by Gavin Lyall
“But isn’t that our job?” Ranklin smiled sweetly. “We’re sp . . . secret agents, remember? We use tact, flattery, bare-faced lies – whatever’s appropriate – and we come back with the details, don’t we?”
Sometimes, Ranklin told himself when Lieutenant M had gone, I seem quite good at this job. Now: Personal weapons—
So then it was O’Gilroy with an aeronautical magazine and eager to explain the arguments for and against the Dunne ‘inherently stable’ biplane. Ranklin, who privately felt that anyone who got into an aeroplane was inherently unstable to start with, sent him out with any recruits he could find to practise shadowing again.
Personal weap— and now Dagner again, leaving the office in Ranklin’s charge while he went off first to meet Senator Falcone at the Ritz, then change into mess kit for a dinner at the officers’ mess in the Tower of London. Ranklin politely wished him joy of it and turned back to his notepad.
He hadn’t even got his mind into gear when the senior secretary came in, looking for Dagner and waving an official buff envelope that had just been forwarded from the War Office. The handwritten addressee was The Officer Commanding the unit to which Lieut. P—(their own Lieutenant P, in fact) is currently attached. And marked both Urgent and Private and Confidential.
Ranklin made chewing expressions as he looked at it. The secretary said: “Shall I keep it for Major Dagner in the morning, sir?”
Ranklin certainly wasn’t P’s CO, but strictly speaking, neither was Dagner. And he was getting bored with Personal weapons. He stuck a finger under the gummed flap and raised his arm at the secretary. “Jog my elbow, will you?”
She smiled frostily and gave him a nudge that wouldn’t have shifted a fly. He tore the envelope open. “Oops, look what I’ve done now. Oh well, I suppose I may as well see what it’s all about . . .”
But if the secretary thought she had earned a look, too, she was disappointed, and hobbled away with a distinct sniff.
What the letter and its enclosures boiled down to was that when Lieutenant P had left his last posting he had also left (a) an unpaid mess bill and (b) a young lady who claimed he had promised marriage, but taken (c) a motor-car of which he was only part-owner. Ranklin sat still until he had worn through surprise, indignation, amusement and arrived at exasperation, then went to look for P.
He had just got in, having failed to shadow O’Gilroy through the Piccadilly traffic. “Simply not your day, is it?” Ranklin said, handing him the letters. P skimmed them, smiled ruefully, and began: “About the motor—”
“Don’t tell me,” Ranklin said. “Just sort it out. You can’t marry without your colonel’s permission, and with any luck he’ll refuse it if you pay your mess bill, promptly. If that doesn’t work, write to the girl’s father asking will he lend you a thousand quid to pay your gaming debts. Now about the motor-car: where is it?”
“Here in London.”
“And who else part-owns it?”
“Two chaps from my battalion who—”
“Fine. It’s about time the Bureau had the use of a car. Tell them it’s being repaired in Scotland. Any questions?”
A bit dazed, P asked: “Are you going to show these letters to Major Dagner, sir?”
“What letters? I haven’t seen any letters. But . . . you won’t be much use to us until you learn not to get into trouble that’s going to catch up with you.”
In other words, solve life’s greatest problem by teatime tomorrow. Oh well . . . he had a feeling that Dagner might take the whole thing too seriously. And the Commander? He just couldn’t tell.
But it all added up to a long day and when he finally got down to the flat, he ignored the sherry and poured himself a serious whisky. He hadn’t even finished Personal weapons. But that was something he should consult O’Gilroy about, anyway.
* * *
O’Gilroy hadn’t meant to lose his followers. Not quite – just make it difficult for them. But they had obeyed only half his order to “stay back and think ahead” and missed the gap in the Piccadilly traffic that let him cross safely and unsuspiciously. So now . . . But it wasn’t, he told himself, something he could be absolutely sure about. Maybe they had suddenly got the hang of it, become invisible and were still shadowing him. So he had to play the game out. He kept going, but headed north from Piccadilly Circus to explore some Soho streets he didn’t know himself.
He was used to cities and their abrupt boundaries that let you go from high fashion to crumbling poverty in the length of a breath. The few steps that took him into Soho were like that, but different. Entering Soho, he seemed to have gone from England to Europe: here he was being jostled by French-speakers, Germans, Italians and politely avoided by Chinese. But no student spies. Past episodes of being a wanted man had given O’Gilroy an acute sense of when he was being followed, and there was no sign of . . .
But there was somebody.
A slightly shorter man in a wide cloth cap, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a donkey jacket. Turning a corner confirmed that he was following, and glancing both ways before crossing the street gave a glimpse of his face. O’Gilroy knew him: Patrick, Patrick something, from down Broad Lane way in Cork. And definitely one of the ‘boyos’ whom Ranklin had feared. Moreover, making no attempt at subtlety, but grimly plodding along behind.
O’Gilroy still had choices: he could run. Or just just hurry back to Piccadilly and hail a taxi. But perhaps it was best to try and bluff it out, settle the matter with a lie, and if that didn’t work, well, it was just one man and smaller than himself. But one choice he didn’t have was killing Patrick. He couldn’t have explained why, but would have thought anyone who asked for an explanation very odd indeed.
A few yards further was a narrow alleyway leading to a courtyard behind the buildings. O’Gilroy turned in, and waited in the deepest shadow, so Patrick would be outlined against the bright street behind.
Patrick stumped around the corner, stopped and said: “Good day to ye, Conall O’Gilroy – or did ye change yer name along wid the colour av yer soul?”
This, O’Gilroy realised, is going to need one hell of a lie. “Have ye got a message for me?” he demanded.
He couldn’t see if Patrick was surprised, since his face was shadowed, but he paused. Then he said: “We have that,” and glanced back as another, larger, figure turned into the alley behind him. “Me and Eamon. Right here in our pockets.”
How in hell did I miss the second one? But he knew just how: over-confident once he’d spotted Patrick’s open following, he hadn’t thought of Eamon moving less conspicuously, well back and on the other side of the street. Yet it was a trick he’d been teaching the two recruits half an hour ago. Now he longed for a miracle in which they found him again in the nick of time – but an angel swooping down to carry him off was more likely. Far more likely, if you believed the priests.
Patrick took out a short knife. “Mebbe ye’ll take a message yerself—” Behind him, Eamon made the same movement.
His only luck seemed to be that they weren’t carrying guns, but neither was he. Legally he could have done so, particularly since he was now a ‘gentleman’ at least by trade, but London had seemed safe enough, and a gun in the pocket was suspicious. All he had was his walking-stick.
“To yer dead nephew Michael—”
To Ranklin a stick was just a gentleman’s accountrement like a pair of gloves; he had never even thought of including it among ‘personal weapons’. But at least O’Gilroy had. His wasn’t a sword-stick or loaded in any way; like a pistol, such things could arouse suspicion. So it was just an ordinary silver-knobbed stick except that where the brass ferrule had worn and split he hadn’t closed the jagged break.
“—yez can tell him rest easy. He’s been revenged.”
Now O’Gilroy gripped the stick across his body, one hand at each end. It almost touched the walls at either side, leaving no room for sideways swipes. But that was why he hadn’t run for the unknown but certainly more open courtyard be
hind. Here there was no room for the two to come at him together; one had to lead and it was Eamon, the big one. He probably wasn’t a knife-fighter, just a knife-killer, but there was no stagey overhead stuff, either: he held the blade properly flat and underhand as he edged forward.
O’Gilroy let go with his left hand and jabbed towards Eamon’s midriff. Eamon didn’t bother with his knife, just tried to grab the stick with his free hand, and almost got it. He moved fast for a big man.
O’Gilroy took a step back and resumed his two-handed grip. Eamon feinted a lunge to test O’Gilroy’s response: he just pushed the stick forward to block. Eamon lunged further, expecting to hit the stick and slash sideways along it to cut O’Gilroy’s left hand. But O’Gilroy let go with his right, flipped the knife further aside, then stepped in and banged his right palm into Eamon’s face.
The big man bounced against the wall, blinking angrily – but didn’t drop the knife. And seeing an opening, Pat scurried past him, ducked as O’Gilroy threw his back to the wall and slashed with the stick, and went right on past.
Now O’Gilroy was surrounded.
He jabbed with the stick to keep Eamon unbalanced, and charged at Pat before he got into his stance, holding the stick like a lunging sword. It missed, he felt the knife slash and catch in his jacket, then he sprawled over Pat, flattening him.
Maybe Pat was winded, certainly he was slowed. O’Gilroy twisted onto his knees, slashed the jagged ferrule across Pat’s forehead, then grabbed for his knife arm. Pat screeched and let go the knife. O’Gilroy fumbled for it as he looked up for Eamon, cut his hand but had it before the bigger man reached them.
“Move an inch and I cut his fucking head off!” He tried to snarl it, but it came out panting.
Eamon stopped. “And yer own wid it.”
By now O’Gilroy had his left forearm across Pat’s throat from behind, soaking his sleeve in the man’s dripping blood. “Mebbe. But I’m done fighting the both of yez. If yer still want to kill me, it’s with him dead, and that’s plain sense.”
Pat wriggled, O’Gilroy tightened his grip and jabbed the knife right on the edge of Pat’s cheekbone, an inch from his eye. One push, two inches deep, and . . . Pat went very still, breathing fast and very shallow.
Eamon took a heavy breath himself. “Let him loose and I swear on me mother’s grave—”
“Shut up.” O’Gilroy eased from a crouch to a bend and began slowly dragging Pat backwards. “And stand yer ground,” he added as Eamon followed.
After perhaps three yards, the alley opened into a long cobbled yard, overlooked by the backs of two dozen small buildings, but with nobody in sight. Just a stack of old timber and a couple of hand-carts.
O’Gilroy got his back to a wall, the knife back at Pat’s eye, and told Eamon: “Walk past me and as far as ye can go. Move yeself!”
The big man moved, slowly and perhaps uncertain of what he was actually going to do. O’Gilroy said nothing, just held the knife very steady.
As Eamon passed out of reach, his movements became more sure; he had decided to obey.
Then Pat went limp. Assuming it was a ruse, O’Gilroy shook him, but his head just flapped, spraying blood; he was out . . . dead? Not when he was still bleeding freely. Half choked, shocked and losing blood, he had fainted. Then Eamon looked back and saw Pat’s lolling head.
“I didn’t, he’s not dead!” O’Gilroy screamed. But Eamon was past hearing, was roaring with rage as he charged.
Oh Christ!
O’Gilroy threw the knife. It most likely wouldn’t have stuck in, but was still a knife and Eamon swerved. O’Gilroy heaved Pat up by his scruff, toppled him at Eamon’s feet, and ran, ran for the alley and street and his life. He didn’t waste time looking back. He’d know if Eamon caught him.
He came into the flat with one jacket pocket ripped loose and the sleeve soaked with blood. He had a bloody handkerchief around his right hand and the rest of him looked as if he’d been rolling in a filthy alleyway. He’d lost his hat and stick.
Ranklin gaped. “What the devil happened to you?”
“Coupla boyos from Cork, they found me. Like ye was worried about.” It was almost as much a relief to tell the truth as reach the sideboard decanters. O’Gilroy felt he had given a lying explanation for his condition at every step from Piccadilly.
Ranklin was about to ask for details, but then didn’t. He’d be told if O’Gilroy felt like it; more likely, he’d never know. But before he went to fetch the travelling medicine kit, he had to ask: “Did you kill them?”
Without turning from the drinks, O’Gilroy shook his head. And for once Ranklin was sorry about that. It left unfinished business.
9
The Guards battalions look it in turns to be billeted in the Tower of London, and only when a kilted soldier challenged the taxi did Ranklin know it was the turn of the Scots Guards to keep an eye on the Crown jewels and any fresh-caught traitors housed there. But thereafter, any sense of history had gone with the daytime sight-seers, leaving only black cutouts of battlements against the stars. At ground level there was just the mundane military domesticity of any barracks square. Lamps glowed through the plane trees, turning their leaves back to spring green, and half-lit the gossiping groups of soldiers and wives below. Children darted from group to group, and somebody still on fatigues staggered by stopping a filled bucket.
Ranklin paused at the foot of the officers’ mess steps, expecting to feel nostalgia for its comfortable comradeship, but instead felt quite alien. This really wasn’t his world any longer. However, his manner immediately convinced the mess corporal when he introduced himself and his mission. A minute or two later Dagner’s host, a Major Lawther, appeared.
“Were you asking for Major Dagner?”
“Yes, sir. Captain Ranklin, RA. I, er, work for Major Dagner.”
“Ah.” There was a knowingness about that ‘ah’. “With you chaps I imagine everything’s Most Urgent. I’m afraid he hasn’t got here, yet. Come in and have a spot.”
It was tempting but, again, no longer his world. “Very kind of you, sir, but I think it would be less disruptive if I got a quick word with him out here.”
“As you please . . . Did you know Dagner before . . . before he came home?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“We met in India, of course.” That surprised Ranklin; it was difficult enough to move a Guards battalion out of London, let alone Britain. Seeing his expression, Lawther smiled. “When I was attached to the Viceroy’s staff. And they brought him back from . . . whatever he was doing, when his wife fell ill. Sad business, that, he was very cut up when she went.”
“His wife died?”
“You didn’t know? – the usual typhoid, I believe.”
Ranklin nodded. “He hadn’t mentioned it. But we only met a few days ago.”
“Ah. This was, oh, must be seven years ago now. Ah, I think I hear a cab.”
It was really a motor-taxi, but Major Lawther belonged to a generation and class that would for ever hear them as cabs.
Dagner appeared in his Gurkha mess dress of rifle-green and glittering black wellingtons. “Good evening, Major. And Captain Ranklin – I suppose this as a little hiccup in our affairs?” means
“Evening, Dagner,” Major Lawther said hastily. “His Lordship ain’t here yet, so I’ll leave you to it. He went back inside.
“It’s O’Gilroy,” Ranklin said. “He ran into a couple of what he calls the ‘boyos’, the ones he knew in Ireland. I didn’t get the full story, but they tried to knife him and he fought them off, but didn’t kill them. So I’m afraid we have to assume the word, that O’Gilroy’s to be found in London, will get around. I thought you’d better know immediately. Oh – and I took it on myself to tip off Major Kell, since it touches on his field. He said he’d be along as soon as he could.” He paused, then added: “And when he comes, could we refer to O‘Gilroy as Gorman? – it’s his normal alias.”
“Quite. Thank you.” Dagner though
t this over. “Then, also before he comes, d’you have any solution to suggest?”
“Only to send O’Gilroy and myself abroad. It’s where we belong. And Paris is a good half-day closer to most places.”
“Hm. But I don’t like letting you go until the training programme’s really under way.”
Ranklin had expected that. “Then I had one rather wild idea for O’Gilroy himself—” They had heard neither taxi nor cab, but there was Major Kell stomping up the cobbled slope, wearing plain evening clothes (as Ranklin was: he had changed, assuming that anything less would get him redirected to the Traitors’ Gate). Kell headed the counter-intelligence service and didn’t bother to call himself anything like “Chief”. That apart, he was a year or so older than Ranklin, with an oval face, smallish moustache, smoothed-down hair and a bland pop-eyed expression that suggested that he’d like to believe you, but . . .
They each knew other already and Ranklin’s by-hand-of-bearer-for-your-eyes-only message had given Kell the bones of the story, so Dagner opened by asking bluntly: “Do you regard these Irish thuggees as being in your province?”
“Not if I can bloody well help it,” Kell said quite as bluntly. “I try to leave them to Special Branch at the Yard – that’s what they were originally set up for – and keep my tiny band for dealing with real espionage. And, if I may say so, I never approved of your Chief mixing the two up. But—” he sighed dramatically; “—I suppose your Bureau’s requirements are different from mine. What’s the worst that can happen now?”
Ranklin said: “They try to kill him again.”
“That being the case,” Kell said, “is your chap ready to say who this pair was? Names, descriptions?”
“No,” Ranklin said quickly. “And I don’t think he can be persuaded.”
Kell said: “Assuming they didn’t come to London looking for your man, they came for some other purpose – such as planting a bomb that will kill a dozen people.”
“I doubt if they’ll be up to it; Gorman came back covered in blood that wasn’t his own. And if they think he’ll report them, they’ve probably left London already.”
