Major.”

  Dagner acknowledged that with a nod, then, staring straight at Ranklin but keeping his voice gentle, said: “But do remember one thing, Captain, if it should ever come to it: you’re working for Britain, not for peace.” He bent over the billiard table again.

  Mostly to change the conversation but perhaps also because it nagged him, Ranklin asked casually: “Has your wife got home yet?”

  Dagner abandoned his shot and straightened up to chalk his cue. “No. No, I’m afraid she hasn’t yet.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your first wife—”

  “What d’you mean?” Dagner spoke quite sharply. “I’ve only got one wife.”

  Confused, Ranklin stumbled over his own words. “I’m most frightfully sorry . . . chap I met . . . he said your wife had died in India . . .”

  “She got ill, everybody gets ill in India. She recovered. Thank God.”

  “I’m sorry, I must have . . .”

  With unconscious tact, J drifted back from the balcony, winced politely at Dagner’s shot,
and said: “There seems to be quite a gathering of policemen on the platform. And, I may be wrong, but I thought I saw Mrs Finn holding court down there.”

  Ranklin blinked. He hadn’t thought J knew Corinna, but J seemed to know everybody. Perhaps she’d come to see Signora Falcone off. He went to the balcony.

  It was dark now, the electric lights glowing coldly through drifts of steam, and although the train wouldn’t leave for nearly an hour, the controlled panic of departure had already begun. Couples and families, wearing too many clothes because they were going Abroad, stood in islands of luggage, waving for porters or swapping papers with railway officials and Cook’s agents. And right in the middle, more sensibly dressed but unquestionably for travelling, was Corinna.

  ‘Holding court’ was right, too. Jaded by travel, she usually tried to make an occasion of it with last-moment meetings and farewells on the platform. She was doing just that to a small crowd of flunkies – but around it moved pairs of uniformed policemen and men in dark suits without any luggage.

  Ranklin stepped back, took out a James Spencer calling card and scribbled on the back: Are you going to Paris? So am I . But prefer not be seen by Signora. Meet on boat? He gave it to Lieutenant J. “D’you mind acting as messenger?”

  “Delighted.” J slipped on his jacket and vanished.

  “Is Mrs Finn going, too?” Dagner asked.

  “It looks like it.” Then, seeing Dagner’s expression, he added: “A House of Sherring connection isn’t just a good alias, it helps open doors. She may be able to put me in touch with well-placed people over there.”

  “But at the cost of telling her where you’re going.”

  “Banking is also a secretive profession.” Ranklin made that as polite as he could.

  “Very well, I’ll leave you to handle it your own way. I’d better get off to meet the Signora. Good luck, Captain.” They didn’t shake hands.

  J came back with one of Corinna’s cards, her slanting handwriting sprawling over both sides: Thought I’d better become Andrew’s manager or agent or whatnot. They arrived Paris safe, I got a cable. Are you going on to Italy? Never mind, tell me later. I’ll be in steeping compartment 7 on the Calais-Paris train. Help yourself.