George Fraser - Mr American

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, chaarcters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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Previously published in paperback by Collins Harvil 1992 Reprinted four times

First published in Great Britain by William Collins Sons & Co Ltd 1980

Copyright © George MacDonald Fraser 1980

Acknowledgement is due and gratefully given to Peter Newboldt for permission to quote from Sir Henry Newboldt’s “The Fighting Temeraire” and to B. Feldman & Co. Ltd. for permission to quote from “Everybody’s Doing It (Now)” and from “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”; and to Herman Davewski Publishing Co. for permission to quote from “Goodbye Dolly Gray”.

George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780006470182

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780007458431

Version: 2016-10-04

Cover

Title Page George MacDonald Fraser MR AMERICAN

Copyright

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Part Two

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Inspector Griffin came down to the landing-stage on a raw autumn morning to see the Mauretania berthing. It was part of his job; there was always someone from the detective department on hand when the American liners docked, but for Inspector Griffin it was a pleasure, too. He loved the bustle of the wharf at dawn, and the sight of the huge iron ship edging gently into the quay, the busy little tugs, the squealing whistles, the propellor churning the yellow Mersey into dirty foam; he even enjoyed the bite of the wind and the cold drizzle which was causing his colleague, young Constable Murphy, to hunch his collar round his chin as he stamped his feet on the wet flags. To Murphy it was just another tedious chore; he wiped his nose and glowered at the low clouds over the river.

“Won’t be worth their while takin’ off at Doncaster this afternoon,” he observed glumly, and Inspector Griffin understood. Constable Murphy was a flying enthusiast, like most of the population these days; since M. Blériot had come winging ghost-like out of the Channel mist a few weeks before, the first man to fly from France into England in a crazy contraption that looked like an overgrown kite, the country seemed to have gone flying daft, Inspector Griffin reflected. He didn’t like it; perhaps he was getting old and conservative, but the thought that a man could fly in a few minutes across England’s last line of defence – and from France, of all places – made him uneasy. It wasn’t natural, and it wasn’t safe. And what use would the Royal Navy be, if Frogs and Germans and God knew what other breed of foreigners could soar unscathed over their heads?

“Farman an’ Cody’s goin’ to be at Doncaster,” said Murphy, with relish. “First flyin’ meetin’ on British soil, by gum! Wouldn’t I like to be there? Cody flew from London to Manchester the other day, over the railway tracks, special markers they had on the ground to guide him – an’ they say Farman’s been up six hundred feet, an’ can go higher yet.” He shuddered deliciously and wiped his nose again. “Think of it, sir! Just them tiny machines, an’ –”

Females, football and flying, Griffin reflected irritably, that was all these young fellows thought about. The gangways were down, and the first passengers were picking their way gingerly down to the quay, shepherded by the Mauretania ’s stewards, but Murphy, who should have been casting a professional eye over them, was plainly miles away in the sky above Doncaster, performing aerobatics with Cody and Farman and his other heroes.

“Cody’s goin’ to become naturalized British, they reckon,” he went on. “If he lives long enough – there was a crash at Paris t’other day, fellow broke his neck, shocking risks they take –”

“Thought you were more interested in Everton,” said Griffin, vainly trying to stem the flood. “Aren’t they playing Liverpool this afternoon?”

“Gah, they’ll get beat, them,” said Murphy derisively. “Play football, that lot? They dunno what football is – you should have been up in Glasgow the other day, sir, my Saturday off. Glasgow versus Sheffield, that was something. See that McMenemy, an’ Quinn – bloody marvellous! We don’t see nothing like ’em, down here. Now, Quinn, he –”

I was a fool to mention it, thought Griffin, and a bigger fool for being so soft. Any right-minded inspector would have shut up the garrulous Murphy with a look, but he wasn’t a bad lad and Griffin had a liking for him. Irish though – mind you, who wasn’t, in Liverpool these days? Griffin the Welshman had strong views about immigrants and while the Micks were undeniably fellow-Britons there were still a damned sight too many of them about.

“Come on,” he said, “they’re coming ashore,” and the two officers moved off into the long, dingy Customs shed where the officials were waiting with their watchful eyes and pieces of chalk among the mounds of baggage, to deal soft-voiced with the first passengers who were congregating at the tables.

This was what Griffin liked. The faces, the clothes, the voices – above all the voices. Many years before, Inspector Griffin had been a strapping young constable in the North-west Mounted Police; it was where his career had begun, and he had never lost his affection for the North American accent – even the harsh nasal Yankee voice which was so often heard in that shed awoke memories for him; he had that vague privileged feeling of kinship that one feels for foreigners in whose country one has lived. Not that Canada was foreign, of course, quite the opposite; neither were Americans, really – he scanned the faces beyond the tables with an interest that was only part-professional, indulging in his habitual speculation. Who were they? Where were they from? What would they be doing in England? How many of them were rascals? One or two, in his experience, but nothing serious this trip, or Delgado in New York would have telegraphed. He’d never met Delgado, and knew him only as a name at the end of cables and occasional official reports – Delgado would know him in the same way. Wonder what he was like? – sounded like an Italian name, maybe. Good policeman, anyway, whatever he was; it was Delgado’s tip that had helped them nail that German forger in Leeds a year ago.