All Honourable Men

by Gavin Lyall

“Who told you?”

  “The police spotted him at the port. Gunther didn’t tell me anything, we said good-bye outside the hotel, then a man waiting put a pistol in his face and killed him. I saw that myself.”

  Zimmer had his attaché case open on the table, spilling a collection of papers, and was checking Ranklin’s account against a newspaper cutting. “Did you try to catch the man?”

  “No, he’d vanished in the fog. It must mention the fog. Anyway, I might have thought twice about chasing an armed man who killed that freely. And that’s all.”

  Zimmer seemed to be considering this judiciously. “Are you sure he had seen someone in your Government?”

  “As you said, I wouldn’t be here in Germany if he hadn’t, would I? And the English money the police found on him.”

  “Money?” Zimmer frowned and consulted the cutting again.

  “Two hundred pounds. No, they were trying to keep that out of the newspapers.”

  Outside the door a board creaked and Hunke lunged silently to his feet; for a big man, he moved very smoothly. He tiptoed to the door and listened, keeping his pistol pointed warningly towards Ranklin. There was silence, except for the murmur from beneath, then heavy, unsuspicious footsteps came down the stairs, past the door and on down until they blended into the noise below. Hunke shrugged and sat down again.

  Zimmer picked up the thread: “So you say you did not arrange his death?”

  “Of course not. We wouldn’t kill the golden goose.”

  “Pardon?”

  “We got information from him. We wanted – still want – to go on getting it from his firm – you. Why should we suddenly want to kill him?”

  “To protect the secrets he had given you, so that he would not sell them to anyone else.”

  That was a new idea for Ranklin. He’d been standing too close to the event, not seeing enough of how it might look to others. “We wouldn’t do that. We trusted Gunther, we wouldn’t have had dealings with him if we hadn’t trusted him.”

  “But this time, you said, you did not have dealings with him.”

  And what was the answer to that? Zimmer went on calmly: “You see, I know what the famous English Secret Service thinks of us. You believe, because you are patriots working only for your country, that you are superior to us who work for any country, and also for money. We do not matter – is it not so?”

  “No,” Ranklin said. It was difficult to think in big general terms when faced with the specifically gigantic thought that Hunke was about to take him out and kill him. “No. That might be how generals and cabinet ministers think, if they didn’t despise all of us, their own spies as much as any others.”

  Again the small, almost indifferent, shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps now I do not think you killed Gunther, or want him killed. But that does not matter. Like a soldier – and I think you are also a soldier? – then you must die, not for what you have done, but for what your country has.”

  “But you don’t know it was my country! It could be the Germans who found out what Gunther had sold!” He was ashamed to hear the desperation in his voice, then he thought The hell with shame, this is my life.

  Zimmer shook his head and smiled sadly. “I said you do not understand. You think you belong to a small Bureau. Probably you say you have not enough men, not enough money, so you think you are small. But not really, because you belong to England, and that is big. So a defeat does not mean so much, it is not the end of everything – and one day, probably, you will take revenge. But we are truly small, and belong to nobody, and a single defeat will destroy us if it is known that we do not act, and quickly. So it is more important to show we will take revenge, than that we take the right revenge. Do you understand that?”

  “That saving your honour justifies any mistake?” But hadn’t it always?

  Somebody tried the handle of the door, then gave a heavy knock. A voice called: “How can I bring in your drinks if you won’t open the door?”

  Zimmer and Hunke swapped surprised looks. “Did you—?” Zimmer hissed, and Hunke shook his head.

  The voice outside was impatient. “Open up!”

  Hunke pocketed the pistol and opened the door. The landlord – presumably – waddled in with a tray of beer-mugs, and doled them onto the table beside Zimmer’s case.

  Zimmer asked: “Who ordered these?”

  “The other man. The Englishman.”

  Zimmer instinctively looked at the door – at O’Gilroy sauntering in with a friendly grin and going straight up beside Hunke. Going so close you couldn’t see his hand behind Hunke’s back.

  “There’s your change.” The landlord slapped it on the table and waddled out, muttering about locked doors and secret societies . . .

  O’Gilroy patted Hunke’s pockets and whisked the pistol away. Hunke stood very still, knowing exactly what was poking into his back.

  Then O’Gilroy stepped away quickly. “All under control,” and by now his smile was lopsided and nastier. “D’ye want me to shoot them in any partic’lar order?”

  Ranklin got carefully to his feet, unsure about his knees. “Give me my pistol.” Even to himself, his voice sounded unnatural.

  O’Gilroy snapped open Hunke’s gun – it was a big military-calibre revolver – to check that it was loaded, then passed over Ranklin’s smaller weapon. The simple feel of it in the hand flowed straight to his knees, stiffening them. His hand clenched and he almost shot a dent in the wall.

  Then he walked back and held the gun a few inches from Zimmer’s face. “I told you, I saw Gunther killed. The man put a pistol to his face – just like this – and fired. It blew the back of his head off. His brains fell into his hat. I saw it.”

  Zimmer had his head twisted back and away, in a rictus of terror, as if a few inches’ distance could make any difference. Life so strong, life so fragile: just an ounce or two of pressure on a trigger . . .

  Ranklin relaxed his finger, took a deep breath and straightened up. “All the honour in the damned world . . .” His voice cracked, dry-mouthed. He took a couple of gulps of beer and said in a more normal tone: “Ah, that’s better. Try it yourself. Now I think we’d all better sit down again, there’s still one or two points to clear up.”

  So, except for O’Gilroy, they all sat. Gradually the atmosphere simmered down – at least for Ranklin. What Zimmer felt didn’t worry him.

  He said: “I’m trying to think how Gunther might have handled this. And I think he wouldn’t have done anything until he was sure he knew the truth. In the end, that’s what your firm’s reputation was based on, not honour and revenge. He wouldn’t have destroyed the firm by starting a feud with my Bureau, one killing the other like two Sicilian families. And he certainly wouldn’t have betrayed me to the Germans, which comes to the same thing. So think about that. Don’t just give me a quick answer because there’s a gun pointing your way.”

  In the dim light Zimmer looked pale and sweaty, and he hadn’t dared reach for a beer-mug with his shaking hands. But his words were braver than his voice: “I will promise anything, talking to a pistol.”

  “Yes,” Ranklin said. “I know something about that.” He looked around, thinking, and then said slowly: “We could kill you both here and now – not for revenge or anything, but just the way I would a poisonous snake, to stop it killing me, now or in the future. Only we’ve got a train to catch and no time to make a tidy job of hiding two bodies.

  “So I’ve no interest in saving your firm’s reputation, revenge for the sake of revenge sort of thing; that’s your problem. But I do want to know why Gunther was killed, and I’ll help by passing you anything I find out. That’s a promise. I won’t ask any promises from you because, as you say, we’ve got the guns. But think it over.”

  Zimmer nodded. Ranklin stood up and said to O’Gilroy: “I think you can give the gentleman his pistol back, now.”

  O’Gilroy’s reluctance wasn’t wholly pretence. But he jerked open the gun – it was self-ejecting – and pocketed the cartri
dges before kicking it across the floor into a corner. Then he took back Ranklin’s pistol and backed watchfully behind him towards the door.

  Zimmer called: “One more matter . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You owe us £200.” He didn’t stand up; that might have shown the wetness down the front of his trousers. But he had got back his business sense.

  Ranklin paused, then said: “I suppose we do. But, given your recent attitude, don’t you think it might be a mistake for me to pay you now? Let’s say I’ll take it up when I get back to London – alive.”

  They walked back to the railway tracks. Ranklin said: “Thank you for the rescue.”

  “My pleasure. Sorry I took so long. Had to go back for yer popgun when I’d seen where he’d taken ye. D’ye think ye convinced them?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt it.” He shivered; he was only realising how much he’d sweated now the night air was drying it on him.

  “Any ideas how they found us?” O’Gilroy was casually flipping Hunke’s cartridges away among the tracks.

  “I suppose Zimmer attached himself to Lady Kelso, it’s public knowledge that she’s joining the expedition, and sent Hunke on ahead to scout and make arrangements. They must have guessed they’d find one of our people slipped in with her.”

  He wasn’t happy that they’d guessed right so easily. What was to stop the Germans guessing right, too? Perhaps they just didn’t expect the British to be sabotaging a venture they had suggested themselves.

  Dahlmann and Zurga were sitting in the saloon. The banker demanded: “Where have you been?”

  “I, er. . .” Ranklin was unprepared; he had been dwelling on the more vivid past. “I went looking for the engine, then thought I’d have a quick glance at the town . . .”

  “With your servant?”

  “No, he came to find me. Are we in a hurry?” There still hadn’t been an engine attached.

  “The locomotive is getting water, it will be back at any moment . . . You could have been late,” he growled.

  “But I’m not, so all’s well,” Ranklin said, perhaps overdoing the infuriating cheerfulness; he still wasn’t feeling quite himself, let alone Patrick Snaipe.

  Heading for his sleeper, Dahlmann called: “Tonight, of course, we shall dress for dinner.”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  This, Ranklin thought, was more like life on an Imperial private train. The dining compartment was warm, the electric table lamps glowed steadily, the white-gloved waiters moved dexterously in the narrow space, smoothly replacing plates and pouring more wine. The train rocked but only gently, since they were now on a more main line north to Ulm, and barely any sound filtered through the padded walls.

  Also, it was rather nice to be alive.

  One snag was that O’Gilroy’s ploy to get into the baggage compartment to rescue his black ties hadn’t worked: the guard had simply brought the bags out to him. Still, they would be on the train for at least two more days.

  Perhaps because he now had a viscountess to cater for, their private Bismarck had let rip with a dinner of clear soup and dumplings, some lake fish bought in Friedrichshafen, then goose. And all backed by a crescendo of German wines, starting with a cobweb-light Kabinett and ending in pure treacle with the pudding. Even Zurga had an occasional and appreciative sip. But not many Turks were strict Muslims when it came to drink and it must be particularly tricky in Germany: once you’d taken alcohol and pork off the menu, the table looked pretty bare.

  Yet it was Zurga and Lady Kelso who looked most at home in that setting. He with his short beard and a suit of tails so old it must have been inherited, she rigidly upright in a low-cut gown of pink silk terraced with lace and her hair – of that extreme fairness that can go white almost unnoticed – piled high into a modest tiara. Together, they brought the elegance of candlelight and the Congress of Vienna to this modern world of the telephone and motor-car.

  However, it was quite clear that they were not together, Zurga replying with cold courtesy whenever she tried to pull him into conversation.

  Dahlmann, who simply looked like a banker dressed up, made a little speech of welcome. “Our two great countries have had certain differences over the building of the Baghdad Railway. But we believe that Lady Kelso joining us, at the request of your Foreign Minister, shows such diplomatic problems are now all solved. I think it is most important that we are such an international group: German, English, Turkish, all going forward together to solve the Railway’s other problems. I speak for the Deutsche Bank and the Railway also when I say Welcome, Lady Kelso.”

  It was graceful of him, if a trifle disingenuous, and Ranklin clapped, then they all drank a toast. And Lady Kelso said she was very happy to be here and hoped she’d be of some help – and where, incidentally, were they going next?

  “We go first to Munich where Dr Streibl of the Railway company will join us. There we will be attached to the Orient Express for the rest of our journey.”

  “How splendid,” Lady Kelso smiled. “It’s ages since I went on the Express – and in a private carriage, too. I feel like the consort of an emperor – or sultan.” And Zurga glowered. He must disapprove of sultans, so it was hardly tactful of her. It may, however, have been deliberate. “Why,” she went on to Dahlmann, “doesn’t your Bank have a private train? It must be rich enough and you seem to travel a lot.”

  Dahlmann, perhaps misunderstanding the word “consort” and uneasy with it, now became truly shocked. “It would not be economical. It would be very bad for a German bank to waste money on such luxuries. We are not American bankers.”

  “Very right and proper,” she soothed, wafting herself with her fan – it was years since Ranklin had seen such natural, expressive use of a fan. They seemed to have died out in England. “Then we should be grateful to your Emperor. He must think we’re jolly important.”

  “In Germany we are most proud of the Baghdad Railway. Because, of course,” he explained quickly, “it is so helpful to the Turkish political economy.”

  By now the conversation was slipping from German to English and back, each tending to speak their own language and leaving Zurga doing quick gear-changes. Lady Kelso tried once more to involve him: “Tell me, how is your Government progressing with the modernising of your Empire?”

  It was a polite question, and Zurga kicked it straight out of bounds. “I am sorry you do not have time to keep informed of Turkish affairs now you have left our country.”

  But she didn’t kick quite so easily. The fan fluttered. “Oh dear, how true, how true. I just sit by Lake Maggiore reading week-old copies of The Times. But I do read them. And all I seem to learn is that you’ve spent another loan on new battleships and things.” The fan snapped shut.

  “We have enemies,” Zurga protested, unexpectedly on the defensive. “How do you English spend your money if three countries wanted to capture London – as Russia, Greece and Bulgaria all want Constantinople? If the people of London had heard the sound of enemy guns, so close only a year ago?”

  Ranklin could imagine the distant rumble spilling over the hills and down through the streets of Pera, and yearned for a Turkish view of that battle. But Snaipe, alas, wouldn’t even have heard of it.

  But Lady Kelso had had enough of battles, anyway. “Now someone really must tell me more about this wonderful Railway I’m supposed to be helping. I do recall it was the talk of Constantinople, but that was was over ten years ago.”

  There was a pause and Dahlmann thrust himself into it: “The Baghdad Railway,” he announced firmly. “When it was begun, we understood it could be . . . ein Zank’apfel—”

  “Bone of contention?” Ranklin offered.

  “Yes. For Russia, England, France . . . So we said it should be truly international. But your English financiers were not interested, the French Government did not want to give money to German builders, so it is now almost all financed by money raised on the German bond market.”

  “
By your Bank?” Lady Kelso asked.

  “That is correct.”

  “But didn’t I read that the French are giving a new loan to Turkey?”

  “That is not certain. I have some business to do with it in Constantinople.” So Dahlmann might be meeting Corinna and her damned French boy-friend. Ranklin was frankly jealous – but of Lady Kelso: in a few minutes she’d got something out of Dahlmann that he hadn’t got in twenty-four hours.

  Dahlmann added: “And the loan will not go to help the Railway.”

  “Ah, for other things.” She didn’t say “battleships”. Zurga could hear her plain as day not saying “battleships”.

  He said: “It is important that the Railway will join up Aleppo, Mosul, Baghdad to Constantinople. It will bring civilisation, and also quick justice to the bandits in the desert – to bandits anywhere. It is a shame it was not built when you were travelling in those provinces, Lady Kelso. You would have found it more comfortable.”

  “Really? Of course, I was younger then, but I recall being extremely comfortable in those parts.” The fan moved languidly, like dreamy reminiscence.

  10

  It was another of those three-in-the-morning times when Ranklin woke to silence. Or nearly so: they had stopped, but there was the distant rattle and hoot of other trains moving. He tried to decide if he were going to get to sleep again and realised he was too dry-mouthed. He should have allowed for the heating and, like a Decent Englishman, slept with the window part open.

  Anyway, the effort of deciding had woken him thoroughly so he got up, lit a cigarette and put on his dressing-gown. Then, to spread the smoke more fairly, he went out into the corridor. He was surprised to see light under the door of the saloon and, when he investigated, Lady Kelso.

  At first glance, he thought she’d changed into another, blue, evening gown. It certainly had all the frills, lace and fuzzy bits, though was less likely to give her a chest cold, but finally he decided it was a species of dressing-gown. Her fair hair hung loose, well past her shoulders, and she had been puzzling through a German newspaper with a lorgnette.