“A Herculean task all right.”
“And Hercules has the answer. Don’t hack ’em off one at a time. Set the field on fire when the wind’s in a favourable direction and burn up the body. I planned that when the right moment came I’d tell the president what was intended. By then I’d have names and proof of conspiracy.
“I have them!” He turned to Joe the strained martyr’s face he’d seen before. “I have a feeling I’ll go down in the same bonfire I’m planning but, by God, I’ll set a match to this load of infected lumber! Just make sure there’s an ocean between us when I start playing with fire, Joe. This knowledge you have is damn dangerous but—not knowing—that might be even worse. I figured you’re a man who’d rather look a monster in the face.”
“Hold tight, Cornelius! You did the right thing. The only thing. But now you have to get back and blow the gaffe at once. Tell the president the whole filthy tale. Give him all the names you have, no matter how unlikely they may sound. He has to know. There’s nothing more you can do. They may try the same stunt again with some other poor sap holding the gun to the presidential head. At least, if warned, he’ll know what to expect.”
In their earnest conversation, heads together over the table, they hadn’t heard the silent approach.
“Have you paid the bill?” Armitage lowering over them wanted to know.
“Yes,” Joe said.
“Good. Wouldn’t want any waitress coming shrieking after you when you do a runner. Get on your feet and hoof it to those trees over there. We’ve got company. The sort of company we don’t want anywhere near these kids. I’ll watch your back. Either of you armed?”
They shook their heads and Armitage’s eyes gleamed with disdain. “Go!” he said. They went.
A moment later, Colt in hand, he beckoned them to move ahead of him down the path, deeper into the park. In the distance a child screamed with excitement at the pond and the band began to tune up for its afternoon performance. Normality only served to exaggerate their strange situation. “Here, we’ll regroup here,” Bill said.
“Here” was an uncomfortable place to halt and circle the wagons, Joe thought. A stand of elm trees surrounded them in a druidic formation. Thick underbrush beyond on the perimeter could be concealing a platoon. Joe had the uncomfortable feeling of being thrust into an arena. He looked about him trying to locate the danger Armitage was aware of. He found himself doing an awkward little soft shoe shuffle with Kingstone, each trying to get in front of the other as a shield, neither knowing from which direction an attack would come. He would have laughed had he not been alarmed by Armitage’s expression of cold determination. He remembered it from the war. It usually heralded some fearful barrage of noise and shot and a feat of physical prowess on the sergeant’s part. It had been etched on the face that leaned over his wounded body in the mud of Flanders, cursing him for an idiot, before dragging him, under fire, to safety.
“Backs to a tree and keep well away from each other.” Armitage used a gesture of his Colt to indicate the direction in which they should move. A regulation protection procedure but Joe was fighting back an anxiety that threatened to paralyse him. Who was out there? A single gunman or a firing squad? What on earth had spooked Armitage? Was all this defensive posturing necessary? He was about to call his old sergeant to heel when his sharp ears caught a sound on the path behind them. A movement? A footfall on the beaten earth of the path? He strained to listen. The sound was not repeated. But, behind Armitage, a shrub rustled in a stirring of air that seemed not to affect the leaves on the trees above.
Before Joe could call a warning to watch his back, Bill put a finger to his lips, telling him to remain silent. He stood smiling grimly at them. He drew a second gun from his pocket, holding it in his left hand. The spare. Joe recognised it as a .22 pistol. Probably the one he’d used on Natalia. “That’s better. That’s good. Now we won’t be interrupted. I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
He moved swiftly towards Kingstone and, deftly reversing the heavy Colt, he smashed it into the man’s face. Kingstone collapsed groaning onto the ground, blood beginning to flow from his mouth and nose. Still conscious, Joe thought, as the eyes flashed up at him briefly in appeal. But badly hurt. He’d been too startled to move his head back with the blow and he’d taken a cruncher.
“What the hell …!” Joe made to dash to the senator’s aid.
“Back off!” The Colt, right way round again, emphasised the command.
“Bugger you, Bill! What are you up to?”
“Carrying out an execution. And you’re going to help. This toe rag’s a traitor. Hadn’t you worked it out? And I thought you were smart! I tried to warn you. My firm’s had their eye on him for months. I’ve been charged with sorting out the problem. On foreign soil for choice. And if a British and highly respected copper finds he has to kill a renegade resisting arrest, there’ll be no comeback for the FBI. This is big, Sandilands and it stinks. More convenient for my government to contain the whole sorry mess and dispose of it well away from home.”
Joe was struggling to make sense of this. “But you saved Kingstone’s life—killing Natalia! If you wanted him dead why not stand back and let her oblige? What are you thinking, you barmy bugger?”
Was that doubt or irritation narrowing the sergeant’s eyes for a moment?
“She jumped the gun. Messed up. He was always my partner, my responsibility. I got my final orders in the hall this morning. He’s done or said something that’s made him surplus to requirements. ‘Kill him within an hour of leaving the conference.’ Those are orders you don’t disobey.”
Joe was bewildered and exasperated. This made no sense. “Of course you do! You’re a man with a mind of your own, not an automaton! What’s happened to you, Bill? Look here—I won’t be involved with your patriotic pigtail-pulling and wrist-slapping!” Joe’s anger was making him reckless. “Get a grip, man!”
“Or what—you’ll put me on latrine duty for a month? Stuff the officer talk. They’re giving you no choice. Here, take this!”
To Joe’s surprise, Armitage held out his Colt.
In his uncertainty, any gun would have felt reassuring in Joe’s grip. He took it, his finger reaching automatically for the trigger and held it down by his side.
“I’ve lent you my Police Positive, Sandilands,” Armitage said. “Your fingerprints will be found all over the stock of the gun that shot the senator. Clear as day. Go on then. It won’t be the first man you’ve killed and you’ll be doing the world a favour. You could do it in the trenches. You can do it now. If you need a reason, I’ll give you one. The best.” The voice lost its challenging flourish and took on the directness of a bayonet thrust as he added: “This piece of shit was planning to assassinate his own president.”
“Nonsense! Kingstone would never …”
“He’s about to spring a military coup against Roosevelt. He’s planning to use the army to take over Washington.” Two more thrusts to Joe’s heart.
Joe looked from one to the other, confused, knowing only that he was being used. “I don’t believe that!”
“No one’s interested in what you believe. Just for once in your life, shut your mouth and listen to what someone’s telling you! No time for your verbal prestidigitation, old man.” For a moment, the lip curled in scorn, then, with a return to his usual earnest tone: “Take it from me, Sandilands, one killing here in the park will prevent millions on the battlefield. Hasn’t that always been our aim? We fought our war to end war and if one last push is all it takes, well, that won’t hurt, will it? It’s a small price—the quick death of one traitor. I didn’t drag you out of the mud to have you foul up just when you can truly serve your country—and mine.”
“Who’s been feeding you this drivel, Bill?”
Armitage looked into Joe’s horrified face, shook his head and murmured, “This man doesn’t deserve to live. No way he can be allowed to open his mouth in court. This way’s clean and quic
k. Go ahead. Your back will be covered. At the highest level. You know how it works. You’ve wielded the brush in more than one state white-washing yourself. Seen you do it. You’ll come out of it smelling of roses. As ever. A hero. In line for yet another promotion. Come on, Captain—do your duty. England expects … the world expects … Old Horatio wouldn’t have dithered.”
At the use of the joking reference to his army rank, Joe looked from his sergeant’s familiar features smiling at him, invoking Admiral Nelson, and across the path to the bloodied and contorted face of the man now hauling himself to his knees. Unable to speak, Kingstone snarled his hatred and tried to stand and take his bullet on his feet. Joe raised the gun.
There was still a smile on Armitage’s face and he nodded encouragement as the barrel came up and took unwavering aim. Without a word, Joe pulled the trigger.
The dry click of a hammer on an empty chamber is the most harrowing sound in the world if you’re holding the gun. The gloating face of your intended target, the most unnerving sight. Armitage went on grinning in triumph. Without much hope, Joe kept the gun trained on the sergeant’s heart and he pulled the trigger again. Nothing.
“Oh, how inconvenient! No bullets! Well what do you know! I always wondered where I stood with you, Captain. Now I know for sure. Where I’ve always stood—just so much cannon-fodder. Expendable. I should be dead. For the second time! You were eager to put a noose round my neck seven years ago. Ungrateful sod! I can drop you with a clear conscience and no uncertainties.” And, with a burst of irritation: “You can stop looking over my shoulder in that stagy way. I know all the tricks you know—and more. There’s no cavalry about to dash up and save you. That greasy Branchman you keep on a lead is down at the Savoy sorting out the Frogs’ loose interpretation of room service. Now—something else I’ve been looking forward to—a dish eaten cold, did you call it? Well, caviar’s served on ice, isn’t it?” He raised the .22 and stepped closer. “I’m breaking my first rule of killing: keep your trap shut and just shoot. But this is special. I’ve waited years and I’m savouring the moment. I’ll remember you, Captain, when I raise my glass of champagne at the Ritz tonight. Little Miss Ivanova and I will make time in our romantic evening to murmur your name. Both your names, as we sip our Bollinger.”
Kingstone’s croak of protest was obliterated by the crack of a gunshot reverberating around the grove of trees. A bullet smacked into the tree a foot above Joe’s head. Joe fell automatically into a crouch, eyes searching the shrubbery from where it must have come. A missed shot? A warning?
The second shot did not miss its target.
Armitage, a look of astonishment on his face, had swung round, covering the shrubs with his .22 and the next bullet caught him squarely in the chest. A third tore through the muscles and bone of his upper arm. He reeled backward then sank to his knees, blood spouting from both wounds. The .22 slithered to the ground in a rush of blood.
Julia Ivanova, panting and white-faced, stepped into the arena. With no eyes for Joe and Kingstone, she clumped straight for Armitage, lying prone on the path. She shook her head in frustration. “Damn! I think he’s a goner.” She peered closer. “I had things to say to him. He was going to kill both of you and make it look like a shoot-out. He shoots you, Joe, then, with Cornelius groggy, he has all the time he needs to put the bullets back in the Colt and finish him off. They’re loose in his left hand pocket, the bullets, if you look. Sneaky bastard! If I had two good legs, I’d kick him!”
Only then did she look towards Kingstone. To Joe’s amazement, the man opened his arms and Julia ran to him and hugged him. Joe couldn’t be sure who was supporting whom but they seemed to have found a balance.
Shaking, Joe bent to pick up the pistol and then went to join them, passing his handkerchief to Julia, who set about staunching the senator’s wound. “Julia, before I run the quarter mile to the Park police station for help just tell me—how?”
“I caught him seeing to his guns in his room. He was loading the .22 but—and I thought this more than a bit odd—he was unloading the Colt. He slipped the bullets into his pocket. Now why would he be doing that? A professional going into the field with an empty gun? I thought I’d find out what he was up to. I knew where he was going to pick up Cornelius. I tracked him from the park gates. It’s nearly done me in. Glad you kept him talking while I staggered up.”
“Well, I’ll leave you for the moment in possession of … that’s Natalia’s pocket gun, isn’t it?”
“It was in the handbag Cornelius brought back from Surrey. I know about guns and I know this one well. It went all the way round South America with us. Natalia shot two men with it. It’s quite a stopper for its size. Well, go on then—don’t hang about—Cornelius is in pain.”
Joe looked into the beaten face. “No—that grimace was a smile, I do believe!” He put his ear to the senator’s swelling mouth. “He’s saying something … ‘She’s quite a stopper for her size’ … I think that’s what he said.”
THE BEAT COPPERS did a good job but were pleased to hand over to Inspector Orford, who promptly announced himself Scene of Crime Officer.
Armitage’s body was taken to make a last appearance before Rippon. Cornelius, disdaining hospital attention, was taken back, fussed over by Julia, in a squad car to Claridge’s.
The scene was easily accounted for to the authorities. Orford had shaken his head sagely with only the occasional lift of an eyebrow as Joe had explained how Cornelius had been the victim of an ambush by his own bodyguard. Joe had been quickly on the scene and had intervened. He’d wrested his weapon, the pocket Colt, from the renegade Armitage and shot him with it. The man had been a walking ammunitions store. A choice of gun for every eventuality. The large Colt (now found to be fully loaded) he had held in reserve at his back and a further smaller pistol, a .22 discovered on the body, would, Joe was certain, prove to be the gun that had killed Miss Kirilovna down in Surrey and another case would be cleared up.
Joe’s tired brain threatened to give out at the point where Orford sought a motive for this murder so the inspector tentatively offered one of his own. “I expect we could ascribe that killing to unrequited affection. You know what it’s like with these bodyguards and their employers, sir. He got too fond of her. She turned down his advances and, in a murderous rage, he pursued her down to the country hideaway where she was rendezvous-ing with his boss.”
“That’ll do, Orford. That’ll do very well.”
Joe stood on in the elm grove as the declining sun began to cast streaks of red light through the trees. He looked in revulsion as it reflected off the pool of blood staining the pathway and called for an officer to fetch a bucket of sand from the children’s sand pit to cover it. He wondered fancifully whether another sacrifice had been accepted and enjoyed by the spirits of this place. Or would the prickly soul of the sergeant stick in their craw?
Armitage. Joe had always been his target. Probably one of several unfortunates who’d crossed the sergeant’s path on the way to … to what? Power. Money. A feeling of self-worth. What did any man want from life? But Armitage had had the ability and the ruthlessness to seize more than his share. He, truly, had what it took to be a playing member of the Nine Men’s Morris.
The Nine Men. An exclusive club to aspire to. Why had he been accepted by them? He was clearly more than just the bodyguard of the newest member. What he lacked in pedigree, Armitage made up for in determination and practical skills. And looks. His film-star allure and easy conversational manner, his outward coating of charm made him a valuable acquisition in any company. Outwardly, he outshone the rest of the group. But Joe doubted that these qualities alone would have been enough to recommend him to them at the highest level. Perhaps, as Kingstone suspected, he was in possession of scurrilous information on one or more of the other members, information that put him in a position of influence over them. Even the highest and the richest in the land had wives and children from whom they would go to great lengths to hide the details
of some of their activities.
The world over, unscrupulous men who knew nothing of honour were rising to the surface. Armitage, to all appearances, had little in common with Herr Hitler, Signor Mussolini and that band of thugs in Russia but he could have held his own around a table with them.
There was one thing that could have undone him in the estimation of the Nine. An extreme right-wing movement in its philosophy—as far as it had a philosophy—any leaking of Armitage’s past Communist leanings to the members would have brought his star crashing to earth. And the only man who had the knowledge of his political activities and the will and power to engineer a denunciation was Joe.
One matey transatlantic phone call from Scotland Yard to the Communist-hunter, Hoover, at the FBI … “Thought you’d be interested to know that our records reveal …” would have ruined Armitage. He’d said as much with glib assurance and disarming honesty to Joe. It was cold self-interest that had brought him back and set him on Joe’s trail, with the convenient cover of the unwitting Senator Kingstone.
Cornelius had been Armitage’s entrée into the group, the partnership in treason his ticket to a position of enormous influence. He’d kept the senator alive as long as he was useful to him but, thanks to Joe’s interference, he’d run out of road and patience. He’d acknowledged that his partner was never going to screw his courage to the sticking point and, aided and abetted by his old enemy Sandilands, was about to blow the whole scheme sky high.
A Spider in the Cup Page 32
