Never Send Flowers

by John Gardner

  ‘Your Chief asked me to come,’ Carmel began. ‘I went through everything with him, and his people in London . . .’

  ‘Yes, he told me.’ Bond was also suspicious and wary of this sudden intrusion. ‘He gave me a rundown on what you had said.’

  Carmel shook her head. ‘I have to tell you, face to face, James. You see I did not tell your people everything. This afternoon, my conscience . . . Well, I felt bad about it, so I got in touch with your office. They put me through to your Chief and I gave him the gist of what I had left out. He told me to contact you, tell you everything. You see, I might possibly be able to lead you to David. To Dragonpol.’

  ‘Really?’ Flicka remained cool and distant. ‘How could you do that, Ms . . . er . . . Chancy?’

  ‘Chantry,’ Carmel said with a sweetness that could have withered flowers.

  They raided the bulging mini-bar again and opened a couple of half bottles of wine, drinking while Carmel Chantry told her story.

  ‘When they debriefed me – after the business at Brown’s Hotel?’ Bond askedh f b d – I was quite frightened,’ she began. ‘I knew far more than I even told you, so I let them have a little of it.’

  ‘According to my Chief, you said that it was Laura who broke off the engagement.’

  ‘Yes, that was part of it. What I didn’t tell him was that I really became quite close to Laura, and to David. I visited the castle with her several times. Got to know David and Maeve quite well. Yes, it was Laura who broke it off . . .’

  ‘You were with her that weekend?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t go, though she asked me to come along as moral support. The point was that David finally told her there was a history of mental instability in his family. He even confessed the full reason for giving up acting. David Dragonpol had a complete nervous breakdown. During the year before he announced his retirement he had twice gone through memory losses, and on occasions, he would completely lose control of his temper.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was afraid. Very frightened of what might happen, but he did hope that Laura would help him. He felt that, with her as his wife, he could return to normality. He really needed care and treatment.’

  ‘He wasn’t getting treatment?’

  ‘Only a self-imposed treatment. He had a pair of male nurses . . .’

  ‘We met them,’ Flicka murmured.

  ‘A pair of male nurses who were with him, or near him, at all times. Also he had a secure room built into the Great Tower at Schloss Drache . . .’

  ‘We saw that as well.’

  ‘When he began to get hyperactive, or there were signs that he was about to go into what he called one of his “lost phases”, they would take him up to the secure room in the tower and make sure he was looked after and kept safe. But Laura couldn’t take the strain. They really did care for each other, and they wanted children, though when she found out the extent of his condition, she knew the engagement had to be broken off as soon as possible. David was fine for ninety per cent of the time, but the other ten per cent was truly frightening. And it was dangerous. There’s no doubt about that, it was very dangerous.’

  ‘So the only new things you’re telling us are that you know him quite well and that it was Laura who broke off the engagement? You’ve told nobody else about your side of the relationship?’

  She gave a little nod. ‘I knew him very well. Too well, in fact, and he knew me, in all senses. He also knew about my . . . well, my preferences. Laura never had any idea that there was a kind of relationship between David and myself, but I went out to see him the weekend after she broke it off. He was becoming very hyperactive. Charles – that was one of the nurses – said he was concerned. David had begun saying that if he couldn’t have Laura, nobody else would. James, I knew he had killed Laura as soon as I heard the news of her death. I then got worried that he might just come after me.’

  ‘So why are you really here, Carmel? You haven’t flown all the way to Milan, just to unburden your soul, and make your confession to me.’

  ‘No. I think this all has to end. I talked to Maeve on the telephone before I spoke to your Chief. I have a pretty good idea where David will be.’

  ‘Then tell us, and we can do something about it.’

  She shook her head again. ‘No. I don’t want him hurt, or hunted down.’

  ‘Het believe a word of it.neouthing won’t be hurt. The orders are to get him alive.’

  ‘He won’t know that, nor will he believe it. But I can probably lead you to him. If anyone can talk him down, I can. Maeve never could. Laura was good with him, but I can really do the trick.’

  ‘So what do you propose?’

  ‘I’m going to try to contact him. Then I’ll bring him to you. I’ll arrange things so that he’ll suspect nothing, and I’ll bring him to somewhere open; a public place.’

  ‘You really think you can do this?’

  ‘I’m a hundred per cent certain I can.’

  ‘Where do you plan to spend the night?’ Flicka asked, making it perfectly clear that she wanted the girl out of their room.

  ‘I have somewhere. It’s okay, I’m going now. I’ll be in touch tomorrow: probably some time in the afternoon. If I’m lucky, I’ll have got hold of him and talked him into a meeting with you.’

  There was silence for a full minute, then Bond asked, ‘Carmel, what’s your true relationship with him?’

  ‘With David? I suppose I’m now like a sister – different to Maeve, because she could never control him. I can calm David when the going gets rough for him. It really works. I can influence him in a way that neither Maeve nor the nurses ever could – nor Laura really.’ She gave a bitter little laugh. ‘I suppose he looks on me as a sister, and, as such, I am my brother’s keeper.’

  ‘Do we trust her?’ Flicka asked after Carmel Chantry had left.

  ‘We have no other option.’

  ‘I don’t buy her whole story.’

  ‘Neither do I. But we can’t check her out, and we’re on our own. I suggest that, in the morning, we do what we’ve been told to do. We go out and behave as though nothing has happened. We buy ourselves tickets on the first flight out to Athens on Thursday – which will give us the full three days. Maybe we can take one of the Scala tours as well. Then we come back here and wait. If Carmel doesn’t get in touch by, say, three tomorrow afternoon, then we go out again. Show ourselves, and hope that we spot him before anything desperate happens.’

  Below them, Carmel Chantry walked slowly across the foyer of the Palace Hotel. She wore a stylish white, belted, thin trench-coat that had cost her a fortune in Paris.

  Outside, the doorman asked if she wanted a cab.

  ‘No,’ she nodded to him, looking left and right up and down the street. Even at this time in the morning there was still a fair drizzle of traffic. ‘No, I’m waiting for someone.’

  ‘I’ll stay out here, until your friend arrives, signorina.’ The doorman thought she might possibly be a high-class whore, and he was really letting her know that she should move on.

  Five minutes later, she saw the car flash its headlights as it approached. When it came to a stop, the doorman ran across to open the passenger-side door for her. She tipped him with a smile.

  ‘It worked?’ the driver asked as she settled next to him.

  ‘I did just as you told me. They bought most of it, I think.’

  He nodded, put the car in gear and smoothly pulled out into the traffic.

  ‘Then we only have to draw all the threads together.’

  ‘You think it’s going to work?’

  ‘I hope so. It’s a last chant believe a word of it.neouthing ce. Possibly the only chance we’re going to get. Thank you for coming at such short notice.’

  She looked at him in the dim light. Nobody would recognize him now, dressed and disguised as he was. He had become an expert in disguise, and had learned a great deal, she thought.

  Glancing towards the rear of the car, she saw the long wal
king stick with the brass duck’s head handle.

  ‘You brought it then,’ she said.

  ‘As a last resort, yes. For proof, if necessary.’

  ‘And you’d use it?’

  ‘Only if I have to. If there’s no other way.’

  ‘We’ll have to be very careful.’

  ‘I think we’ve been careful for too long. My fault really. This should have been done months ago. With luck it’ll all be over by tomorrow night.’

  The morning came, bright and cheerful, another lovely day. It was hard to believe that the summer was almost over. There were still plenty of tourists around, savouring the last days of the holiday season, bracing themselves for the journey home and the return of autumn and winter.

  As they had planned, Bond and Flicka strolled through the streets. They did not take taxis, or any other form of public transport, but walked everywhere, considering that, should Dragonpol be looking out for them, he would be more likely to spot them on the streets.

  First they went to one of the larger travel agencies where they booked seats on an Alitalia flight direct to Athens for the Thursday morning. They even lingered, bombarding a harassed girl with questions about the best place to stay, and gathering up as many brochures as they could.

  Flicka carried a little pile of leaflets with the name Athens in full view and they walked into the Piazzale San Giornate and towards the wonderful façade of the opera house, the Teatro alla Scala. Inside, they joined a tour and admired the building; had the wonderful acoustics demonstrated to them; looked at the statues of Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti and Verdi in the foyer.

  Neither saw anyone who could be remotely identified with Dragonpol, though Bond was aware of Orsini’s watchers everywhere. They arrived back at the Palace after a light lunch, just before two-thirty.

  By a quarter past three, Bond was saying that Carmel would not call, that it was some kind of runaround, when the phone began to ring.

  ‘You know who this is?’ Carmel asked at the distant end.

  ‘Yes‘No, sir

  16

  RISE OF A DEAF MUTE

  Bond heard Carmel cry out, ‘No! James, No! He’s . . .’ Then the front of the white silk shirt and jacket blossomed crimson, her head went back and she flew forward, arms outstretched as though taking a plunge into a swimming pool. For a split second he thought of Maeve Horton’s Bleeding Heart rose, then he was dragging the pistol from his waistband, hearing the crash of shots echoing across the roof, aware of people throwing themselves to the ground, and the distinguished grey head of hair levitating under a fine mist of blood, while the deadly walking stick went flying through the air. The man who had been with Carmel went down, pitching forward, hitting the stone with a crash, leaving blood smearing the ground.

  Gianne-Franco’s men and women were suddenly very visible. At least six of them – two women and four men – hadt believe a word of it.ed ">was weapons out: one of them carried an Uzi, and they were closing in on a tall man who stood just outside the stair entrance.

  Bond could not believe his eyes at first. The man had an automatic pistol held in the two-handed grip. The shots had hardly crashed out when he simply opened his hands, dropped the pistol, then straightened up, placing his hands on his head.

  Later Bond had difficulty in reconstructing the entire incident, for everything happened within seconds, and it was not until the man placed his hands above his head, that he saw it was David Dragonpol.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt the girl!’ Dragonpol was shouting almost hysterically. There were tears running down his face, and he moved towards the two bodies, in spite of the Italians threatening and ordering him to stand still.

  Nobody was stupid enough to fire on Dragonpol as he bent over the male corpse. He was now openly weeping, and by the time Bond reached him, he had started to mutter, ‘Oh, David. David. I’m sorry but it had to end like this. There was no other way. No other way. You’d have just gone on killing and killing. It was already too much. Enough.’

  Other words, from some recent time, flashed through Bond’s mind. There for a moment then gone. ‘Three’s still three too many,’ the voice in his head called out.

  Now, close to the sprawled body, Bond took in two things. First, in spite of the wound to the top of the head, the face was identical to that of Dragonpol who now bent over him. An obscene-looking bloody mass of what had once been a grey wig, lay a few feet from the body.

  ‘David?’ He put out a hand and rested it on Dragonpol’s shoulder, though his mind had yet to take in the strange mirror-image that seemed to pass between living and dead.

  Dragonpol looked up and shook his head. ‘James,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry about the girl. I had to take out David. He would have killed you with that damned thing,’ his foot kicked at the walking stick. ‘Then he would have gone on and killed more people.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting . . .’ Bond began, then peered at Dragonpol’s face. ‘David?’ he asked again, and Dragonpol slowly shook his head once more. ‘That’s David.’ His hand caressed the shoulder of the corpse. ‘That’s my brother, David. I should’ve told you when you were at Schloss Drache, but I didn’t have the guts. In the end, Laura knew about him, but she thought like you. She believed I was David. I was the one who was to marry Laura. Give me a minute and I’ll tell you everything.’

  The police had joined the Italian security men by now, and people were being shepherded from the roof. Someone snapped handcuffs on the living Dragonpol and led him away. He went very quietly, dignified and without protest.

  ‘What in the name of . . . ?’ Flicka began, standing very close to Bond. ‘James, what’s . . . ?’

  He cut her off with a sharp, ‘I don’t know.’

  As the activity on the roof began to take shape and settle into a crime scene pattern, Gianne-Franco suggested they all go to a safe house which would be used for the debriefing. ‘You’re both expected there,’ he told them, and neither Bond nor Flicka had the will to argue.

  The house was large and set in its own grounds, somewhere on the outskirts of Milan. There was ample security. A plain van blocked the gates leading to a drive, and had to be backed out in order for them to get through. Other cars were already drawn up in front of the building – a pink and?’ Bond asked outhing white two-storey villa. Men prowled the grounds, and two police cars and another van were parked almost out of sight behind a clump of trees.

  Inside, the furnishings were bare and without frills, the walls painted in an institutional green. Telephones purred and low conversations drifted from half-open doors. Unsmiling, silent men and women moved between offices, carrying files.

  They were escorted into a large room which had a rough table as a centrepiece. M sat near what had once been an ornate fireplace, while Bill Tanner stood looking out of the window.

  ‘I wanted him alive, James.’ M’s eyes were full of reproach.

  ‘I know, sir. I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do. Why didn’t anybody know there was a brother?’

  ‘That’s what we’re waiting to find out.’ Tanner spoke quietly, as though distracted. ‘The Italians are getting a statement from him now, then we’re going to be allowed to interrogate him.’

  ‘Somewhere along the line everybody slipped up.’ M gazed into the empty fireplace. ‘It appears there were identical twins. David and Daniel, but even the theatre Press didn’t get on to Daniel, so I fail to understand it. Someone as famous as David Dragonpol must have been investigated by the Press. The media are pretty hot about these things. Usually they can quote every relative, living and dead.’ He made an angry little noise through his teeth. ‘But that doesn’t really excuse any of us. Nobody, not even myself, bothered to check out the family. We all simply believed what was printed by the Press, and what appeared in the biographies. The Dragonpols of Drimoleague. Two children, the last of the line. Maeve and David.’

  An orderly came in with coffee and sandwiches – slices of baguettes stuffed with cheese and ham –
but none of them seemed to have an appetite. Then Gianne-Franco Orsini arrived, looking as neat and clean as though he had just dressed for a party.

  ‘Well, he saved your life, Captain Bond. This is for certain. I have forensics people – ballistics and weapons experts – who will bring the weapon up in a moment. Diabolical. This brother, the Daniel Dragonpol, has told us much. David made the weapon with his own hands. Diabolical.’

  They saw just how diabolical it was a few minutes later, when a pair of white-coated ballistics and firearms experts brought the thick walking stick into the room, placed it on the table and, with a nod from Gianne-Franco, demonstrated exactly how deadly it was.

  ‘There was a second handle tucked into a specially made holster, on the deceased man’s body.’ One of them, speaking good English, placed another brass duck’s head on the table next to the complete stick.

  Close up, they could see that the handles were much larger than any ordinary walking stick with such a decoration. The stick was also much thicker than normal, and made of a hard, highly polished smooth wood.

  It was in reality made up of three sections, each hollowed out to a 9 mm bore. One of the men unscrewed a length of some eighteen inches from the bottom of the stick, revealing that this was plainly a noise-reduction unit. The next long section also unscrewed. This was undoubtedly the barrel of the gun, while the last six inches, together with the heavy brass carving, made up the real works of the weapon.

  The six inches of metal, encased in wood, was larger than the barrel and contained a chamber, and a side opening for the ejection of used cartridge cases, while the duck’s head could be stripped down, showing a cunning magazine and breech mechanism. There was room for three Equalt believe a word of it.on, floy rounds – one in the chamber and two in the duck’s head. The breech was operated in a standard manner, and the workmanship was precise and hand-turned.

  The duck’s bill moved, forming the trigger, and there was even a safety catch built into one of the brass eyes. When the bill was squeezed, a firing pin made contact with the chambered round, and the gases threw the entire mechanism back, ejecting the used casing, automatically reloading with the second round, and so on for the third.