A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation) (25 page)

“W
ELL THEY DIDN’T
hang about, the minute they got their hands on the bag,” remarked the police sergeant a moment or two after the door swung closed behind the plainclothes men. “I wonder what you’ve just handed them, Alf.”

Alfred didn’t confide his fears. He cleared his throat and murmured: “We’ll just have to wait a bit now.”

They waited for the longest five minutes of Alf’s life. He spent them on the doorstep, looking to left and right until, with a grunt of relief, he saw his grandsons sprinting towards him down the street. He gathered them up in a hug and dragged them inside. They fought their way free, pink-cheeked and excited, and the older of the pair began to speak.

“Got it! I put the number in my car-spotting book.” He handed a small dog-eared book to Alfred. “Sorry we were so long, Granpa—they’d parked it round the corner …”

“Round two corners,” corrected the smaller boy. “But we found it! They didn’t see us. We tagged along with old Mr. Sparks and his Missis on their way to the shops.”

“AR 6439? That it?” Alfred read out the last number entered.

“No. That’s a Riley. Grey one. Bloke had stopped to get a packet of Woodbines from the corner shop. I put that in on the way back. Common or garden. Not like the one your visitors got into! Cor! That’s the one above. ALM 145.”

“Description of vehicle, sonny?” The sergeant dignified the occasion by producing his own notebook and licking the end of his pencil. He was all benevolent attention.

“It was a Maybach DS8 Zeppelin. Black. Four-seater.” Sid’s eyes glazed over in memory of the extraordinary vehicle.

“A what was that again? Zeppelin? Wasn’t that a bomber plane in the war?”

“Naw! It’s an airship. A dirigible.”

Sid broke into the police officers’ exchange of views. “Naw, mister! It’s a motor car. We saw one when Granpa took us to the exhibition at Earl’s Court. First I’ve ever seen on the road.”

“It’s a monster!” said Ian. “A big, black monster! You should have heard it growl when they started up!”

“Oh, my Lord!” breathed Alfred. “He’d need a pair of ten quid pigskins to handle that!” He put an arm over the boys’ shoulders. “You’ve done well, lads. We’ll make that sixpence a bob, shall we?”

He turned to his colleagues. “I’ll say thank you to you as well, for the pleasure of your company. And now I’d better make a swift phone call to the boss. Warn him there’s a thundering black beast on the way.” He winked at Ian and looked at his watch. “Early morning, there won’t be that much traffic about but our two sportsmen have still got to struggle over the river and out of London. Fifty miles to do. Let’s say they can do sixty miles per hour on the open roads. It’s going to take them just over an hour.”

“Granpa,” the older boy said urgently, tugging at his sleeve, “those cars can do a hundred!”

J
OE HAD BEEN
hanging on in Marcus’s study within arm’s reach of the telephone for the past half hour but when it rang he had to overcome a sudden attack of paralysis before he could pick it up. He was about to hear nothing good. He picked it up with a leaden hand on the third ring and, the spell broken by the abrasive “Alf ’ere,” he launched into a fast exchange.

“One English, the other didn’t speak? Description, Alfred? Onslow first … Six foot, well-dressed, black fedora …” Joe noted down Alfred’s swift, professional recitation of details. “… hair mid-brown, eyes grey, no distinguishing features. Second: Cummings? Eyes brown, similar but silent. A matched pair. Weapons,
Alf? Both had guns in shoulder-holsters. Driving a—what was that?… Good lord! There must be fewer than half a dozen of those cars in the country. Ho, ho! Big mistake? Over confidence?” he wondered out loud.

“Perhaps they’re not expecting to leave witnesses.” Alfred voiced Joe’s worst fears. All he could do was repeat Joe’s own advice back to him. “Get the family out and get help in. Got any armoured divisions down there looking for something to do on a Saturday morning?”

They broke off abruptly, not troubling to take up precious minutes on assurances and good wishes and Joe got up and made his way back to the breakfast room.

Approaching, he heard laughter and conversation. Lydia’s light clear voice was meshing with Kingstone’s low rumble, punctuated by short bursts from Marcus, who’d returned from the field.

“Where on earth have you been, Joe? The papers have arrived. We turned straight to the account of yesterday’s Pilgrims’ luncheon and found our guest’s name in the starry lineup. Come and see. There he is,” she pointed, “sandwiched between an arms manufacturer and a philanthropist. Can’t have been comfortable.’

Joe’s alarm call was momentarily checked by his surprise at Kingstone’s appearance and demeanour.

“They keep their sentiments uncontroversial at these dos,” Joe put in hurriedly. “ ‘Brotherly understanding … genuine comradeship … preservation of an organised society …’ ” He quoted from Bacchus’s notes on the Pilgrims’ lunch while fixing Kingstone with a questioning eye. “Who could possibly argue with that?”

“They also serve excellent champagne at very frequent intervals,” Kingstone added, unconcerned. “After a bottle of Bollinger, even
you’
d be toasting the Kaiser if invited, Sandilands.”

“Joe, may I
re
-introduce our guest? Not, as you might suppose, our local rat-catcher! I believe you think you know Senator Kingstone?” Lydia was gurgling with amusement, as well she might,
Joe thought as he took in the senator’s appearance. Wearing a pair of Marcus’s old flannels, a linen shirt with a scarf tucked casually into the neck and an ancient white Guernsey sweater tied by the arms about his shoulders, he was a changed man. He was pink and polished and reeking of peppermint toothpaste. His head was high, the grin just fading on his lips. In some way he seemed to have slipped into focus, a man at ease with his surroundings, his company, but above all—with himself. Joe wished Doctor Rippon could have been present to see the effect of his suggested cure beginning to show.

He also wished he wasn’t about to ruin his day. He didn’t look forward to wiping the good humour from Kingstone’s face and dimming the newly bright eye. He wanted nothing more than to spend time helping the two men plan a carefree day, lying at ease by the lake in the shade of a beech tree, just thinking, snoozing and bothering the occasional trout. For a moment he toyed with the idea of leaving Kingstone in happy ignorance of the black car and its cargo of killers booming towards them. But only for a moment.

K
INGSTONE LOOKED AT
his watch. “So—we’re saying we’ve got how long? An hour. Anything more than that would be a bonus. Any chance of a bonus, Marcus?”

He seemed undismayed by the news and Joe acknowledged that the prospect of action in which he was directly involved appeared to be a stimulant to the senator. He’d grasped the scene at once, wasted no time on recriminations of the “but you said I’d be safe here” type and got straight to the essentials. Joe’s first estimate of the man’s character seemed to have been pretty accurate. The spider in the cup had lost its venomous hold on him as Rippon had predicted and the newly revealed leader of men padded over in his socks to refill his cup from the coffee pot.

Marcus was keeping up with him and already on his feet on the way to the door. “Extra time? Certainly! I can add a quarter
of an hour. I’ll ring the local police station and ask them to put back the diversion signs they dragged away into the hedge two days ago on the B road. That broken bridge they thought they’d mended requires a bit more attention perhaps. Look here …” He turned to the table and drew a quick sketch on the back page of the newspaper. “Block them at this point and they’ll have to take the diversionary route. Down several miles of single-carriage hollow lane.” He chuckled. “We might not see them again until Christmas. Bound to get stuck in a car that size. They can’t have had any idea where they were headed for. Or what they were heading into,” he added with satisfaction.

“Disturbing, perhaps, to think they see no need to care,” Joe said lugubriously.

They were not deflated. “Were your boys certain of the number, Sandilands?” Kingstone asked.

“Two. Two fedoras. Excellent choice of headgear! For hired guns, of course.” Joe heard the gung-ho flavour in his own words beginning to echo their mood. He would resist a descent into melodrama. He added lightly, “Your London thug is not going in for anything so frivolous as a boater this season. He prefers to signal his evil intent with something more sober in black felt from Lock in St. James’s Street.”

Kingstone ignored him. “Your men, Marcus?” he wanted to know. “I’m not aiming to start a range war here! This isn’t their fight. Call them off! Send them home.”

“Not a chance! This
is
their home. Has been for centuries. Defending it and its guests is their duty and their pride. Besides—they’re all raring to have a go. Some of them have unfinished business with the Germans.” He flicked a glance at Joe. “Um … that’s what I told them. That we’re protecting an agent of Uncle Sam from the dark forces of the Prussian Empire. I say—did I oversteer? Shall I rewrite that scenario? I can think of something else …”

“No.” Kingstone spoke firmly. “Let’s give blame where blame is due for once, shall we?”

They fell silent, waiting for the revelation of identity they all craved, but he said thoughtfully, “Not sure whether this battle will be an afterthought of ‘the last lot,’ as you call it, or a foretaste of the next.” He sighed and went on more briskly, “Enough excuses, enough politicking. In the end it comes down to identifying your enemy, choosing your ground, checking your weapons and blasting him to hell before he does the same for you.”

“The Dukes of Marlborough and Wellington would have approved of those tactics.”

“They are their tactics, Marcus.” Kingstone was almost jovial again. “Strategy … tactics … dirty tricks … I learn from the best.”

“Quite agree! Malplaquet, Waterloo or Belleau Wood where you chaps did so much damage—it usually works,” Marcus said eagerly. He hurried on with practicalities. “Right then. These Germans—or their hirelings—we know their number and we know when they’ll arrive. They’re foolhardy enough to attack us on our home ground. Let’s have a weapons check. Three of my men have twelve-gauge shotguns. They need to get close up with those to do any real damage but the ‘spray and pray’ gestures they tend to use can scare a man to death all right. Stay behind them at all times, is my advice. Two of the blokes have deer guns. Rifles. Ex-fusiliers. They don’t need sights.” He looked from Joe to Kingstone, seeing dismay on one side, anticipation on the other. “Just the blasting business to come.”

“Your men, Marcus—I say again—I don’t want them blasting or being blasted on my account,” Kingstone said. “They must be for back-up use only. Last resort. Clear? By that I mean, should I fail to defend myself and the household is put into danger. They’re coming for me. And I’ll be ready for them. At least I shall be if you can kit me out with something for my feet. A man can’t go into battle in his socks. I have my own pistol. I’ll set them a
long trail—I’ll be down at the far end of the lake. Let me have a rod. Might as well get me a brace of rainbows for supper while I’m waiting …”

Joe groaned. This was getting away from him.

“They’ll be coming up against someone who’s survived stronger forces than theirs in beechwoods!” Kingstone’s voice was grim and purposeful. “The forests of the Argonne. Autumn, nineteen eighteen. Vile weather. Cold and wet. Supplies not getting through to the Doughboys of Pershing’s First Army. We were eating the beechnuts from the forest floor to stay alive.”

“Autumn nineteen eighteen? Ghastly time! But you didn’t have long to suffer by then.” Lydia’s voice was sympathetic but calm. “And you were back home by Christmas,” she added comfortably.

“No, we didn’t have long! Some only had minutes of life left.” With a tight smile, he fished about in the unfamiliar depths of the pocket of his borrowed trousers and produced an American army wristwatch. He put it down on the table.

They all looked with curiosity at the handsome timepiece. An Elgin with blue hands on a face the colour of vanilla ice-cream, silver case and worn brown leather strap.

Wondering what to make of this, Lydia stated the obvious: “It’s saying ten o’clock, Cornelius. It’s eight o’clock now. Your old watch is telling the wrong time.”

“No. It says exactly the right time. Talk of an Armistice had even filtered through to our part of the forest in early November but we didn’t believe it. We’d only been over in France for one hundred days. Some of our officers would have been mightily put out if it were all coming to an end so swiftly before they’d had a chance to take a decisive swing at the enemy. Or earn their next promotion.” His voice was grating, bitter. “My unit’s next task was to charge a particularly heavily defended position. Uphill, through trees, against a barrage of machine-gun fire. We’d tried it once. This was our second attempt. We all knew it would be our last.”

To interrupt or not to interrupt? Joe was longing to remind him that time was still of the essence. But this seemed to be the very point Kingstone was making and he held his tongue.

“The morning of the eleventh we charged as ordered. Fifty yards … a hundred yards and I was still running. And then, on my way up, I stumbled across a machine-gun pit with four German soldiers in it. They could have killed me at any moment in my dash straight towards them. They hadn’t. They were waving their arms in the air, grinning and babbling and pointing to their wristwatches. I had enough German to understand that word had passed down their line that it all ended at eleven
A.M
. In an hour’s time. I believed them. Their communications systems were always better than ours. No way were they going to kill me or have me kill them for the sake of an hour. They were young guys. My own age. I might have had a different welcome from a grizzled, battle-hardened crew.”

His chin went up, his eyes focussed on a very distant horizon.

“But—no one had told
us
. As far as we were concerned the war was still being fought. Our command that day was to charge, kill all before us and take the hill.”