“Do you ever stop arsing about, man?” For an uncomfortable moment Joe had the feeling that Armitage was going to reach out, take hold of him by the shoulders and shake him. The sergeant displaced his anger by kicking a hole in a Claridge’s wastepaper basket. “It’s more than a thought. It’s a plan and it’s being worked on. Some of the planners will be sitting smirking around that conference table next week. Working towards our … your destruction. The buggers are right here in London. Sipping their Earl Grey from china cups in swish hotels. Honoured guests. Copper-bottomed reputations on the world stage. And the one man who can make a difference—cast his weight on one side or the other—is …”
“Right here, under our joint care, Bill? I had realised.”
“I hope you’re armed with something a bit more effective than a screwdriver, Captain. At this darned conference—this free-for-all—he’ll be rubbing shoulders with every villain in Europe and beyond that. It may not come to assassination—he’s more valuable on his two feet and reporting back to the president. He gets listened to. He’s a fair-minded man. But he’s a conduit. If he returns, primed, to tell Roosevelt what he already is disposed to hear—that Britain’s not worth his support, that it’s a busted flush, a treacherous, vindictive, self-glorifying bastard of a country—well, support, if any is coming, will go to Germany.”
Joe cleared his throat. “It’s going to be a long, sweaty month, Bill. I’ve heard you. And understood.” He felt a sudden rush of disgust with undercover skirmishings, dubious allegiances and threats of daggers in the back. Impatience broke through as he spoke briskly: “Bill! We’re not politicians, we’re not spies, we’re policemen! Let’s do what we’re trained to do. It’s all we can do. And we can start by remembering why we’re here. To protect that powerful and, I believe, well-intentioned man downstairs. A man I can respect. I liked him.” He strolled to the window. “How active is our bird? Could he manage that fire escape if it came to a sudden exit?”
“No problem there! He’s as spry as a mountain goat. Fists like cured hams and he knows how to use them. I wouldn’t tangle with him.”
“Weaknesses? I like to know where a man keeps his Achilles heel.”
Armitage thought for a moment then jerked his head at the next room. “There’s only one. Her, next door.”
“The ballet dancer?”
“She makes him less than he is. She reduces him to a twitching wreck. It’s pathetic. He’d follow her to the ends of the earth. Well, he does. Would marry her tomorrow, he says, but she won’t oblige. Taking little thing but I wouldn’t trust her far.” He flicked a glance at Joe and added carefully, “Russian’s her first language. Born in St. Petersburg, she claims. She doesn’t know I speak it and I’m keeping that quiet.”
“Very wise,” said Joe. “Shall we cast an eye over her billet? I think we should get to know this lady who has the attention of the man who has the ear of the president who has his finger on the trigger of the gun that’s pointed at our head.”
They entered another opulent space, the twin of the suite they had just left. Joe stood for a moment looking around for and not seeing signs of occupancy.
“Has she been here?” Joe asked.
“Her things are in the cupboards,” Armitage said, throwing open a wardrobe. “Her maid unpacked for her.”
“Maid? Is she on the premises?”
“She has a room somewhere on an upper floor. Julia’s not seen her either. I checked before breakfast.”
“Julia?”
“Julia Ivanova. The maid. She’s not some gaga old biddy—she’s as smart as a whip and pretty as a picture. If you like Russian looks. Dark, high cheekbones, suffering Madonna expression.”
“And where is she at the moment, this icon?”
“Up in her room, I expect. They’re as thick as thieves, I’d say. You ought to talk to her.”
“These are mostly evening dresses,” Joe commented, riffling through the silks and velvets on the hangers. “French labels.” He bunched the midnight blue silk of the dress at the front of the rack and drew it towards him. “Madeleine Vionnet. Oh, how smart!” He sniffed with pleasure. “And a trace of L’heure bleue.”
“Very apt! The Blue Hour. Twilight. That’s when she lives her life. In the evenings. She sleeps until noon, rehearses or performs until ten. The rest of the night’s hers to do what she likes with. Never sees daylight! Terrible life! At least that’s Kingstone’s version of it.”
“Different generations, backgrounds, interests … You’d wonder what on earth they had in common,” Joe said, mystified.
“Until you see them together.” The unromantic Armitage frowned and Joe stayed silent, understanding that he was struggling to clothe in words an emotional state that was outside his experience. “Weird, it was. Seemed made for each other. Very natural together … not lovey-dovey. No, nothing sloppy—just … together. In a room full of people you’d know those two were a pair. Still—she’s used to performing, I have to remind myself,” he finished with a return to his usual hard-headed asperity.
“How long have they been carrying on? Would you know that?”
“Six years. He saw her dance in Swan Lake at the Metropolitan when the Diaghilev company was touring the States and was knocked sideways. They say he travelled everywhere with her until they all came back to Europe.”
“Is he a faithful lover?”
“Lord, no! There was a showgirl on the liner over—maybe there were two—who caught his eye. You couldn’t call either of them faithful. They have others in their lives but they never discuss it with each other, according to Kingstone. Tatler magazine knows more about her past than he does.”
“And that’s a useful thought,” Joe murmured. “Worth following up, perhaps.” He sighed. “An extraordinary way of going on! Or am I being old-fashioned? Tell me—where is she at the moment? Did she spend the night here?”
“Told you—I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the maid.” And, tetchily: “This female element is all new to me too. The bodyguard’s not someone they’d confide in. If they see me at all, I’m the great gowk in the corner, always in the way unless they’re actually being shot at, then they see the point of the broad shoulders. Ideally, for this job, you’d be sans eyes, sans ears and sans you-know-what. Inconveniently, if you want a useful triggerfinger you have to have the rest of the package. Natalia turned up with her luggage and her maid on Monday. Warm reunion. I know she was here on Tuesday night, though I didn’t see her. I think I heard her though!” Armitage cringed at the memory. No sign of her on Wednesday and she wasn’t here last night, according to Julia. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Isn’t he concerned? And shouldn’t we be concerned? I’m supposing our remit embraces mental equilibrium as well as physical well-being.”
Armitage considered this. “I’d leave it,” he advised. “It’s a game they play. Wouldn’t do for you and it certainly wouldn’t do for me. I’d fetch her a wallop! She’ll be back.”
Joe picked up a silver-framed photograph from the dressing table. “This is her, the runaway, here with Kingstone?”
“That’s her. Taken in Switzerland last winter.”
Joe admired the small figure tucked like a teddy bear under the senator’s arm. Clear features in a pale rounded face were softened by an abundance of curling black hair and a furry hat. Dark eyes as round as buttons peered out with a gleam of mischief from the sheltering folds of tweed suiting. “An informal pose,” the society magazines would have sniffed but Joe was enchanted. The photographer and whoever held the snapshot in his hand was involved in their careless gaiety and—yes—their undisguised affection.
“And our worldly, sophisticated statesman is truly in love with this ‘taking little thing’ you say?”
Armitage bridled at the question. “How would I know? You’re asking, so I’ll say—‘in love’ doesn’t come near. Obsessed? No, sounds too melodramatic and mad. This is something strong but it’s not uncomfortable … Magicked! That�
�s it! Poor bloke’s been magicked!” He dismissed his flight into fantasy with a shrug and a grin.
Joe groaned. “That’s all we needed! Look, Sarge, I can’t give you a direct order any more, so I’ll give you a bit of advice. Find the antidote for this love potion before worse occurs. Oh, and when you’ve found it—give me the recipe. You never know when it might come in handy.”
“Too late for some, I think, Captain.” His expression was hard to read.
“Seven years too late, Sarge? Perhaps that’s the answer—leave it to Time. Was that your antidote? Time? And distance?” He put the question carefully, conscious that this was his first reference to the tragedy he suspected lay behind the sergeant’s flight.
He needn’t have worried about being misunderstood. Armitage replied at once, “No. But—La vengeance se mange très bien froide. I’ve learned to appreciate cold dishes since I emigrated.”
So that was what had brought him back. Could it be so simple?
Revenge. The notion had crossed Joe’s mind but he’d questioned it. He’d told Bacchus that he, Joe, might expect a bullet in the head from the formidable sergeant but there was someone else, he knew, who was a much more deserving target for Armitage’s wrath. The woman responsible for making him flee the country with a capital charge of murder on his head. And a broken heart.
“Watch it, Bill! There’s a much older saying that I’ve learned to put great store by. Confucius. ‘Before you embark on a journey of revenge,’ the wise man advised, ‘dig two graves.’ ”
CHAPTER 5
The telephone shrilled as Armitage was giving this his silent consideration. He stepped forward to lift the receiver. “Yes, he’s here … It’s for you, sir. Cottingham.”
Joe took the phone. “Ralph? Still here, yes. Message from the Yard? Yes, go ahead … Where? Dug up in Chelsea? A few yards from my own front door, you’re saying … I think I may have an alibi. Tell them to look elsewhere …
“What! Say that again … I see. And they say they want you? Must be important … but—no.”
He looked directly at Armitage, implying that he was speaking for his benefit also. “No. I’m countermanding that order. I want you to remain on duty here, overseeing things. The senator is well guarded—he has his own eminently capable guard dog at his side. I’ll deal with this other matter myself. Tell them I have it in hand and I’ll be at the Yard in ten minutes.”
“You’re walking out on us?” Armitage asked. “I have other duties. And a dead body perhaps should take precedence over one that is not likely to become so in the immediate future. Law enforcement before politicking, Armitage. I decided my priorities a long time ago. And I’m senior enough to be able to indulge myself. Something very puzzling and very sinister has come—all too literally—to the surface in the middle of my patch and I’m going to cast an eye over it.” He took a step towards the door. “You know Cottingham, I think? Now Chief Superintendent Cottingham.”
Armitage nodded and confirmed: “Good bloke. We can work together. I’ll make your apologies to the senator. Don’t you worry about him—I’ve got his back.” A smile broke through, showing, Joe was sure, a gleam of envy, a reminder of the keen young detective Joe had known. “A body, eh? You’re still lead hound in this kennel, then?”
Joe knew for certain that the sergeant would have liked nothing better than to be running alongside, nose to the ground, following a trail.
THERE WAS AN indignant detective inspector waiting to brief him in his office.
The man, to whom Joe was relieved he could give a name—Orford, that was it, Orford—was red-faced and breathing heavily. He was standing about, tense, and giving off a smell of river water and sweat. In his agitation, he ignored Joe’s invitation to take a seat. Calmly, Joe took the bowler hat from the twitching fingers and put it firmly on the hat stand. The command to sit down was accepted when Joe repeated it more forcefully. It was followed by a friendly request for an account of the inspector’s adventures on the riverbank.
Joe listened, fascinated, to his account of the discovery a short time ago. Inspector Orford knew a good deal about the case since, while in the area on police business, he’d been diverted from an early morning stakeout by the sound of police whistles and shouting. He’d been very quickly on the scene. Joe was invited to figure the inspector’s horror when he’d come upon seven members of the public digging up and making off with a corpse with the apparent collusion of two uniformed beat bobbies. A pair of strapping blokes in red neckerchiefs were helping the officers to load the body onto a sling hurriedly fashioned from their police capes and carry it up to the Chelsea embankment.
“But the scene of crime!” the inspector revealed that he’d yelled. “You’ve pounded it to pieces! Nothing should be disturbed! You know the procedures!”
Joe had nodded, understanding that the man was carefully covering his back. “Quite a proper response,” he’d said encouragingly. “Do go on.”
A different view had prevailed when one of the bobbies had pointed to the river. The desperately struggling officer had informed the inspector in blunt terms that in three minutes time he’d have lost the scene of crime under six foot of water. He’d remarked that they were lucky they’d got the manpower on hand to get her out before worse occurred and muttered that he didn’t believe even a Met inspector had the power to command the Thames to retreat. Orford had lost no time in getting his Oxfords wet. He’d declared himself, in accordance with the latest practice: Scene of Crime Officer. As such, all decisions were his to take and not even the Commissioner, if he’d come strolling by, would have had the authority to say him nay. A bold move and the inspector’s subsequent instructions showed a calm and decisive mind, Joe concluded. He further concluded that the officer had assumed—and who should blame him?—that he would be given responsibility for the follow-up police work.
“So there you have it, sir,” Orford finished resentfully. “A corpse preserved in the nick of time, and waiting on the slab. The case taken out of my hands and handed over to a superior officer. Handed over, what’s more, at the suggestion of a member of the public.” His tone grew steely. “But a well-connected member of the public. Makes a difference. If that will be all, sir, I will surrender my notes to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other things waiting for my attention.” He rose slightly in his seat, awaiting dismissal.
Joe had been impressed by the man’s speed of reaction, his workman-like methods, his sure-footed control throughout the whole difficult and unusual recovery of the body. He’d spotted with a flash of sympathy the tide line of oily Thames water reaching up over the knees of the inspector’s smart grey trousers, the soggy state of the black Oxfords on his feet. And, lastly, Joe had appreciated the man’s pluck in speaking up in a tone that bordered on mutiny to his Assistant Commissioner.
“No, that won’t be all, inspector. Remain seated, will you?” Joe said pleasantly. “This is your case. I’m handing it straight back to you.” He reached down and opened the murder bag he always kept to hand by his desk. “Look, I can’t offer much in the way of fresh trousering and clean shoes, but these might help.” He found and handed over a pair of black woollen socks. “Always keep a spare pair by me.”
Guardedly, the officer tugged off his shoes and squelching socks and pulled on the fresh pair. His face melted into an expression of bliss as he eased the soft fabric up to his knees. “Cor! That’s a good moment! Nothing like the feel of dry socks sliding up your shins. My old Ma used to send me a pair every month. I think you must have been in the trenches, too, sir?”
“Long enough to appreciate dry feet. As good for the spirits as a cease-fire.”
Joe picked up the shoes and, talking as he went, strolled over to park them on the sunny window sill where they sat, steaming gently. “You ought to know, Orford, that there are things going on in London even I have no knowledge of. The city’s full of important foreigners, some here with evil intent. There’s clearly something about this body that someone �
�” he stabbed a forefinger upwards at the ceiling, “wants kept quiet. If I were you, I’d be grateful that some other bugger with more gold frogging on his uniform has been shoved in to carry the can, which may well turn out to be full of worms.”
The inspector stared in surprise and sat back more easily in his chair.
“I’ll look into it. Think of me as advisor and can carrier, will you? Now fill me in on a few more details in the car. We’ll go straight there. Which hospital have they taken her to? St. Mary’s? St. Bartholomew’s?”
“Neither. She’s on the premises, so to speak. A few yards down the embankment in the police lab.” Orford paused, noted Joe’s raised eyebrow and answered his unspoken question. “Dunno, sir. It’s all a bit hush-hush. I’d guess somebody at the end of the line decided that until identity is established it might be more discreet to keep this one under wraps on our own premises. Even though conditions aren’t perfect.”
Joe nodded. “Hospitals being rather soft targets for the gentlemen of the press … easy of access and bribable informants behind every screen?”
“And this body being one as would be likely to get the flash bulbs popping and the headlines shrieking … Just wait till you’ve seen her, sir, you’ll start composing headlines yourself. I did!” Orford sighed. “The only reason the press hasn’t got wind of it is this group of witnesses knows how to keep their mouths shut. They’re not the sort who’d go blabbing. Members of some society or other … dowsers—that’s it. And the female in charge is a lady you’d not disobey if she told you to keep shtum. The Home Office has appointed a pathologist and he’s at it right now …” He put up a hand to ward off Joe’s objection. “No, no! Preliminary inspection only. He’s awaiting the arrival of the appointed case officer at the slab side before he gets down to any serious slicing. You don’t need to spell out the rules to a St. Bartholomew’s man.”
A Spider in the Cup Page 6
