Текст книги "A Spider in the Cup"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 3

Joe followed the Claridge’s footman through to an almost deserted dining room where breakfast was being served to those few who chose not to have it taken up to their rooms. He stood in the doorway and looked about.

He noted a couple quietly ignoring each other behind copies of the Telegraph. He caught a snatch of the conversation between two Italian men—last night’s performance of Rigoletto. A middle-aged man with a luxurious ginger moustache looked up in the act of pouring a cup of tea and their glances crossed without emphasis. Good. Cottingham was in place. The presence of the Chief Superintendent was always reassuring.

He spent rather longer absorbing the details of a single man sitting with his back to the door. Tall and athletic-looking, he was addressing a plate of bacon and eggs with a generous serving of black pudding on the side. As the man reached over for the salt, Joe’s sharp eye caught a slight bulge in the small of his back, marring the smooth line of his American suiting. Colt revolver? Pinkerton’s Special? What were these chaps using these days? Joe would have expected any permitted gun to be kept more discreetly in a shoulder holster. He watched the man for a second or two as he wielded his knife and fork energetically on the black pudding and Joe remembered with a stab of hunger that his own breakfast had consisted of half a pint of milk drunk straight from the bottle standing in his kitchen. Time he was married.

The footman hesitated politely and leaned close. “We’ve put you over there in the corner, sir,” he murmured. He indicated a table laid for two, fringed by potted plants. “Your host is aware that you’ve arrived and is on his way down to join you. He asks that you be seated. May I bring you coffee or tea while you wait?”

Joe smiled. Such was the man’s discretion—Joe noted he had avoided the mention of a name—he could have applied for a job with the secret service. “Oh, Lord!” was Joe’s afterthought. “Perhaps he did and perhaps Military Intelligence accepted him. Am I slowing down?” If he’d been involved in the preparation for this shindig, placing staff like this is exactly what he would have done. To maintain the deceit, he passed a generous tip into the man’s palm. The slightest reaction of surprise on the man’s benign features confirmed Joe’s suspicion.

He flashed a grin at the footman. “Make the most of it while you can. Why not? And I’ll have coffee, please. Rather a lot of it in one of your big pots.”

“Certainly, sir. Your host has already been served breakfast in his room and will most probably not be ordering further cooked dishes,” came the helpful warning.

Joe sighed. “Ah! I’m in for one of those pretend breakfasts! Well, I’m hungry. Can you bring me something delicate I can toy with between weighty pronouncements? A croissant or two? Would you have those?”

“I’m sure we have, sir. Normandy butter and strawberry jam with that?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll transmit your order to the waiter, sir.”

Joe indicated that he would seat himself and proceeded to pass the table and its coverings in review. He chose to sit himself with his back to the wall with a view of the room, leaving Kingstone, when he arrived, to feel uncomfortably unaware of what was happening behind him. His situation would oblige him to trust to Joe’s swift reactions in countering any mischievous attack from the rear whether by revolver, fish knife or stink bomb. All part of Joe’s tactics when it came to establishing his authority.

The coffee arrived minutes before Kingstone and Joe was thankfully halfway through his reviving cup when the senator made his appearance.

Kingstone arrived like a blast on a saxophone and stood for a moment at the entrance searching the room with a commanding eye. Not a man creeping about seeking anonymity, was Joe’s first reaction to the American. On sighting Joe, he dismissed the footman at his elbow with a smooth gesture and strode forward. Of medium height and well built, he was impeccably dressed for a summer morning in London in a pale grey suit, white shirt and lavender-coloured paisley-patterned tie. As Joe rose to his feet, the strong, square face broke into a mischievous smile, which stripped a decade off his forty-odd years. A man perfectly capable of dealing with his own would-be assassins, Joe concluded.

He held out a hand and shook Joe’s as both men made the ritual enquiries about each other’s health and declared themselves pleased to be meeting at last.

“Did you leave anything in the pot? Then I’ll join you. Glad to see you’re a coffee drinker, commissioner. Can’t be doing with a tea drinker. See what it does for your walk?” he rumbled on, an amused and indulgent eye on the waiter threading his way through the tables on sinuous hips toward them, bearing a tray of pastries. “Turns you into Ivor Novello.” Kingstone ordered another pot of coffee and helped himself to a croissant from the dish. “The ham and eggs were good but I can never resist one of these. I learned to like them, trailing around the capitals of Europe in the wake of Natalia. My fiançée? You know about Natalia?”

“I do, sir. She arrived five days ago, I understand?”

“That’s right. Monday. Not that we’ve managed to spend much time together. I’ve hardly had time to say hello and she’s barely unpacked—using the hotel as a perch. But then she’s started rehearsals. Always a mistake to give these girls a couch in their dressing rooms,” he confided mysteriously. “And the balletmeister they’re working for—boy does he crack a whip! There’s a Frenchman—maybe he’s Polish; Colonel de Basil, he calls himself—running things. Every bit as demanding, they say, as the lamented Diaghilev. This fella has them on their toes from dawn to dusk. And I mean toes! Natty’s got toes like sledgehammers but even hers are beginning to crack and bleed. She gets through three pairs of ballet shoes in a day!”

Joe listened to his easy chatter with a creeping sense of foreboding. “Look here, sir, if you’re saying you haven’t seen Miss Kirilovna since—Monday, was it?”

“Tuesday night.”

“Tuesday. That’s three days ago. I say—if you’re concerned and would like to post her as missing, I can set wheels in motion. Make enquiries at the theatre …”

“No. No. For God’s sake don’t make it official! She’d tear my ears off for interfering. The press would overhear and before you knew it there’d be headlines everywhere, trumpeting a mystery where there is no mystery. Relax, Sandilands! She’ll be back when she judges she can make the most telling entrance. It’s what she does. You know—leap back on stage to roaring applause.”

Kingstone glanced from side to side and looked back at Joe with a question in his sharp blue eyes. “Speaking of being overheard … we seem to be discreetly placed here.”

Joe passed a forefinger swiftly over his mouth in a soldier’s gesture, understanding his concern. He raised his voice slightly and enunciated clearly: “I think we may speak openly without fear of being overheard. A gentleman of your status has diplomatic immunity in this country, after all,” he said. As he spoke, he drew a slender screwdriver from his breast pocket. An electrical screwdriver, and the only weapon Joe was ever armed with on a routine day. This little inoffensive tool was as useful for connecting wires as for disconnecting arteries. The sharpened steel edge applied to a jugular vein with appropriate threats had remarkably persuasive effects. But its duty this morning was, if not entirely innocent, at least what it was designed for.

Joe casually upended the table lamp positioned between them and looked at it closely. He shook his head and playfully tapped the metal base plate with his screwdriver before applying it to the head of a brass screw. He was intrigued to see Kingstone instinctively spread his broad shoulders and lean forward, a complicitous grin on his face, effectively obscuring Joe’s performance from the room behind. In a few deft moves Joe had removed the base, identified the wires of interest and disconnected them. He put the lamp back together again and repositioned it.

“Tiffany,” he commented. “More attractive when lit but I think we can manage very well without.”

Kingstone gave him a shrewd look. “That was fun. But won’t someone have something to say about that little bit of prestidigitation?”

Joe smiled. “You heard me take the trouble to sign off,” he said. “You do have immunity. I reminded them of that.”

“But who was listening?” Kingstone persisted. “Who’s cursing the name of Sandilands at this moment?”

Joe shrugged. “Oh, Military Intelligence? Special Branch?” And, slyly: “The FBI?”

Kingstone grimaced, sat back and poured out more coffee. “All right. No more pussy-footing around, then. Down to business. We’re going to be in each other’s pockets for the next days or weeks. Tell me something about yourself. And I’d especially like to hear about that scar on your forehead. Can they expect me to trust a man who lets a tiger get close enough to sharpen its claws on him?”

“You should see the tiger, sir. I still have his hide on my wall …”

The two men exchanged manly blather concerning game rifles and the habits of the tiger and the mountain cat. An easy conversation.

Kingstone then listened to Joe’s summary of his professional life: the young Fusilier, the London policeman, the secondment to India and the swift rise through the ranks back home in the ’20s. A sparse account which Joe salted with just enough scandalous or amusing stories to keep Kingstone entertained. He refrained from asking reciprocal questions of the senator. Kingstone must be aware that if Joe had done his job he would know everything there was to know from records about the man and his career. A senator’s curriculum vitae was common knowledge; that of a London policeman with overall charge of the Special Branch was not.

Joe waded dutifully through the mass of information he’d been handed, his interest piqued by the difference in position between the man’s poverty-stricken beginnings and the influential place he now occupied in the government of the world’s most powerful nation. A story worthy of Mark Twain. Born in a log cabin in a remote county of Tennessee, the talented young man, with the support of an ambitious father, had gone to law school and become a Democratic party chairman at a very young age. He’d served in the United States House of Representatives but, upon the death of his father, he’d deviated from a political career and taken over Kingstone senior’s affairs, using his contacts and know-how to make millions by skilfully riding a bad economic moment. It was rumoured that, although his family was known to be republican, he had been generous in his support of the democrat Franklin D. Roosevelt who, short months ago, had been elected president.

Was Joe exchanging jokes with the éminence grise behind the American Eagle? Men wiser than himself had declared it entirely possible.

He looked back with approval at the eyes gleaming with humour and intelligence, the mouth firm but ready to twitch into a smile, and Joe hoped it was entirely probable. The man presented a more reassuring image of Uncle Sam than the gaunt and unlovable caricature they were treated to in Punch magazine. For a blinding moment, Joe had a vision of these features hewn into the side of Mount Rushmore and he smiled at the thought that the sculptors would have rather less chiselling to do than with the usual run of presidents. This man’s profile was ready-chiselled.

“Well, thank you for that, Sandilands. I’m starting to get you. Anything I can tell you about me?”

A difficult overture to respond to. He could ask a thousand things—or none. Joe opted for a single harmless but genuine enquiry. “Why the building business, sir? I’m always curious to know what gets people started. Not the sort of thing that fascinates the backroom boys who put the files together. They can tell me exactly how many dollars you paid the Internal Revenue last year, but I’m left guessing as to how you put a foot on the road to riches.”

Cornelius Kingstone relaxed, anticipating a conversation he could enjoy. “Ancestral trade. My folks come from the east of England originally. Know it? Full of oak trees. I reckon my forebears were Vikings. Saxons? Whoever—they knew how to build boats. And what do you get if you turn a boat keel up? A house. With a vaulted roof. My grandfather was a carpenter. From Suffolk. Knew all about beams and joists and kingposts. My family’s not exactly off the Mayflower—we missed that boat by a couple of centuries—but they were proud enough of their ancestry to keep a line on their pedigree.

“My grandfather emigrated as a young man when work dried up back home. He settled in an American county—small and remote—but one full of timber. Started to do what he did best and built himself a house. He began to build for others and soon he had a business going.” There was pride and affection in his voice as he added, “My father took over and I helped him as soon as I was old enough to swing an adze. I still tap on beams and run a critical eye over ceiling joists. Wouldn’t try it here, though, in all this art deco glamour.”

“Know what you mean! I keep expecting the waiter to take off and tap dance between tables,” Joe agreed. “Looks like a Hollywood set, I always think.”

“And both have their origins elsewhere. In Paris. We’re all living in the outfall of that avalanche of style … You know Paris?”

Joe nodded. “I do. I was there in nineteen twenty-five for the exhibition of Les Arts Décoratifs. ‘Not Art and certainly not decorative’ was the sniffy view of most of my compatriots. But I loved it! And here I am, nearly ten years on and still enjoying the style wherever it’s on offer.”

“How about … Milan? Vienna? Prague? Berlin?” The glorious names came at him across the table like bullets.

Again, Joe nodded, wondering why he was being taken on a tour, in memory, of Europe’s most splendid cities. And wondering what was their destination.

“I wouldn’t want to see them come to more harm than they’re in already. But you know, Sandilands, left to itself, this troublesome continent of yours could thrash itself to bits. You damn nearly managed it twenty years ago. Might go all the way next time.”

Joe stiffened. The senator had touched on a delicate subject. “Is this the moment you remind me that we would have been trampled into the mud had it not been for the intervention of the armed forces of the United States?” Joe asked, his voice taking on a light frost.

“Don’t give me any of that, Sandilands!” came the bluff response. “You’ve read my file. I was there. Argonne Forest. And for the short time we were in France, any of us who knew which way was north knew we’d been deployed in a relatively safe sector of the front. And our ‘cushy little number,’ as your field-marshal called it, came with the offer of guidance from the most battle-hardened French and British officers. Not that General Pershing took kindly to guidance from anyone.”

The words were unexpected, placatory, the eyes watchful. The intent—Joe was quite sure—was to lure him into delivering a jingoistic indiscretion. He was being invited to fly higher so that he might fall harder when shot down. Joe couldn’t be doing with word traps unless he was setting them himself. He replied with quiet honesty, “There was no such thing as a safe sector in that hellhole, sir. The Argonne Forest was a bloodbath. From the start of your war to the finish, you lost a hundred and seventeen thousand men. That’s some sacrifice from lads who weren’t sure where they were or who they were fighting for. And never—never!—think we weren’t grateful.”

Had he spoken too warmly? Probably. The senator gave him a sideways look. “You take it upon yourself to speak for your country, Sandilands?”

“Yes! I do! That’s something you’ll find with the British. We all have our views and we think we have a God-given right to air them.”

“Must make this a darned difficult country to run.”

“It always has been. Full of revolting peasants, rebellious barons, mad monarchs, and even stroppy coppers at times. But we know a common enemy when we see one. And we recognise a friend. It was the bloody assault on our ally, plucky little Belgium, that really got us started in the last lot.”

Kingstone fixed him with a cynical eye. “And you instantly sent in the traditional gunboat.”

“No, sir. We sent in the whole nation.”

Kingstone laughed. “Tell me—am I talking to Winston’s mouthpiece?”

“Far from it. I admire and would emulate—if that were possible—Churchill’s eloquence but I don’t always share his views. I’ve taken issue with him, politically speaking, on … three occasions.” He grinned. “It’s all right. He didn’t listen to me on any of them.”

“Those of us Americans who fought over there, Sandilands, may have been a little unclear as to the political imperatives, but the boys knew what they were fighting against. And perhaps that’s enough. Against militarism. Against despotism. They were fighting the men who invaded another man’s country without a by-your-leave and snatched his freedom and his land. And I hope that would always be a clear cause and a good cause.”

“There are many who’d say: ‘Those Europeans again! Serves ’em right’ and ‘They want to fight amongst themselves—let them get on with it.’ ”

“And some would even cheer,” Kingstone agreed. “Just so’s we’re clear on this—I’m not one of them.”

“Is the president aware of your views?” Joe asked, taken aback by the sudden smacking down of cards on the table. He’d expected to take a day or two getting close to Kingstone’s political stance. And here it was, out in the open, in the time it took to eat a croissant.

“He is. I can’t say he shares them. Roosevelt’s not an unqualified admirer of things European. He knows Europe too well for that. Though after our last three presidents …” Kingstone rolled his eyes and sighed. “Perhaps we should all be grateful. None of those guys could have found London, England, with a map, compass and the services of a Thames lighterman. You should, however, be aware that the president’s enthusiasm cools in measure as the British navy hots up. You exceed your tonnage or increase the diameter of your naval cannon by so much as an inch and you’ll have got yourselves a world-class enemy.” He stabbed at Joe with a mock-threatening forefinger. “Ships, sailing, the navy—it’s a passion with Roosevelt. He’s busy turning the oval study into the command room of a battle cruiser. And he’s got his eye on you.”

“Good Lord!” Joe said and his surprise was entirely unforced. “I had no idea. Is the president’s finger also on the firing pin?”

“You bet! Over here you have a Minister for War to deal with the grubby side of things. We have a hands-on president for that.”

“A man whom we should address with care, then. Thank goodness he at least speaks our language.”

The senator snorted. “That’s just the kind of complacent old-fashioned notion that will get you British into trouble. Confraternity? Huh! Where’s the guarantee in that? Some of the worst quarrels happen in families. I didn’t think I’d need to remind a Scotland Yarder of that. Someone dies—you go out and look for the nearest and dearest first. Right?” Kingstone’s expression hardened. “I’m trying to say, diplomatically, that you British are not universally loved. But—what the heck! Time’s short. Your Empire is feared. Even after that last battering, it’s armed and on the make. But it’s envied and loathed in equal measure. And, just in case you’re about to drag out all that oderint, dum metuant stuff, I’ll tell you something that will make your hair stand on end, Sandilands.”

A glance at Joe’s receptive features reassured him his audience was all ears and he continued. “Couple of years back, I was on the saluting platform watching a parade of the whole of the US navy in harbour. Staged for the benefit of a visiting bunch of British top navy brass. We were out to impress them and we sure did that. I was standing behind one of your admirals. He was complimentary about the display. He turned to his American opposite number standing at his side and said, ‘By Jove! What a fearsome crew! I do wonder who will be their next target, admiral.’ And the US guy replied—straight off—‘The British, of course.’ ”

Kingstone’s eyes were bleak as he delivered his message. “Sandilands, the man wasn’t joking.”

Joe could almost feel the floor lurch under him. He grasped the table with both hands and breathed deeply for a moment. He looked back at the decisive man busily laying out his cards with a flourish and was lost for words.

“So—better keep me alive, Sandilands. You need all the friends you can muster,” Kingstone advised. “Think of me as the poor guy who’s straddling the fulcrum. From where I am, struggling to keep a balance, I get a clear view of things and can adjust my weight to one side or the other before anyone knows what’s happening. There’s a drawback—being up there makes me visible. I can get shot at from all sides.” For a moment, the spark of good humour in his eyes was quenched and he stared, preoccupied by his thoughts, at the coffee pot. He took himself in hand and continued in a level tone: “But I take no chances. I want you to meet someone—the other man I’ve picked to watch my back while I’m over here. I’m hoping you can work together. He tells me you’ve met before.”

Joe kicked himself for missing the signal that must have passed between them. Suddenly the large American-suited, gun-toting, black pudding-eater he’d noticed earlier was standing at his elbow.

“This is William Armiger. FBI officer. Armiger is the best we have.”

“Oh, any skill I have, I learned from men at the Yard like Sandilands,” drawled a voice that, to Joe’s ear, seemed to have the same slight country inflections that the senator’s had. Tennessee, he remembered. “Good to see you again, Captain.”

Joe mastered his astonishment and reached with difficulty for a cheerful, welcoming tone. “Bill? Bill! Well, well! It must have been six … no, seven years since we waved you goodbye on the Mauretania. You should have stayed in touch! Glad to see you’re busy and happy doing what you do best … skulking about with a gun and taking people by surprise.” He grinned easily and added, “Though you return not a moment too soon. I do notice you’re ready for a field-craft refresher! If you’re determined to be taken for an American, you should resist the black pudding, feel free to hold your fork in your right hand and take care not to sit with your back to the door, especially when you’ve elected to wear your gun in such a visible position.”

“No need for all that malarky! I’ve done with blending in, Captain. And I don’t aim to be ‘taken for an American’—I am one. I became a US citizen six years ago. I have diplomatic immunity, a job to do and a country I can truly honour. Glad, though, to know we’re working toward the same end. Wouldn’t like to think we were at each other’s throats … bearing grudges …”

“Certainly not!” Joe said, picking up the message. “Both on the same side. Of course. For the duration of the conference at least. But don’t try to leave without saying goodbye this time, Bill,” he finished with a deceptively charming smile as he folded his napkin and rose to take his leave.

The thud of a gauntlet being hurled to the floor, although silent, was unmistakable and was picked up clearly by the quiet man in earphones in a room farther along the corridor.