The English Assassin (16 page)

The President of the United States and the Prime Minister of England were completely and happily drunk and were dancing round and round the otherwise deserted marble Morning Room together, making the huge silver sanctuary lamps on the ceiling jingle and shake with their merriment. A small black-and-white cat sat on the window sill, licking its paws.

“You look much nicer without your make-up,” said the President. “I’m glad it’s you who’s the Prime Minister now.”

Holding a rather grotesque Tiffany lamp above her head Mitzi Beesley, the bishop’s daughter, was trying to limbo with Lionel Himmler, who had learned the dance in Nassau during his brief stay there. They were getting on well together. “I’ve never enjoyed myself so much,” Mitzi told him. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” he said. His normally morose features were beaming. “I love
love
!”

Spiro Koutrouboussis had just shaken hands on a satisfactory business deal with his fellow Greek millionaires when he saw Catherine Cornelius standing in a dark corner of the Main Library, looking through a rare copy of
Paradise Lost
. He crossed the huge Meshed carpet and presented himself. “Are you free for the next dance, Mademoiselle Cornelius?” he asked in careful French.

“I’m afraid I’m feeling a trifle unwell, m’sieu.” She tried to smile. “My escort has gone to find my cloak.”

“May I put my landau at your disposal?”

“Thank you. You are very kind, Monsieur Koutrouboussis. I was sorry to hear of the unfortunate collapse of your—” she shivered uncontrollably—“project.”

“No matter. A new one is developing. That’s business.
On mourra seul
, after all.” His own smile was full and charming.

“
Il n’y a pas de morts, Monsieur Koutrouboussis!
” She closed her eyes.

“Could I offer you my coat?”

“I—thank you.” Gratefully Catherine accepted his heavy jacket, pulling it around her. “I’m sorry to…”

“Please.” He raised a gentle hand.

One of the carved cabinets swung out from the wall and nearly struck Spiro Koutrouboussis on the shoulder. He leapt back.

From the space behind the bookcase emerged a tall figure with long, straight black hair, a pale, voluptuous face. He was wearing a short black overcoat with wide military lapels. His black trousers had a slight flare. His shirt was of the purest white silk and there was a broad, crimson tie at his throat. One long-fingered hand held an oddly shaped gun. “Hello, Cathy. I see you were expecting me.”

“Oh, Jerry! I’m cold.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll deal with all that. What are these people doing in my house?”

“Dancing.”

“You might have dressed for the occasion,” said Koutrouboussis, eyeing the gun. Jerry put the gun in his big pocket.“

“It took some time getting warm, myself,” he said, by way of apology. “How’s tricks, Koutrouboussis?”

“The tricks are over. I am back in legitimate business now.”

“Just as well. God, you go away for a little while and you come back to find the place crammed with guests. Is this my party, then?”

“I suspect so.”

Jerry laughed. “Oho! You know me of old, don’t you? But this isn’t Holland Park. It’s Ladbroke Grove. I’m reformed. I lead a very quiet life, these days.”

“Jerry!” Catherine had turned quite blue and seemed on the point of collapse. “Jerry!”

He wrapped his arms around her. “There. Is that better?”

“A bit.”

“I can see I’m going to have to take steps.” Jerry poured himself a large whisky from the decanter on the ebony-and-marble table. “I suppose Frank’s about?”

“And Mum.”

“Fuck.”

“She’s all right, Jerry. Tonight.”

“I haven’t got a lot of time, either,” said Jerry to himself. “Still…”

“How long are you staying for, Jerry?”

“Not long. Don’t worry.” He smiled at her, full of misery. “This is like the old days. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Miss Brunner came into the Games Room. “I knew it. You’d better not try anything, Mr Cornelius.”

“Oh, I don’t know. This is my place, after all.”

“Sod you. You set it up.”

Jerry shrugged.

“Christ!” She spat on the rug.

In the Morning Room, the Prime Minister of England and the President of the United States were sitting side by side in the same big chair. “Culturally, of course,” said the President, “we have always been exceptionally close. That must stand for something.”

The Prime Minister laughed happily. “Me? I’ll stand for anything. What’s the score?”

The lights went out. The President giggled.

In the main ballroom the music went on for some time, until the candles and the flambeaux began to dim, to gutter and finally extinguish themselves. Everyone murmured with delight, expecting a surprise. Laughter filled the great hall as men and women speculated on the nature of the treat.

At the entrance, the gold doors swung back; the glass doors swung back. A cold wind blew.

In the gardens the glow-worms and the fireflies were still, but there was one light, from the beam of a large flashlight held in the hand of a shadowy figure who swung up the steps into the Casa Grande. The figure wore a short topcoat with its wide lapels turned up to frame a long, pale face. The eyes gleamed in the reflected glare from the flashlight. The figure entered the ballroom and pushed its way through the silent throng until it stood beneath the musicians’ gallery.

The voice was cool: “There’s been a mistake. It’s time to call it a day, I’m afraid. You are all on private property and I advise you to leave at once. Anyone still here in half an hour will be shot!”

“Good God!” Prinz Lobkowitz stepped forward. “Who on earth?”

“This is difficult for me,” said the figure. It directed the flashlight upwards. “It’s to do with the third law of thermodynamics, I suppose.” The musicians had replaced their instruments with a variety of sub-machine guns and automatic pistols. “But I won’t bore you with a speech.”

“Do you realise what you are doing?” Prinz Lobkowitz swept his hands to indicate the crowd. “You could wreck everything.”

“Perhaps. But things have to keep moving, don’t they? Now you must leave.”

A machine gun sounded. Bullets struck the chandeliers and glass flew. The guests began to scream and mill about. The ex-Queen of England went down, her shoulders cut by several shards. Mr Robert D. Feet, the pedant, clutched a bleeding eye. Others sustained less important injuries. The scramble for the exit began. It was almost dignified.

* * *

As the guests flooded from the Casa Grande, others began to arrive from the various guest castles. They wanted to know why the lights had gone out. Car engines started up. Horses stamped and snorted. Wheels churned in gravel. There was a smell of May.

In the cinema, Frank Cornelius began to guess that something was up. Abandoning Helen Sweet, he crept to the doors and gingerly unlocked them. “Jerry?”

In the Yellow Room Bishop Beesley was struggling to get his surplice on over the hardening chocolate, leaving the half-eaten ex-nun on the floor where she lay. He adjusted his mitre, picked up his crook, stooped for one last lick and then hurried out.

In the Morning Room the President of the United States and the Prime Minister of England had already left. Only the cat remained, sleeping peacefully in a warm chair.

Captain Nye found the library and opened the door. “Are you there, Miss Cornelius?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m feeling awfully better.”

“We must go.”

“I’m afraid we must.”

“This will be the ruin of the talks.”

“Quite a good ruin, though.”

Laughing, they left the library.

Mrs Cornelius, Professor Hira and Herr Marek were already in Ladbroke Grove. “It’ll be nice to get back.” Mrs C. felt in her reticule for her key. “It’s only round the corner, luckily.” The three of them were unaware that anything had happened to mar the ball.

“Can you smell valerian?” asked Flash Gordon as Helen Sweet, weeping, stumbled into his hedge. “You’re a little darling, aren’t you?” He gathered her up. “Come and see Holland Park with me.”

She sniffed. “All right.”

“What’s bad news for some is good news for others,” said Lady Sue as her carriage raced past the couple. She had lost her tiara but had gained Bishop Beesley. She didn’t know at that point that he wasn’t a negro.

Slumped in the far corner of the brougham, the bishop groaned. He had horrible indigestion.

Cars and carriages erupted into Ladbroke Grove, scattering in all directions, some colliding in the gloom (for the gas-lamps had also been extinguished). A small boy was run over by Colonel Pyat’s Lamborghini.

In the third bedroom of the Casa del Monte, several Oxford dons and the most corrupt and feeble-minded paperback publisher in America were blown to bits by explosive shells from the big Schmeisser in the hands of the second cellist. The publisher, for one, was almost grateful for this change of pace.

Some, mostly those who had walked to the gates and were now strolling up Westbourne Park Road towards the Portobello Road looking for taxis, had taken the events with a certain amount of amused relish. They chattered and laughed as they walked along, listening to the distant sounds of machine-gun fire.

“Well,” said Dr von Krupp, who was of this party, “it’s back to square one, I suppose.”

“Do you live in London?” asked Una Persson, her arm around Sebastian Auchinek’s neck.

“Oh, I think I’ll want to now.” The doctor grinned.

In Spiro Koutrouboussis’s landau, which had been the first carriage to get away, Captain Nye and Catherine Cornelius embraced in a long and tender kiss. They were already halfway to the Surrey border, heading for Ironmaster House.

Spiro Koutrouboussis was still in the Casa, having survived the massacre of his colleagues. He had a gun and was looking for his host. He bumped into Frank on the stairs, mistook him for Jerry, and shot him. Frank, thinking that he had been shot by Jerry, returned the fire. The two bodies tumbled down the stairs together.

Miss Brunner and Major Nye gave up any thoughts of revenge and clambered into the major’s camouflaged Humber Snipe. As they roared away, one of the violinists emerged on the steps and lifted his tommy gun to his shoulder, firing after them, but the bullets bounced off the car’s armour and then they had turned a corner and were safe.

Easing the car into Ladbroke Grove, Major Nye asked Miss Brunner: “Well, what did you make of all that?”

“Now that I look back,” she said, “I suppose it seems inevitable. But not to worry.”

“I must say you know how to make the best of things,” he said admiringly.

Slowly the great house grew still until the only sound that could be heard anywhere was the purring of the small black-and-white cat as it stretched itself, licked its whiskers, then settled back to sleep again.

Upon his return from exile at the request of the new revolutionary junta, Prinz Lobkowitz made a short speech as he stepped off the airship. The speech was addressed to Colonel Pyat and an ecstatic crowd. He said:

“The war, my friends, is ceaseless. The most we can expect in our lives are a few pauses in the struggle, a few moments of tranquillity. We must appreciate those moments while we have them.”

… the ghosts of the unborn. And the ghosts of the unknown: the war dead and those who died in the concentration camps. Dying in anonymity, without witnesses, they are never decently brought to rest. It’s hard to explain. And yet the birth of every new child is a kind of resurrection. Every child welcomed into the world helps to lay a ghost to rest. But it takes so long. And these days, it’s hardly a lasting solution. Perhaps we should simply stop killing people.

—Maurice Lescoq,
Leavetaking

The Pope has been asked to declare that six-year-old Frances Burns is a miracle girl. Three years ago, she was dying of cancer. Surgeons who had been fighting for her life gave her only a few days to live. Now she is a happy, laughing tomboy of a girl. And the consultant who treated her admits: “A miracle is not too strong a term for her recovery.” The astonishing cure of Frances Burns began when her mother, Mrs Deirdre Burns, took her pain-racked daughter from Dennistoun, Glasgow, to the Roman Catholic shrine of Lourdes in Southern France. Frances was bathed in the waters of the mountain spring where thousands of invalids have sought a cure. Back in Glasgow, after two days in the Sick Children’s Hospital, Frances sat up and asked for food. A week later the tumours on her face had disappeared. She was on the road to an amazing recovery. The panel of 31 specialists who make up the Lourdes Medical Bureau have asked the Pope to consider pronouncing Frances’s cure a miracle.

The Sun
, 23 August, 1971

Una Persson was on stage. She was playing Sue Orph, latest of Simon Vaizey’s sophisticated heroines, in Vaizey’s most successful musical comedy to date—
Bright Autumn
— at the Prince of Wales Theatre. The house was full and Una noticed her old agent, Sebastian Auchinek, occupying one of the front stalls. Auchinek was in politics now and writing thousands of articles and pamphlets. His latest production was called ‘A New Deal for Britain’s Jews’.