Honourable Intentions (31 page)

Of the bodies found, Kaminsky had been identified, and a
Raymond Cuchet, and—“Good God,” Ranklin said softly, and put the paper down to think.

Corinna said: “What is it?” but O’Gilroy, who either knew Ranklin better or was less impetuous, shook his head at her. Ranklin went on staring, luckily unseeing, at a mural of beach and palm trees which the hotel had thought would improve the vaulted wall.

Mrs Langhorn came in, wearing a skirt and blouse of Corinna’s, the blouse too tight and the skirt hem trailing several inches on the floor like a ball gown. She smiled confidently at them and sat down. A waitress hurried over with a fresh cup and poured her coffee.

“Is Berenice up?” Corinna asked.

“Don’t know. Shouldn’t think so.” Then she added: “Little trollop,” but as automatically as she might have said “May she rest in peace”. “What happened last night after we left?”

Ranklin held up the newspaper for her to read the headline, but from her frown and the moving of her lips, she wasn’t too good at French journalese, so he read it for her. “ ’Four anarchists dead in flames of besieged cottage – plot against the King of England – Irish revolutionary confesses all.’ Don’t trouble yourself with that last one, it needs some explanation.”

O’Gilroy reached for the paper and Ranklin handed it over, tapping a paragraph halfway down the first column.

Mrs Langhorn asked: “Is it all over, then?”

“Perhaps, but that’s up to you.”

She understood exactly what he meant. “When you said Grover would be let free, did you really mean it?”

“Oh yes. It was sure enough before, but last night made it even more certain. What are you planning to do then?”

O’Gilroy gave a sudden cackle of laughter, shook his head, and looked at Mrs Langhorn with new interest. She blinked, disconcerted both by him and because this time she wasn’t sure what Ranklin had meant. So she chose for him to be asking where she’d g o. “When he’s free, I don’t fancy staying in Paris. I only come because of him, and now, well, there’s going to be
too many of his anarchist friends around probably blaming me . . .”

“That does seem likely,” Ranklin agreed politely.

“We’ll have to get back to the United States.”

“Are you an American citizen?” Corinna asked. The question surprised Ranklin, who’d assumed it was automatic for a woman marrying an American. But Corinna should know.

“No, I never did. But Grover is. I shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“You didn’t have in the past. But now you’ve been mixed up with anarchists and murderers. I should wait and see what the New York papers say about you before you book a passage.”

Suddenly unsure, Mrs Langhorn looked from her to Ranklin. “I’m not going to be welcome in England, am I? I should think you’ll see to
that
.”

“That rather depends on who you are.”

She frowned, puzzled.

He reached to tap the newspaper. “I don’t think there’s any easy way to break this to you, but you’re dead.”

A procession of emotions flickered across her face: fear, then bewilderment, finally mistrust. He smiled reassuringly. “The charred body of a woman with your identity papers and passport on her was found in the cottage at Trilbardou. The false Mrs Langhorn sent to the Ritz yesterday, of course, but the
Sûreté
don’t know that.”

“But I can prove I’m alive! All sorts of people . . . and Grover – when he’s free – will say I’m me.”

“Oh yes, you shouldn’t have any trouble about
that.
But not many people get the chance of a new start, and I suggest you think of the alternative before you turn it down. You were on that barge, you have been part of Kaminsky’s gang, and as the only surviving member, the
Sûreté
will want to ask you all sorts of questions. The
Préfecture,
too. And if you tell the story about Grover being the King’s son – which you can’t actually prove, can you? – I’m sure his birth certificate gives your husband as the father. In fact, I don’t think you can
even prove you were the King’s mistress: we couldn’t. And the more you try, the more you’ll tie yourself up in the plot against the King. And even if you talk your way out of that, you’ll have all your enemies back in force. Er . . . that’ll include me.” He smiled apologetically. “Sorry and all that, but we really will make life hell on earth for you and Grover if you come back to Britain, and also see what we can do to keep you out of America. As for what France does to you . . . well, that’s up to the
Sûreté.
But we’ll give them any help they need.”

She looked at him, letting all this sink in – then broke down. Her pert face crumpled and her shoulders shook with sobs. “What can I do?” she wailed. “I’m just one poor woman against all you police and authority and all . . . You stamp on me like an insect, you do . . . The poor people in this world have got no rights, they’ve got no justice. None at all.”

Corinna had got hold of the paper by now. Without looking up, she said unsymparhetically: “You sound like an anarchist.”

And again, Ranklin had to remind himself that the woman had once been an actress. He waited in silence, and she dabbed at her eyes quickly. Was it cynical to think that was so he wouldn’t see how few tears there had been?

She gave one last sob, and stopped.

“Or,” he said, “you could start a new life with a pension. And if you pick that, we’ll give you all the help we can.”

There was a long, long silence. Then Mrs Langhorn asked: “How much?”

*           *           *

“This time,” he told St Claire and Harland, “I’m vouching for her. Don’t worry about passports and papers, just get her to sign up and hand over the first dollop of pension.”

That flummoxed them. Harland frowned and said: “We haven’t got any
cash
to disburse.”

“Good God, man, you weren’t expecting her to settle for a
cheque or some vague promise? Get it from the bank—”

“On Sunday?”

“Then from the hotel. Haven’t you ever seen soldiers at pay day? They’ll stand for all sorts of stoppages and allotments if they can see real money on the table.”

Luckily St Claire
had
supervised at pay days. “We’ll get it, never fear. And perhaps it would be a good idea to throw in a passage to England?”

“Distinctly good idea.”

“But who will she be when she gets there?”

“Luckily she’s got a part half-written for her already: her own sister, the widowed Mrs Simmons. It has to be some relative so she can scoop in Grover. And she plays the part rather well, I can vouch for that, too.”

“But she won’t have any of the paperwork, birth and marriage certificates and . . . Oh.” He caught Ranklin’s patient look. “Your Bureau, of course. Perhaps we’d better not know about that.” He and Harland exchanged glances. “Then just give us an hour to raise the wind and send the lady up.”

“And what are you going to do yourself, now?” Harland asked.

“I’ll probably escort Mrs Simmons back to London and help find her lodgings there until she decides where to go. But first –” he sighed “– I’ve got an interview with the
Sûreté
to get through. Still, they have killed off an anarchist gang and wiped the eye of the
Préfecture,
so if I can convince them they’ve saved the King’s visit here, they may settle for that. I used to laugh at the French police for being so political, but thank God they are. And then arrange with the consulate to get Lieutenant Jay’s body shipped home.”

“If you need any help from the Embassy . . .” St Claire said quickly.

“Thank you.”

There was a silence that became awkward with unsaid things. Ranklin gave a little shrug and turned towards the door. St Claire said: “I hope you think it was worth it. It was, you know.”

Ranklin nodded, meaning nothing. St Claire went on: “All sorts of things that could have happened now probably won’t. There are always casualties; that’s what we’re for. And to do the best job we can. Nobody can ask more than that.”

Ranklin nodded again. It was the right speech for a major to make to a junior.

“What will you tell Jay’s parents?” St Claire asked.

“That he died on His Majesty’s service, I suppose.”

23

Gorkin wasn’t in what O’Gilroy said was his usual café, though the posters on the walls and the intensity of the conversations at the tables told Ranklin he’d got the right place; this was the
intellectuel
version of the
Deux Chevaliers.
He felt badly out of place there and stayed only long enough for a small coffee. He didn’t ask about Gorkin, either. He wanted it to be a casual encounter. After that, he tried several more cafés along the Boulevard Saint Michel, then headed for a smaller place which Gorkin seemingly didn’t use but was almost opposite his apartment house.

O’Gilroy was slumped at a table one row from the window, reading a newspaper.

“He could be in, could be not,” he reported. “But he had another visitor half an hour ago: Berenice. Dressed up like . . . like a real tart. All paint and an orange fur stole and a purse.” He was trying to keep the censoriousness out of his voice. “Only there twenty minutes, so mebbe he was out and she waited jest that long.”

“Damn. Was the little bitch reporting to him what we’d been up to?”

“Don’t know. Like I said, mebbe she didn’t see him.”

“And the concierge let her in dressed like that?”

“One of these places that only has a concierge night and mornings. Afternoons, ye jest walk in and knock on the door.”

“Damn,” Ranklin muttered again, thinking. Maybe he should cut and run now, concentrate on getting Mrs Langhorn back to England. But he’d be leaving a loose end: if Berenice had been blabbing to Gorkin, he had to try and find out what she’d told
him. Which meant either trying to dig her out, down in La Villette – which he didn’t fancy – or seeing what Gorkin might say. And of the two, Gorkin was the talker; Messiahs are.

He sighed. “I’ll go up and see. You hang on here.”

The building was quiet, except for someone practising on a violin somewhere; perhaps that itself told how empty it was at that time. Gorkin’s apartment was at the front on the first floor, and the door was slightly open. Ranklin pushed, then knocked and called softly, but got no reply. The open door surprised him and made him wary of a trap, but he still wasn’t going to pass up the chance of a look around.

He was in a small living-room, the walls lined with books and stacks of small periodicals and manuscripts. A large typewriting machine stood on a solid table by the window, a large comfortable office chair behind it. Ranklin tiptoed across to see if there was anything half-written in the machine, but there wasn’t. And there was too much paper everywhere to make a hasty look worthwhile. He went over to the inside door, listened at it, then pushed that open. It was the bedroom –

– and Berenice hadn’t been telling Gorkin anything. Or if she had, it didn’t matter now.

When he had fetched O’Gilroy, they stared down at the sprawled, half-clad figure at the foot of the bed. Gorkin looked pallid, wide-eyed – and bloody. You have to be very adept with a knife to avoid bloodiness, and Berenice hadn’t been. But she’d certainly been thorough.

“I
told
her if anything happened to Gorkin it would only make him a martyr!”

O’Gilroy shrugged. “Gave her a good reason, didn’t ye? Feller’s let down the Cause with his plotting and suchlike, but at least he can be a martyr.” He smiled lopsidedly. “She’s a dedicated kind of girl, that one.”

Ranklin said grimly: “He’s only a martyr if his death’s tied to the King – and us. She might have thought of
that
.”

“Mebbe she did.”

“Hm. But if he was just killed by a casual whore . . . that could happen to anyone.”

“Yer not going to give her to the
flics?”

“Of course not:
she’s
tied to us, damn it, if anybody starts looking. All right, we’ll re-write his ending for him. Just stand there and look around. What can you deduce?”

“I’m no
flic.”
Offended.

“Just pretend you are, man.”

Somewhat mollified, O’Gilroy gazed around. “She waited until he was taking off his trousers. Feller with his trousers round his ankles can’t fight back. Then
wham
with a knife . . . Where is it?”

“The silly bitch must’ve taken it with her. I’ll see . . .” He went into the kitchen, found a selection of worn cooking knives, and called: “How long a blade?”

“Short, she’d be carrying it in her purse . . . Not too short, though. Got to be as deep as the wounds and nobody’ll know how much ’til they cut him open.”

Ranklin momentarily shut his eyes in exasperation, then brought two knives out. “Which, then?”

O’Gilroy judiciously chose one. Then he wiped it in Gorkin’s blood and tossed it to the floor. “Probly won’t bother too much: ye got knife wounds, ye got a knife, why make tests?” He resumed his gazing. “They had a drink first.”

There was a bottle of wine and one of absinthe on a little table, along with two used glasses. Ranklin asked: “Does the
Préfecture
use fingerprints yet?”

“Surely.”

“And was she wearing gloves?”

O’Gilroy thought, then shook his head. “Damned if I can remember. Likely worn through at the fingers anyhow.”

So Ranklin sniffed the two glasses, took the absinthe one to the kitchen and washed it out – a rather messy business if one is, quite properly, wearing warm-weather dogskin gloves. Then he tipped a little wine into it, tasted it to leave a blur on the rim, and put it back on the table. He wiped the absinthe bottle clean of fingerprints and put it back in a cupboard. Could she have touched the wine bottle as well? Best to be safe: he wiped that, then shut his mind to what he was doing and clenched
Gorkin’s dead hand around it to replace his own prints.

O’Gilroy watched, then re-enacted her entrance – wiping the front door-knob and around it; then the bedroom door; sitting down – wiping off the wooden parts of the chair; then–“Would she go to the
toilette
?”

“Could have done.”

O’Gilroy found the bathroom, looked at it and said: “Jayzus!” because any cleaning was going to show up there. But he wiped delicately at just the most likely places, then came out holding a crumpled, stained length of toilet paper. “She wiped off the knife in there. Didn’t want blood insider her purse.” But the stains gave a good impression of the shape and length of the knife, and prompted him to choose a more suitable one from the kitchen and bloody that instead. Then he flushed the blood-stained paper away.