Gavin Lyall: Spy’s Honour

“Who was that? – the man who got shot?” Hornbeam was down off the stage and with his arm round Lucy, who was sobbing – but not so loudly that she couldn’t hear anything interesting.

“Wasn’t it Major Stanzer?” Ranklin said to the Baroness, now standing nearby. “Your cousin?”

She gave a tiny nod and went on looking grim.

“My God!” Hornbeam seemed stunned. “But … but why?”

“I don’t know if you saw,” Ranklin said, “but the Major got a message – brought by an officer – a little while ago.” He wanted the Baroness to get that message, too: the plot was over .

“I saw that,” Hornbeam exclaimed. “I saw the officer. But did that …? I mean … what was it about?”

“Foreign assassins,” the Baroness said and walked away.

By now, men in every sort of uniform were flooding into the hall or running back and forth beyond the doorways. A small group of rather shaken legal grandees had gathered and was about to descend on Hornbeam with apologies, reassurances …

While he still had Hornbeam’s attention, Ranklin said quickly: “It would hardly be assassins, for a mere major. But in this country, you can’t tell what’s political and what isn’t. I think it’s wiser not to get involved in their affairs – particularly not at high level.”

The police investigation was “helped” by the Gardeoffiziere (the Palace being their responsibility) and officers from the nearby barracks (since the victim had been one of their kind), and Ranklin didn’t envy them the job. Neither did the police once they realised that half the men in the audience were Budapest’s top lawyers and the rest just as distinguished in their own ways. And then it turned out that most of the journalists had already bribed their way through the guarded doors to spread the news …

During this, Corinna wisely kept them close to Hornbeam and his protective aura as Guest of Honour, where they listened to rumours: an arrest had been made (false) – fired cartridges had been found just outside the hall (true) – a man had been seen running through the corridors and then the gardens – young, from his speed, and “bear-like” … The police asked anybody who had seen anything to please tell them, and let the rest go.

They picked up one more rumour from Corinna’s chauffeur, who had been chatting to policemen while he waited. “They found a pistol,” Ranklin translated to O’Gilroy; “… dropped or thrown away … had been fired … an American type but made in Belgium.”

“Find them anywhere,” O’Gilroy said.

“Oh, good. So if somebody had one, and lost – or lent – it, he’d be able to pick up a replacement easily. That’s reassuring.”

They drove back to the hotel in silence, but as they got out, Corinna said: “Hornbeam and Lucy are heading back to Paris tomorrow. Is there any reason for us to stay on?”

Ranklin glanced at O’Gilroy, then shook his head. “I think it’s all over here. Tomorrow Berchtold goes to Bad Ischl to advise the Emperor … If you can get us invited to tea at the Imperial Villa there …”

O’Gilroy went inside, probably to make sure the brandy corks hadn’t jammed in the bottles, while Corinna gave the chauffeur instructions for the morning.

Then she turned to Ranklin, puffed out a long breath and let her shoulders sag theatrically. “Wasn’t it your Duke of Wellington who said it had been ‘a damned close-run thing’? But, apart from the bad guy getting shot in the last scene, I guess I’ll never know just all of what happened back there.”

Ranklin said thoughtfully: “I fancy Hazay had a lot of friends in Budapest. But some questions are better left unasked.”

“Thank you kindly, sir,” she said coolly.

“I was talking to myself.”

After a moment, she said: “Ah, it’s that way, is it?” and took his arm as they walked up the steps and into the lobby.

After Corinna had gone upstairs, they sat on with their second glasses. The lobby was deserted except for a politely distant waiter, Hornbeam, Lucy and the Baroness had gone straight to bed, Dr Klapka would be at home by now … Ranklin would probably see them all in the morning, but his mind had already let them go, they were fading, their lines spoken. The play was ended.

“A short run, but a busy one,” he muttered, and O’Gilroy glanced at him. Ranklin roused himself. “Tomorrow I’ll have to start thinking about a report on all this.”

“What ye going to say in it?”

“God knows. If I tell a quarter of the truth, we’ll find ourselves selling matches down the Strand.”

“I doubt that, Captain.” O’Gilroy smiled comfortably. “With what ye know now, they’d never let ye go discontented. Least they’ll do is send ye back to yer big guns – mebbe as a major, too. And that’s what yer wanting, isn’t it?”

Ranklin leant back in his chair, hands thrust into his pockets and frowning down past his stomach. “I don’t know, now … But what sort of man likes being a spy?”

O’Gilroy looked contentedly at the pearl studs in the shirt over his own, flatter, stomach. “Depends where he starts, mebbe. Me, ’twas the bottom of Spy Hill … seems a long ways, now. And seems to me, if yer good at a job – and yer surviving, which must count good in this trade – mebbe ye got a duty to do it, rather’n let some feller not so good wreck the job and himself both.”

“Perhaps,” Ranklin agreed. Then he looked up suspiciously. “Where did you get that thought?”

“Ah, now, Captain, would I ever be remembering jest what …”

“And don’t try your round-the-houses Irishness on me. It was Corinna, wasn’t it?”

“She’s a gracious lady with her favours, I’m thinking, so mebbe she threw a small thought in the way of meself.”

Ranklin reached for his brandy. “Go to bed, you black-hearted chancer. I’ve got a report to worry about.”

“With not too much truth in it?”

“Hardly a word.”