Zimmer had his head twisted back and away, in a rictus of terror, as if a few inches’ distance could make any difference. Life so strong, life so fragile: just an ounce or two of pressure on a trigger . . .
Ranklin relaxed his finger, took a deep breath and straightened up. “All the honour in the damned world . . .” His voice cracked, dry-mouthed. He took a couple of gulps of beer and said in a more normal tone: “Ah, that’s better. Try it yourself. Now I think we’d all better sit down again, there’s still one or two points to clear up.”
So, except for O’Gilroy, they all sat. Gradually the atmosphere simmered down – at least for Ranklin. What Zimmer felt didn’t worry him.
He said: “I’m trying to think how Gunther might have handled this. And I think he wouldn’t have done anything until he was sure he knew the truth. In the end, that’s what your firm’s reputation was based on, not honour and revenge. He wouldn’t have destroyed the firm by starting a feud with my Bureau, one killing the other like two Sicilian families. And he certainly wouldn’t have betrayed me to the Germans, which comes to the same thing. So think about that. Don’t just give me a quick answer because there’s a gun pointing your way.”
In the dim light Zimmer looked pale and sweaty, and he hadn’t dared reach for a beer-mug with his shaking hands. But his words were braver than his voice: “I will promise anything, talking to a pistol.”
“Yes,” Ranklin said. “I know something about that.” He looked around, thinking, and then said slowly: “We could kill you both here and now – not for revenge or anything, but just the way I would a poisonous snake, to stop it killing me, now or in the future. Only we’ve got a train to catch and no time to make a tidy job of hiding two bodies.
“So I’ve no interest in saving your firm’s reputation, revenge for the sake of revenge sort of thing; that’s your problem. But I do want to know why Gunther was killed, and I’ll help by passing you anything I find out. That’s a promise. I won’t ask any promises from you because, as you say, we’ve got the guns. But think it over.”
Zimmer nodded. Ranklin stood up and said to O’Gilroy: “I think you can give the gentleman his pistol back, now.”
O’Gilroy’s reluctance wasn’t wholly pretence. But he jerked open the gun – it was self-ejecting – and pocketed the cartridges before kicking it across the floor into a corner. Then he took back Ranklin’s pistol and backed watchfully behind him towards the door.
Zimmer called: “One more matter . . .”
“Yes?”
“You owe us ?200.” He didn’t stand up; that might have shown the wetness down the front of his trousers. But he had got back his business sense.
Ranklin paused, then said: “I suppose we do. But, given your recent attitude, don’t you think it might be a mistake for me to pay you now? Let’s say I’ll take it up when I get back to London – alive.”
They walked back to the railway tracks. Ranklin said: “Thank you for the rescue.”
“My pleasure. Sorry I took so long. Had to go back for yer popgun when I’d seen where he’d taken ye. D’ye think ye convinced them?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt it.” He shivered; he was only realising how much he’d sweated now the night air was drying it on him.
“Any ideas how they found us?” O’Gilroy was casually flipping Hunke’s cartridges away among the tracks.
“I suppose Zimmer attached himself to Lady Kelso, it’s public knowledge that she’s joining the expedition, and sent Hunke on ahead to scout and make arrangements. They must have guessed they’d find one of our people slipped in with her.”
He wasn’t happy that they’d guessed right so easily. What was to stop the Germans guessing right, too? Perhaps they just didn’t expect the British to be sabotaging a venture they had suggested themselves.
Dahlmann and Zurga were sitting in the saloon. The banker demanded: “Where have you been?”
“I, er. . .” Ranklin was unprepared; he had been dwelling on the more vivid past. “I went looking for the engine, then thought I’d have a quick glance at the town . . .”
“With your servant?”
“No, he came to find me. Are we in a hurry?” There still hadn’t been an engine attached.
“The locomotive is getting water, it will be back at any moment . . . You could have been late,” he growled.
“But I’m not, so all’s well,” Ranklin said, perhaps overdoing the infuriating cheerfulness; he still wasn’t feeling quite himself, let alone Patrick Snaipe.
Heading for his sleeper, Dahlmann called: “Tonight, of course, we shall dress for dinner.”
“Of course.”
* * *
This, Ranklin thought, was more like life on an Imperial private train. The dining compartment was warm, the electric table lamps glowed steadily, the white-gloved waiters moved dexterously in the narrow space, smoothly replacing plates and pouring more wine. The train rocked but only gently, since they were now on a more main line north to Ulm, and barely any sound filtered through the padded walls.
Also, it was rather nice to be alive.
One snag was that O’Gilroy’s ploy to get into the baggage compartment to rescue his black ties hadn’t worked: the guard had simply brought the bags out to him. Still, they would be on the train for at least two more days.
Perhaps because he now had a viscountess to cater for, their private Bismarck had let rip with a dinner of clear soup and dumplings, some lake fish bought in Friedrichshafen, then goose. And all backed by a crescendo of German wines, starting with a cobweb-light Kabinett and ending in pure treacle with the pudding. Even Zurga had an occasional and appreciative sip. But not many Turks were strict Muslims when it came to drink and it must be particularly tricky in Germany: once you’d taken alcohol and pork off the menu, the table looked pretty bare.
Yet it was Zurga and Lady Kelso who looked most at home in that setting. He with his short beard and a suit of tails so old it must have been inherited, she rigidly upright in a low-cut gown of pink silk terraced with lace and her hair – of that extreme fairness that can go white almost unnoticed – piled high into a modest tiara. Together, they brought the elegance of candlelight and the Congress of Vienna to this modern world of the telephone and motor-car.
However, it was quite clear that they were not together, Zurga replying with cold courtesy whenever she tried to pull him into conversation.
Dahlmann, who simply looked like a banker dressed up, made a little speech of welcome. “Our two great countries have had certain differences over the building of the Baghdad Railway. But we believe that Lady Kelso joining us, at the request of your Foreign Minister, shows such diplomatic problems are now all solved. I think it is most important that we are such an international group: German, English, Turkish, all going forward together to solve the Railway’s other problems. I speak for the Deutsche Bank and the Railway also when I say Welcome, Lady Kelso.”
It was graceful of him, if a trifle disingenuous, and Ranklin clapped, then they all drank a toast. And Lady Kelso said she was very happy to be here and hoped she’d be of some help – and where, incidentally, were they going next?
“We go first to Munich where Dr Streibl of the Railway company will join us. There we will be attached to the Orient Express for the rest of our journey.”
“How splendid,” Lady Kelso smiled. “It’s ages since I went on the Express – and in a private carriage, too. I feel like the consort of an emperor – or sultan.” And Zurga glowered. He must disapprove of sultans, so it was hardly tactful of her. It may, however, have been deliberate. “Why,” she went on to Dahlmann, “doesn’t your Bank have a private train? It must be rich enough and you seem to travel a lot.”
Dahlmann, perhaps misunderstanding the word “consort” and uneasy with it, now became truly shocked. “It would not be economical. It would be very bad for a German bank to waste money on such luxuries. We are not American bankers.”