Gavin Lyall - Flight From Honour

Ranklin noted that “is there”; the Count was truly democratic with other people’s property. “There’s two left. We’ll save them for after dinner.”

“Dinner?” The Count thought about it. “Yes. I imagine we will need a cigarette.” He looked sideways at Pero – they were all three lying on their cots – who seemed to be asleep. “I am sure he will find it a banquet. Do you know why he is here?”

“He play-acted writing slogans on walls. But you could ask him yourself.”

The Count chose to ignore his own grasp of Slovenian. “I am not sure of the etiquette of prison life. It is a long time since I was locked up and then for young matters like drunkenness and duelling, but is one permitted to ask what you are accused of?”

“I think Police Captain Novak believes I’m a spy.”

“Truly? How very exciting.”

“Perhaps. But I doubt that being in jail can be the most exciting part.”

“Probably not. One thinks more of dark, mysterious women, secret treaties, rushing about Europe in the finest trains . . . No, I understand that sitting in damp dungeons would not be mentioned by the recruiting officer.”

Ranklin was watching the shadows in the barrel vaulting above. Their edges moved, infinitesimally, with the tiny wavering of the lamp flame. “And yourself?” On the curve of the vaulting above the lamp, a smear of soot was forming on the whitewash.

The Count sighed. “I do believe these imbeciles place me in the same class as this fellow here – although, I trust, on a rather higher level. Accused of painting words on minds, not walls. But mostly, I think, it is the time of the year.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you know of Oberdan?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“He believed that Trieste was truly Italian and was executed thirty-one years ago for plotting against the Emperors life. To be honest, I do not think he was a danger to anyone but himself. He only wished to be a martyr. And this is the time of year when he is remembered so, as the most notable Italian of the city, Captain Novak wishes me to be in prison until the time is passed. The man is a presumptuous moron even for a Slovenian policeman, and can do this only because the Comandante of the garrison is away. But when he returns . . . And possibly it is the same for you: you are just locked up until for the time of Oberdan.”

Ranklin reckoned he was locked up for more specific reasons, but since Novak hadn’t even interrogated him, couldn’t be sure. “How long’s that?”

“He was executed on the eighteenth of December.”

Ranklin calculated. “Damn it, that’s a good six weeks.”

“True. But it will all be changed long before that. And once my distinguished friends and my lawyers know where I am, I will be free anyway, and then . . .” He paused, glanced at Pero, and turned stiffly on his side to face Ranklin. “I can ask my lawyer to work for you also,” he whispered hoarsely, “but perhaps you do not wish to make our connection so public?”

This was the first time the Count had acknowledged any “connection”, and it cheered Ranklin up. The Count knew things that he didn’t, and had no-one else to talk to. But this couldn’t be hurried, so he said: “That’s very thoughtful of you. But I certainly don’t want to incriminate you, so may we wait and see?”

The Count was silent for a while, then said in the same whisper: “I hear some employers now pay a man his wages when he is sick. Most extraordinary. Do they – I mean, I wonder if they pay spies when they are in jail?”

The train reached Mestre after dark. Corinna took her time, letting the joyously tearful reunions that were so much part of the Italian railway system erupt before she stepped down. Anyway, this was Signora Falcone’s territory; she was in charge. So she was startled when she came face to face on the platform with a figure as scruffy as any railway ganger and reeking of castor oil: O’Gilroy, alone.

“What are you doing here? Is Andrew . . . ?” It flashed through her mind that O’Gilroy couldn’t have got there without Andrew, yet . . .

“He’s in hospital but all right. We ran into a bird and he got bits of glass in his face, near his eye, but seems he’ll be all right.”

“My God! Did you crash? Which hospital? – where ?”

“In Venice.” He consulted a bit of paper. “Called the . . . the . . . here.” He gave her the paper rather than try to pronounce Giudecca. “No, we didn’t crash.”

Corinna swung round to find Signora Falcone coming up behind her. “Did you hear?”

“Yes. Terrible – only Mr O’Gilroy seems to have saved the day.” She was reappraising him with a wary smile.

“Where’s the hospital? How do I get there?”

Signora Falcone hesitated, then realised it was pointless to do anything but smooth Corinna’s path. “I’ll see to it.”

Corinna may have gone as far as stamping her foot with impatience, but knew it was pointless to interfere. Then, frowning in thought, she tried to imagine the accident, and . . . “Did he manage to land here, then?”

“Had to do it meself. Went and burst a tyre. But they say-”

“Hold on: that airplane’s only got one set of controls. On his side. My God! – you must’ve . . . You saved his life!”

“Me own was there with him.”

Her face suddenly bloomed into a radiant grin. “You’re quite a guy, Mr O’Gilroy. Thank God you were there.”

“Ah, ’twas nothing special . . .” He lapsed into a mumble and was clearly going to stay there.

“All right, I won’t gush. And the airplane’s all right?”

“Like I said, I burst a tyre, only they reckon they’ll have one to fit or mebbe find two whole new wheels – if somebody’ll pay for them.”

“Heavens, don’t worry about that.”

Then Signora Falcone came back with a man who was probably one of her staff. “It’s best to catch the mail steamer from Fusina. Matteo will drive you and see that you get back. Do you want to go, too, Mr O’Gilroy?”

O’Gilroy hesitated and Corinna chipped in: “There’s no need. You must be done in, Conall. Get some sleep – and thanks again.”

The Falcone family seemed well endowed with motor-cars; whatever the Signora and O’Gilroy climbed into wasn’t a taxi-cab, and nor was the racier affair Corinna and Matteo had zoomed away in. This one went off at a pace consistent with the tasselled pelmets at the windows, but was soon beyond the lights of the town and rolling on through flat, dark countryside. Sinking back into deep leather, O’Gilroy found himself yawning; as always, it wasn’t life’s incidents that were wearing, but the long aftermath of explanation, clearing up – and waiting.

After a time, Signora Falcone said: “I hadn’t realised you were a proper pilot yourself, Mr O’Gilroy.”

“I’m new to it.”

“But you must have been very competent. Have you flown that particular machine much?”

“Not much at all.”

That kept her quiet for a while. Then: “When do you think Mr Sherring will be fit to fly again?”

“I’d guess a while yet. They’d bandaged over his eyes and was talking about keeping him quiet and dark.”

Another silence. “If you could practise tomorrow, would you feel up to a demonstration flight on the next day?”

The Oriole wasn’t built for Pegoud-style stunts: all it did was take off, fly and land. And after an hour or two’s practice . . . “Surely. Mind, I couldn’t be telling all the figures of its range and fuel consumption-”

“That won’t matter.”

“-and they’ll need to be fixing that wheel.”

“That will be done.” It was the positive statement of someone used to having her orders obeyed. “You’re quite happy about it, then?”