Honourable Intentions (11 page)

“Did you?” Quinton considered this. “And did you learn anything?”

“Nothing of relevance to Grover Langhorn’s case.”

“Oh? I think I might be the better judge of that.”

Ranklin said nothing. Quinton leant forward, chin on hands, elbows on desk, expression stern. “Let me see if I’ve got this right: without my permission, you posed as an investigator working for me, but you won’t tell me what you found out – is that correct?”

No, it was
not
going to be easy. Ranklin did his best at a disarming smile; at least his features ran to that. “Well, more or less, but—”

“Captain Ranklin –” Quinton threw himself back in his chair “– when we first met, I assumed you must be Palace officials or liaison between them and the Prime Minister. I’m sure such people exist, and it seemed quite reasonable that, moving in the circles she does, Mrs Finn should know them. It seems I underestimated the width of her acquaintance; judging from your behaviour, I do believe that you and your precious Commander are from the
Secret Service.”

It was said with such contempt that Ranklin recoiled. He knew that the Bureau and spying generally weren’t held in high regard, but what right had a Jew lawyer to sneer at him? Then he recoiled again, only inwardly this time, and took a hasty glance at his own prejudices. He hadn’t (he told himself) been despising Quinton for being . . . well, what he was. But perhaps he had been secretly hoping the man would do or say something so that he could despise him anyway.

“Or, at the very least,” Quinton added, “take it that your conduct leads me to that conclusion.”

Ranklin squeezed out a smile. “If we were what you suggest, then obviously we’d deny it. But whoever we are, you must have known we’d have to follow this up in a rather surreptitious manner. And I thought you were happy to remain ignorant of that and concentrate on the legal end.”

“True. But I then believed, rashly it seems, that you could do such following
without
pretending that I was behind it. So in effect, you’ve been spreading the idea that I sought and have now got knowledge that I didn’t seek and haven’t, in fact, got. What sort of position does that leave me in?”

“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

“I wish I had a penny for every time someone has told me, in this very office, that there was ‘nothing to worry about’ or so-and-so ‘wouldn’t do that’ and so on. My whole professional life is worrying about such things. Trying to make legally sure of things my clients are certain about already. Believe me, they
shriek loud enough when I fail. So unless you tell me exactly what you’ve learnt, I’m sure you’ll understand that I reserve my position on this.”

Sounding pained and almost offended, Ranklin said: “I am working for the government.”

“And I’m working for my client, Grover Langhorn.”

After that, Ranklin decided not to ask for a lift to Bow Street in Quinton’s motor-car.

*           *           *

When Ranklin arrived by taxi at Bow Street’s wide pavement, it looked like old home week. Quinton’s Lanchester was parked at the kerb again and he had presumably already gone in. Corinna’s father’s Daimler, similarly Pullman-bodied, was parked just behind and Corinna herself was chatting to Lieutenant Jay. In the background, wearing a shabby tweed suit and cap, O’Gilroy was leaning against a wall.

You had to admire how he did that. He wasn’t skulking or trying to look invisible. He just leant there, smoking an interminable stub of a hand-rolled cigarette, half-wrapped in his own concerns, half conscious of the world around, and wholly ready to tell it to bugger off and mind its own business.

It was a good day for leaning on walls: fine and bright and perhaps a shade warmer than the day before.

Jay asked: “D’you want me to go in or are you?”

“You go.” And Jay darted inside.

Corinna said: “Good morning,” in a tone that suggested Ranklin was to do the rest of the talking and had better make it
good
.

“I’m most frightfully sorry that you had to take over Berenice. I had no idea . . . But I’m very grateful. Er – where is she, by the way?”

Corinna jerked her head, almost dislodging her matador hat. “In there, watching the boy-friend come up – or go down – for the umpteenth time. Is anything going to happen?”

“Quinton doubts it. Umm . . . I imagine you had a rather busy night?”

“I imagine I had a
totally
loused-up night. Getting up and flogging down to Scotland Yard just to be ignored by pompous policemen and given cups of what they think is
tea
. . . I’ll say this for Noah Quinton, he knows how to handle those bastards. They don’t like him, but they run scared of him . . . And then having to speak French to that . . . that—God Almighty, the girl is a complete
slut.
And d’you think she has a word of thanks for it all? She despises me! Thinks I’m the ‘idle rich’ – idle! After a night of running around promising God-knows-what for her on top of a busy day . . .

“It’ll take more than Professor Higgins to make a duchess out of
that
squashed cabbage leaf.” Shaw’s
Pygmalion
had just opened at His Majesty’s and its characters had already passed into the language.

“Well,” Ranklin said, “I can’t say how grateful—”

“You can try!”

“Er – are you stuck with her indefinitely?”

“It seems like it – until your wonderful police say different. We’re going round to Bloomsbury when this is over to collect her things.”

Ranklin was a bit surprised to hear that Berenice actually had any “things”. But perhaps even the inhabitants of La Villette might own more than they could wear at one time.

“D’you want to take O’Gilroy with you?” he offered. “Just on general grounds.”

“No, Bloomsbury isn’t the East End. It sounds like a bunch of half-assed artists being anarchists on money from home.” It was the wrong morning for anyone to expect the benefit of the doubt from Corinna.

Then there was an eruption at the court door and several obvious journalists rushed off towards Fleet Street. It hadn’t taken long, but clearly something had happened. Ranklin had already guessed what when Jay came out to report: “Adjourned. The police say they’re treating the meat porter’s death as murder.”

Ranklin had instinctively stepped away from Corinna to listen to him; now, they both watched as Berenice Collomb shuffled up to Corinna. Her very pace was sullen, as if she were going from one funeral to another. Ranklin saw Corinna’s face set into a wide, false smile.

“So that’s Paris’s answer to Eliza Dolittle?” Jay observed. Trust him to have seen the latest play. “I saw her around yesterday.”

“You didn’t see—” Ranklin began, then saw him for himself. Gorkin, wearing the same check suit and foreign-looking hat, came out, smiled at Ranklin, then vanished round the corner into Broad Court. Ranklin thought about nodding O’Gilroy to follow, but that would just be make-work; he had Gorkin’s address anyway.

Corinna was ushering Berenice into the car, relaying instructions to the chauffeur, driving off.

“What d’you want me to do now?” Jay asked.

“Did the police say anything more about Guillet than just murder?”

“Pursuing various lines of enquiry, that’s all.”

“See what else you can dig up. Here or through the Yard. Try and be in the office around lunchtime.”

Jay, looking like a playboy who has unaccountably got up before noon, moved off to deploy his rakish charm. That left Ranklin, who wanted a word with Quinton, and the unacknowledged O’Gilroy. Since Ranklin hadn’t the Irishman’s talent for loitering, it was lucky that, after almost a week of sunshine, other Londoners had finally decided they could risk simply standing around in the open air.

It was twenty minutes before Quinton came out, and Ranklin intercepted him. The solicitor seemed quite ready to speak to him, smiling in a somewhat interrogatory way, and letting Ranklin lead off.

“I gather that the police now have Guillet chalked up as murder?”

“They must have got a new pathologist’s report.”

“Is that good or bad for Ma’mselle Collomb?”

Quinton shrugged. “I believe he was struck a quite heavy blow – for but an iron bar would do that by itself, you wouldn’t need much strength. If they knew this happened some distance from the river, that would imply a slip of a girl dragging a heavy manthat distance – which is unlikely. But if it happened at the top of some landing steps, all she’d need do is roll him down them.”

“D’you think they’ll ever find out where?”

“It seems highly unlikely now, after two days. Unless they find a witness, which would add a whole new dimension anyway.”

For a moment, Ranklin thought of producing such a witness, and wasn’t even shocked at himself. But that would call for very careful scripting – certainly better than Guillet himself had got. “And for how long does Mrs Finn have to nursemaid her?”

“Until the police have lost interest in her, I’m afraid. Or changed the terms of her bail.”

“Are they likely to call her in for more questioning?”

“Not until they’ve got far more to go on, now they know they’ve got me to deal with.” Which was perfectly reasonable, but could have been said more humbly.

Ranklin nodded vaguely. There didn’t seem much more to say.

But Quinton went on: “I had a little talk with my client.” He paused, smiling. “Aren’t you going to ask me what he said?”

Ranklin just nodded, but felt lead in his stomach.

“He told me about his putative father. I can now see, I confess, why your people have been acting as you have. But that does
not,
to my mind, excuse your interference in the legal process.”

Ranklin thought quickly back. As far as he could recall, the legal process was about the one thing they
hadn’t
interfered with. Yet. “Sorry, but I don’t follow.”

Quinton adopted a foursquare stance in front of him, a bit like an outraged bantam. Oddly, Ranklin only now noticed they were much the same height. Usually he was very conscious of men’s heights.

“Word has seeped out,” Quinton said, “that if this case goes
to the King’s Bench on a writ of
habeas corpus,
it is to be heard by judges who are
sympathetic
to the boy’s plight – for or at least theKing’s.”

The Palace. The damned Palace.

Ranklin shook his head slowly. “Not our doing, I’m afraid. We simply don’t have that sort of influence.”

Quinton eyed him closely. “I’m certainly glad to hear that – and on balance, I’m inclined to believe you. I suppose,” he mused, “you’d have to tell someone closer to the King that . . . yes, I think I see what would have happened. But Captain, I believe I am doing a good job of representing my client, and have a reasonable chance of getting the case against him dismissed on grounds that even the French authorities will accept. I can manage very well without string-pulling in high places, and especially the implication that I need that. Perhaps you can find a way of passing that on.”

“If the opportunity arises, yes.”

“And in regard to what I learnt from my client, I can assure you that I am not breaking any confidences.” Quinton seemed anxious to prove his own legal virginity. “He spoke out because he’s concerned that nothing seemed to be happening in that area. I said that I was sure steps were being taken.”

“Did he have a view about Guillet’s death?”

“Oh yes. He believes that was punishment for Guillet failing to tell his lies properly. And that the capitalist sheepdogs at the
Préfecture
must be rehearsing a new witness to take his place.

“Single-minded little bugger, isn’t he?” But Ranklin’s vehemence was aimed at more than just Langhorn.

Quinton smiled coldly. “You might tell your Commander
Smith
that I’ll be in my chambers the rest of the day, if he wishes to speak to me.” He got into his limousine.

Ranklin watched it go, saying several un-bright-spring-day things under his breath. Trying to stifle this scandal was like trying to stop ripples on water . . . And they couldn’t even be sure whether it was true, dammit.

He was about to nod O’Gilroy off duty when Corinna’s
Daimler rushed back down the street, stopped with a jerk, and she jumped out long before the chauffeur could get round to the door.

“That bloody little tramp! She’s shut herself in a room there and won’t come back with me! Can I let the police have her back? Never mind the bail, I just want
shot
of her.”

Ranklin made soothing noises whilst thinking quickly. There wasn’t time to check with the Commander, he had to act himself.

He pointed up the street, as if giving her directions, and muttered: “This isn’t for your benefit, I’m trying to instruct O’Gilroy. Ah, he’s got it.”

The shabby figure was moving away at a slouching amble.

“Right, get the motor-car turned round, we’ll pick him up further along.”

In the dingier and less public surroundings of Endell Street, Ranklin swung the door open, O’Gilroy stepped in, and they zoomed off. Well, not zoomed, in a Daimler, but definitely hurried – through the wide tangle of traffic near the top of Shaftesbury Avenue, across New Oxford Street and up Bloomsbury Street. By then O’Gilroy knew as much or as little as there was to tell.

“What’s the address of this place?” Ranklin asked.

“14 Bloomsbury Gardens.” He knew that address, and checked with a card in his wallet: it was the one Gorkin had given him.

He hadn’t time to work out what that meant. “Are you armed?” he asked O’Gilroy and got a nod. That meant a .38 semi-automatic Browning: O’Gilroy was a modernist in these matters.

“Good, but keep it out of sight until I say so.”

It was a middle-middle class area which the young of the upper class regarded as daringly slummy. Most of it was squares like this: rows of tall, narrow terraced houses that had been built of yellow brick now black with London’s soot (like the rest of London), around a private but communal garden across the
road. There were no front gardens, just a handful of steps leading up from the pavement to the front door, which had a fanlight above to align it with the tall windows.