Dagner straightened up without taking his shot. “We mustn’t lose sight of our own purpose: to change the whole naval situation in the Mediterranean. That seems worth a certain effort, even risk. You originally suggested we should look at Trieste for ourselves, and now you’ve placed O’Gilroy in Falcone’s camp, more or less, I think we should cover both ends.” He paused, then seemed to take a decision. “But . . . but if you uncover anything there that convinces you we should drop it, then get word to me and it’ll be dropped. Does that reassure you?”
That really was as much as Ranklin could ask – provided Dagner really meant it. And he certainly couldn’t ask that. He said formally: “Thank you, Major.”
Dagner acknowledged that with a nod, then, staring straight at Ranklin but keeping his voice gentle, said: “But do remember one thing, Captain, if it should ever come to it: you’re working for Britain, not for peace.” He bent over the billiard table again.
Mostly to change the conversation but perhaps also because it nagged him, Ranklin asked casually: “Has your wife got home yet?”
Dagner abandoned his shot and straightened up to chalk his cue. “No. No, I’m afraid she hasn’t yet.”
“I was sorry to hear about your first wife-”
“What d’you mean?” Dagner spoke quite sharply. “I’ve only got one wife.”
Confused, Ranklin stumbled over his own words. “I’m most frightfully sorry . . . chap I met . . . he said your wife had died in India . . .”
“She got ill, everybody gets ill in India. She recovered. Thank God.”
“I’m sorry, I must have . . .”
With unconscious tact, J drifted back from the balcony, winced politely at Dagner’s shot, and said: “There seems to be quite a gathering of policemen on the platform. And, I may be wrong, but I thought I saw Mrs Finn holding court down there.”
Ranklin blinked. He hadn’t thought J knew Corinna, but J seemed to know everybody. Perhaps she’d come to see Signora Falcone off. He went to the balcony.
It was dark now, the electric lights glowing coldly through drifts of steam, and although the train wouldn’t leave for nearly an hour, the controlled panic of departure had already begun. Couples and families, wearing too many clothes because they were going Abroad, stood in islands of luggage, waving for porters or swapping papers with railway officials and Cook’s agents. And right in the middle, more sensibly dressed but unquestionably for travelling, was Corinna.
‘Holding court’ was right, too. Jaded by travel, she usually tried to make an occasion of it with last-moment meetings and farewells on the platform. She was doing just that to a small crowd of flunkies – but around it moved pairs of uniformed policemen and men in dark suits without any luggage.
Ranklin stepped back, took out a James Spencer calling card and scribbled on the back: Are you going to Paris? So am I . But prefer not be seen by Signora. Meet on boat? He gave it to Lieutenant J. “D’you mind acting as messenger?”
“Delighted.” J slipped on his jacket and vanished.
“Is Mrs Finn going, too?” Dagner asked.
“It looks like it.” Then, seeing Dagner’s expression, he added: “A House of Sherring connection isn’t just a good alias, it helps open doors. She may be able to put me in touch with well-placed people over there.”
“But at the cost of telling her where you’re going.”
“Banking is also a secretive profession.” Ranklin made that as polite as he could.
“Very well, I’ll leave you to handle it your own way. I’d better get off to meet the Signora. Good luck, Captain.” They didn’t shake hands.
J came back with one of Corinna’s cards, her slanting handwriting sprawling over both sides: Thought I’d better become Andrew’s manager or agent or whatnot. They arrived Paris safe, I got a cable. Are you going on to Italy? Never mind, tell me later. I’ll be in steeping compartment 7 on the Calais-Paris train. Help yourself.
Ranklin goggled. She’d given this to Lieutenant J? Was he too much of a gentleman to have read it, or too much of a spy not to have? His bland smile could belong to either. Ranklin put a match to the card and let it burn in an ashtray.
J coughed politely. “I hate to say it, but given the police infestation, it might be time for this. We found it in the Chief’s safe.”
This was a large blond false moustache. The Commander loved disguises.
“It’s from Clarkson’s,” J said apologetically, “so the best quality. I’ve got the glue and I can make a reasonable job of it.”
Ranklin handled the thing distastefully, then put off a decision by saying: “You know everybody, don’t you?”
“Oh Lord, no. I just-”
“What d’you know about Major X’s wife?”
“She died in India.”
“Yes,” Ranklin said, then more firmly: “Yes.” But Army habit stopped him sharing his puzzlement with a junior.
He ignored J’s polite curiosity and got his mind back to the more immediate problem. Perhaps Corinna . . . he scribbled on another card: May I borrow your maid?
Half an hour later a short, slightly tubby man with a large moustache strolled on to the platform arm in arm with a younger woman. She wore the self-conscious, giggly look of one heading for a naughty weekend in Paris and was such a familiar sight to the officials and station police that they ignored them both. As Dagner himself had said, the best disguise is always other people.
Feeling uncomfortably like a man who prowls the corridor of sleeper trains in search of an unchaperoned young lady, because that was just what he was doing, Ranklin tried reassuring himself by listing the crimes he was already wanted for in London. He had released Corinna’s maid once they were on the boat – the Dover police hadn’t given them a glance – and hidden himself in the saloon for the crossing.
Compartment 7 – she had said 7, hadn’t she? He offered up a prayer and knocked tentatively. But he had misjudged the sway of the train and it became a thundering wallop. “Most masterful,” Corinna said, wearing a Japanese robe, a wide smile and perhaps nothing else. “Thank the Lord you got rid of that moustache. I saw you on the platform and nearly had hysterics. And Kitty said you behaved like a perfect gentleman; I think she was a bit disappointed. Would you like a cognac?”
She poured him one out of a silver flask from what she insisted on calling a ‘purse’ and Ranklin would have called a travelling bag, and he sat at the foot of the bed and sipped. She sat with her arms wrapped round her knees and asked: “So where are you off to, one jump ahead of the police? And what’s that all about?”
“Trieste. And the fuss is just Scotland Yard trying to balance its books. Why did you suddenly decide to go . . . well, where are you going?”
“Wherever Andrew does.” She because serious. “I don’t know what’s going on and unless you tell me, I’m sticking to that boy like a leech.”
He nodded. “I can’t blame you. But I still don’t think he’s likely to get mixed up in anything, I think Falcone had several irons in the fire and we’re only interested in one of them, but . . .”
“Is Trieste part of that? Like it’s part of Austria that Italy covets?”
Ranklin studied his tiny cup of cognac. And with her lantern-slide change of expression to a broad grin, she said: “You poor darling, you really don’t know what the hell’s going on, do you? Come up this end and let Mama cuddle you and you tell her all your troubles.”
Ranklin accepted half her invitation. “Is this how private banking conducts business?”
“Invariably. But at least take your damned overcoat off.”
“Sorry.” He laid his head tentatively on her breasts; she certainly had nothing supportive on beneath the kimono. After a while, he said in a rather muffled voice: “Something I don’t understand . . . Do you remember Major Dagner talking about his wife?”