A Dandy in Aspic

by Derek Marlowe

  Gatiss had stopped momentarily on the top of the bank, frozen in silhouette like the sole survivor of a Grecian frieze, then he was gone, into the trees and away. As the roar of the crowd reached fever pitch, Eberlin saw his opportunity and slipped into the tunnel, now abandoned by the distracted police, and walked as casually as he could under the track until he saw the Deutschlandhalle.

  Without looking back, he hurried to the Mistrale and sealed himself inside. Then, backing slowly into the street from the car park, he accelerated into Halenseestrasse and east toward nowhere and anywhere, his mind numbed by the events and his stomach, that impartial party to our actions, craving to be fed.

  After driving blindly for an hour, he choked down a salami sandwich from a corner shop specializing in salami sandwiches, and drove slowly back to the hotel. It was now six twenty and Prentiss was sitting in the foyer with his coat on and an anxious look on his face.

  16

  The Passing of the Buck

  Judas committed suicide because when he checked the thirty pieces of silver, he found there weren’t any hallmarks.

  –ALEXANDER EBERLIN

  I have so much to do I am going to bed.

  –SAVOYARD PROVERB

  What do I do? I’ve told you. I collect noses from statues.

  –ALEXANDER EBERLIN

  HALF an hour later, they were collected by a brown Humber Super Snipe, owned by the British Army, and driven in relative comfort to Gatow Airport.

  “Gatiss has already left,” said Prentiss, lowering the window on his side of the car. “I expect Frazer’ll get in touch with Berlin and straighten it out.”

  Eberlin nodded. He sat, his arms folded, looking out of the window at the last images of the city. He was beginning to breathe again. On his left was now the entrance to the Avus, still suffering under the commotion of the afternoon, and beyond that the woods and the lakes beneath them. As the car turned right past the Radio Tower, he caught pleasant glimpses through the trees of white and yellow yachts drifting on the water, and heard buoyant, ecstatic feminine screams from the beaches below. He put a cigarette in his mouth and found he had run out of matches. Neither Prentiss nor the uniformed driver could assist him, so he sat, frustrated, for the rest of the journey with an unlit Senior Service in his mouth. But it was a pleasant drive, and he would be glad to leave Berlin for the last time.

  “I bet you’re glad to leave Berlin,” Prentiss said with a smile.

  “In a way,” replied Eberlin. “Are you sure you haven’t got a light?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Why exactly are we going to Gatow Airport? It’s purely military, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. Speed really. There’s not another civil plane for hours and Frazer–”

  “Frazer? You spoke to him?”

  “Yes. Well, Frazer suggested we leave by kind permission of the Army. They often do that.” He grinned to himself. “Went to a marvelous restaurant in Paris. Only a small place but incredibly good. Recommended to it by this girl I was with. Marvelous place for jugged hare. Owned by two brothers. No, three brothers. Specializes in game. Fantastic. I’ll write the address down for you in case you get to Paris. It’s in Boulevard Beaumarchais. Think it’s called L’Enclos de Ninon.”

  Eberlin nodded politely and stared at the back of the driver’s head. He thought, incongruously, about Caroline. He–

  “Hey,” he said suddenly. “What about my car?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. They’re flying that back too.” Prentiss touched Eberlin’s arm. “Don’t forget, you’re pretty important to us now.”

  * * *

  Gatow Airport is a sorry affair, much too dismal to be described save in the most offhand way. Three sheds, two hangars, two airstrips crossing in an X, fence of barbed wire, NO UNAUTHORISED PERSON ADMITTED ON THESE PREMISES and an air of utter depression. It is employed solely by the military, who take off and land as quickly as possible without being bothered too much by the environment. Recollecting it, one remembers only jumbled acres of burnt sienna, cold sheds and brown uniforms, as inviting as a grave.

  Prentiss and Eberlin stood in a narrow waiting room on the edge of the airfield and gazed somberly at a DC 6 taxiing slowly to a halt outside. Some matches were offered to Eberlin, and he took them gratefully and sat down on a wooden bench next to a copy of TitBits and half a dozen soldiers in full kit.

  Prentiss grinned and joined him, whispering in his ear: “Pretty hellish, isn’t it?”

  Eberlin agreed and avoided any conversation with the soldiers nearby. After a while, a sergeant walked stiffly toward them and clicked his heels on the concrete floor.

  “Mr. George Dancer and Mr. Joseph Prentiss?”

  Prentiss looked up with a self-conscious smile and nodded: then, with an attempt at etiquette, rose gauchely to his feet.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “I’m Prentiss, and that’s Mr. Dancer.”

  “Very good, sir. Sergeant Harris.”

  The sergeant offered his hand to both men.

  “That I gather … is our plane?” asked Prentiss, making conversation.

  “That is the one, sir. We should be leaving Gatow at twenty hundred hours. In about fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh … well … that’s good.”

  “If there’s anything you need sir, just ask.” Eberlin looked up.

  “Oh yes, sergeant,” he said. “Do you have a telephone near here?”

  “Personal call, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you could follow me, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Eberlin stood up and gave a quick smile to Prentiss. “Girl?” Prentiss winked.

  Eberlin nodded.

  “Promised I’d phone her before I left.”

  He pulled a face and followed Sergeant Harris across the waiting room.

  At the end of the corridor hung three fire buckets. On the first was written SAND and inside was sand, on the second was written WATER and inside was water, and on the third was written FIRE. It was empty. Next to it however was a telephone booth. The sergeant nodded to Eberlin, then strode away, back down the corridor. Eberlin entered the booth and dialed Rotopkin. The preliminary codes and scrambling over, he said:

  “I’m just leaving Berlin now.”

  “Good,” replied Rotopkin. “It couldn’t be better.”

  “I suppose you know Sobakevich is dead.

  “Yes. You’ve got to kill Gatiss for us. But not yet.”

  “I couldn’t do anything about it.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I’m sorry. I was trying to light a cigarette and talk at the same time.”

  From where he was standing, Eberlin could see another aircraft through a window by the booth. It was being serviced, a dozen trucks fussing underneath it like seamstresses around the hem of a wedding dress.

  “I must say,” he said, “that the Copperfield thing has stunned everyone.”

  “I thought it might,” replied Rotopkin. “I was worried in case it seemed too obvious.”

  “Not at all. We almost didn’t find the file.” He smiled. “Incredible, isn’t it? Who would have thought Copperfield, fat Copperfield, was working for Peking?”

  “He isn’t,” replied Rotopkin. Eberlin gave a slight gasp.

  “What did you say?” he asked incredulously.

  “I said he doesn’t work for Peking. He doesn’t work for anybody except the British. At least as far as I know.”

  “You mean–you framed him?”

  “Had to,” answered Rotopkin blithely. “Give you time to breathe. It’ll take them weeks before they clear him–if they ever do. By then, we’ll have you right out of it for good.”

  “But–” Eberlin began but didn’t continue. Prentiss had appeared in the corridor and was gesturing toward his watch. Eberlin nodded, attempted a smile and pointed at the phone. Prentiss nodded with a grin and walked away. Eberlin was silent for a moment.

  “I wish there had been another way,�
� he said finally. “Supposing they don’t accept Copperfield’s protests of innocence.”

  “Let him worry about that. All the better for us. You’d better go anyway.

  “Yes. The plane’s waiting.” There was a pause.

  “You know,” Eberlin said quietly, “all this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t killed Pavel.”

  “I didn’t kill Pavel,” came the surprised answer.

  Eberlin gave a nervous laugh.

  “Not you personally,” he said. “I meant Kuzmich. If he hadn’t been so–”

  “Just a minute,” Rotopkin snapped. “We did not kill Pavel.”

  “But you must have,” protested Eberlin, his voice rising.

  “I said we didn’t. We thought you had got him out of the way.”

  “What? Me?”

  The air was becoming difficult to breathe, and Eberlin suddenly began to tremble.

  “Rotopkin–what are you saying?”

  “Well, isn’t it obvious? We were under the impression that you had told Pavel to go underground or whatever. Why do you think we’ve been–”

  “You must be mad. I saw you–the Buick–I saw you there. You were taking Pavel’s body away.”

  But he knew he was wrong.

  “It wasn’t us,” replied Rotopkin. “I assure you it wasn’t us.” The door of the telephone booth suddenly swung open, and

  Prentiss said cheerily:

  “Come along, Eberlin, there’s a good chap. They’re waiting for us.”

  Then he saw Eberlin’s face and added: “Oh sorry. She’s like that is she? Tears and wailing. Well, try to hurry her up, and I’ll see you in the plane. You’ve got a couple of minutes.”

  He grinned again, winked and hurried away. Eberlin stood dead still, the phone burning his ear. Then, his voice dry and broken, he said:

  “If it wasn’t you, then–it must have been the British.” There was no answer.

  “Rotopkin? Rotopkin! Are you still there?”

  There was still silence, but he knew Rotopkin was listening. He was beginning to tremble again.

  “If it was the British who killed Pavel,” he said, “then–then they know. They know who I am. They’ve known all the time. Rotopkin– they know!”

  His words seemed to be screaming in the air. “Rotopkin? Don’t you understand?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then his countryman answered, his voice cold and final:

  “You’re dead, Krasnevin. You’re dead.” The phone went dead.

  “Rotopkin,” Eberlin shouted, but no one was listening. He turned in panic as a voice behind him said:

  “I think we ought to go now, sir. Can’t hold up the plane much longer.”

  Eberlin stared at the sergeant, still gripping the phone, incapable of doing anything. Harris leaned across and took the receiver from his hand and listened momentarily.

  “Seems the party has rung off, sir,” he said.

  * * *

  The waiting room seemed filled with soldiers, standing silently in line, neither speaking nor moving. Eberlin felt himself being led like a lamb down the corridor by the sergeant, his mind devoid of anything anymore. It had all been a bizarre game. It was all so clear now. Everything had fallen into place. He has been used, manipulated, exhibited by the British in order to attract the flies. He had given them, given them, Sobakevich and Henderson. And Greiser. And God knows how much more. And he had given them, before the race had barely begun, he had given them–Pavel.

  At the corner of the corridor, he tried to run, only to collapse in a heap and be pulled to his feet by a sympathetic sergeant who knew nothing at all. And then he was led, surrounded by a hundred regiments no less, out onto the pathetically grubby airfield, warm in the summer evening, and forward, forward toward Prentiss, now standing at the door of the aircraft.

  The strap was tightened around his lap and the cigarette stubbed out as he was dragged aloft, back to London.

  “Marvelous planes these,” said Prentiss with a smile. “Used to have a model once when I was a child, made out of plastic. Never worked. Still got it somewhere.”

  Faces peered at him, or the passenger in front, and the horrendous throbbing of the engines vibrated tightly against his skull. Beside him, Prentiss smiled and grimaced and chattered gaily about a million things, and all Eberlin could say, not in a vain attempt at dignity, but because he could say nothing else, was: “Copperfield’s innocent.”

  And Prentiss replied, “Oh, we know that. Look, Eberlin, old chap, I don’t smoke, so you can have my allowance of two hundred cigarettes if you like. For the customs, you know. It’s worth it. One pound for two hundred. I mean, one can’t turn a blind eye to that.”

  He scratched his nose. Eberlin closed his eyes.

  “Do you get nervous in planes?” Prentiss was saying. “My aunt does. Sick as a dog everywhere. I used to be once, but now they’re so fast. I mean we’ll be in London in a couple of hours.”

  Then, glancing at Eberlin, he said, “Sorry. Was I rabbiting on? Sorry about that. I suppose you’re thinking about that girl.”

  Eberlin opened his eyes and looked at Prentiss for a moment.

  “I suppose Frazer and Brogue will be waiting at the airport for us,” he said. “In London.”

  “Expect so. Oh, I don’t know though. Will they be?”

  Eberlin nodded. “Probably,” he said and lit a cigarette.

  Ahead of him he could see the rows of chattering soldiers, and the kitbags and coats stuffed on the rack above. “How long have you been in the army, sergeant?” he said to Harris, offering him a cigarette.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Derek Marlowe was born in London in 1938. He was a novelist, playwright and screen writer. A Dandy in Aspic, his first novel, was originally published in 1966 and became an international bestseller. It was translated into 15 languages and Marlowe himself adapted the book into a film starring Laurence Harvey and Mia Farrow. He was the author of eight further novels, including The Disappearance, which was originally published as Echoes of Celandine and became a film starring Donald Sutherland. Marlowe had one son, Ben, and died in 1996 at the age of fifty-eight.

  ALSO BY DEREK MARLOWE

  Memoirs of a Venus Lackey

  A Single Summer with L.B.

  Echoes of Celandine (also published as The Disappearance)

  Do you remember England?

  Somebody’s Sister

  Nightshade

  The Rich Boy from Chicago

  Nancy Astor

  First published in Great Britain in 1966 by Victor Gollancz Ltd and in the USA by G. P.

  Putnam’s Sons, New York

  This edition published by Silvertail Books in 2015

  www.silvertailbooks.com

  Copyright © Ben Marlowe 2015

  1

  The right of Derek Marlowe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by Ben Marlowe in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from Silvertail Books or the copyright holder

  Typeset in Ehrhardt Monotype by Joanna Macgregor

  Printed in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  ISBN 978-1-909269-25-5