A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation) (34 page)

“Go ahead, Lydia,” said Kingstone, encouraging. “You’ll find us shockproof and receptive.”

“Well, cast your eyes over these items. Flashbulb photos of high society dos, accompanied by informed, if breathless, commentary. This one’s taken at the Savoy ballroom. It features that gent there at the end of the row: Ackermann. Goodness, how could she! Not exactly Prince Siegfried is he?”

Joe peered at her magazine. “That’s definitely Natalia in the embrace of the King of the Norse Gods. Heimdallr looks better on the dance floor than he does in our rogues’ gallery,” he commented. “What’s that he’s doing? The Continental?
Beautiful music, dangerous rhythm?
”

“No. See where his left hand is? It’s the rumba. I expect dancing with a ballerina brings out the gigolo in you.”

“Well, these girls certainly make a feller look good in the spotlight. What’s the date of this? Mmm … four months ago …”

“You’re both dismissing him because you’ve caught him in mid hip-roll. It reduces him to something approaching our own human condition. We’d feel the same if anyone ever managed to snap Adolf Hitler Lindy-hopping.”

“Reassured?”

“Yes. But it’s never likely to happen. My Branchman, quoting one of his interesting sources of information, reports that this Ackermann, who’s quick-stepped his way into a position of influence with the Fascist government, has been overheard bragging to what he considered a safe pair of ears that he was ‘biding his time.’ When that upstart Hitler has done the dirty work and reestablished a strong and pure Germanic state, cleansing it of unions, communists, Jews and foreigners of the wrong type, the time will be ripe for a more intellectual, aristocratic leader to emerge.”

“One with international backing and friends in high places with open cheque books,” Kingstone muttered.

“Ah! You’ve caught up!” Lydia said. “Marcus has been saying as much ever since Hitler got himself made Chancellor. Well, before that, actually. But here, look—this is interesting. From six years ago. New York. ‘Ballet girls let their hair down and kick up their heels,’ it says. Taken at a charity ball given in honour of Diaghilev and his company by a New York socialite and fan, Mrs. P. L. Crispin. I saved it for the lady in the foreground doing the
Charleston—Beata Boromine, who was the latest sensation then. But look—who do you see in the background? That’s Natalia again, isn’t it?”

“Yes. A very young Natalia. And that’s not me she’s dancing with. That’s …” Kingstone peered more closely. “Banker, upright family man and champion Nine Men’s Morris player P.L. Crispin making a rare appearance in public in support of his wife’s enterprise. Though he gets no billing here, I see.”

“He’s not a man who welcomes publicity. Bacchus had a hard time flushing him to the surface. Edited out? Suppressed? The man moves about the world—you’d think someone other than a society magazine would be able to catch him.”

“They own the press—or much of it—on both sides of the Atlantic, Joe. Charity balls, yacht races, opening nights at the opera—those are the only occasions they allow their image to be put before the public.” Kingstone’s expression was impossible to fathom as he looked again at the photograph of the young Natalia and asked calmly, “Is this how they do their recruiting?”

“One of their ways, I expect,” Joe replied. “I’d guess men of this consequence have a range of effective techniques available to them.”

“And we’re thinking we can dent the armour of men like these?” Looking down at the seven faces, for a moment Kingstone was doubtful.

“Every suit of armour has its chink,” was Lydia’s cheery contribution to a conversation she was trying to understand. “But it’s a very tedious business searching for it. I’ll tell you what you have to do if you want to destroy an organisation: you have to attack it in two places. Think of it as a weed. You have to dig out the roots and chop off the seedhead before it has a chance to germinate and scatter its spores to the four winds.”

“Got that, Cornelius? Will you take the roots or the head?” Joe affected a light tone. “Lydia, thank you for your horticultural insights. Always a pleasure. But …”

“You want me to let you get on with your planning. Right-oh. I’ll leave you with these magazines. I don’t know how you do your job, Joe, without reading them. Half the country’s villains are to be seen disporting themselves on the pages every month. Even the occasional policeman makes an appearance.” She explained to Kingstone, “Joe’s the only good-looking one they have on the books and he’s never unwilling to risk his reputation on the dance floor so he gets snapped quite often.”

“A
LL THE SAME—SHE’S
probably right, you know, and my question was a serious one,” Joe picked up when Lydia had left the room. “I volunteer to take the roots because that’s the level I operate at. Down where it’s dark and dirty. My men will have been busy over the weekend.” Joe’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “My desk will be piled high with fingerprinting data, surveillance reports, interview notes … I’m planning to put my uniform on, barge my way into that so-called health clinic, turn it upside down and generally do my job as a policeman. And I shall do it without asking advice or permission. I don’t want to risk a refusal.

“You, Cornelius, can take shelter under the nose of our king and our prime minister, no less. Monday. The first day of the conference. You may be bored silly but I want you to stay put right there in the hall where you’ll be safe enough, every day for as long as it lasts. Security in the hall will be as tight as it ever gets. Bacchus or I will take over for what remains of your day. I’ll slide you back into the Claridge’s system and into the care of Armiger. If you’re quite happy with that arrangement?”

Kingstone was hardly listening. “Well, that’s the roots taken care of. Look, Joe, you’re going to have to listen to me and—yes—trust me when I say something that might sound a mite strange to you. I’ll take the seedhead.” He put up a hand to deflect any objections. “For the very good reason that—I
am
the seedhead.”

“S
unday! Blissful Sunday! And Joe tells me you’ve decided to make an early start back to London on Monday morning, so you have a whole day to relax.” Lydia poured out a cup of coffee for Kingstone. “Have you made any plans for today? Going out ratting with Brutus?”

“I turned him down in favour of a quiet hour or two with Marcus. We thought we’d take a reach of the river and tickle up some trout.”

“Excellent preparation for the days of boredom to come. Listening to the rehearsed, line-toeing speeches one after the other, all saying the same thing, won’t be very entertaining.”

“Oh, it’s not a foregone conclusion, Lydia …”

“You’re not kidding!” Marcus harrumphed from behind a copy of Saturday’s
Daily Mirror
. “You’re going to get fireworks! There’ll be staged walkouts at the very least! The French are probably packing their bags as we speak. We should have taken a look at this yesterday! Cook hands me her copy to read the racing page when she’s finished with it but, never mind the back pages, look here! On the front! Oh, my God!”

Marcus waved the headlines in front of them and then read out:

“It goes on to say that our ambassador in Washington has been instructed to make a proposal to the president: an offer of a token payment.”

Marcus hardly ever lost his easy good humour but Joe recognised the signs of rising anger. “The shame! The indignity! Three days to cough up. He gives us three days. The country’s bankrupt, for God’s sake! We’ve been paying this debt back for fifteen years, dutifully, with interest, amounting now to far more than the original sum. We’ve spent our last pennies bailing out Belgium, resupplying starving Germany on Churchill’s initiative. We’re down to our last tin of corned beef and what does this new chap decide to do at the outset of the most important meeting the world has ever held on economic problems? He holes Europe below the waterline! He demands payment with no chance of deferment for the privilege of having saved the civilised world from barbarity.”

“Marcus, my dear, our guest will think—”

Bit between his teeth he rumbled on, shaking the newspaper like a terrier. “To save Roosevelt’s face, we ‘propose a token payment.’ What’s that supposed to mean? How imprecise! And how typical! We don’t want to be seen to inconvenience our paymaster. As a Magistrate, I lecture debt defaulters from the bench after every big race and I send the ruthless leg-breakers who threaten them to jail. It’s the same thing on a bigger scale, that’s all. But the Germans—oh, they have no scruples! Did you know? They’ve just decided to welsh on their debts and print money—issue
national bonds they say—to pay for the grand projects they have in mind. And we let them get away with it! American bankers encourage them. Cornelius, surely you see this!”

“May I?” Kingstone took the paper from him and read the article for himself. He replied to Marcus’s outburst with calm concern. “The timing, I agree, is unfortunate. But look here—the key to all this is in the line,
The President is having difficulties of his own in America
. Poverty and unemployment from east coast to west; disaffected soldiery kicking up, ready to march on the country’s capital; lines forming at soup kitchens and starving children on the front pages of every newspaper. As bad as anything here in England. And always the voices around him advising, demanding, deriding, giving him a hard time.

“I need to get back,” he finished firmly. “I mean—all the way back. To Washington.” He fixed Joe with a look of growing unease. “It’s started, Joe. And it’s started without me. I’ll have to climb back aboard and see if I can catch up. Put things right from the inside.”

Joe’s interest flared. “How will you do that? Are you implying that you’re in contact with these people?”

“The mechanics of communication are in place,” Kingston replied carefully.

“How likely are they to accept your change of heart?”

“Very likely. They expect to be successful. They’ll think I’ve come to my senses. Cracked under the strain and given in. And they’re practical people, never forget that. With things coming to a head, there’s not much time for them to recruit and train on a substitute. I fit the bill perfectly. They won’t want to lose me. I can do what I have to do under cover of the conference.”

“Ah. There goes Sunday,” Lydia said sadly. “I suppose you’re both going to go haring off back to the capital to twist a few arms?”

“Not at all, Lydia. If ever I needed a good breakfast and a few
hours of calm before the storm breaks, it’s now. Though, for everyone’s peace of mind, I will just make one change to my schedule.” Cornelius managed a smile. “I’ll stand Marcus up and go ratting with Brutus.”

E
arly though the hour was, Armitage was already waiting in the lobby on Monday morning, every hair in place, smile on face and large gun in its usual position when Joe smuggled Kingstone back into the hotel.

“Glad to have you back, sir!” The welcome and relief seemed genuine. The sharp eyes looked quizzically at the laundered shirt and the freshly pressed elegance of the evening suit Kingstone had put on for the return journey. “You’re looking pretty chipper, Senator, after two nights out on the tiles. I hope your weekend wasn’t too demanding.”

“Just what I needed, William! A leisurely couple of days in the country. Friends dropped in for a visit … caught a few rats …” Kingstone said blandly. “You know the sort of thing. Now. Change of clothes. Notes. Ready for take off in one hour? You stay down here and confer with Joe, will you?”

Armitage gave Joe a frosty nod of acknowledgement. Joe was determinedly brief. “All well? Good show! No alteration to the senator’s arrangements. The Geological Museum Hall in Knightsbridge. Got your pass ready? I’m afraid you’re in for a boring day at the conference, Bill. Though I have heard it hinted that the French delegation may provide the assembly with some entertaining histrionics. You may have a
chance to extend your vocabulary. We’ll see. I should take a good book in with you.” He opened his briefcase and took out a garish thriller he’d snatched on a whim from his sister’s shelves. “Here—try this.
Murder Came Calling
. It’s the latest in the
Shadow of the Assassin
series by Captain Dalrymple. Do you enjoy shockers?”

“No time for them. I’m halfway through
A Farewell to Arms
. Mugging up on American literature. Look—could you take a minute to see Julia? Miss Kirilovna has still not made an appearance and the maid’s wondering what she should do next.”

“Oh, yes, Julia. Were you able to distract her from her concerns this weekend, Bill?”

“I wasn’t able to offer what she wanted. Dancing’s out. She’s seen all the films. She let me take her out for fish and chips on Friday night but that’s it. No idea where she spent Saturday and Sunday. I was in my room with Ernest Hemingway. She didn’t join us. But she’s in her room now. We’ve exchanged ‘good mornings’ and that’s it. She had breakfast taken up at seven.”

“Then I’ll pop up and see her. Say hello.”

Joe made his way upstairs and tapped on her door. Receiving no reply, he banged more loudly. The door was locked as security required. In sudden anxiety, he darted down the corridor, making for Kingstone’s room. Had he left Cornelius in danger? That bloody Julia with her Cockney sparrow ways, always there in the background with her reassurances and over-familiar gestures of concern, was too easily overlooked.

The door was opened for him at once by a welcoming Julia. “Joe! Hello! Now, this
is
a good moment—just for once—to stick your nose in. Come in and advise. Silver grey or blue paisley tie for this shindig?” She waved two samples in front of him and, in a whisper, “I thought he could do with a little help this morning. First-day nerves? Looks like stage-fright to me. He’s a bit shaky and having trouble doing up his buttons. Such stubby fingers,
bless him … What have you been up to? Never mind—you can tell me later.”