Gavin Lyall - Flight From Honour

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 . . .”

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.”