Gavin Lyall - Honourable Intentions

Ranklin had to stop himself nodding as well.

The surgeon said: “People often fall into the river drunk.”

McDaniel looked to Lacoste; this time he got a shrug. Ranklin might have helped here: when he last saw Guillet the man hadn’t been drunk and hadn’t been drinking in that direction. Still, that wasn’t evidence anyway.

“And when a man falls,” the surgeon went on, “he just falls. He often hits something before the water, like the wall or a moored boat. So there might well be broken bones, or a fractured skull, even with a genuine accident.”

“You mean you might not be able to tell even if he’d been hit over the head first?”

“I’ll do my best, but quite possibly not, unless it were well before.”

McDaniel nodded heavily. “Like I say, not my case even if there is a case.”

The surgeon smiled sympathetically. “Can I get back to him now?”

“Please do, sir.” McDaniel went for a word with the fingerprint men, who were packing up their equipment.

He came back looking satisfied. “We should know in a couple of hours. And have a medical preliminary by midnight. No point in hanging around here.”

Lacoste said: “I think we should return to Ma’mselle Collomb now.”

McDaniel turned to Ranklin: “Now you know everything we do, sir. I’m sure your people can get any of our reports through Special Branch at the Yard. So if there’s nothing more we can do for you . . .”

“No, no. Thank you.” But Ranklin’s mind was churning. They had picked up Berenice Collomb, then. Perhaps the hotel had recalled her coming round the night before the trial opened – had she been fool enough to try the next night, too? In fact, had she succeeded in getting to Guillet and . . .

He took a last glance at the cold, mostly shadowed room with its little group bending to their jobs in the one pool of light. And I’m here for the honour of the King, he reminded himself. Then he followed McDaniel and Lacoste out.

It was quiet both outside and inside Whitehall Court. This part of London was mostly government offices by now, closed since five o’clock, and nobody could afford a flat in this building until they were past the age of noisy parties. The outer door to the Bureau’s offices was locked but that was usual enough. Ranklin let himself in and walked through the dark, deserted outer office to the agents’ room. That was dark too, but the door to the Commander’s office was open and spilling a little light.

“Ranklin?”

“Sir.” He called the Commander “sir” the first time they met each day, but otherwise only when he was tired and instincts for rank took over. There was a solitary green-glass-shaded lamp alight on the Commander’s writing-table; Ranklin flopped into the most comfortable chair and fumbled for his pipe.

“Was it the meat porter?” the Commander asked.

“Probably. But badly cut up by barges and tugs and things.”

“Was he pushed?”

“Again probably, but they may never find evidence.” They spoke softly and without hurry.

“Hm. It would be nice if it were a proper murder. It would be a fact and excuse all sorts of interest. Unless, of course, you did it yourself.”

“Bloody hell.”

“It would be quite understandable. The chap wouldn’t talk, you lost your temper, one shove-”

“The river’s half a mile away from-”

“The Bureau will have to stand by you – in spirit, anyway. I can easily find a couple of chaps to say you were dining with them at a club at the time. Absolutely honest, unimpeachable men, convince any court in the land. You haven’t got a thing to worry about.”

“The man was younger, heavier . . . a meat porter, for God’s sake.”

“Ah, but you’re cleverer. Well, remember you’ve got witnesses if you need them.”

Ranklin glowered. “And the police have got the Collomb girl for questioning about it.”

“Have they?” The Commander thought about this. “You don’t find that embarrassing? Good man. What will she tell them?”

“At a guess, nothing. Police are just the sheepdogs of capitalism to her.” He had a feeling he’d improved that phrase somehow. “And she doesn’t speak any English; that should help.”

“Could she get round to her lover’s alleged parentage?”

Ranklin shrugged. How could he know?

The Commander was fretting. “But if you didn’t do it, could she have done?”

Ranklin rested his head back and closed his eyes. “Same objections as for me. She’s just a slip of a girl. Tough as nails, I’m sure, but no match for Guillet. And the river’s just as far for her as for me – if she knew where it is.”

The Commander would be glaring at him, but he couldn’t be bothered to open his eyes and confirm this.

But there was a glare in the Commander’s voice. “But you know where it is.”

“Yes. Too bloody far.”

The Commander switched back to Berenice. “I suppose there’s no reason for her to mention the other thing.”

“I don’t see why the police should ask her. From their point of view the story’s complete without it. She loves Langhorn, Guillet was bearing witness against him, she killed Guillet. Simplicity begets convictions. You should hear O’Gilroy on the subject.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure . . . I just hate doing nothing.”

That made Ranklin, who felt he had actually done a day’s work, open his eyes. “D’you really want to save her from the jaws of the capitalist sheepdogs?”

“Can you do it?”

“I can try, if I can involve an outsider.”

“Involve anybody except us.”

“Are any of your telephones switched on?”

The Commander had four on his table; the agents had one between them all. “This one’s still alive.”

Ranklin called Corinna’s number. She took a long time to answer and then said a sleepy: “Hello?”

“Is that the beautiful Corinna Finn?” Ranklin asked.

“God Almighty, you.”

“Me. How’s your fund?”

“Jesus . . . Not a word for days, then you ring up in the middle of the night to ask How’s my fund. D’you mean of goodwill? At zero and falling, is what.”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy and it’s all your fault really. I mean the fund for hauling destitute Americans out of trouble. Does it apply to their girl-friends too?”

“What? What girl-friend?”

“A French lass called Berenice Collomb. She’s a bit of a guttersnipe, but Grover Langhorn loves her. At least she does him. And the police are questioning her about a missing witness who was hauled out of the Thames this afternoon, very deceased.”

There was a long silence. “This witness . . . was he testifying against young Grover?”

“That’s right. Not very well, I’d say, but Noah Quinton should tell it better.”

“Quinton? Who said anything about Quinton?”

“Sorry.”

Another long silence. Then she said “All right. Get off the damn line so I can call him-Oh, where’ve they got her?”

“Scotland Yard, or the little police station next to it, probably. I’ll call you tomorrow. And thanks.” Ranklin hooked the earpiece on again. “That’s the best I can do.”

The Commander, who had been unashamedly eavesdropping, grinned with satisfaction. “I don’t think we could have done better. You can sleep with a clear conscience, even if you did kill that porter.”

Ranklin ignored that but, as he turned to go, hesitated. And after a time, he said: “Just suppose, by the grace of God, that we bring all this off. Suppose we stuff the skeletons back into the cupboards; that’s going to leave us knowing what skeletons and which cupboards.”

“You know, that thought never occurred to me,” the Commander said, looking as if that were true.