‘Bet you don’t remember the numbers.’
‘You’d be a loser.’ The easy smile came on again then switched off just as fast. He reached two fingers into the breast pocket of his jacket and took out a folded piece of paper. He flipped it onto the table. Jane opened it up.
‘It’s 5N 30-94.’
‘You got it, sweetheart.’ He started to slide out from the table. ‘And that’s all you’re going to get.’
‘One more thing,’ said Jane.
‘What?’ Sinatra paused, half standing, his small hands on the table.
‘You said the guys you saw weren’t from any Mob you knew about. Why?’
‘Mob guys don’t dress that way.’ He lifted one hand and ran his thumb and forefinger down one lapel of his jacket. ‘Most Mob guys got style. Sharp dressers, maybe a bit flashy.’
‘And these guys weren’t like that?’
‘No. I mean, it’s like the Lincoln. What Mob guys drive around in a maroon Lincoln Zephyr? If they did at least it would be this year’s model.’ He stood up fully and shot his cuffs again. ‘No cars like that and no brown suits. All three of them, brown suits, brown shoes, brown hats.’ Sinatra let out a short, barking laugh. ‘You ask me, babe, they looked like FBI agents or something.’ He reached down, tipped the pork-pie onto his head and snapped his index finger against the brim. ‘So long, toots. See you in the funny papers.’ Sinatra turned and left the restaurant, his walk a rubber-kneed strut that would have looked great in a Fred and Ginger movie. Jane watched him go then looked down at the little slip of paper in her hand.
‘A clue,’ she said. ‘I’ll be damned.’
* * *
Holland and Barry sat in the Mayfair Lounge taking afternoon tea, watching their quarry doing the same on the other side of the cavernous, glass-ceilinged eighty-by-seventy-foot space, the largest public room on the Empress. It was decorated like an Edwardian men’s club, with deep, comfortable upholstered chairs and walnut panelling and as a backdrop to a raised stage at the far end of the room there was a huge tapestry depicting the hunting exploits of Emperor Maximilian I.
A frieze running around the edge of the amber-coloured glass ceiling included snowshoes, maple leaves and canoe paddles in a discreet homage to the ship’s Canadian ownership. A six-piece chamber orchestra was playing on the stage and a dozen or so stewards made the rounds with trays of tea and biscuits and small sandwiches of various kinds. After four days on the ship Barry had decided that he liked the salmon pâté sandwiches the best and the cucumber least, since they gave him gas. By observation he had noted that Miss Sheila Connelly, also known as Mary Coogan, purportedly from Enniscorthy, seemed to favour cheese and ham and drank coffee rather than tea. He’d also noted that she was extremely attractive, a classic Irish type with long, ink-black hair done up in a twist and dark Spanish eyes a man could drown in if he wasn’t careful. He tried not to think too hard about her, about the eyes and the way her legs moved under her skirt. The truth of it was that the strength of his feelings, his feelings as a man, sometimes frightened him with their power, and he knew perfectly well that those feelings could never be reciprocated by the likes of Miss Sheila Connelly, if for no other reason than he was a policeman, and worse, a policeman whose ineptness with the opposite sex almost certainly shone like the beacon of a lighthouse. Maybe the monks were right, better to abandon such feelings entirely.
‘By God, she is a peach, isn’t she?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Barry felt completely the fool and knew his face was beginning to flush with embarrassment like a schoolboy.
‘Don’t be a prig, old fellow. She’s a spectacular bit of fluff and don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’
‘We’re supposed to be keeping a watch on her.’
‘Precisely, and a very enjoyable watch it is.’
‘Please. I’d rather you didn’t speak that way.’
‘Make you feel a little uncomfortable?’
‘I suppose you could say that.’ He could feel the flush darken and he felt ridiculously light-headed, his secret revealed. He’d noticed everything about her, of course – her skin, the line of her jaw, her breasts against the fabric of her blouse, the eyes, the hair. He gritted his teeth and forced down the images rising in his mind’s eye.
‘I wonder if Ridder will ever show up at all,’ Holland murmured, blessedly changing the subject.
There was no sign of Herr Ridder in the lounge, or anywhere else for that matter. Since leaving Southampton the man had only left his cabin for dinner, making his painful two-caned way to his table in the Salle Jacques Cartier Dining Room. He invariably took the first seating, while the Connelly woman appeared at her table for the second. There was also no sign that the two had ever met.
‘Maybe there is no connection between them,’ Barry said, swallowing one of the tiny triangular sandwiches whole.
‘I don’t believe in coincidences, Barry, and neither do you. Ridder could have travelled on a ship that took him directly to New York instead of roundabout via Montreal. It makes no sense.’ Holland sipped his tea, his eyes on the woman across the room. ‘Did you notice the book?’
Barry nodded. ‘The Mask of Dimitrios.’
‘Written by that Ambler fellow. Quite good, I hear, if you like that sort of thing.’ Barry did like that sort of thing but he wasn’t about to tell that to Holland. ‘Notice anything odd?’ Holland continued.
‘She never reads it,’ Barry said. ‘Not while she’s in here anyway.’
‘I don’t think she reads it at all,’ said Holland. ‘No bookmark, the dust jacket isn’t poked into the pages. She just carries it about with her.’
‘You think the book is significant?’
‘Not really. Just odd. Like a crippled man taking a ship that doesn’t go where he wants to go.’
‘We dock in Montreal the day after tomorrow. Once they’re off the ship we’re sure to lose one or the other of them.’
‘You’re suggesting action of some kind?’
‘Yes.’
‘I agree. It may be our last chance,’ said Holland. ‘Just so long as we don’t flush our birds prematurely. If either one of them discovers that they’re under surveillance they’ll get a message to Russell and ensure that he goes to ground. We can’t have that.’
‘So?’
‘So I suggest a visit to Herr Ridder’s cabin at the earliest opportunity.’
Barry glanced at his watch. ‘Five thirty. First sitting for dinner is in half an hour.’
‘Our sitting,’ said Holland a little wistfully. ‘They’re having Gateaux St Honore for the sweet tonight.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Barry, ‘we all have to make sacrifices.’
Ridder’s B-deck cabin was on the port side, midship, almost directly opposite the barber shop and the telephone exchange. While Holland fetched a pass key from his friend in the purser’s office, Barry stayed in the exchange, pretending to place a ship-to-shore call. At five past six Ridder appeared in the corridor, dressed formally and leaning on his canes. He locked the door of his cabin then made his way painfully down the passage towards the elevator, his progress slowed even more by the slight corkscrewing motion of the ship. Barry peeked out the door of the exchange and watched as the crippled man tapped the elevator call button and waited. The elevator arrived quickly and Ridder climbed into the cab and disappeared. A few seconds later Holland returned, coming from the direction of the forward first-class stairway. He ignored Barry, using his newly acquired key to let himself into cabin 217. Barry left the telephone exchange, crossed the corridor and followed suit, closing the door firmly behind him.
Like all of the cabins on the Empress, 217 had a porthole and an ocean view. The room was long and narrow, the walls panelled in a light fruitwood, the curtains, light fixtures and bedclothes done in varying shades of pale yellow. There was a wood-veneered chest of drawers between the beds, a desk under the porthole and several chairs. On the bulkhead wall across from the beds there was a brass-cas
ed octagonal clock. The small table on the bed closest to the door had an empty cup on it and the coverlet was rumpled so presumably that was the bed Ridder actually slept in.
Holland slid back the mirrored doors on the cabin’s single closet and began going through the two suitcases he found there. Barry, meanwhile, began going through the chest of drawers, the desk and finally the bedside table. The policeman made a small noise of surprise and lifted an object from the drawer. ‘Another copy of the Ambler book,’ he said.
‘Perhaps it’s just a coincidence,’ Holland offered, sliding the cupboard door closed. He crossed to the bed and sat down beside Barry. The two men looked at the book. There didn’t seem to be anything special about it. The book was a standard edition with a white theatrical mask as illustration on a bright blue background, the title and author’s name in white as well, the type and colours clearly designed to evoke a Greek flavour. Barry flipped through the pages. No turned-down corners, no obvious markings or underlining.
‘Nothing that I can see.’
‘Hold the pages up to the light. Maybe he’s pricked words with a pin,’ Holland said. Barry held the book up to the overhead fixture, flipping the pages slowly. It was all very silly, really, like something out of Baden Powell’s Boy Scout Manual or a novel by John Buchan.
‘Nothing.’
Holland poked his glasses back up onto his nose. ‘There’s got to be some meaning to it.’
‘A recognition signal?’ Barry offered.
‘A little cumbersome, don’t you think?’ Holland answered. ‘Why not a red carnation in a buttonhole or a couplet from a sonnet? “Fair stood the wind for France.”’ He held out his hand and Barry gave him the book. The policeman glanced up at the clock over the bed. They’d been in the room for a little more than ten minutes. Ridder had probably barely begun to eat.
Holland opened the book until it was almost flat, letting the pages hang down from the spine. He shook the covers but there was nothing hidden between the pages. He peered down the space between the spine and the binding but there was nothing there either. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.
Barry felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward and he quickly lifted one fisted hand and cleared his throat, dismissing the rising smile with the gesture. Holland, the hardened professional, self-professed grizzled veteran of the Balkans and the Ulster Counties, was being confounded by a pair of amateurs, one of them a woman.
‘So,’ said Barry, ‘what do we do now?’ He looked up at the clock again. Ridder would barely be past the soup. They still had lots of time but very little to do with it.
Holland stood up and looked around the narrow room, hands on hips. ‘I suppose we could search her cabin.’
‘To what end?’ Barry asked. According to Holland’s information Ridder was in the employ of a colonel in Nazi Military Intelligence named Erwin Von Lahousen, whose forte was sabotage and sedition and who was also in charge of the Irish Section. Since Ridder was an American it was assumed that it was he who would be passing information to the Connelly woman and not the other way around.
‘All right then, what’s your suggestion?’
‘Wait. Their Majesties aren’t due to arrive in Canada for the better part of a month and it will be another two weeks after that before they cross into the United States. Anyway, the object has always been to let Miss Connelly lead us to Russell, not to arrest her.’
‘And lead us she will,’ said Holland. ‘But a little real evidence of this so-called plot would go a long way to proving a case to our American friends. One way or another we are going to need their help. The Republican cause has a lot of supporters in the States – when we do get Russell we’re going to have trouble keeping him for very long unless we can prove he was going to kill Roosevelt and the royals.’
‘Well, it doesn’t look like we’re going to find any evidence here.’ Barry shrugged. ‘I doubt we’d find anything in Connelly’s cabin either.’ He leaned over, slipped the book back into the open drawer of the night table and then closed it. He stood up.
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Holland adjusted his glasses again. ‘But it’s damnably frustrating.’
‘Now isn’t that just like the Irish for you,’ Barry said and smiled. ‘Come along. If we hurry we can get up to the dining room for some of that Gateaux St Honore.’
* * *
Sir Stewart Menzies, Deputy Director of MI6, England’s secret intelligence service, sat having a late dinner in one of the private rooms at the Army and Navy Club in Pall Mall, methodically trimming the fat from a large slice of prime rib while waiting for Chamberlain’s young toadie to get to the point. Like a true politician Douglas- Home had managed to be utterly evasive all the way through the soup and the fish but so far Menzies had managed to keep his temper. The fact that Douglas-Home was PPS to the prime minister was irrelevant – PMs came and PMs went with regularity but Douglas-Home, like Menzies himself, knew people, which, if you wanted to get ahead, really was the most important thing. Obsequious little twit or not, the man had to be cultivated.
Menzies speared a small square of fatless meat, added a cube of Yorkshire pudding and popped the end of the fork into his mouth. He put down his knife and fork, chewed, swallowed, patted lips and neatly trimmed moustache then picked up the knife and fork again while smiling pleasantly in Douglas-Home’s general direction. The younger man cleared his throat and Menzies deferred his next mouthful, waiting for him to speak.
‘We have a delicate situation before us.’
‘Ah,’ said Menzies. ‘We being…?’
‘The prime minister’s office.’
‘I see.’
‘As you are no doubt aware, the prime minister is not well.’
Something of an understatement, thought Menzies, considering Chamberlain had cancer of the throat. ‘Yes, I was aware of that.’
‘Given the state of his health it has been decided that certain… events and circumstances shouldn’t be brought to his attention unless absolutely necessary.’
‘Events and circumstances?’ Menzies ate another bite of food.
‘Ones which the Prime Minister might find particularly… vexing.’
‘Such as?’
‘Security questions relating to the royal tour of North America.’
‘Ah,’ said Menzies.
‘Indeed,’ said Douglas-Home.
Menzies put down his knife and fork again, deciding to put the man out of his misery. ‘Presumably you mean the question of the Irish assassination plot.’
‘Sean Russell.’
‘We are aware of a rumour concerning an assassination attempt but I was under the impression it was just that, a rumour.’
‘Yes. So far we have very little to go on.’
‘I would have thought Special Branch and the local authorities in Canada and the United States would have security well in hand.’
‘They do, certainly.’ said Douglas-Home. ‘It’s just that…’
The man had an irritating habit of letting sentences dangle. Menzies allowed himself a small sigh, then smiled once again. ‘It’s just that you’d like to be kept advised if we come up with anything at MI6.’
‘Precisely.’ Douglas-Home sat back in his chair, clearly relieved that it was out in the open. The politician paused, smoothing a non-existent crease in the tablecloth with his index finger. ‘About this Holland fellow of yours…’
‘What about him?’
‘He seems a little… independent… if you know what I mean.’
‘No, actually, I don’t,’ said Menzies. He tipped a little horseradish onto his next bite of beef and waited for Douglas-Home to go on.
‘Some of our people are having second thoughts about the investigation of Russell.’
Here it comes, thought Menzies. He’s finally getting down to it. ‘What sort of second thoughts?’
‘There is some concern that any adverse publicity arising out of the investigation could exacerbate the situation here.’
�
�More bombing of water closets, you mean.’
‘Quite so.’
Menzies put down his knife and fork for good, the erosion of his appetite complete. It was clear now that Douglas-Home had never really believed there was an assassination plot and that the prospect of continued Republican bombings in England was obviously a more relevant concern. Menzies wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin down on the table. ‘In other words you want the investigation to end.’
‘Curtailed would be a better term, I think.’
‘By withdrawing Holland?’
‘It had occurred to us.’
‘On what authority?’
‘I thought perhaps you’d know of some discreet method.’
Menzies smiled. The little shit seated across from him would go far and Menzies had every intention of going along with him. Chamberlain was sick but Admiral Sinclair, head of MI6, was even sicker and not expected to last out the year.
‘He was wounded in the Balkans,’ said Menzies.
‘Oh dear,’ said Douglas-Home. ‘Health problems?’
‘Chronic,’ Menzies offered. ‘Lungs.’ A good enough excuse to have him brought back to England and put behind a desk in the research division again.
‘What about the other one, the policeman?’
‘That would be up to the Yard.’ Both men knew that without Holland the investigation would effectively come to an end. Detective Inspector Barry could be seconded to the Special Branch contingent travelling with the royal party or simply recalled.
‘You’ll keep me informed?’
‘I don’t have any problem with that.’ Menzies made a calculated assumption. ‘I’m assuming that rather than formally advising the prime minister’s office you’d prefer that any information be passed on to you personally.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Douglas-Home.
‘So as not to vex Mr Chamberlain unnecessarily.’
‘Indeed.’
Knowledge is power, thought Menzies, and secret knowledge is the most powerful of all. Douglas-Home would go very far indeed. Menzies reached out and picked the dusty chateau bottle out of its basket in the centre of the table. ‘More wine?’
The Second Assassin Page 17
