There was one indigestible fact to examine and deal with before he could continue to enjoy this mad rush into the unknown. He slapped it down baldly in front of Kingstone.
“William Armiger shot Natalia dead.”
“Agreed. I just suggested as much. That’s what my head and my heart have been telling me.”
“Not good enough. An inspection of entrails to arrive at a conclusion won’t swing it with the Force. I offer you—not a silent exchange between conscience and corpse but a conclusion based on sound police work.”
“You’re over-revving! You haven’t had the time,” Kingstone challenged.
“No. But the Surrey force have. That local P.C. you showed into the hall before I went off to Guildford—Brightwell his name is—had come to hand me a car registration number. Sent along to close off the bridge, he’d exceeded his orders and lingered on in the lane, where he was able to confront the Maybach boys and reinforce the instructions regarding closure personally. He didn’t like the look of them. He didn’t trust them not to sneak back so he cycled off a way after them and hid himself in the bushes, preparing to spring out and be unkind to them.
“Figure his astonishment when he saw the driver of a grey car he’d already clocked skulking in a lay-by, firmly heave the carefully positioned diversion sign out of the way and drive over the bridge in cavalier fashion. He took its number and eventually made his way over here with a description. Old Riley. Grey. Male driver in tweeds and a flat cap. Togged out like the Prince of Wales on his way to spend a weekend at Sandringam. No passengers. ‘Townie. Up to no good,’ was Brightwell’s verdict. A cigarette smoker, the constable says. He produced a paper bag with a partly smoked Woodbine he’d found freshly abandoned and still smouldering at the lay-by he’d thought to examine.
“I asked the desk sergeant at Guildford to get on the phone and follow this up for me while I was interviewing Cummings. The description was answered by the car belonging to a silk stocking manufacturer from Liverpool. A further check with the motoring boys at the Yard told us that it had been reported stolen early this morning from a hotel in London. A hotel just around the corner from Harley Street.
“A follow-up call just now when I got back reveals the Riley reappeared parked more or less where it was supposed to be—an hour ago. I’ve arranged for it to be searched and fingerprinted before the owner takes it over again. Even if you give it a good cleaning it’s impossible to commandeer a car and drive it about without leaving some trace of yourself behind. It’s hard to make the general public understand that but Armiger isn’t the general public. He’s Met-trained and now FBI. He’s aware of the pitfalls. But he’s not without the arrogance of the Metropolitan men when it comes to policing. Some of them think any police presence worthy of consideration stops at the city limits and out here nothing’s moved on since Robin Hood picked the Sheriff of Nottingham’s girdle-pouch. We’ll see.”
“All this is fine, Joe, if you’re proposing to clap Armiger in irons. I hope you’re not. We need him with his gun-hand free. Our third man. He was doing his job. It’s hard to stomach but I keep coming back to it: he was doing what he was supposed to do—protecting my life. Three guns in that Maybach, Joe, and all ready to point at me. What was a bodyguard to do? A body-guard who’s just the night before been turned loose, remember. We dispensed with his services without a word said and abandoned him in London. I felt bad about that.”
“He might have tried arresting her and bringing her in for questioning.”
Joe weathered the pitying look he was given.
“He’d met Natalia. I think he formed an impression. Though not one he wanted to share with me. He’d figured out what she was up to and, I’ll bet, who was employing her. He knew she could talk herself out of any tight spot and strike again when no one was looking. He didn’t trust me not to be taken in by her one more time, I guess. Look here, Joe, you don’t decide a rearing cobra is harmless because it hasn’t bitten you yet. You don’t ask it to hold off while you canvass other opinions. Armiger assessed the risk and wasn’t prepared to take it. He knew he couldn’t cover the two thugs and Natalia both when they unaccountably split so he went for the head and left us to us to deal with the easier bits. He knows you and he knows me, Joe. He calculated that neither one of us was capable of dealing decisively with a woman. Right?” He waited until he received an assenting nod from Joe before continuing: “It worked, which made it a good decision. Decisions are always judged by body count, you know that. As far as I’m concerned, Armiger is clear of blame and has, once more, demonstrated his sound judgement, his loyalty and, yes, his integrity.”
Seeing the sudden frown the word triggered, he went on, his tone more emollient. “Look, Joe, I’m not insensitive. It’s clear to me there’s some kind of connection between you and William. A very uneasy connection. If—”
“It’s all right, Kingstone. I can work with him. In fact I much prefer to have him where I can see him. I just wanted you to be aware of what he’s capable of doing.”
“How did he know you were down here, Joe? Did he have this address?”
“No. No one had. The Maybach party were invited to come and introduce themselves from the moment they picked up my bag from Alfred. But they had to get as far as my Chelsea flat to do that. I keep my phone number quiet for reasons you can imagine and when I’m away, my calls get put through to Alfred.”
“So who’s got your Chelsea number, apart from your family?”
Joe was thinking hard. “The Commissioner and James Bacchus. Armiger may have had it from way back when we were working on a fast-moving case down here in Surrey in twenty-six. Would he have kept it over seven years and an ocean?”
Kingstone nodded. “He’s a man who likes to keep records. Like his boss, Hoover. It’s said that J.E.H. has a file on anyone who catches his interest and they’re stored away against future need. Anyone else?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. In a rush of gratitude and carried away by admiration for a clever and gallant old dame, I pencilled it on the back of one of my Scotland Yard cards and handed it to Hermione Herbert. The Dowser in Chief who saved the dancer’s body from the mud. The card disappeared into the depths of her handbag. The steel clasp clicked and there I’ve no doubt it remains. Safer than the Bank of England. She’ll hardly have been broadcasting the information—she’s so discreet she hardly trusts me, I think!”
“That all?”
“Yes. Armiger knew about the Harley Street place. He could have been keeping a watch on it and just followed the Maybach on the off chance, nicking a Riley from round the corner to do it. Or, he could have lurked near my flat in Chelsea and picked them up there. That’s what I would have done.” He gave a thin smile. “And, after all, I trained the bugger!”
“Either way it shows he’s still at his post,” said Kingstone. “As I said. He’s stayed with me whether you like it or not. Right. He’s still in position—shall we assume that?”
“Wait a minute,” Joe said thoughtfully, still gnawing at the bone. “Why has he stayed with you? Would he deliberately countermand one of their orders? So emphatically as to assassinate their own agent and imperil their hired guns? Men who might well talk if they were taken prisoner? Dangerous procedure, wouldn’t you say?”
Kingstone’s frown deepened. “I’ll say! I agree—a piece of behaviour that takes some accounting for.” He gave Joe a challenging smile. “I see you’re not willing to entertain the notion that the man may simply have acted out of a sense of loyalty to me. Ok, I’m his boss, but I had thought more than that—his companion in arms, his friend. You don’t need to have known someone forever, Joe, to know that you’d protect them with your own life. Why—any villain threatening you or Brutus would have me to reckon with and I’ve known you both for all of two minutes. Is that too sentimental for you?” He finished awkwardly, clearing his throat.
Joe laughed to dissipate the man’s unease. “Sentimental? You’re talking to a man who was reared on the stories
of Dumas and Walter Scott! We’re a nation of people who die regularly throwing themselves into rivers to save their spaniels and chasing armed thieves out of jewellers’ shops. But I’m thinking it’s all a lot simpler than unravelling the twisted rope of Armiger’s character. It’s all down to us. We really messed up their plans by rushing off down here.”
“They wouldn’t take kindly to that!”
“They gave Natalia her orders and she obliged with the tools she had to hand. They may not even have consulted Armiger. With no instruction to the contrary, he was simply doing the job he’d been given—watching your back. As far as the Nine Men are concerned, Armiger is still their man. Not in thrall to you. I know you find it hard to do but look at it from their point of view for a moment. He’s upper echelon now, let’s not forget. No longer executive level. Of particular value, or influence, you say. But, by doing his bodyguarding so effectively, he’s fouled up their scheme.”
“They don’t know it was Armiger who pulled the trigger. Even the Surrey police don’t know who did. They’ll assume it was you, Joe. Or even me. They’ll have put Natalia’s death down on our account. William’s slate is still clean! We can use him.”
His eagerness was greeted by a long silence but Kingstone battled on, undimmed. “There, that’s one side accounted for: The Three Men. Are you ready to consider the opposition?”
“Let me show you some ugly mugs and see if they suggest anything,” Joe said. “I’ll get my briefcase. Here we are. Let’s start at the top. With the men you claim are untouchable by the Met’s sticky fingers. Don’t be too sure about that! Bacchus, you see, managed to get these to my desk for me yesterday afternoon. You’ll recognise them.”
He took seven photographs from a file and fanned them out on a footstool.
“Well! What do you know!” Kingstone chortled. “We thought Hoover was on the ball but I guess Special Branch’s filing system takes—what did Lydia say?—the biscuit. You’ve got ’em all! Got names to go with the faces?”
“We could do with a little help with that,” Joe admitted.
Kingstone shuffled through them, whistling with surprise. “These are good shots. Studio quality mostly. How did you get them?”
“Oh, Bacchus knows a bit about files too,” Joe said modestly. “He knows who he wants to cover and he has relations—some friendly, some not so friendly—with newspaper editors who in turn have favours done for them by society photographers and suchlike … Yes, Cornelius—you too! Showing your better side, you’ll be pleased to hear.”
“Here, let me lay these out,” Kingstone offered. “In order of villainy, reading from left to right. Know who this handsome fellow is?”
“Yes. Who doesn’t? That’s P. L. Crispin. Head of a New York bank with branches all over the world, not least in London.”
“Apart from some eastern potentates, possibly, who get themselves weighed in diamonds, he’s the world’s richest man. And the most ruthless. But a respectable family man—he leads a blameless personal life as far as anyone can determine. Though it would still be interesting to read what Hoover has on him. Bases: New York, London, Zurich.
“Second, we have the world’s greatest industrialist. American. Renfrew D. Cornwallis. Fingers in every manufacturing pie you can think of, from war ships to paperclips. At present negotiating a sale of armament to the new Germany.
“Third, I see you have your own English counterpart for Cornwallis, though a lesser counterpart. A Birmingham-based purveyor of pop guns to whoever has the cash.”
“Yes. He’s said to be doing well in the Japanese market. Theodore Pecksniff—you should be ashamed of yourself! Bacchus has got your number! And the address of the eye-catching girl who sings with the band at Ciro’s.” Joe tapped the broad, self-satisfied face angrily with a forefinger and moved on. “Fourth is a US lawyer with international connections. Claims to be a friend of J. Edgar. Can that be right?” he asked.
“If you aren’t able to make that claim, you’re dead or in jail. He’s the guy who introduced me to Armiger. Adolphus Crewe. He’s useful to the group. If you want to circumvent the Law, you have to know its boundaries and the quick ways through them. And it helps to be in tight with the lawmakers.”
“Five.” Joe frowned. “Now this one I can unmask. Benjamin Buchanan. British navy man. Younger son of an English aristocratic family. American mother and retains strong trans-Atlantic connections. Bacchus had trouble identifying him out of uniform. Born wearing epaulettes, we all thought. Never seen without a gold-trimmed peaked cap. We got this one of him in civvies from his old nanny. Retired some years ago and is rarely seen about town. He still thinks like a naval officer of the last century, that is—in terms of world domination. He has scary things to say about the Japanese and the German designs on what he regards as his waters, which is to say any salty stretch between Scapa Flow and the Antarctic. He has plans to deal with them.”
“How does he feel about Roosevelt’s navy?”
“He has plans to deal with that too.”
“Ah. He feels it’s getting too big for its boots.”
“That’s not the problem. He admires ‘big.’ He would suggest increasing the size of the boots.”
“Can you see the pattern yet, Joe?”
“It’s emerging. Money, manufacture, legal knowledge, armed enforcement. Two more to go. Next one even I can spot. Provisioning.”
“Six. A Canadian, this one, of Dutch descent. King of the grain market. The Roman Empire thrived or foundered on the adequacy of its grain supplies. Circuses useless without the bread. The man with the key to the warehouse runs the world. No reason why it shouldn’t happen again. Van Hooter … Hoosen … something like that.”
“If you’re having trouble with his name I can’t wait to hear what you make of the last fellow in the lineup,” Joe remarked, raising one eyebrow. “My friendly pharmacist with the straw boater.”
“Not necessarily the least in villainy. Though he is an economist. I’ve put him over here because he’s more of an unknown quantity. To me at any rate. Now he’d answer to … ah …”
“Heimdallr Abraham Lincoln Ackermann,” Lydia supplied. Absorbed by the lineup of rogues, they hadn’t heard her come in. She was advancing on them, clutching a pile of glossy magazines in her hand. “I thought you ought to see these. Gracious!” she said. “Is this a coincidence? I don’t think so! I’d just found a photograph of that man in the Tatler. One of about four that may be of interest to you. I was going through the collection Vanessa keeps in her bedroom. My daughter is ballet-crazed, Cornelius. I’m not a hoarder but Vanessa’s as keen on the ballet as I used to be at her age, and when she’s away at school I keep all the copies of the ones with ballet items in them. The more scandalous the better as far as the girls are concerned. She adores Natalia Kirilovna so I had remembered we had some shots of her in stock. It occurred to me that if you’re looking for her killer, you might take a look at the men she was close to over the years. It must be someone she knows well. Coming out all this way to do it shows a high level of determination, wouldn’t you think? I say … may I speak freely or are you going to tell me to watch my tongue and not meddle in men’s affairs?”
“I take it men’s affairs are just exactly what you’re preparing to rub our noses in, Lyd.” Joe sighed.
“Go ahead, Lydia,” said Kingstone, encouraging. “You’ll find us shockproof and receptive.”
“Well, cast your eyes over these items. Flashbulb photos of high society dos, accompanied by informed, if breathless, commentary. This one’s taken at the Savoy ballroom. It features that gent there at the end of the row: Ackermann. Goodness, how could she! Not exactly Prince Siegfried is he?”
Joe peered at her magazine. “That’s definitely Natalia in the embrace of the King of the Norse Gods. Heimdallr looks better on the dance floor than he does in our rogues’ gallery,” he commented. “What’s that he’s doing? The Continental? Beautiful music, dangerous rhythm?”
“No. See where
his left hand is? It’s the rumba. I expect dancing with a ballerina brings out the gigolo in you.”
“Well, these girls certainly make a feller look good in the spotlight. What’s the date of this? Mmm … four months ago …”
“You’re both dismissing him because you’ve caught him in mid hip-roll. It reduces him to something approaching our own human condition. We’d feel the same if anyone ever managed to snap Adolf Hitler Lindy-hopping.”
“Reassured?”
“Yes. But it’s never likely to happen. My Branchman, quoting one of his interesting sources of information, reports that this Ackermann, who’s quick-stepped his way into a position of influence with the Fascist government, has been overheard bragging to what he considered a safe pair of ears that he was ‘biding his time.’ When that upstart Hitler has done the dirty work and reestablished a strong and pure Germanic state, cleansing it of unions, communists, Jews and foreigners of the wrong type, the time will be ripe for a more intellectual, aristocratic leader to emerge.”
“One with international backing and friends in high places with open cheque books,” Kingstone muttered.
“Ah! You’ve caught up!” Lydia said. “Marcus has been saying as much ever since Hitler got himself made Chancellor. Well, before that, actually. But here, look—this is interesting. From six years ago. New York. ‘Ballet girls let their hair down and kick up their heels,’ it says. Taken at a charity ball given in honour of Diaghilev and his company by a New York socialite and fan, Mrs. P. L. Crispin. I saved it for the lady in the foreground doing the Charleston—Beata Boromine, who was the latest sensation then. But look—who do you see in the background? That’s Natalia again, isn’t it?”
“Yes. A very young Natalia. And that’s not me she’s dancing with. That’s …” Kingstone peered more closely. “Banker, upright family man and champion Nine Men’s Morris player P.L. Crispin making a rare appearance in public in support of his wife’s enterprise. Though he gets no billing here, I see.”
A Spider in the Cup Page 26
