“We could do with a little help with that,” Joe admitted.
Kingstone shuffled through them, whistling with surprise. “These are good shots. Studio quality mostly. How did you get them?”
“Oh, Bacchus knows a bit about files too,” Joe said modestly. “He knows who he wants to cover and he has relations—some friendly, some not so friendly—with newspaper editors who in turn have favours done for them by society photographers and suchlike … Yes, Cornelius—you too! Showing your better side, you’ll be pleased to hear.”
“Here, let me lay these out,” Kingstone offered. “In order of villainy, reading from left to right. Know who this handsome fellow is?”
“Yes. Who doesn’t? That’s P. L. Crispin. Head of a New York bank with branches all over the world, not least in London.”
“Apart from some eastern potentates, possibly, who get themselves weighed in diamonds, he’s the world’s richest man. And the most ruthless. But a respectable family man—he leads a blameless personal life as far as anyone can determine. Though it would still be interesting to read what Hoover has on him. Bases: New York, London, Zurich.
“Second, we have the world’s greatest industrialist. American. Renfrew D. Cornwallis. Fingers in every manufacturing pie you can think of, from war ships to paperclips. At present negotiating a sale of armament to the new Germany.
“Third, I see you have your own English counterpart for Cornwallis, though a lesser counterpart. A Birmingham-based purveyor of pop guns to whoever has the cash.”
“Yes. He’s said to be doing well in the Japanese market. Theodore Pecksniff—you should be ashamed of yourself! Bacchus has got your number! And the address of the eye-catching girl who sings with the band at Ciro’s.” Joe tapped the broad, self-satisfied face angrily with a forefinger and moved on. “Fourth is a US lawyer with international connections. Claims to be a friend of J. Edgar. Can that be right?” he asked.
“If you aren’t able to make that claim, you’re dead or in jail. He’s the guy who introduced me to Armiger. Adolphus Crewe. He’s useful to the group. If you want to circumvent the Law, you have to know its boundaries and the quick ways through them. And it helps to be in tight with the lawmakers.”
“Five.” Joe frowned. “Now this one I can unmask. Benjamin Buchanan. British navy man. Younger son of an English aristocratic family. American mother and retains strong trans-Atlantic connections. Bacchus had trouble identifying him out of uniform. Born wearing epaulettes, we all thought. Never seen without a gold-trimmed peaked cap. We got this one of him in civvies from his old nanny. Retired some years ago and is rarely seen about town. He still thinks like a naval officer of the last century, that is—in terms of world domination. He has scary things to say about the Japanese and the German designs on what he regards as his waters, which is to say any salty stretch between Scapa Flow and the Antarctic. He has plans to deal with them.”
“How does he feel about Roosevelt’s navy?”
“He has plans to deal with that too.”
“Ah. He feels it’s getting too big for its boots.”
“That’s not the problem. He admires ‘big.’ He would suggest increasing the size of the boots.”
“Can you see the pattern yet, Joe?”
“It’s emerging. Money, manufacture, legal knowledge, armed enforcement. Two more to go. Next one even I can spot. Provisioning.”
“Six. A Canadian, this one, of Dutch descent. King of the grain market. The Roman Empire thrived or foundered on the adequacy of its grain supplies. Circuses useless without the bread. The man with the key to the warehouse runs the world. No reason why it shouldn’t happen again. Van Hooter … Hoosen … something like that.”
“If you’re having trouble with his name I can’t wait to hear what you make of the last fellow in the lineup,” Joe remarked, raising one eyebrow. “My friendly pharmacist with the straw boater.”
“Not necessarily the least in villainy. Though he is an economist. I’ve put him over here because he’s more of an unknown quantity. To me at any rate. Now he’d answer to … ah …”
“Heimdallr Abraham Lincoln Ackermann,” Lydia supplied. Absorbed by the lineup of rogues, they hadn’t heard her come in. She was advancing on them, clutching a pile of glossy magazines in her hand. “I thought you ought to see these. Gracious!” she said. “Is this a coincidence? I don’t think so! I’d just found a photograph of that man in the Tatler. One of about four that may be of interest to you. I was going through the collection Vanessa keeps in her bedroom. My daughter is ballet-crazed, Cornelius. I’m not a hoarder but Vanessa’s as keen on the ballet as I used to be at her age, and when she’s away at school I keep all the copies of the ones with ballet items in them. The more scandalous the better as far as the girls are concerned. She adores Natalia Kirilovna so I had remembered we had some shots of her in stock. It occurred to me that if you’re looking for her killer, you might take a look at the men she was close to over the years. It must be someone she knows well. Coming out all this way to do it shows a high level of determination, wouldn’t you think? I say … may I speak freely or are you going to tell me to watch my tongue and not meddle in men’s affairs?”
“I take it men’s affairs are just exactly what you’re preparing to rub our noses in, Lyd.” Joe sighed.
“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.”