A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation) (13 page)

Joe’s antennae were twitching. “You have names for these gentlemen?”

“Not all. I recognised one or two. There was a banker whose name will make your eyes pop. Two industrialists who made fortunes in the war, a retired English admiral, two other blokes I’d never seen or heard of before and a villain I did recognise from his pictures in the press.” Bacchus extracted a brown envelope from his pile and put it down in front of Joe.

Joe looked with interest. The man in question had clearly claimed the attention of the Branchman. He read the name on the front in disbelief, then read it out loud. “I say—have they spelled this correctly?”

“Heimdallr Abraham Lincoln Ackermann?”

Bacchus nodded.

“Who the devil’s this when he’s at home? And where on earth
is
his home? German surname, Scandinavian first name and American in the middle? That places him in the mid-Atlantic somewhere south of Iceland, wouldn’t you say?”

“Right. A man who carries his autobiography in his name. Prussian father, Swedish mother, brought up in the States.”

“How did Abraham Lincoln get in on the act?”

“Mother’s hero, apparently, though she, being an aristocratic sort of Swede, insisted on giving her son an ancient Scandinavian first name. Look inside—you may recognise him.”

Joe opened up the file and studied the photograph pasted inside. A bespectacled, middle-aged man with pale face and neatly
trimmed grey moustache looked back at him with a benevolent and slightly questioning expression from under the brim of a straw boater set precisely in the centre of his head. This was not a man to wear his hat at a roguish angle. His suit was neat, his glasses had thin gold rims. He seemed to be asking, “Will that be all, sir?”

“I do recognise him. It’s my local pharmacist. Makes a point of asking discreetly if sir has everything he requires for the weekend. I’ll tell you who it
isn’t
—Heimdallr, son of Odin, King of the Gods! This chap couldn’t wield a paper-knife, let alone a broadsword. What’s he done to raise your blood pressure?”

“His weapon’s the pen! Are you telling me you haven’t heard of him? They told me you’d been primed …” Bacchus was stunned. “I’ll give you a minute to read through his details and another minute to get your breath back.”

Bacchus was chuffed to hear the low growl as Joe caught up. “Ackermann! Someone mentioned his name to me just the other day. One among many new ministers. How did you identify him?”

Bacchus was clearly pleased with himself judging by the studied casualness of his reply. “It was tricky. The chap was speaking with an American accent and the others were calling him ‘Abe’ so it was a moment or two before the penny dropped.”

Trying to remain calm, Joe asked, “And what, do you suppose, the new President of the German General Bank is doing in London masquerading as a Pilgrim?”

“Dunno. Guest of honour? Possible. But he could be a bona fide member for all we know. They don’t publish a list. It’s as easy to get a list of members from them as from a London club. In other words—forget it. A starchy ‘Our members know who they are,’ is the only response you get.”

“But—a German citizen?”

“They do get about, you know. We don’t own the Atlantic. The pilgrims—the original seed corn, you might say, were from several different European nations including Germany, all fleeing
religious or political persecution in various lands. There were Ackermanns in Pennsylvania in the seventeen hundreds. It means ‘farmer’ and lots of farmers emigrated.”

Joe was becoming increasingly concerned that James had all these facts at his fingertips and said so.

“Right. This man just happens to be at the top of my pile of foreigners to watch. I’d say he’s the key man in Herr Hitler’s new government. One of the first appointments he made. He’s got the banking slot all right but he’s also Advisor for Economics and is, we hear, about to be given charge of Hitler’s policy of redevelopment, re-industrialization and—rearmament.”

Joe groaned. “So there was a
bombe surprise
to follow after all.”

“Yup! He’ll be the bloke who signs the cheques for the tanks and the bombers and the roads and the airstrips. And—more importantly—who conjures up the cash to back them. I began to wonder in my suspicious way if this meeting within a meeting had been called to arrange a few transfers between consenting parties. I expected his little case to contain a paying-in book as well as a cheque book and gold pen but, no—there was another little surprise in those cases.” Bacchus said cheerfully.

“Hang on—these attaché cases—you’ve lost me. What did they look like?”

“A bit like the things Freemasons carry their leather pinnies to meetings in. No distinguishing marks. All the same design. A job lot you’d say.”

“Oh, Lord! A secret society! That’s all we need!”

“That’s what I thought. So I acquired one of them. Just to check.”

“Safely acquired?”

“Of course. When they left I was on the spot and I helped the one who was most unsteady on his pins into his coat. The gentleman happened to drop his case during the manoeuvre and staggered off without it. Luckily it had his name in it. Turns out
he’s a certain Adolphus Crewe from New York. A top lawyer with links to the FBI. I got the Victoria to ring his hotel (which happened to be Claridge’s) ten minutes later with a message that it had been handed in and was in safekeeping. Would he collect or should they send it round?”

“Ten minutes? Was that long enough to break the US navy code?”

“We did that last year. Took us five. No—there was nothing much in there to detain the attention.”

“Well, go on. What was there?”

There was a pause as Bacchus considered. “A square of leather. Plus eighteen ivory counters. It’s a game. A portable game.”

“What? Like drafts? Chequers?”

“Not quite. It’s a very ancient game. Though you can still get them at Hamleys toy shop in Regent Street. Goes back to Ancient Egypt. The Bronze Age Celts of Ireland played it. The Romans whiled away the hours on Hadrian’s wall with it. My uncle Arthur was addicted.
He
carried one about with him too in his pocket. But—more significantly—the pilgrims, confined at sea aboard their tiny ship for two months, played it. It’s called
Nine Men’s Morris
.”

“And those were the Nine Men? Is that what you’re thinking? That you’d uncovered a secret gaming club? An inner temple dedicated to an ancient tradition? More like a joking link with the past, I’d say. The Masons go in for that sort of stuff, don’t they? Leather aprons, scrolls, memorised speeches?” He floundered on: “You’ll probably find the others in the society know what’s going on and think it’s a bit of a laugh. The men you tracked may be a special group who’ve achieved the Ninth Level of Peregrination and are accordingly charged with the preservation of the Society’s ancient rituals. Seems a harmless, bloke-ish way of spending the afternoon. Wish we had the time, James …”

Bacchus left a silence in which Joe replayed his own dismissive,
comfortable words. His voice took on a little uncertainty as he added, “Look, James, I’ll tell you straight: I don’t much like splinter groups or secret societies within societies.”

“Time wasters usually. Overgrown boy scouts. All mouth, no trousers. They probably collect cigarette cards too. But—speaking of cards—they’re not the only collectors. I have my own bits of memorabilia. Tell you what …” Bacchus looked at his watch. “I’ll make time to rootle through my files with the
Times
list in hand and send round a rogues’ gallery for you to give your opinion on. All the faces I can remember. It may be important.”

“You’re needling me into saying the obvious: these nine men are no boy scouts. They’re running our world, aren’t they?”

“I’d say so. They’re certainly greasing the wheels it runs on. But look—if you want to know more, you could always ask your sergeant.”

“My sergeant?” Joe knew he was prevaricating. “Which one? I’ve got a hundred and forty seven on the books.”

“You know who I mean! Armitage. He was there. Right on the spot.”

“With his ear to the keyhole?” Joe spluttered in amusement and disbelief at the effrontery. “He waved you away and listened in to their private conclave? Cheeky bugger! From what I know of his habits, never mind their secrets, they’d be lucky to get out of there with their gold cuff-links still in place.”

“No. Nothing so crude! Armitage oozed in under his own steam. Carrying his own little case. Your sergeant is one of the Nine Men.”

A
fter a stunned silence, “I’ll speak to him,” was all Joe could reply. “If I don’t like his answers to my questions, I’ll stick him straight back on board the next Mayflower out of Plymouth.”

“And cause an international incident? The bloke’s a United States citizen, remember. Before you put the boot in—I’d try the soft pedal first if I were you. See if you can get a tune out of this old joanna. There’s time.”

“You’re probably right. It’s not making much sense so far. Listen, James—there is one more thing—I want you go back a bit. To last night. Thursday. Seems a lifetime. Any of our subjects out and about? Or were they all tucked up with a mug of cocoa? It may be important. A link with a murder case I’ve got on my desk.”

Bacchus was relieved to be able to return an unexciting response. “Only one left the hotel. The maid. She nipped off at seven, by herself, nothing said, and got back when it was getting dark.” He riffled through his notes. “Ten o’clock. It was hardly worth the bother but I had a man spare. He followed her to Leicester Square. Yup! He wasted an evening sitting behind her at the movies.”

“Any contacts?”

“None observed.”

J
OE’S CALL A
moment after Bacchus left brought Armitage to the telephone in reception at Claridge’s. He hoped his voice didn’t betray the tension and suspicion he was feeling.

“That lady’s maid or whatever she is … Julia Something?”

“Ivanova.”

“Is she in the hotel?”

“She’s down here having tea. I can see her from here.”

“Good. Tell her I want to have a word with her in half an hour. I’ll join her at the tea table.”

“Right.”

Joe asked the question he knew he should have asked first and had put off in an unreasoning but human desire not to know the answer. “Any news yet of her mistress? Natalia? Kingstone’s inamorata? We have nothing to report ourselves yet, I’m afraid.”

Armitage tuned in at once to his agitation. “Something wrong?”

“Just answer the question.”

“No. She’s not here.” There was an uneasy pause. “No sign or message. Okay?”

“No. I think you know that’s not okay. Say nothing to alert Kingstone.”

Sharply: “To what? Alert him to
what
?”

“I’ll explain when I get there. I’ve a bad feeling our two worlds are about to collide. Sarge—don’t let that girl out of your sight.”

“That’ll be no problem. She’s very easy on the eye. Come and take a look, Captain.”

“T
EA’S A BIT
stewed,” Julia Ivanova told him wearily. “Better ask for a fresh pot if you’re staying. The Darjeeling’s good.”

So this was the girl whose looks had so impressed Armitage. Remotely, darkly, foreign. A girl with the austere beauty of the
bust of Nefertiti, Queen of Egypt, Joe would have said fancifully—until she spoke and shattered the illusion.

“ ‘Stewed’?” Joe picked up her word with a genial grin. “I think I must be talking to a London girl?”

He’d already judged from her voice that she had probably been born with the sound of Bow Bells in her ears. She was taking no pains to hide it. He caught the waiter’s attention and pointed to the pot with a smiling request for more.

“A trifle over-brewed, then. That better? I’m half a Londoner. My ma. My father was a Russian immigrant over here before the war. Political refugee. The kind who’s always on the wrong side. The Tsar? The Bolshies? He could get up anybody’s nose.”

Joe would have liked to establish precisely which faction Ivanov had supported but didn’t want to interrupt her. He always listened with particular attention to the first confidences made to him. Truth or lies—the information he was fed was usually significant.

“He came from a not very fashionable part of Moscow. So I can talk two languages fluently and impress no one in either. Well?” She fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Where’s Natalia? Haven’t you found her yet?”

“I prefer to approach my subjects a little less directly, Miss Ivanova,” he said, unsettled by her blunt demand. “I like to shuffle up on them sideways like a crab.”

“Call me Julia or Yulia, whichever you fancy. What’s your name, Mr. Plod?”

“The name’s Joe. Joe Plod,” he said and wished for a moment he was in full uniform. He’d discovered that a quiet Savile Row suit and an urbane manner evoked nothing more than disdain from Russian ladies but a show of status and power, the flash of gold braid and the clank of medals evoked respect and an eagerness to please.

Her sudden smile surprised him. The regular features with
their high cheekbones and arched eyebrows, the nose defined by a ruler and measured to the millimetre, were straight from an illustration in
My Lady’s Couture Monthly
. But no high society girl he’d ever met would have been capable of such a hearty grin. He wondered if her laughter was equally uninhibited.

“Well, go on then, Joe. Show me your claws.”

“ ‘Where’s Natalia?’—I was about to ask you the same question. I have no knowledge of her present whereabouts. But I believe you do and I’m concerned that you are being obstructive to our enquiries. So concerned, I’m thinking it would be a good idea to haul you off to Bow Street nick and put you somewhere dark and quiet to think things over.” Well, that little speech wouldn’t raise much of a laugh. It didn’t evoke much in the way of respect either.

“Don’t be daft!” she said. “You and whose army?” she jeered with the confidence of a street urchin caught nicking an apple from a barrow. “You haven’t got grounds. You’re not investigating a crime. No one’s asked you to stick your nose in. She’s not a missing person, you know. Natalia will pop up again when she’s a mind to. It’s none of your business.” She looked at her watch. “Is that all you wanted to say? That you know nothing? Well, I’m just off out to the pictures. I like to keep up with the latest releases. They’ve got
King Kong
showing at the Empire. Fancy it? I don’t mind going to the flicks by myself in London—it’s usually quite safe if you go in the two and nines and avoid the great unwashed—but it might be a laugh to have a police escort just for once. A good-looking one. No? I’ll love you and leave you then.”