Stone's Fall (65 page)

I stared at him.

He pointed at the clock. It was two minutes past three. I had been in that room for slightly more than a minute.

CHAPTER
15

That evening I had my first proper conversation with Arnsley Drennan. I had talked to him before, of course, but never alone, and he never said very much. He was a strange man; he seemed to need no one, but would frequently dine with us. Perhaps even his self-sufficiency needed a rest, on occasion. He was the obvious choice for me at that moment; I needed quite badly to talk to someone normal, rational and calm, who could point out that my afternoon with Signor Casanova had been all complete nonsense. Drennan, who gave off an air of solid good sense, could be relied on not to gossip about it afterwards.

I hadn’t planned a conversation with him; it came about by chance, as he and I were the only two people to show up for dinner that night. Longman had one of his rare reports to write as Consul; Cort, fortunately, hardly ever came nowadays; Macintyre and Marangoni were also absent. We ate our fish—Macintyre was correct there, it always was fish and I was starting to get a little tired of it—more or less in silence, then he suggested a coffee down the road in more salubrious surroundings.

“Have you seen Cort recently?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him for some time…”

“I ran into him yesterday, poor man. He’s in a bad way; he really should go back to England. It would be quite easy for him to do so. But I am afraid he is quite obsessed now. He sees it as a matter of honour to finish this job of his.”

Then bit by bit, as we drank more brandy, I told him about Signor Casanova. He was interested; or at least, I think he was. Drennan was one of those men whose expression never changed very much. But he listened quietly and attentively.

“I can’t say I know much about madness,” he said. “I have come across men driven mad by fear, or by horror, but that is a different sort of insanity.”

“How so?”

“Modern warfare,” he said. “As you may have guessed already, I was a soldier. I saw many things I did not wish to see, and which will be hard to forget.”

“You fought for the Confederates?”

“Yes. And we lost.” He shrugged to dismiss the subject from his mind.

“So you are an exile? A strange place to choose, if I may say so.”

He glanced at me, then smiled slightly. “So it would be, if that was why I was here. Well,” he continued, “maybe I should tell you. Why not? It is all history now. Have you heard of the
Alabama
?”

I looked at him. “The warship? Of course I’ve heard of it.… Does this have anything to do with Macintyre?”

It was his turn to look surprised. “How do you know that?”

“I made enquiries.”

“I’m impressed. Truly I am. What else do you know about Mr. Macintyre?”

“That he is not wanted back in England at the moment.”

He stared at me in astonishment, the first time I had ever seen any sort of strong emotion pass on his face. I felt quite pleased with myself.

“And who else knows of this?”

“In Venice, you mean? No one. Signor Ambrosian of the Banca di Santo Spirito seems to think he is here because he stole a lot of money. Why do you ask?”

“Because it is my job to protect him.”

“From whom?”

“Yankee lawyers, mainly. He is the living proof of Laird’s culpability. Great Britain maintains that the conversion of the
Alabama
was entirely out of its control. Everyone knows this is a fiction, but it will hold as long as there is no proof. Macintyre is that proof, and there are many people who would dearly like a conversation with him. And, I suspect, would pay high for the opportunity. He was paid off and told to lie low until the matter was settled. And I was hired to make sure that he does. Which is why I am here.”

“Who hired you?”

“Well, that I cannot say. Your Government, Laird’s, Lloyd’s of London. Should this lawsuit go badly it would cost a great deal in money and reputation. So as I was out of a job at the time…”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I have no country, and do not wish to live amongst my conquerors. And I am—or was—a soldier. What should I do? Herd cows in Texas for the rest of my life? No; when all was lost, I came to England to seek work. This is what I found. It is not the best of jobs, but it will do for the moment.”

“I see. You are a most interesting man, Mr. Drennan.”

“No. But I have had an interesting life. If you can call it that.”

“And Macintyre cannot go back to England?”

“Not until this is settled. I wanted him to go to Greece, change his name, but this is as far as he would travel.”

“You can be assured that I—and my friend in London—will be absolutely discreet on the subject.”

“Thank you.”

“And he doesn’t want to leave Venice?”

“Not yet.”

“And if he decides to go back to England?”

“Then it will be my job to stop him.”

“How?”

Drennan shrugged. “I will worry about that when it happens. At the moment, he seems perfectly happy here. Which is a pleasant change from the Corts.”

“A disturbed man,” I observed.

“Yes. But if I was married to a woman like that, so would I be.”

“I beg your pardon?” It was offensive, gratuitously so. But I looked at him and he stared evenly back. He knew exactly what he was saying; was saying it deliberately.

“I went on a boat ride with her; she invited me. We went to the Lido, although I wanted to tour the inner lagoon. I found her behaviour unfortunate.”

“Did you?”

“I did. And now it is time for me to leave. As you know, I have a half-hour walk back to my lodging. Good evening to you.”

W
hen I left him I walked over to Macintyre’s workshop; I could have got there much faster had I hurried, but I had much to think about. Drennan had very carefully given me a warning. From someone like Longman or Marangoni, I would have dismissed it out of hand as the remarks of a vulgarian, but Drennan I took seriously. He was not a man to gossip or to invent stories. What he said could not possibly be true, I was sure of that, but I wondered what his reasoning was. There was no obvious answer. But there were other questions now welling up in my mind as well.

I found Bartoli alone in the workshed, and greeted him. We talked for a while, and I expressed an entirely false disappointment that Macintyre wasn’t there.

“He’s gone to feed his daughter,” Bartoli said, speaking English in a thick accent.

“You speak well,” I replied. “When did you learn?”

“Here and there,” he said. “I lived in England for a while, and then met Mr. Macintyre in Toulon. I learned much from him.”

“It is unusual, isn’t it? To travel like that? Why did you do it?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to learn,” he said. “And there is not much chance of that here.”

“You are Venetian?”

“No,” he said scornfully. “I come from Padua. I hate it here.”

“Why is that?”

“They are lazy. All they want to do is live, and die.”

He spoke in short, sharp sentences; he said what he wanted to, then stopped. There was no ornament about his words, which was refreshing although slightly disconcerting.

“Is this second test going to work as well as the first?” I asked abruptly.

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Because Mr. Macintyre has asked me to look at his books. The money. And they are in a bad state. I am worried for him.”

He nodded. “I, also,” he said. “Very worried. He is a good man. A fine engineer. But he is not very sensible. You know what I mean?”

“I do. And he is in a very dangerous position. You too, I suppose, as your job depends on this.”

He shrugged. “There are other jobs. But I want Mr. Macintyre to be successful. He would die of disappointment. It will be a success. It will work as well at the next test as it did at the first. I am sure of it.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I said quietly.

Bartoli looked at me. “Why do you say that?”

I took a deep breath. “I will tell you,” I said. “But you must give me your word you will say nothing to anyone else.”

“I do.”

“Good. Then listen carefully. Mr. Macintyre has borrowed money foolishly. If this machine of his fails next week, then he will get no more. He will be bankrupt. He will not be able to continue his work here. You understand?”

“I know this.”

“But it will be even worse if it succeeds. He sold the patent for the machine as part of the loan agreement. I don’t know if he was aware of what he was doing, but that is the truth. He is busy trying to build something which no longer belongs to him. If the machine works, he will not see a penny of profit. Do you understand?”

Bartoli nodded slowly.

“If the machine fails, it will be unfortunate. If it succeeds, it will be a disaster.”

Bartoli shook his head. “Ah, Mr. Stone, what foolishness this is! We must help him. Poor man, he is too innocent for such people.”

“I agree. Unfortunately, he is also too straightforward to get out of this mess. He would never stoop to anything underhand or deceitful, however justified it may be.”

Bartoli looked quizzically at me. “What do you mean?”

“The situation can be retrieved,” I said quietly.

“How?”

“I am prepared to pay off his loans and buy the patent. But if the test succeeds there is not a chance they will wish to sell. Mr. Macintyre’s only hope is that it fail. Then I can approach the creditors and safeguard his invention. But, I repeat, only if the test fails, and I imagine Mr. Macintyre is determined it should succeed. He is a proud and foolish man.”

Bartoli nodded, evidently thinking hard. “Are you sure of all this?”

I nodded.

“The question is how to save him.”

“That’s simple,” I said bluntly.

“How?”

“The torpedo must fail the test.”

Bartoli looked at me in total silence.

“I am going to visit the bankers tomorrow about another matter. I will repeat my offer to buy his debts, but make it seem that I know nothing of the test. They will refuse to sell, of course. But if it fails, they will contact me swiftly, hoping to get their money back from a foolish Englishman who does not know he is buying a heap of scrap metal.”

“And you will look after Mr. Macintyre? Do you promise me that?”

“I could hardly build the machines myself. I know nothing about engineering. He will make the machines, I will look after the money. He might not choose such a solution, but I’m afraid he must be saved from himself.”

Bartoli nodded. “I must get back to work,” he said quietly.
I left him. I had won, I thought. But only time would tell.

T
he procedure was exactly the same as the previous week; except that this time, the torpedo was handled as though it was made of the purest and most expensive porcelain. It was important that I was nowhere around, but I went down to the workshop to see the preliminaries from a distance, and to assure myself that all the arrangements were made.

There was no need to have done so; Bartoli nodded at me as I approached, as if to say—don’t worry; all will be well. So I retreated rapidly when I saw Ambrosian and two others—presumably people from the bank—walk up and view the scene for themselves. As the boat pulled away from the side of the canal, I could see Macintyre, in a high state of excitement, stroking the sleek side of the torpedo lovingly, pointing at this part or that. Very faintly I heard his voice, unusually animated, as he described in great detail how his torpedo worked, what it would do, its revolutionary potential. I knew that, once in such a mood, he could probably carry on without a break for hours, and I rather pitied the Venetians’ ears.

Then they were gone, and there was nothing for me to do except go to my rendezvous with Louise, which I had fixed for eleven o’clock that morning. I was in a state of some nervous excitement myself, and she picked up my mood; we said hardly a word for the next hour, but devoured each other as though it was to be our last meal. At the end we lay on the bed intertwined, until I remembered Macintyre.

“Don’t go,” she said. “Stay with me.”

“Very important business,” I said. “I need to go and see Macintyre. It’s a big day. But tell me, before I go, tell me some news.”

She shook her head. “There is nothing good I can say that will please you.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“It is my husband. He is worse and worse. Even more violent than you, but not to give me pleasure, as you do.”

“He doesn’t seem like that at all.”

“Do you doubt me? Think I am a liar?”

“Of course not. I was only saying…”

“You’ve seen the marks, the wounds? If he broke my leg, blackened my eye, would you feel happier? It’s only a matter of time, you know. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied eventually.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“You do not know him,” she said, furious now. “I am afraid, terribly afraid what he might do when one of his attacks comes on him. If only I could run away somewhere! But that will never be. I know that now. There will be no escape for me.”

I sat down on the bed once more and took her in my arms. She nestled her head against my neck, and stroked my hair. “Just being with you gives me courage,” she said softly. “But it fades when you’re not there. I dream of being with you all the time, you know. The moment I met you I knew you were all I wanted; all I ever wanted in the world. But you don’t feel the same for me, I know.”

“I do,” I replied. “I do.”

“Then we must be!” she cried, looking me in the eyes. “Somehow, we must be! It is our fate, I know it. Please tell me you will do this! Tell me now!”

“I cannot. You know I cannot.”

“You will not.”

“You will leave your husband, your life…?”

“It is no life,” she said scornfully. “What sort of life is it, do you think, living in a hovel with a screaming child and a man like that? What sort of life is that, in comparison to what we could have together, just you and me, alone?”

“It is easy to suggest when you are here, in Venice, away from the judgment of society,” I said. “You might think you had made a poor bargain once you returned to England.”

“You are thinking of yourself,” she said bitterly. “You are happy to meet me here, in this little room, as long as no one knows. But I am not worth a single disapproving glance from society. You take everything you want, and I give it. I am happy to give it; I would die for you. Very well; I will be only your whore, to give you your pleasure as you want, when you want. That is enough for me; it gives me the only pleasure I have in the world. I want nothing you will not give me.”