by Gavin Lyall
Ranklin goggled. She’d given this to Lieutenant J? Was he too much of a gentleman to have read it, or too much of a spy not to have? His bland smile could belong to either. Ranklin put a match to the card and let it burn in an ashtray.
J coughed politely. “I hate to say it, but given the police infestation, it might be time for this. We found it in the Chief’s safe.”
This was a large blond false moustache. The Commander loved disguises.
“It’s from Clarkson’s,” J said apologetically, “so the best quality. I’ve got the glue and I can make a reasonable job of it.”
Ranklin handled the thing distastefully, then put off a decision by saying: “You know everybody, don’t you?”
“Oh Lord, no. I just—”
“What d’you know about Major X’s wife?”
“She died in India.”
“Yes,” Ranklin said, then more firmly: “Yes.” But Army habit stopped him sharing his puzzlement with a junior.
He ignored J’s polite curiosity and got his mind back to the more immediate problem. Perhaps Corinna . . . he scribbled on another card: May I borrow your maid?
Half an hour later a short, slightly tubby man with a large moustache strolled on to the platform arm in arm with a younger woman. She wore the self-conscious, giggly look of one heading for a naughty weekend in Paris and was such a familiar sight to the officials and station police that they ignored them both. As Dagner himself had said, the best disguise is always other people.
* * *
Feeling uncomfortably like a man who prowls the corridor of sleeper trains in search of an unchaperoned young lady, because that was just what he was doing, Ranklin tried reassuring himself by listing the crimes he was already wanted for in London. He had released Corinna’s maid once they were on the boat – the Dover police hadn’t given them a glance – and hidden himself in the saloon for the crossing.
Compartment 7 – she had said 7, hadn’t she? He offered up a prayer and knocked tentatively. But he had misjudged the sway of the train and it became a thundering wallop. “Most masterful,” Corinna said, wearing a Japanese robe, a wide smile and perhaps nothing else. “Thank the Lord you got rid of that moustache. I saw you on the platform and nearly had hysterics. And Kitty said you behaved like a perfect gentleman; I think she was a bit disappointed. Would you like a cognac?”
She poured him one out of a silver flask from what she insisted on calling a ‘purse’ and Ranklin would have called a travelling bag, and he sat at the foot of the bed and sipped. She sat with her arms wrapped round her knees and asked: “So where are you off to, one jump ahead of the police? And what’s that all about?”
“Trieste. And the fuss is just Scotland Yard trying to balance its books. Why did you suddenly decide to go . . . well, where are you going?”
“Wherever Andrew does.” She because serious. “I don’t know what’s going on and unless you tell me, I’m sticking to that boy like a leech.”
He nodded. “I can’t blame you. But I still don’t think he’s likely to get mixed up in anything, I think Falcone had several irons in the fire and we’re only interested in one of them, but . . .”
“Is Trieste part of that? Like it’s part of Austria that Italy covets?”
Ranklin studied his tiny cup of cognac. And with her lantern-slide change of expression to a broad grin, she said: “You poor darling, you really don’t know what the hell’s going on, do you? Come up this end and let Mama cuddle you and you tell her all your troubles.”
Ranklin accepted half her invitation. “Is this how private banking conducts business?”
“Invariably. But at least take your damned overcoat off.”
“Sorry.” He laid his head tentatively on her breasts; she certainly had nothing supportive on beneath the kimono. After a while, he said in a rather muffled voice: “Something I don’t understand . . . Do you remember Major Dagner talking about his wife?”
“His second wife, you said.”
“I did, but just hours ago he told me his wife got ill but recovered. So the chap who told me she’d died must have got it wrong.” But damn it, the Scots Guards major had been specific enough about Dagner’s grief.
“I know,” she said calmly. “Adelina was talking about him—”
“Who?”
“Lady Hovedene. She said, with his medal and that Tibet stuff, he was the most eligible widower in London. And believe me, she doesn’t get those things wrong.”
Ranklin raised his head, puzzled. “But he says his wife’s on the way home.”
“Sure. But I figured that was just his act – and you seemed to be backing him. Spy stuff. Or maybe he doesn’t want people like Adelina trying to marry him off, so he pretends she’s still alive. Like me being Mrs Finn only the other way around. You don’t have to be a spy to be an out-and-out liar,” she added. “But I guess it helps.”
“But why put on the act with me?”
She went cross-eyed looking down at him. Then smiled as she stroked his silky hair. Men got so outraged at each other not being Pukka Sahibs.
“Maybe he pretends to himself,” she said evenly. “He just can’t bring himself to face it, so he believes she’s forever on the next boat home. I find that rather romantic.”
Ranklin obviously didn’t find it so. She felt she was cuddling a plank. “Or maybe you could say he’s a bit eccentric. Don’t you have to be, to be a top spy? Anyhow, what can you do about it right now? Just relax.”
And gradually, soothed by her and the rocking of the train, he did. Most of him.
24
They met again at ten that morning in the Sherring office on the Boulevard des Capucines. After – probably – a couple of hours’ sleep in her own bed, a bath and a change of clothing, Corinna looked crisp and fresh. Ranklin didn’t. On what was obviously going to be another hot day, he had spent three hours taxi-cabbing from café to café in his overcoat and burdened with his luggage.
She had a Baedeker Austria-Hungary open at the Trieste pages. “The Excelsior Palace sounds good enough for a Sherring representative. Shall I cable them to book a room? – I suppose there’s no hope that you aren’t going to pose as one of us?”
“Er, well, it . . . that is . . .”
“I thought not. But please try not to shoot anybody in our name, will you?” She scribbled on a form and gave it to a clerk.
“And since you mention it,” Ranklin said hopefully, “can you give me any names in Trieste? – business acquaintances?”
She pulled a sour face. “Give an inch and . . . Oh well.” She rummaged in her bag once more and found a small but bulky notebook. “Trieste . . . I’ve never been there myself, but . . . Here we are: there’s Signor Pauluzzo on the Exchange there. He thinks he knows more than he does but he does know about shipping. He breeds orchids and has a son in Boston.” The book obviously held more than just names and addresses and Ranklin longed to add it to the Bureau’s “registry”.
“I could,” he suggested helpfully, “look them up myself, see who seems likely—”
“No you don’t. This sort of stuff is our real family jewels. Your Bureau can buy its own notebook.” She gave him a couple more names, complete with character sketches, then said hesitantly: “There’s also a Conte di Chioggia listed. Apparently no good on business affairs, but knows everyone socially and is involved in pro-Italian politics at a dilettante level. Spends every morning in the Café San Marco. Sounds good for a gossip, anyway. What time’s your train?”
“One o’clock at the Gare de Lyons. Gets me into Trieste tomorrow night. What about you?”
“I’ll get out to Issy to see about getting the airplane onto a train for Turin.” She saw his surprise. “Andrew doesn’t want to fly it all the way down, thank God, what with the Alps and saving wear and tear on the engine. Did you know those engines only last fifteen hours or so between overhauls? Crazy. The Signora’s already there, some Italian she wants should see it . . .”
They chattered on
, the gulf of parting gradually widening between them, until a cable came back from the Excelsior in Trieste confirming that Ranklin – James Spencer, that is – was booked in from Sunday night.
But as he was about to leave, she suddenly hugged him fiercely. “Take care of yourself,” she whispered. “And I really mean that. I’ll be at the Grand de Turin, cable me if there’s any problem. Any problem.”
“And you know where I am. It’s not too far. And stick close to O’Gilroy: he’s got a good sense of self-preservation.”
She nodded. “Yes. That’s why I wish he were going with you.”
As Ranklin looked for yet another taxi, he reminded himself: I’m working for the Bureau. I think.
The Paris aerodrome, on an old drill-field in the suburb of Issy-les-Moulineaux, was surprisingly deserted for a fine Saturday afternoon until Corinna recalled Andrew talking of the Gordon Bennett air races at Rheims that weekend. They (she and the Sherring chauffeur) finally tracked down the Oriole behind the two vast airship sheds and found it already in pieces. Andrew and O’Gilroy, shirt-sleeved and oil-smudged, were directing a handful of French mechanics as they lashed the body onto a flat motor-truck. Much as she trusted her brother (she told herself) she was always cheered to see his aeroplanes in unflyable condition.
She greeted them, was assured that an unfledged sparrow could have made yesterday’s Channel crossing safely, and asked: “What happened to Signora Falcone?”
“Went off with the wop poet,” Andrew said, turning back to the loading.
“The who?” she asked O’Gilroy.
“Dannun-something. Seems he’s a famous poet. Italian.”
“D’Annunzio?”
“Ye know him, then?”
“I know of him, of course – is he the Italian she was talking about?”
O’Gilroy shrugged. “Best ask the Signora. But seems he’s in it with Falcone, buying the Oriole for the Italian Army.”
Corinna frowned. From what she’d read of Gabriele d’Annunzio, what he spent money on was himself – which included actresses – and the money wasn’t usually his own. Indeed, wasn’t he exiled in France by bankruptcy? But he was still popular in influential Italian circles, and while getting a poet-playwright to endorse an airplane would be pointless in America, in Italy things were different.
“Seems he’s writing something,” O’Gilroy went on. “A poem about the aeroplane, mebbe, and they’ll be doing a stunt dropping copies of it from the air. Mr Sherring took him up jest an hour gone, and he was scattering bits of paper to the divil and back.” He clearly disapproved of such snake-oil salesmanship in Serious Aeronautics.
Corinna grinned and relaxed. If they were merely concealing a sales stunt that might be spoiled by advance gossip, she’d been worrying unnecessarily. However, not about Ranklin in Trieste.
Andrew was busy yards away, overseeing as one of the wings was lifted on to the truck. She said: “Matt came across on the same boat, and he’s gone on to Trieste. And with Scotland Yard close behind.”
O’Gilroy frowned. “Was they now? I wasn’t wanting to get him into trouble with—”
“He’s not blaming you. Umm—” she wasn’t sure how to tackle this; “—do you know anything about Major Dagner’s marriage?”
“Never a thing.” It was very prompt, like a door closing.
She knew that expression, and this time it annoyed her. So she put on a superior smile and changed the subject to: “Were you thinking of taking a pistol to Italy?”
O’Gilroy looked at her but said nothing.
“Because it’s strictly against the law there. I suppose they have so many gang feuds. If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you in Baedeker’s.”
“And that law would mean yeself, too?” he growled, staring at her travelling bag.
“Don’t be silly.”
“So I’d best stick close to yeself for protection.”
“That’s right. Now, when you’re ready, I’ll ride you over to the freight yard.”
* * *
The Simplon Express couldn’t be called “Orient” because it terminated at Venice for political reasons. But it had the same carriages, staff, speed and luxury, so it was the train they took, although it meant a change at Milan to backtrack eighty miles to Turin. It also charged Orient Express prices, which was why Ranklin wasn’t travelling it on Bureau expenses.
In Corinna’s experience, taking maids to Italy was more trouble – in Rescuing their Honour – than it was worth in hairdressing. So with Kitty left behind, she had only Andrew and O’Gilroy to get to the Gare de Lyons on time and reasonably presentable. Andrew’s luggage had come with her own, and O’Gilroy could pass as an eccentric Irish squire with the minimal luggage he had crammed into the Oriole. And at least she had made sure neither of them smelled of castor oil.
Having dumped them in the salon end of the dining car with a batch of French aviation magazines, she waited on the platform, exchanging greetings with the senior staff who remembered her (and most made sure they did) until Signora Falcone and d’Annunzio arrived.
Men who were supposed to be irresistible to women and were careless with other people’s money were guaranteed Corinna’s mistrust, and d’Annunzio gave her almost every excuse. He must have been about fifty, shorter than she and stocky, with a long fleshy nose and small moustache and beard. He wore a very fresh white linen suit and wide hat, and moved in a cloud of lavender water and greyhounds. The greyhounds frisked around, all paws and wet noses, rushing up to check passers-by then rushing back to nuzzle their Master. The lavender water didn’t behave much better.
He bowed over her hand with perfect correctness. “I am delighted to meet you, Mrs Finn.” His English was good but with a strong accent. “May I compliment you on having a brother who is a superb aviator and most gifted designer of flying machines?”
Annoyed that she couldn’t argue with that, she forced a smile.
“The flight was—” he hunched shoulders and hands, then spread them in an opening gesture; “—a rebirth! I have been given a new life! Now forgive me, I must say my farewells.”
These were to a clutch of theatrical-looking hangers-on and, Corinna was relieved to see, the dogs. She left him to it and joined the men in the salon until Signora Falcone came through. They ordered coffee.
“I should have mentioned d’Annunzio,” Signora Falcone said briskly, “only I wasn’t sure we were going to meet him here. You can never tell with Gabri, he does tend to live on a different planet.”
“He’s – as it were – endorsing the airplane?”
“That sort of thing. He’s a big name in Italy – and he’s got a new opera opening at La Scala soon – he isn’t coming to Turin immediately, he’s stopping in Milan – so the publicity works both ways. He doesn’t live chat much on a different planet.”
“Is he an old friend?”
“Yes. Did I tell you I was on the stage once myself? I played in a thing of his ages ago now.” She smiled graciously. “I don’t think I had Sarah Bernhardt worried. Nor Eleonora Duse or Donatella.” There might have been a coded message there: those last two had certainly been d’Annunzio’s mistresses.
“In fact,” she went on, “we’re rather letting Gabri hog the limelight, as if the whole aeroplane scheme is his inspiration and we’re supporting him. The Senator has political enemies – every senator has, of course – and as long as he gets the manufacturing rights . . .”
Corinna nodded. Limelight didn’t show on balance sheets. “Is the Senator thinking of starting up his own manufacturing plant?” she asked, casual as a hungry tigress.
At dinner, d’Annunzio proved an easy conversationalist, slipping unselfconsciously from English to French to Italian, then apologising to Corinna for the self-indulgence of speaking his native language again. Her own Italian was exam standard and rusty with it. Andrew and O’Gilroy sat at a separate table and she doubted the conversation there ever fell below a thousand feet.
* * *
&
nbsp; The stillness woke Corinna. The train had stopped, and from the lack of human babble, not at a station. The only sounds were distant clankings and chuffings and a brief hoot of a shunting engine. She waited a few minutes, trying to sense the mood of the train, before deciding it had become as immovable as a fat, sleepy cat. She put on slippers and a robe and stepped into the corridor.
From the view through the window, they were stranded in the middle of a marshalling yard, too big to see what lay beyond in the darkness: mountains or forest or a sleeping town. This was a world of its own, dim-lit with lines of both bluish electric lights and yellower gas ones. Neither brought any colour to the rows of freight cars, dark carriages and lines of dull-glinting rails. It looked as still and cold as a morgue.
“‘I am the way into the doleful city’,” a voice said quietly. It was d’Annunzio, wearing a royal blue gown that reached to the floor and a white silk scarf thrown around his neck. “I think we have reached the gates of Dis.”
“Does it inspire you?”
He shuddered. “I find it hateful. A graveyard, not even of men, but of their hopes. Machines built to rush about the world, now heaped in a common grave.”
She smiled. “I find it rather romantic.”
He turned to look – up – at her in the thin cold light. “Romantic? This is not an outpost on your great American prairies. Here was once forests and villages, perhaps even Hannibal’s camp-fires.”
“I still like it,” she said cheerfully, pressing her nose to the cold glass.
“Do you then see it as romantic that each carriage and truck out there has a value?” Probably Signora Falcone had talked about Corinna’s background.
Unruffled, she said: “In a way, maybe.”
“You see so many stacks of money?”
“No. You can’t see the sort of money that interests me. It’s the muscles under the skin: you see the movement, not the muscle.”