A Hundred Thousand Dragons (23 page)

‘I think our best bet is to stay put,' said Arthur. ‘We're in the shadows here and I don't think anyone would notice us unless they were particularly looking.' He indicated Isabelle with a sidelong glance. ‘I think we're safe enough here. Off you go, Jack. We'll be all right. If necessary, we can be back on the Tottenham Court Road in a couple of ticks.'

As Jack approached the Stirling Hotel, rather to his surprise Freya came down the steps. She had changed out of black and was wearing a blue coat and a blue cloche hat that suited her fair skin. He smiled in involuntary appreciation and Freya smiled back with a shyness that took him unawares.

‘I thought you might not come,' she said, taking the arm he offered her.

‘You needn't have worried,' he said, feeling her arm on his. ‘I wanted to see you again. Shall we have dinner or have you eaten?'

She shook her head. ‘No, I haven't eaten.' She gave a mock shudder. ‘English food is horrible but there's a nice Italian restaurant in Soho I've been to before.' To his relief she directed them away from the Tottenham Court Road and towards the bottom of the square. ‘There's a road which will bring us out on to Oxford Street,' she said. ‘It's not very far from there.'

Walking along with Freya by his side, Jack felt a sense of disbelief. This was Freya he was with. Freya Von Erlangen, for heaven's sake, and she was talking about restaurants in Soho.

He tried to force himself to listen to her, but his mind was buzzing. She had been his lifeline in Q'asr Dh'an. In his memory she was all that was good, an icon rather than a human being. But she was
real
. He glanced at her quickly, seeing how a strand of fair hair had escaped from the blue hat, falling over her cheek.

She brushed the hair back and it seemed incredible that she should move so instinctively, that she should actually be here. He had treasured her memory, and now, confronted with the real woman, he wasn't sure how she fitted into the space he had carved out in his mind. His time in Q'asr Dh'an had been a whip-sharp contrast of good and bad, and she had been all the good.

His picture was too stark. He had been a boy who needed kindness. But now? He needed to add colour, life, intelligence – humour, for heaven's sake. He needed to match up his venerated image with reality. He had loved her, missed her, thought about her, and now she was here he wasn't sure if he loved her or the image he had made. Guilt shadowed his thoughts. Freya needed help. If Craig was around she must need help. And he had cared for her, he thought, feeling a sense of pleasure in the certainty of the memory. Her arm nudged his and the little physical touch took his breath away.

She was trying very hard to seem at ease but it was artificial, a mere chatter of words to fill in the gaps. Any minute now and she'd start talking about the weather. He could sense her nervousness, and once again the sensation of holding a fluttering, frightened bird came to mind. He heard a faint footfall behind them and knew that Arthur and Isabelle were following. She gave a little start as if she'd heard it too.

‘Why are you calling yourself Miss Kirsch?' he asked quickly, anxious to distract her from the sound. He was anxious, too, to get the conversation away from banalities and on to something he really wanted to know.

Once again she shuddered, but this time it was genuine. ‘Lothar said it was necessary. When we went to New York, Lothar sold paintings, yes? He said it was better for business if I was not his wife. He had clients – rich clients – you understand? I had to be nice to them.'

Jack was appalled. ‘You mean he used you as a bait?'

Her face twisted, as if she had smelt something rank. ‘We had to live.'

‘The paintings were forgeries, weren't they?'

Her mouth tightened. ‘You know a great deal. It was necessary.' Jack felt a jag of disappointment, but damn it, why
should
she conform to his image? Maybe it had been necessary. ‘I would tell the clients a story, how a picture had been stolen or looted in the war or sold for a fraction of its value afterwards, all the things which made these rich, fat Americans think they were getting a bargain.' She shrugged. ‘What could I do? I spoke little English then and I was in a strange land. Lothar promised me that eventually we would have enough money to go back to Germany.' Her face softened. ‘My home is near Freiburg, in the Black Forest. I wanted to see the mountains once more. My family was respected there. I wanted to go home.'

Home? That was something he could sympathize with, but . . . ‘Why didn't you? I know he went to prison. You could have gone home then.'

‘Gone home to what?' she demanded bitterly. ‘In Germany, without Lothar, I had nothing.' He winced as she said his name. He couldn't help it. ‘Lothar had plans, great plans. Germany has suffered but there is a new movement that will change everything. You have heard of the
Sturmabteilung
?' Jack shook his head. ‘In English they are called Brownshirts. Lothar said they are the future. He wanted to be part of it. Besides that, he was ill and needed me.' She paused and spoke very quietly. ‘He never needed me before.'

Jack swallowed. It was as if another piece of his icon had flaked away. He'd thought of Von Erlangen and Freya as opposites, and now it seemed as if they had far more in common than he'd ever wanted to believe.

They turned out of the square and on to a high-storied dismal brick canyon of a street, where the dust swirled in the gutters and the gloom was broken only by lights from the occasional shop window. He thought of Isabelle and Arthur behind them. There were very few other people around, but there was, thank goodness, more cover than the square had provided.

Jack shook himself. Yes, he was with Freya, but he was also with the mysterious woman whose footprints he had followed. He had to find out what had happened in the Hammer Valley. ‘Talking of need, why did your husband need Vaughan?'

‘I don't know,' she said quickly. Too quickly, Jack thought.

‘You see,' he said casually, ‘I wondered if it had something to do with Q'asr Dh'an.' She drew her breath in and shot him a scared, sidelong glance. That had gone home. Perhaps later he could find out just how right they were in their guess about the gold convoy. ‘Have you ever met Vaughan?' She shook her head. ‘But you know Craig, though, don't you?'

She gave a little gasp. ‘Craig? I don't . . .'

She was scared. That much was obvious. ‘Please, Freya, tell me the truth. Tell me about Craig.'

‘I . . . I can't,' she said faintly.

‘Well, tell me what happened in the Hammer Valley, the night Vaughan's car caught fire,' Jack said, trying another tack. He tried to smile, to lighten everything up. ‘What the dickens were you doing there in the first place?' He cut short her denial. ‘I know you were there. I don't know why, though.'

It was some time before she spoke. ‘Lothar liked to know where I was,' she said eventually. ‘He wanted me there. He wanted someone he could trust in case things went wrong. He hired a car so he could take me with him. I waited outside Vaughan's house in the car.'

Von Erlangen had hired a car? ‘But Vaughan said Madison had come on the train.'

She gave a short sigh of exasperation. ‘That's what he said, yes. He
always
had another plan. Do you not see? It was dangerous for him. Vaughan knew Arabia. If Vaughan had guessed who Lothar was, there might have been difficulties. Lothar knew the English hated him. He thought he was safe with Vaughan, but he didn't
know
he was safe with Vaughan, and he didn't leave anything to chance. He wanted to have a way of escape, so he could get away quickly.'

‘But it wasn't Vaughan who was the problem, it was Craig,' Jack said slowly.

She shuddered once more. ‘Craig spoilt everything.' She stopped, looking round anxiously. ‘I feel as if we're not alone.'

‘We're in the middle of London,' Jack said easily.

‘No, it is more than that.'

Jack squeezed her arm. ‘Come on. Which way is it now? We must be near Oxford Street.'

‘We're not far.' She pointed to an ill-lit passage. ‘That will take us to Oxford Street, yes?' She swallowed and he knew she was suddenly nervous. ‘It is what you call a short cut.'

‘Why don't you trust me, Freya?' said Jack, without moving. ‘Why don't you tell me what Craig has done?'

‘Craig?' Her voice caught on the word.

‘I know you're in trouble. If you're Miss Kirsch you're in big trouble. Is that what he's holding over you?' She looked at him without understanding. ‘There was the guard, the prison guard,' explained Jack patiently. ‘If you know someone's planning a murder and you don't stop them, then you're guilty of murder, too.' She looked frankly puzzled. ‘Your husband killed a prison guard, didn't he?'

‘You're wrong,' she said faintly. ‘You must be wrong. Lothar didn't murder anyone.' She put her hand to her mouth. ‘He can't have done. He can't have lied to me.'

He looked into her anxious eyes and felt a surge of fellow feeling. He'd had an image of Freya and Freya had an image of Von Erlangen. Perhaps that was why she'd never left him. If she could delude herself, then she could be content. He was suddenly impatient with how blind she'd been. He sighed and started down the alleyway. ‘Freya, he did.'

On the street behind them, Isabelle raised her eyes from the collection of old furniture in the shop window. ‘Have they gone?' she asked without looking round.

‘They've just set off again,' said Arthur. He narrowed his eyes. ‘It's difficult to see in this gloom. They've turned into an alley, I think.'

They walked to the entrance. The alleyway twisted between the blank high walls of the surrounding buildings. The grunt of traffic from Oxford Street sounded faintly, echoing through the narrow passage. Arthur pulled a face, looking at the two retreating backs of Jack and Freya. ‘It's going to be fun staying out of sight along there.'

Isabelle put her hand on his arm. ‘Arthur! Look!'

Hugging the wall halfway along the alley, a man slipped out of the shadows. Arthur had a brief glance of an overcoated figure with a hat pulled low. The man pulled something that looked like a stumpy stick from his pocket and then, with one voice, both Isabelle and Arthur yelled together. ‘Jack! Look out!'

The man in the overcoat struck.

Jack must have sensed something before they yelled, for he turned his head and raised his arm to ward off the blow. They heard the crunch as the cosh went home. Jack crumpled. Isabelle screamed as a long-bladed knife caught the light.

Freya Von Erlangen leapt at the man's arm, sending the knife clattering to the ground. He turned and struck her a vicious blow with the back of his hand, sending her reeling. As Isabelle and Arthur raced up the alley, the man snatched up the knife, hauled Freya forward and, grabbing her arm, ran. Freya shook herself free, turned and saw Isabelle and Arthur.

‘Freya! Come back!' yelled Arthur. She shrank away, then turned and ran after the man up the alley.

Jack was lying sprawled with his arms flung wide. Arthur hesitated, seeing the fleeing figures ahead, but a groan from Jack brought him up sharp. He dropped to one knee as Jack groaned once more. He opened Jack's coat, checking anxiously for blood. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw his friend was unharmed. Freya Von Erlangen had saved him from that at least, thank God.

‘Stay with him!' he said to Isabelle shortly and then ran along the alley.

A few yards later and he was on Oxford Street, with its surging crowds and streams of traffic. Freya and the man were nowhere in sight. He walked a few yards up the pavement on either side of the alley, itching with frustration as he realized how hopeless the search was. They could be anywhere in this bright jungle of shops, cars and people. There was a policeman on point duty and, heedless of the squeal of brakes and shouts from outraged motorists, Arthur skirted through the traffic to him.

‘Here, what's going on?' demanded the policeman. ‘You'll do yourself a mischief, crossing the road like that.'

Arthur explained as rapidly as he could, and the policeman put his whistle to his lips and blew. ‘We'll be there as soon as we can, sir,' said the policeman.

Arthur went back down the alleyway. Jack, he was relieved to see, was standing up, leaning against the wall, his head in his hands.

He looked round as feet sounded in the alley. Two policemen loomed at the Oxford Street entrance. A third man in evening dress was behind them. It was Bill Rackham.

‘You absolute idiot, Jack,' said Rackham. ‘What the devil d'you think you're playing at, gallivanting off with Freya Von Erlangen, of all people? Who hit you?'

‘I think it was Craig,' said Jack, nursing his temple. ‘All I can really tell you is that the bloke had a beard. By jingo, my head hurts! I half-heard something, then Arthur and Belle yelled a warning and I spun round. I only caught a glimpse before he lammed me with what I assume was a cosh.'

‘He pulled out a knife after you went down,' said Arthur. ‘Freya Von Erlangen leapt at him and stopped him from stabbing you.'

‘Did she?' asked Jack, looking heartened.

Rackham looked at Arthur. ‘Did she get away?'

‘I'm afraid she did,' said Arthur. ‘I shouted to her to stop but the pair of them were off like the clappers when they saw us coming.'

‘Freya too?' asked Jack.

Arthur looked at him sympathetically, seeing his friend's shoulders sag. ‘I'm sorry, Jack. She could have escaped from him quite easily but she ran for it.'