Looking at his watch, Paul hesitated. He was tempted then decided that the chances of running into some chum or other to delay him too great.
‘No, Burkett, I’ve got to run,’ he said. ‘And I won’t be around for the foreseeable future, either. If anyone asks for me, best tell them I’ve been recalled to the battalion.’
‘Very well sir,’ the steward declared solemnly. He peered at Paul, his long face seeming to lose some of its severity. ‘May I wish you the best of luck.’
‘Thank you, Burkett.’
Paul turned towards the door, picked up his bag and was standing at the top of the steps when he heard Burkett call his name. He turned and saw the steward holding out the greatcoat.
‘Best not forget this, sir.’ Burkett winked theatrically and tapped the side of his nose with a finger. Then, bowing slightly, turned back inside in his measured, funereal way.
At the foot of the club steps Paul hailed another cab to take him to Liverpool Street Station. There was still time to get that drink in the refreshment room. Then, on the spur of the moment instructed the cabby to drop him at the Waldorf Hotel in Aldwych. It was on the way and, although he’d always found the hotel a little rich for his taste (his mother often ate there and enjoyed the luxury while excoriating its ostentation) they did do a very good afternoon tea. His appetite had still not returned but decided he would need something in his stomach before getting on the boat. Cumming’s description of the Finnish steamer being of one class hadn’t inspired him with much confidence as far as dining arrangements might go.
At the Waldorf, after a little hesitation, he checked his bag and coat at the cloakroom and went into the dining room. A scattering of people sat at the tables and, choosing an empty one at the far end of the room, ordered a pot of tea and asked for scones. It was while admiring the ornate decor and waiting to be served that, with a start, he noticed the man in the cap sitting at a table by the door.
He wasn’t wearing the cap, of course, but still managed to look incongruous with his umbrella and cheaply-cut clothes. Without the cap Paul saw that he was quite bald. He was now sure they had never met and, assuming this was Hart, thought it odd how rather than merge into his surroundings as one might have expected of an agent of Cumming’s, the man looked completely out of place.
A master of disguise, Browning had said, so perhaps the moustache was false. Or he might be wearing a skull-cap to give the appearance of baldness…
Paul made eye contact but Hart promptly looked away. Paul would have preferred to walk over and join the man at his table — there were still a lot of things to sort out, after all — but thought it likely that Cumming’s procedures dictated that agents shouldn’t be seen together in public. He decided to be circumspect and so looked no further than the menu card until his tea and scones arrived.
Having enjoyed a slice of Madeira cake to supplement the scones, he was considering how best to make contact with Hart when his eyes fell on the door to the kitchens through which the waiters passed to and fro. Having an idea, he finished up, signalled to settle his bill and, giving the waiter his cloakroom ticket said he’d be obliged if the man fetched his bag and his greatcoat. When they arrived, Paul made a show of putting the coat over his arm before sauntering out through the kitchen door.
Ignoring the curious glances of waiters and kitchen staff, he weaved his way through ranks of ovens and sinks until he found a door leading onto a rear alley. A brick wall lined with dustbins and stacked wooden crates blocked one end, next to a door giving into the neighbouring building. But at the other end he could see traffic moving along the street.
He walked a few yards deeper into the alley then stopped. From the kitchen behind him came a clatter of dishes and Hart emerged, wearing the cap again and casting quickly up and down the alley. Paul backed further towards the bins and crates and waved Hart towards him.
The man looked at Paul quizzically and glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to find someone else standing there. When he saw there wasn’t he turned to Paul again, smiling.
‘We’re quite alone here,’ Paul called. ‘It’s Hart, isn’t it? Cumm— I mean C told me to expect you.’
Hart’s smile broadened revealing uneven teeth beneath his heavy moustache. He approached Paul and, a few paces from him, lifted the umbrella. He grasped the fabric and pulled it free of the handle. A stiletto protruded from the wooden stock.
Paul stared at the weapon. There had been a mistake. That much was obvious. Having taken two pieces of information, he had added them together and come up with the wrong answer.
He dropped the Gladstone bag. His revolver was in it but beneath his clothes and the man would be on him before he could reach it. Paul retreated a step, bumping into the dustbins. The man advanced taking two quick paces and lunged with the stiletto. Paul raised himself on his toes, turning like a bullfighter as the blade slid by his stomach. He edged along the line of bins, eyes on the weapon and holding the greatcoat in front of him. The man lunged a second time and Paul swung the coat through the air, the weight of the gold Imperials taking it out in a wide arc between them. The man tried to brush it aside but caught the blade in the cloth. As he twisted his hand free Paul rushed him, bundling the greatcoat over the man’s knife-arm. The man spat a curse in Russian, stumbling back as Paul pushed against the bundled coat. Paul swung his free arm, managing to land a fist on the man’s face. It was no more than a glancing blow but it made the man blink, giving Paul enough time to make a grab for the stiletto. The greatcoat fell to the ground and Paul leaned his weight on the man, twisting the knife back as the tip of the stiletto grazed his sleeve. The man stepped away, his feet tangling in the greatcoat. He staggered and fell, dragging Paul down with him, faces close enough for Paul to smell the Waldorf Hotel’s tea on the man’s breath. They hit the ground hard and the man’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. He gave a sharp cry and stiffened. Then he went limp.
Paul scrambled to his feet. An expression of surprise was fixed on the man’s face. The stiletto was protruding from his stomach.
Paul stood over him, breathing hard. If he wasn’t Hart, then who was he? He had said something in Russian although Paul hadn’t managed to catch the words. Was this then the agent Kell had warned about?
Paul knew he ought to get away, get to the station, catch the train and his boat, but shouldn’t he try to find out who had wanted to kill him? Cumming would want to know, surely…
Paul knelt and reached towards the man’s jacket to look for identification. But the stiletto had pinned the coat to his body. Paul took hold of the stiletto’s handle and pulled it out. The blade came free, followed by a spurt of blood. So much from so small a hole, Paul thought absently as it soaked into the man’s jacket. He was reaching into the inside pocket when it occurred to Paul that dead men don’t bleed. He had seen enough of them to know. The heart stops and the blood ceases to flow.
He looked up into the dead man’s face and saw the look of astonishment fade as if thawing. The eyes fluttered then locked onto Paul’s. The man reached up, grabbed Paul’s lapels and pulled him down until their lips were almost touching. The man began mouthing silent words. Then something gurgled in his throat and a river of blood gushed out of his mouth.
Paul pushed himself away. The man’s blood was all over him. He wiped at it ineffectually, getting it on his hands. He was reaching for a handkerchief when the door to the neighbouring building along the alley opened and a woman stepped out. She saw him, then the dead man. Then she screamed. And screamed and screamed…