Gavin Lyall - Flight From Honour

“Oh no, Falcone got a couple in Britain, light enough to go in aeroplanes.” And Knebel had heard of the Lewis gun, too, he was remembering.

“Then what are they going to do with them?” Novak urged. “Come on, you’re supposed to be the spy.”

“I’m not supposed to be spying for you,” Ranklin pointed out. “However, if you let me go-”

“Ah! Yes! I knew it would come to that! Let a crawling, snivelling, contemptible wretch of a spy go free? Why should I? What could you do?”

“Get to Venice and try and stop it. Whatever it is.”

Novak opened his mouth, then closed it and looked what was probably, for him, reflective. Finally he sighed and shook his head. “No – perhaps the time for cleverness has gone by. After all these years, I’ve got the Count where I want him. And I can still keep both of you: if I hide you away as two drunk-and-disorderlies, d’you think the Commandante’s going to search every police station in the city? Then tomorrow, when your aeroplane does whatever it does, I’ll be the hero. The Count will hang, you’ll rot, and I’ll be promoted. Piss on the Empire and politics, it’s time for me to be a policeman again.”

“You could keep the Count and still let me go,” Ranklin suggested diffidently.

“Why?”

“Hauptmann Knebel heard me warning you about the plot.”

“You were confessing. That makes you a spy, it doesn’t let you off.”

“But to defend myself in court I shall have to drag in every silly detail . . . Now, I don’t blame you for sending assassins after Falcone, pretending to be from the Ujedinjenje. What else could you do? Mind,” he said reflectively, “I do think it was a mistake to give them that Royal Navy pistol, so easily traced back to Trieste. Still, I expect there’s no record of you taking it off the criminal who stole it.”

Novak was pop-eyed with astonishment. “You’re trying to blackmail me!”

“Blackmail?” Ranklin managed to look offended, but mostly because Novak had so easily seen what he was doing. “I’m trying to help you. We both want this thing stopped. And I’m even prepared to deny that you mentioned Falcone getting stabbed. It wasn’t in the newspapers, you see.” He smiled apologetically.

Novak thought briefly, then shrugged. “Policemen are supposed to know things.”

“I’m just defending myself, I don’t really want the Austrians suspecting a Slovene policeman’s been poking into international politics, assassinating Italian senators and so on.”

Novak sat back and sighed loudly. “I’m almost happy: my faith in your loathsomeness is restored. You really do want to see my career swimming in piss. But just remember one thing.” His forefinger stabbed the air. “I caught you. Whatever else you do with your despicable life, always remember I caught you. ”

He opened a folder and took out a creased slip of paper. “But I had help, and that isn’t sporting , is it?” He held up an international cablegram.

It was actually sent from Trieste and addressed to Senator Falcone, c/o the Italian embassy, London. And in Italian, of course; Ranklin wrinkled his brow trying to read it.

“Perhaps your Italian is not so good as your German? I would be most happy to assist you.” Grinning broadly, Novak whisked the cablegram back and read: “ ‘Have met man calling self James Spencer who claims to have joined our syndicate’ – ach, how delicately he puts that! And you were telling me you had never heard of the Senator! ‘Is short, fat and fair’ – such poetry! – ‘Please confirm he is genuine.’ Oh, this confirms you’re genuine, all right: a genuine spy. Who foolishly trusted an amateur. Did he really think we would not read his cables because he is equivalent to a marquis? – or applied for Austrian citizenship? As another professional, I sympathise with you – just a little. This stays on your file.”

He tucked the cablegram away, then tossed a cloth bag across. It held Ranklin’s passport, wallet, pipe and so forth. “And should you ever think of coming back to Trieste, remember that file. It isn’t under Herr Spencer, but -” he leant suddenly across the desk and leered into Ranklin’s face; “-under Short and Fat. You can’t change that.”

The launch had already taken O’Gilroy back to the Lido (after an early dinner, Corinna hoped) so there were only three of them, d’Annunzio in full white tie and tails, to eat in the ‘small’ dining room. They dined by candlelight and Corinna reflected how quickly a display of electric lighting had become vulgar ostentation; even at her age, she could recall dining tables lit like a photographer’s studio. They were served sea bass and duck, and d’Annunzio dug in heartily but drank only water.

Corinna waited for the conversation to come round to tomorrow’s ‘demonstration’, then realised Signora Falcone was preventing that. It wasn’t difficult, since d’Annunzio had two stage productions due to open in December – Parisina at La Scala and Le Chevrefeuille in Paris – and was very willing to expand on his problems and hint at the triumphs to come. This went on until they were back in the central hall sipping coffee.

“But perhaps,” he added with a smile, “history will say they are not the most important work of d’Annunzio in this year.”

Signora Falcone gave him a warning frown but Corinna had her opening. “Ah yes, tomorrow’s proclamation to Trieste,” she said with feigned innocence.

D’Annunzio shot a startled look at Signora Falcone, who offered only a well-drilled smile. “What can you mean, my dear?”

“The leaflets Signor d’Annunzio’s written. The ones to start the shipyard strike.”

There was an offer of escape there, but also a trap, and in her haste to patch things over, Signora Falcone took the one without noticing the other. “Ah, you’ve been told about that. Our European politics must seem frightfully complicated and devious to you, but it’s all part of the game. Over the centuries, nations have come to expect interference in each other’s affairs . . .”

D’Annunzio was trying to suppress bewilderment. Perhaps he hadn’t been told he was only starting a strike.

“Mind you,” Corinna said when the Signora had finished, “though my Italian isn’t all that good, it does come across rather strong for a strike call.” And she unfolded a leaflet from her purse.

Manners forgotten, d’Annunzio leapt up to snatch it away. “You have stolen this!” he shouted. “You have robbed my bedroom!”

“Dear me, a woman in your bedroom? We can’t have that, can we? I’d like to hear Signora Falcone read it. I never heard you on the stage, and I’m sure I missed a treat.”

It was a tense moment. But Corinna would learn nothing more, and d’Annunzio was never loath to hear his own words spoken aloud. He took a sudden decision and thrust the leaflet at Signora Falcone.

She took it reluctantly, scanned it quickly since she wouldn’t just be reading but translating, then stood up. She began stiffly, perhaps trying to play it down, but then the power of the words took over, and she relaxed, gestured, declaimed. And she was good.

“ From Gabriele d’Annunzio: To my brothers of Trieste, most Italian of cities, Courage! Courage and constancy! There is no enemy which cannot be destroyed by our courage!, no lie which cannot be deflated by your constancy! The end of your martyrdom is at hand! The dawn of your joy is imminent! The lions of St Mark will roar again at the sacred entry. The Carso will be ours by force of arms. I tell you, I swear to you, my Brothers, our victory is certain! The flag of Italy will be planted on your Great Arsenal. From the heights of heaven, on the wings of Italy, I throw you this pledge, this message from my heart . . . ”