“Whatever you think best,” said Cutley. “If money’s no object, we might as well all get the gold toilet seats and mints on the pillows. Dickie will qualify for a half-fare anyway.”
The academic was used to working on the cheap, in fear of a redbrick budget review. He also wasn’t happy to be given command of a group then undercut in front of them. Edwin had made Cutley Most Valued Member, but was prone to step out from behind the desk and upstage his successor. Catriona laid a hand on Edwin’s elbow, chiding with a gesture only the recipient and Richard noticed.
“Keep all the chits,” said Cutley. “Bus tickets, and so forth. My procedure is big on chits,comprenons-oui?”
Now, Cutley was needling Richard because he couldn’t afford to prick back at Edwin. Richard was getting a headache with the politics.
“This is a haunted house on wheels,” Cutley told them. “There are boring procedures for haunted houses, which will be followed. Background check, on-the-spot investigation, listing of observable phenomena and effects. Once that’s over, I will assess findings and make recommendations. If the haunting can be dispelled through scientific or spiritual efforts, no one will complain. Annette, I’d appreciate a rundown of possible rituals of exorcism or dispellment. Bell, book and railwayman’s lamp? Of course, we can always advise the train be taken out of service and the line abandoned. If there are no passengers to be haunted, it doesn’t matter if spectres drag their sorry shrouds along the rails.”
Richard put his hand up, as if in class.
Cutley, annoyed, noticed. “What is it, boy?”
“A thought, sir. If the train could be put out of service, it already would have been. There must be a reason to keep it running.”
Richard looked at Edwin. So did everyone else. Catriona massaged his arm.
At length, Edwin responded. “No use trying to keep secrets in a roomful of Talents, obviously.”
Danny Myles whistled.
“What is it?” asked Cutley, catching up.
“The Scotch Streak must stay in service. The Special Contingencies School is now a submarine base. A vital component in our national deterrent.”
“The gun we have to their heads while theirs is stuck into our tummy,” put in Catriona.
“Cat goes on Aldermaston marches and wants to ban the Bomb,” Edwin explained. “As a private individual, it is within her rights to hold such a position. In this Club, we do not decide government policy and can only advise....”
Annette almost snorted. She obviously knew Edwin Winthrop better.
“Every forty-eight hours,” Edwin continued, “mathematicians convene in Washington D.C. and use a computer to generate number-strings which are fed into an electronic communications network accessible only from secure locations at the Pentagon and our own Ministry of War. There’s another terminal in Paris, but it’s a dummy—the French can fiddle all they want, but can’t alter the workings of the big machine. We wouldn’t want them getting offended by the creeping use of terms like ‘le weekend’ and kicking off World War Three in a fit of haughty pique. Annie, the French half of you didn’t hear that. Once the numbers are in the net, they have to be conveyed to the President of the United States, the Prime Minister of Great Britain and selected officers on the front lines of the Western Alliance. We don’t use telephone, telegraph, telegram or passenger pigeon—we send couriers. The number-strings are known as the ‘Go-Codes.’ Unless they are keyed properly on special typewriters, orders cannot be given to arm a warhead, launch a missile or drop a bomb. Without the Go-Codes, we have no nuclear weapons.”
“And with them, we can end the world,” put in Catriona.
“So,” said Myles, waving his hands for emphasis, “we’ve B-52s zooming over the Arctic, nuclear subs cruising the seven seas, ranks of computers the size of Royal Pavillion, and brave soldier boys in the trenches ready to respond to any dire threat from the godless Commie horde ... but it all depends on some git catching a seven o’clock steam train from Euston every other evening?”
“That’s it, exactly,” said Edwin
“Crazy, man,” said Myles, snapping his fingers.
“As I said, matters of defence policy are beyond our remit. You understand now why governments are in a lather. If the Streak isn’t secure, nato wobbles. Quite apart from the haunting, they’re worried about spies. One reason the Go-Codes are still carried by train is that our fiendish intelligence friends think the Russkies don’t believe we’d really entrust so vital a duty to a couple of junior ratings on an overnight puff-puff.”
“I hope I meet a spy,” said Annette, posing languidly. “I always saw myself as Mata Hari. Can I lure young lieutenants to their doom?”
“Leave them alone, Annie,” said Edwin. “They’ve enough on their plates, what with World Peace in their pockets. There’s been a high turnover on that detail. One nervous collapse, one self-inflicted gunshot wound, one sudden convert off in a monastery somewhere. Do not let it be known outside this room, but in the past year there have been four separate blocks of up to eighteen hours when our defences were compromised because the Go-Codes didn’t arrive without incident. Consider the poor General whose burdensome duty it is to inform the President of this situation, let alone the possibility the Other Side might get wind of a first-strike opportunity. If we do hold a gun to their head, they’d best not find out the firing pin is wonky.”
Richard felt sickness in the pit of his stomach, as if he had washed down a half-pint of salted cockles with a strawberry milkshake. Despite Cutley’s “boring procedures for haunted houses,” this was a bigger deal than pottering around Borley Rectory feeling out cold spots. The nausea passed and, to his embarrassment, he found he was physically in a state of high excitement. He gathered this was common in the corridors of power— though since his voice had broken, it seemed the minutes of the day when he wasn’t sporting a raging erection were more noteworthy. Tight trousers did not make him any more comfortable. He blushed as Annette, perhaps peeping indelicately into his immediate future, smiled at him.
“Will the Yanks know we’re aboard?” asked Cutley.
“In theory, at the highest level. The boys on the train don’t know anything. They’ve been encouraged to believe they’re a decoy, and that their envelopes are to do with an inter-services gambling ring organised by a motor pool sergeant in Fort Baxter, Kansas. Spot the couriers if you must, but don’t get too close. Come back with concrete intelligence about whatever threats are gathering in the dark. I’ve always wanted to end a briefing by saying ‘this mission could shorten the war by six months.’ The next best thing is ‘the fate of the free world depends on you,’ which, I am sorry to say, it does. I’m sure you’ll do us proud, Harry.”
The lecturer shot glances at his group. Richard knew what Cutley thought of Annette, Magic Fingers and him. Two beatniks and a ted, not an elbow patch between them, just the sorts Hard-Luck Harry had hoped to get away from: bloody students!
“We’ll make the best of it, Ed,” said Cutley.
* * * *
IV
Richard walked under the Doric arches of Euston Station at five o’clock, two hours before the Scotch Streak was due to depart. He was among crowds, streaming from city offices to commuter trains.
“Star, News and Standard’,” shouted competing sixty-year-old “boys,” hawking the evening papers. Kruschev was in the headlines, shoe-banging at the UN. The Premier wouldn’t be such a growling bear if he knew Uncle Sam’s pants were down for up to eighteen hours at a time. If his Sputnik spied a gap in the curtain, Old Nikita might well lob a couple of experimental hot ones just to see what happened.
“Don’t even think about it, kiddo,” said a voice close to his ear. “World’s safe till midnight, at least. After that, it gets blurry ... but Madame Amboise sees all. Worry not your pretty little head.”
He recognised Annette from her perfume, Givenchy mingled with Gauloise, before he heard or saw her. She spun him round and kissed both his cheeks, not forma
lly. Her wet little tongue dabbed the corners of his mouth.
For the trip, she had turned out in a black cocktail dress, elbow-length evening gloves, a shiny black hat with a folded-aside veil and a white fox-fur wrap with sewn-shut eyes. This evening, she wore lipstick—thin lines of severe scarlet. She posed like Audrey Hepburn, soliciting his approval, which was certainly forthcoming.
“That’s the spirit,” she said, patting his cheek.
He had a mental image of Annette in her underclothes—black, French and elaborate. It flustered him, and she giggled.
“I’m doing that,” she said. “It’s a trick.”
She slipped off her shoulder strap to show black lace.
“And it’s accurate,” she added. “Sorry, I mustn’t tease. You’re so easy to get a rise out of. I don’t get to play with anyone in the know very often.”
She tapped the side of her head and made spooky conjuring gestures.
Under her brittle flirtatiousness, she ran a few degrees high, trying to shake off a case of the scareds. That, in turn, worried him. Annette Amboise might come on like the Other Woman in a West End farce, but in the Diogenes Club’s trade—not to mention actual war—she was a battle-proved veteran. All he’d ever done was switch some wires. If she knew enough to be frightened, he ought to be terrified.
“Aren’t the arches magnificent?” she said. “They’ll be knocked down in a year or two. By idiots and philistines.”
“You’re seeing the future?”
“I’m reading the papers, darling. But I do see the future sometimes. The possible future.”
“What about...?”
She puffed and opened a fist as if blowing a dandelion clock. “Boom? Not this week, I think. Not if we have anything to do with it. Of course, that’d bring down the arches too.”
She touched the stone with a gloved hand, and shrugged.
“Nada, my love,” she said. “Of course, that’s Magic Fingers’ specialty, not mine. Laying on of hands. The Touch That Means So Much.”
Annette took him by the arm and steered him into the station. A porter followed, shoving a trolley laden with a brassbound trunk, matching pink suitcases, a vanity case and a hatbox. Richard had one item of luggage: a gladstone bag he’d found in a cupboard.
“There’s our leader,” said Annette, pointing.
Harry Cutley sat at a pie stall, drinking tea. His own personal cloud hung overhead. Richard wondered whether Edwin would show up to see them off, then thought he probably wouldn’t.
Annette stopped and held Richard back.
“Darling, promise me you’ll be kind to Harry,” she said, pouting, adjusting his tie as if he were a present done up with a bow.
Richard shrugged. “I didn’t have other plans.”
“You don’t need plans to be unkind. You’re like me, a feeler. Try to be a thinker too. Heaven knows, I won’t be. You and Harry aren’t a match, but a mix. Don’t be so quick to write him off. Now, let’s go and be nice.”
Harry looked up and saw them coming. He waved his folded newspaper.
“Where’s Myles?” he asked.
Neither Richard nor Annette knew. Harry tutted, “Probably puffing ‘tea’ in some jive dive.”
“Tea would be lovely, thanks,” said Annette.
Harry looked at the mug in his hand.
“Not this muck,” he said sourly. The woman behind the counter heard but didn’t care.
“Supper on the train, then?” said Annette. “Sample that famous Scotch Streak luxury?”
“Just make sure to keep the chits,” cautioned Harry.
“Don’t be such a grumpy goose,” said Annette, leaning close and kissing the lecturer, who didn’t flinch. “This will be a great adventure.”
“Like last time?”
“Well, let’s hope not that great an adventure.”
Harry pulled back the sleeve of his tweed jacket and showed a line of red weals leading into his cuff.
“Puma Cults,” commented Annette. “Miaow.”
Richard gathered Harry and Annette had both come off the Edgley Vale case with scars. The Most Valued Member had put that successfully to bed. An “away win” for the Diogenes Club. No points for the Forces of Evil. Harry even smiled for a fraction of a second as Annette purred and stretched satirically.
At once, Richard understood the difference between his Talent and Annette’s. He received, she sent. He picked up what others were feeling; she could make them feel what she felt. A useful knack, if she was in an “up” moment. Otherwise, she was a canary in a mineshaft.
Suddenly, Myles was there.
“Hey, cats,” he said, raising an eyebrow as that set Annette off on more miaows. “Ready to locomote?”
“If we must,” said Harry.
Magic Fingers dressed like a cartoon burglar—black jeans, tight jersey, beret, capacious carpetbag. All he needed was a mask.
Passengers travelling First Class on the Scotch Streak had their own waiting room, adjacent to the platform where the train was readied. On presenting tickets, the party were admitted by a small, cherubic, bald, uniformed Scotsman.
“Good evening, lady and gentlemen,” he said, like a headwaiter. “I’m Arnold, the conductor. If there is any way I can be of service, please summon me at once.”
“Arnold, the conductor,” said Harry, fixing the name in his mind.
Annette made arrangements to have her extensive luggage, and their three underweight bags, stowed on the train.
No extranormal energies poured off Arnold, just polite deference. Considering his age and Richard’s style, that was unusual. In the conductor’s view, purchase of a First Class Sleeping Compartment ensured admission to the ranks of the elect. The passenger was always right, no matter what gaudy finery he wore or what gunk was slathered on his hair. Richard realised Arnold was the see-no-evil fellow Edwin had mentioned. The man who was not haunted. The conductor might be immune to ghosts, the way some people didn’t catch colds. Or he could be a very, very good dissembler.
The waiting room wanted a thorough clean, but a residue of former glory remained. While Second and Third Class passengers made do with benches on the platform, First Class oiks could plump posteriors on divans upholstered in the Streak’s “weeping bruise” purple. Complimentary tea was served from a hissing urn—which made Cutley mutter about wasting threepence (and collecting a chit) at the pie stall. Framed photographs hung like family portraits, commemorating the naming ceremony (there was that Lady Lucinda Catriona disliked), the inaugural runs of 1928 and 1934 (Lord Kilpartinger in an engineer’s hat) and broken speed records. Nothing about Inverdeith Bridge, of course.
Other passengers arrived. Two young men might as well have had “Secret Courier” stitched to their hankie pockets. They had adult-approved US Navy crew cuts and wore well-fit civilian suits that didn’t yet bend with their bodies. Matching leather briefcases must contain the vital envelopes. Annette cast a critical eye over the talent; one nudged the other, who cracked a toothy smile that dimpled in his cornfed American cheek.
“So, where’s the spy?” whispered Annette.
“We’re the spies,” said Richard. “Remember? Mata Hari.”
Three sailors in whites looked like refugees from a road company of On the Town; one very drunk, his mates alert for the Shore Patrol. They’d be through for Portnacreirann too, though it would be a surprise if they really were travelling First Class. An allied uniform counted with Arnold. Mrs. Sweet, an elderly lady in a checked ulster, was particular about her gun cases. She issued Arnold with lengthy instructions for their storage. A clergyman swept in, and Richard’s first thought was that he was a disguised Chicago gangster. His ravaged cheeks and slicked-down widow’s peak irresistibly suggested a rod in his armpit and brass knucks up his sleeve. However, he radiated saintly benevolence. Richard ought to know not to judge by appearances.
A fuss erupted at the door. Arnold and a guard were overwhelmed by a large, middle-aged woman. She wore a floral print d
ress and a hat rimmed with wax grapes and dry, dead roses.
“I’ve got me ticket somewhere, ducks,” she said. “Give us a mo. Here we are. Me ticket, and me card.”
The woman had a Bow Bells accent and one of those voices that could crack crystal. Something about her alerted Richard. Annette and Myles had the same reaction. Psychic alarm bells.
“What is it?” asked Harry, noticing his group’s ears all pricked up at once.
“Calm,” said Annette.
Richard realised his heart was racing. He breathed deliberately and it slowed. Myles let out a whistle.
“Me card,” repeated the woman. “Elsa Nickles, Missus, Psychic Medium. I’m here to ‘elp the spirits. The ones tevvered to this plane. The ones who cannot find the rest they need. The ones trapped on your Ghost Train.”
The Man from the Diogenes Club - [Diogenes Club 01] Page 33
