Everything on this end was Carstairs’ problem.
Stuyvesant lifted his glass to Bennett Grey, and set about getting his friend absolutely roaring smashed.
Chapter Fifty-Five
WEDNESDAY WAS A FULL DAY.
For Bennett Grey, it began before dawn when the full life of this terrible city crashed down around him. Literally crashed, with dust-bins being collected on the street below. Three sets of snores rose up from the rooms around him, including that of Harris Stuyvesant through the wall. The sheets were damp and stank of sweated drink and fear—the whole room stank of his state of mind; the heat from the ticking radiators made it worse, close and suffocating; the feather pillow seemed to creep up around his skull as if it had been made of mud. There was tension in the voices, anger in the dust-bins, distress in the heels hitting the pavement, and his mouth tasted of brass, tasted as if all his teeth had been coated with the stuff.
He fought free from the grasp of the bed-clothes and lurched to the window, fighting with the latch until he could fling it open. Even then, the stifling atmosphere inside seemed more to absorb and transmute the miasma of the city than be diluted by it, and it took a long time, standing at the window, panting and feeling the pull of the pavement thirty feet below, before he could bring his head and shoulders back inside.
A cold bath and a hard, all-over scrub with the face-cloth removed some of the feeling of disgust. Shaving was harder. Every time he picked up the straight razor, his hand began to tremble with desire, lusting just to slide the blade across his throat and be done with it. In the end, he folded it away and told himself he’d see a barber.
But he knew he wouldn’t.
He would be going home.
He couldn’t do this for one more day.
He had failed.
Bennett Grey pushed his clothing any which way into his case, forced the latch to hold, and went to bounce his fist off his neighbor’s door.
For Sarah Grey, the day began almost as early. For the past two or three weeks (and it was only going to get worse in the weeks to come) Richard Bunsen’s work had taken an increasing amount of her time. This meant that the clinics had to be fit in around the edges of Richard’s day.
She was at the office of the main clinic at six o’clock, drinking tea and working her way through the letters, queries, complaints, and proposals that had accumulated since the previous morning. Fortunately, she had dependable assistants, and the day-to-day business of Women’s Help had not suffered. In the long term, such an arrangement was impossible, but she expected that once the Strike was settled, life would return to normal.
By nine, the pile of papers had been sorted for their designated workers, and Sarah permitted herself the first cigarette of the morning.
It was, as it turned out, her only cigarette of the morning, and she only managed to smoke half of that before Richard’s problems came crashing down on her: His driver, a man she’d never been all that fond of anyway, had failed to show up at eight to take Richard to the first of six urgent meetings that day—the P.M. was to meet with the mine owners that afternoon, and Richard needed to lay the ground first. He’d waited for a quarter-hour before running for a cab, telling his secretary that Jones was waiting for him and to let Sarah and Laura know the problem. In other words, handing the problem over to Sarah.
Five minutes later, the phone rang again, with Richard’s secretary phoning back all in a flutter to say he’d heard from the driver’s wife, that Jim Balham had been arrested the night before in a raid, and not to expect him until Thursday, that he couldn’t find Laura Hurleigh, and that he just didn’t know what to do.
Sarah listened, said that they could no doubt find another car if they needed to, but suggested that, since Richard was in Town all that day, perhaps he could just use taxis for once. The secretary agreed, unhappily, then handed to Sarah the task of telling Richard, and while she was at it would she take him enough money to pay for his day’s gallivanting?
And of course, when she located Richard (who had finished with one appointment and gone to the next) to give him the information and the little purse full of money, he had pressed upon her several urgent tasks that only she could do, and in the end, she never managed to make it home to change into a nicer dress for her lunch with Harris Stuyvesant.
To make matters worse, when she got to the restaurant, she found that Laura had spent the morning on one of her rare shopping expeditions, and had a fresh hair-cut, polished nails, and a rested air about her, unlike the rumpled and rushed person of Sarah Grey.
Still, she had to admit later, Harris didn’t seem to have noticed the shortcomings in her appearance.
And later, too, although she couldn’t quite remember just whose idea it had been—Laura’s probably, as good ideas usually were—but somehow talk had come around to the sins of Mr. Balham, and like the sun coming through the clouds, it became obvious that Harris was the solution to all their problems. Temporarily, at any rate.
They managed to collect the car and converge with Richard’s hectic schedule, snatching him from Piccadilly where he stood trying to flag down a cab. Harris aimed the car across the busy street, cutting off a taxi and coming to a halt at Richard’s feet. He sure looked surprised, Richard did, to see his familiar car pull up in front of him.
She jumped out, and got no further than, “Mr. Stuyvesant volunteered to step in for Mr. Balham today, you may have to help him find his way but—” when Richard gave her an approving kiss on the cheek, handed her the considerably thinner money-purse, and slid into his accustomed place in the back.
She waved at Harris, and he pulled out, as smooth as any London cab driver.
So there was that, anyway.
Of course, it meant that he’d be far too busy with Richard to have dinner or lunch with her, but it was only for a few days, until they got it settled, and so it had all worked out for the best: Richard and Harris would get to know each other a little, and by the time they found another driver, things should be settling down for Sarah, as well.
Even Laura seemed happy at the solution, especially because it meant sending Richard out into the current troubles with someone who’d guarded a man before. And Sarah had to agree: It was reassuring, to think of Harris at Richard’s side.
For Harris Stuyvesant, that Wednesday morning began at 7:40, when Richard Bunsen’s would-be driver was wakened from a sound if alcohol-induced sleep by Grey’s fist on the door.
At 8:20, on his way through the hotel lobby, Stuyvesant was handed a message informing him that his books were ready for delivery: Balham was off the page.
At 8:40, Stuyvesant and Grey were eating bacon and eggs and drinking a great deal of coffee.
At 9:50, Stuyvesant carried Grey’s bulging valise down to the lobby and watched Grey check out, scarcely able to believe his luck.
At 10:45, he stood on the platform at Paddington and watched the Penzance train pull away in a swirl of smoke and whistles, carrying Bennett Grey away from the city.
At 12:31, he sat down at a beautifully laid table between two gorgeous dolls, both of whom he dared to greet with a kiss on the cheek.
At 12:33, he heard that Richard’s driver, who had been increasingly unreliable anyway, hadn’t shown up for work that morning, because he’d been arrested.
At 12:35, Laura admitted that she hated to have Richard wandering around London just now, because the day before someone had thrown a rotten tomato at him as he’d come out of his office. This on top of the letters, she added. It was the first Sarah had heard of any threat letters, and Laura’s telling her took a few minutes to explain that no, Richard didn’t take them seriously, that he hadn’t reported them, that he hadn’t wanted to make a fuss.
At 12:47, as Stuyvesant was about to open his mouth to say, If he could be of any help…Laura Hurleigh beat him to it, asking Dear Mr. Stuyvesant if he wouldn’t like to help them all out of a pinch and take over the wheel of Richard’s car, just for a few days, until they could find a r
eplacement? Sarah clapped her hands at his agreement, then looked at her wrist-watch and said that if he was going to take over, they’d better finish lunch quickly.
At 1:15, Stuyvesant slid into the driver’s seat of Richard Bunsen’s car, precisely where he’d sat in the wee hours of Sunday morning to rifle the driver’s papers and remove the Automobile Club documents from the packet. The motor started smoothly, re-assuring him that someone had fixed the little adjustment he’d made to the wires.
At 2:07, Sarah, at his side, spotted Bunsen standing on the street looking harassed and irritated. Stuyvesant closed his eyes and shot across the unfamiliar traffic to cut off the taxi that had begun to slow in front of Bunsen. His reward, when Bunsen had shut his door, was a manly clap on the shoulder and a thanks for helping out. Bunsen told him where he needed to go and asked if Stuyvesant could find it. On being told yes, he thought so, Bunsen pulled over his swiveling desk-top and addressed himself to some papers from his brief-case.
At 7:31, Stuyvesant dropped his passenger at the club where he was dining, and went to find a telephone box. He rang both the numbers he had been given for Aldous Carstairs, and at the second was merely told that Mr. Carstairs was not available.
He hung up, frowning at the instrument. Wasn’t there some kind of a bomb investigation going on here, for Christ sake? Did he expect Stuyvesant to believe that he’d learned nothing new, all that day?
At 11:53, Stuyvesant pulled up in front of Richard Bunsen’s flat to let him out. Bunsen gathered his papers, switched off the light he’d been reading by, and leaned forward. “You’re willing to help with tomorrow, then?”
“Happy to,” Stuyvesant told him.
“I’ve very grateful. And look, why don’t you take the car tonight, if you have someplace secure you can leave it? The buses have stopped running, and you’ll never get a taxi from here. And I’ll need you back at seven, sharp.”
Stuyvesant thanked him, assured him the car would be safe, and waited until Bunsen had disappeared into the apartment house.
He gazed at the mobile office in the back seat with a look of loathing on his face: He’d much rather take a run at Bunsen’s actual office, where he might find last year’s diary and all kinds of interesting bits of paper. However, if he had to be back here at seven, shaved and in a clean shirt, that would give him less than five hours to break in and do the job. And once he’d broken in, he doubted he’d get a second chance.
Better leave the office for another night.
At 2:40 Thursday morning, Stuyvesant folded his glasses and put the folder he was reading back into Bunsen’s file drawer, locking it in disgust. He hadn’t reached an end, but in two and a half hours had found precisely nothing of any interest. And he had to pick Bunsen up at 7:00 Thursday morning, sharp.
At 3:45, Stuyvesant ordered his mind to think about something, anything but his problems with Richard Bunsen. Think about Grey, home and snug in his little white cottage on the cliffs, three hundred miles from Aldous Carstairs, three hundred miles from strike negotiations and speechifying. Think about nothing, and go to sleep.
Which wasn’t easy. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that time was getting short.
And that when it came to evidence, he was looking in all the wrong places.
At 10:03 on Wednesday morning, Aldous Carstairs received news that Grey and Stuyvesant had just entered a taxi with one suitcase, and given the command for Paddington. He cursed the man on the other end of the line, broke the connection mid-explanation, and placed a call of his own, followed immediately by two others. Sliding his cigar case into one pocket and a small hand-gun into the other, he took out his personal keys and moved over to the filing cabinets in the corner. He took out a folder, removed an envelope, checked the contents, then put the envelope in his inner pocket and the folder back in the cabinet, which he closed and locked.
He gathered his hat, coat, and gloves, telling Lakely he wasn’t sure when he would return, that if Lakely hadn’t heard from him by one o’clock he should cancel the afternoon appointments and close up at the usual time.
He moved quickly, and bribed the taxi driver to ignore the rules of the road, but he reached Paddington too late.
However, he was Aldous Carstairs. He reached out to catch the sleeve of a passing Great Western official, and asked him for the station master’s office.
Captain Bennett Grey was not entirely surprised when the train he was on slowed, forty-six minutes after leaving Paddington, and changed tracks for an unscheduled stop in Reading. He was even less surprised when the man came through to announce that there was some minor trouble on the tracks, but they would be on their way shortly.
Three trains pulled up and pulled away; the Penzance train sat motionless.
Not for long, however. Half an hour after they’d stopped, Grey’s compartment door opened and Aldous Carstairs stepped in. As if a switch had been turned, a headache flared to life in Bennett Grey’s skull, and Cornwall vanished from the map.
The other man brushed off the seat across from Grey and settled into it. His gloved hands dipped into his breast pocket, coming out with a photograph. He stretched out to place it on Grey’s knee.
Five people. Two strangers, Richard Bunsen, Laura, and Sarah.
“One of those men is currently being sought for the possession of a quantity of stolen explosive. He sold it to Richard Bunsen. I can keep your sister out of this.” Grey said nothing, and did not move. After a minute, Carstairs added, “I can do my best to keep Laura Hurleigh out of it, as well.”
Grey stood up and walked out of the compartment, half blind with pain, letting the photograph fall to the floor, leaving his valise and his coat. He knew Carstairs would have a man to retrieve things, just outside the door, and he did. He knew Carstairs would have a second man to make sure Grey didn’t make a break for it or fling himself under a train; he, too, was there.
Neither of them mattered. Not even the photograph mattered, not in itself. What mattered was the Major’s conviction that whatever he had, it was enough to get Grey to go with him, and Bennett had seen that conviction in the angle of the gloved hands as they came through the door.
There was really nothing to say.
Chapter Fifty-Six
STUYVESANT SPENT THURSDAY HARING to and fro across the face of London behind the wheel of Bunsen’s car, desperately racking his brain to recall the maps of this, one of the world’s least gridlike cities. Main streets possessed half a dozen names within a mile, roads that shrank and expanded with no rhyme nor reason either trailed into nothing, or gathered themselves and flew off rapidly for the hinter-lands.
After a while he discovered the knack of following taxis—when they dove off the straightaway, more often than not they were following convoluted short-cuts to the next artery. Twice the technique got him caught in the backwaters, when the taxi disgorged a passenger and turned around again, but on the whole, it saved him time.
While Bunsen was in meetings, Stuyvesant would study the maps and scribble down the route to their next stop.
He also phoned Carstairs’ office, to be told that the man was unavailable. Six times. And blowing up at the secretary didn’t get him anywhere.
The afternoon was enlivened by a nicely aimed chunk of wood bouncing off the side window six inches from Bunsen’s head. Stuyvesant allowed himself to react strongly, with a squeal of brakes and a cacophony of horns that traced his fast dodge to the side of the road and his even faster abandoning of the car. The man who’d thrown the missile went suddenly wide-eyed, not expecting pursuit from a large, apparently angry American, and whirled on his heels to sprint away. Stuyvesant gained until the man went around a corner, then he slowed and allowed Carstairs’ man to get away.
When he got back to the car, which had become the center of a clot of traffic and an angry constable, he apologized to his passenger for losing the man. Bunsen did, he was pleased to see, look just a bit shaken.
Lunch was three boiled eggs from a pub. Tea
was carried out to him where he sat in the car, by a secretary, at Bunsen’s request. (Damn it, Stuyvesant thought, the man can’t go all thoughtful on me now. But he thanked the secretary, and drank his tea.)
Dinner was on a park bench with Sarah, out of a picnic hamper, while Bunsen and Laura Hurleigh ate five courses at a very posh-looking club with various Union heads. It had been decided that the two Union representatives for the Hurleigh week-end would be Herbert Smith, president of the Miners’ Union, and Matthew Ruddle, Labour M.P. and Bunsen mentor. Bunsen would be one of Ruddle’s three permitted assistants. The choice of mine owners was down to three, with the final decision due later that night.
Stuyvesant didn’t know about it, of course, since it was all highly secret. Except that Sarah told him when she brought him dinner.
“You mustn’t say anything to anyone,” she told him for the third time. “If the newspapers got wind of it, Richard would never speak to me again.”
The temptation of that alone was great, but he promised.
“However, it seems to me,” she went on, “that if he’s trusting you to guard his life, he can surely trust you to keep mum over a secret meeting.”
“Will you be going?”
“Oh no. Tell you the truth, I’m looking forward to catching up on my work while Richard is occupied up at Hurleigh.”
“And maybe if he doesn’t need me there, I can take you to dinner Friday.”
She pinked nicely, and said primly that she’d have to see what her calendar permitted. Stuyvesant came very near to kissing her.
Later, when she was long gone, when even Laura had left in a taxi an hour before, Bunsen came out from the club and found Stuyvesant reading a novel by the light of the back seat reading lamp.
Touchstone Page 43
