But if there were any excuse, that was it: the Bureau. They hadn’t come dashing down here as individuals, but as agents of the Bureau. O’Gilroy and Jay were owed the protection of the Bureau, and it was up to him to see that they got it.
“Do you believe in patriotism, Superintendent?”
Mockford looked wary, but said: “Of course I do.”
“And yet patriotism sometimes requires men to go out and kill others, destroy property, do all sorts of things which are against the laws of any country you care to name.”
“Then are you claiming that you’ve been behaving patriotically?”
“Indeed I am. It’s not just the best excuse we’ve got, it’s the only one.”
Perhaps Mockford would have found a reply to that, but there was a hideous scraping noise from the hallway. He yanked open the door to see the laden coffin being dragged towards the front door.
One of the constables straightened up and panted: “Too heavy for the two of us, sir, and not room enough to get more.”
As they reached the battered front door, Noah Quinton appeared outside. Seeing the coffin, he took off his hat and let it go by. Then he came in.
“Good evening, Superintendent.”
“Evening, Mr Quinton. Who are you representing this time?”
“Mrs Finn said that Ma’mselle Collomb was in trouble again. Is she here?”
Mockford turned away, mouthing “damned vulture” once he got his back turned.
Quinton followed him into the front room, peered through the dim gaslight until he recognised everybody who mattered, and put his briefcase down on the table. It sagged and he had to stop the case falling off. “Good evening, Mr . . . er . . .” He didn’t know who Ranklin was being in this context, and didn’t mind his uncertainty showing.
“Berenice Collomb is next door or somewhere,” Ranklin said shortly. “I think we’ve just about reached an understanding here-”
“Have we?” Mockford asked.
“Well, perhaps an impasse, then. You’re obviously going to talk to Sir Basil and he’ll talk to the Home Secretary or my Chief, probably both, and . . .” He spread his hands.
Quinton looked from one to the other. “Am I allowed to know what happened here?”
Ranklin said: “Berenice Collomb had been kidnapped, we tracked her down to here, a man trying to drag her away took a shot at Mr Gorman so we shot him.”
There was a short silence. Then Quinton murmured: “Most succinct. However, I can’t say that I would have advised you to say anything like that . . .”
“Never mind that. Whatever gets said at a coroner’s inquest is going to be arranged at a much higher level than this. It might help if you had a talk to Berenice. She’s got an anarchist view of the police -”
“Not only them,” Quinton reminded him.
“- and the last time she met them, they suspected her of murder. So if the Superintendent could now say that she is no longer under suspicion, she might tell us something useful.”
Quinton looked at Mockford, who shook his head. “I can’t do that, sir. Not until I know more about the whole matter.” Being kept in the dark as he was, he was sticking doggedly to the rules. Ranklin could hardly blame him, but did.
“Talk to her anyway and see what she says about being kidnapped. We’ll think about the rest later.”
Quinton took his briefcase away to the back room. Mockford waited until he was sure both doors were shut, but even then kept his voice low. “It seems to me, sir, that Mr Quinton knows more about this affair than I do.”
“Possibly.” Ranklin adopted a soothing tone. “He’s been involved in it since before we were: extradition, anarchism . . . God knows what.” Then he added: “And perhaps only God.”
Mollified or not, Mockford changed the subject. “Before you go, sir, I’d like to take signed statements – just to show my superiors, no question of them being used in court.”
Ranklin shook his head. “Sorry, Superintendent, but what isn’t written down can’t be misplaced.”
“You may be called to give an account of your actions to Sir Basil Thomson.”
“That’s happened before.”
Mockford was still digesting that when Quinton came back. “Ma’mselle Collomb will only say anything if Mrs Finn’s present.”
Odd how sudden and strong the bonds of womanhood – the word “femininity” didn’t spring to mind around Berenice – could become. Ranklin stood up.
Jay said: “Ho for Clarges Street, then.” It seemed that a little of the East End went a long way with Jay.
By now, the street outside was full of people and rumour, clustered at doorways and under the rare gas lamps hung from the house walls. The local women were now wrapped in shawls – but still with their arms folded – and supplemented by men home from work. And journalists who flocked around whoever came out of the house, asking urgent questions.
“Just smile and shake your head,” Ranklin briefed his crew, “and tell them to ask the police. And don’t do or say anything to make yourself memorable.” He was speaking more to Jay than O’Gilroy there.
Probably Tarling Street hadn’t seen so much traffic in its life: several taxis retained by journalists, Quinton’s Lanchester, the Sherring Daimler and a more modest vehicle from Scotland Yard. Quinton took Berenice and O’Gilroy, Mockford and a sergeant driver followed in the police motor, while Ranklin took Jay to report to the Commander at Whitehall Court and then try to find and charm Inspecteur Lacoste in re the matter of Dr Feodor Gorkin. Then he drove the Daimler back to Clarges Street.
The others had got there ahead of him. Corinna opened the door – the staff didn’t live in, and had gone off duty – and greeted him with a heavy outward breath. “Well . . . you’re back in one piece. I’ve got garbled accounts of what happened and I’m not sure whether I’d have done better to come with you-”
“You wouldn’t. If they’d had a few more seconds’ warning, it could have been very different.”
“Anyway, you rescued Berenice. I felt bad about her, though I won’t pretend I’m wild about having her here again. In fact, I’m not wild about having a class reunion here.”
“I could do with a drink.”
“In the drawing-room. And I’ve telephoned the Ritz and they’re sending round something to eat.”
Ranklin couldn’t remember eating in days. He followed her into the drawing-room and O’Gilroy, who had taken charge of the drinks (had he ever been a barman? Probably; he’d been most other things at some time) gave him a whisky and soda.
Quinton allowed Ranklin one mouthful before looking very obviously at his watch and saying: “I’d like to get on . . .”
Ranklin took another gulp. “Let me try and put the position to Berenice first. It may help.”
So O’Gilroy took Mockford into the kitchen and the other four settled in the drawing-room. Ranklin paused to change mental gear into French, then began: “Probably now you understand that all this is more complicated than any of us thought.”
Berenice nodded cautiously.
“May I first ask you one thing? – was coming to London all your own idea?”
“Naturally. I used my own savings and did not tell anyone. Who should I tell?”
“How did you come to stay at the house in Bloomsbury Gardens?”
“I went to the court of Bow Street to ask about the trial and there I met Dr Gorkin who saw I did not speak English, so he helped me. Then he took me to his friends at Bloomsbury Gardens. But,” she frowned, “I do not understand. Why did Ma’mselle Sackfield help to have those men take me?”
“I don’t think that some of the people you thought were friends really were.” But Berenice wouldn’t believe him if he started denouncing Gorkin. She’d have to work that out for herself.
In English, Quinton asked: “Are you trying to establish that she wasn’t part of anything that’s been going on?”
“Parlez Francais!” Ranklin snapped. Already Berenice’s suspicious look had returned. “Ma’mselle Collomb was no part of any plan. So her being in London was a danger to the plan, but not much until she came away from Bloomsbury Gardens and they didn’t know who she might talk to and what she might say. Then they decided she’d have to be killed.”