The English Assassin

  “It’s a bit warm in here, isn’t it?” Frank Cornelius was saying on the other side of the ballroom as he danced expertly with Helen Sweet. “You look thoroughly washed out.”

  “Oh, it’s all right.” Helen Sweet glanced timidly into the gap between his chest and her breasts.

  Lady Sue swept past in a flash of crystalline blue. “Don’t overdo it, Helen!” Lady Sue was dancing with her friend the ex-emperor of Japan. Dressed in traditional Japanese costume, the old man was finding the waltz steps a bit difficult.

  Catherine Cornelius, feeling a trifle dizzy, leaned against a buffet table. She was a picture of beauty and well supplied with beaux. They crowded round her. She brushed a lock of fair hair from her forehead, laughing as Captain Nye, who had brought her another drink, said: “I’m afraid they’ve nothing non-alcoholic left. Will champagne do?” She accepted the glass, but put it down on the table. All of a sudden she began to shiver. “Are you cold?” asked three Austrian hussars solicitously and simultaneously.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said. “Is anything speeding up?”

  Captain Nye was filled with foreboding.

  They started to play ‘The Wind Cries Mary’ as a foxtrot. Captain Nye held out his hand to her and smiled kindly. “This must surely be mine.” She gave him her hand. It was ice cold. He could barely hold on to it. With an enormous effort of self-discipline he drew her freezing body close to his. She had turned very pale.

  “If you are not well,” he said, “perhaps I might have the honour of escorting you to your door.”

  “You’re kind,” she said. Then she almost whispered: “But it is not kindness I need.”

  Major Nye had already had three dances with Miss Brunner. This was the fourth. Major Nye asked Miss Brunner if she knew anything of the theatre.

  “Only what I see,” she said.

  “You must let me take you backstage sometime, at one of my theatres. You’ll like it.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You’re a very lovely woman.”

  “And you’re a very handsome man.”

  They stared into each other’s eyes as they danced.

  In the third bedroom of the Casa del Monte, seated on a black walnut panelled Lombardy bed, covered in seventeenth-century carvings, the most corrupt and feeble-minded paperback publisher in America sipped his vodka and tonic and stared sourly at his tennis shoes while one of the Oxford dons bored him with a long and enthusiastic description of the joys and difficulties involved in doing Now We Are Six into Assyrian. It was what they both deserved. Of all those at the ball, only the publisher was not enjoying himself.

  Colonel Pyat and Prinz Lobkowitz smoked their cigars and strolled in the gardens, stopping on the terrace of the Casa del Monte. “Peace at last,” said Colonel Pyat, breathing in the richly scented air. “Peace. It will be such a relief, don’t you think?”

  “I, for one, will be happy,” the Prinz agreed.

  “It will give us so much more time to enjoy our lives.”

  “Quite.”

  Miss Brunner and Major Nye found themselves by the Venetian fountain outside the Casa del Sol. Most of the security guards had gone, withdrawn discreetly as the ball progressed. The house itself glowed with light and the waters of the fountain, topped by a copy of Donatello’s David, were illuminated with a dozen different soft colours. Miss Brunner put her hand into the water and watched it run up her three-quarter-length evening glove and drip from her elbow. Major Nye gently stroked his moustache. “Lovely,” he said.

  “But imagine the expenditure.” Miss Brunner smiled to show that she was not being vulgar. “And no-one knows who paid for it. What a splendid piece of tact. Who do you think it is?”

  “It’s hard to guess who’s got that kind of money in England today,” he said without much interest.

  Miss Brunner’s eyes became alert. “That’s true,” she said. And she was thoughtful. “Oh, dear.” She removed her hand from the fountain and placed it lightly against Major Nye’s hip. “What a kind man you are.”

  “What kind? Oh, I don’t know.”

  The night was full of music, laughter, witty conversation. It came at her from all sides. “It’s a magic night! I need someone, I think,” she murmured to herself. She decided she would be wise to stick with the material at hand. “I want you so much,” she breathed, propelling herself into the major’s arms. He was astonished and took a little while responding.

  “By God! By God! You beauty!”

  The German band on the nearby terrace struck up with a selection of Buddy Holly favourites.

  Miss Brunner looked round Major Nye’s shoulder, scanning suspiciously the privet hedges. It was just a feeling, but it was getting stronger all the time.

  “My dear!” Bishop Beesley lay on a yellow bedspread in the yellow-draped Yellow Room of the Casa del Sol. The room was furnished largely in early Jacobean style and the bedposts were topped by carved eagle finials. On the bishop’s right was a Giovanni Salvi Madonna and Child. Lying on the bishop’s left, and facing him, was the beautiful ex-nun with whom Colonel Pyat had lately been dancing. She had turned out to be an Australian. Now she had no clothes on. Bishop Beesley’s mitre had fallen to the pillow and his hands were completely covered in chocolate. He had brought the girl and the chocolate mousse up here together and was intently covering her body with the stuff. “Oh, delicious!” The girl seemed uncomfortable. She put her hand between her legs, frowning. “I think I’m feeling a little crook.”

  Dr Karen von Krupp was dancing in the main ballroom with Professor Hira. Professor Hira had an erection because he could feel Dr Karen von Krupp’s girdle and garter-belt through her gown. He hadn’t had an erection since Sweden (and then it had proved his downfall). “The rhythm of the quasars, doctor,” he said, “is, essentially, a lack of rhythm.” He pressed his erection tentatively against her thigh. Her hand slipped from around his waist and patted him tenderly. His breathing grew more rapid.

  “Quasars,” said Dr von Krupp romantically, closing her eyes, “what are they, compared with the texture of human passion?”

  “They are the same! That is it! The same! Everything is the same. My argument exactly.”

  “The same? Are we the same?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  The music finished and they wandered out into the garden.

  Everyone was smiling, shaking hands, patting one another on the back, exchanging addresses, laughing uproariously at one another’s jokes, making love, resolving to be more generous, more tolerant and to learn humility. The Peace Talks and the Gala Ball would not be forgotten by most of them for a long time. The whole spirit of the talks had been crystallised here. Nothing but improvement lay ahead. Strife would be abolished and heaven on earth would be established.

  Only Miss Brunner, Catherine Cornelius and Captain Nye were beginning to wonder if there wasn’t a snag. Bishop Beesley and Frank Cornelius, who would normally have been swift to spot the signs, were both too absorbed in their own activities to notice anything.

  Frank Cornelius had locked the door of the movie theatre (done in gold and crimson, with silk damask wall hangings and copies of Babylonian statues holding electric lights made to look like lilies) and sat in the back row with Helen Sweet with his hand up her skirt as they watched one of the prints of Yankee Doodle Dandy with James Cagney as George M. Cohan and Walter Huston as his father Jerry Cohan. Frank loved the feel of Helen’s lukewarm, clammy thigh; it made him nostalgic for the childhood he’d never had. Shakey Mo Collier, operating the projectors, tried to peer through his little window and get a good look at what Frank was doing.

  Bishop Beesley and his ex-nun were now completely covered in chocolate and were prancing around the Yellow Room in an obscene version of the Cake-Walk.

  Lady Sue Sunday, still in the ballroom, was doing the tango with Cyril Tome who had just proposed marriage to her. She was considering his offer seriously, particularly since he showed an unexpected aptitude for the tango. “W
e could probably both live on Sunday’s money, I suppose,” mused Lady Sue. “I have a certain income from my writing, moreover,” said Cyril Tome. “And there would be so much we could clean up together.”

  ‘Flash’ Gordon was in the garden taking a happy interest in the azaleas. Nearby, Mrs Cornelius was wandering hand in hand with Professor Hira while Herr Marek hovered jealously in the background, planning to murder the Indian. In the Games Room, where billiard and pool tables rested on travertine floors and where the walls were decorated with rare Gothic tapestries and antique Persian tiles, with its sixteenth-century Spanish ceiling showing scenes of bullfights, Dr von Krupp and Una Persson were playing billiards while Sebastian Auchinek and Simon Vaizey looked on. “I used to be rather good at this,” said Dr von Krupp, making an awkward shot awkwardly. The spot ball struck the red with a click. “Isn’t that a foul?” asked Una Persson politely. “I mean, I thought I had the spot.” Dr von Krupp smiled kindly at her. “No you didn’t, dear.” Simon Vaizey was seized by a fit of hysterical giggling. “I shouldn’t really be here, you know. I think I’m a gatecrasher.”

  The President of the United States and the Prime Minister of England were completely and happily drunk and were dancing round and round the otherwise deserted marble Morning Room together, making the huge silver sanctuary lamps on the ceiling jingle and shake with their merriment. A small black-and-white cat sat on the window sill, licking its paws.

  “You look much nicer without your make-up,” said the President. “I’m glad it’s you who’s the Prime Minister now.”

  Holding a rather grotesque Tiffany lamp above her head Mitzi Beesley, the bishop’s daughter, was trying to limbo with Lionel Himmler, who had learned the dance in Nassau during his brief stay there. They were getting on well together. “I’ve never enjoyed myself so much,” Mitzi told him. “I love you.”

  “And I love you,” he said. His normally morose features were beaming. “I love love!”

  Spiro Koutrouboussis had just shaken hands on a satisfactory business deal with his fellow Greek millionaires when he saw Catherine Cornelius standing in a dark corner of the Main Library, looking through a rare copy of Paradise Lost. He crossed the huge Meshed carpet and presented himself. “Are you free for the next dance, Mademoiselle Cornelius?” he asked in careful French.

  “I’m afraid I’m feeling a trifle unwell, m’sieu.” She tried to smile. “My escort has gone to find my cloak.”

  “May I put my landau at your disposal?”

  “Thank you. You are very kind, Monsieur Koutrouboussis. I was sorry to hear of the unfortunate collapse of your—” she shivered uncontrollably—“project.”

  “No matter. A new one is developing. That’s business. On mourra seul, after all.” His own smile was full and charming.

  “Il n’y a pas de morts, Monsieur Koutrouboussis!” She closed her eyes.

  “Could I offer you my coat?”

  “I—thank you.” Gratefully Catherine accepted his heavy jacket, pulling it around her. “I’m sorry to…”

  “Please.” He raised a gentle hand.

  One of the carved cabinets swung out from the wall and nearly struck Spiro Koutrouboussis on the shoulder. He leapt back.

  From the space behind the bookcase emerged a tall figure with long, straight black hair, a pale, voluptuous face. He was wearing a short black overcoat with wide military lapels. His black trousers had a slight flare. His shirt was of the purest white silk and there was a broad, crimson tie at his throat. One long-fingered hand held an oddly shaped gun. “Hello, Cathy. I see you were expecting me.”

  “Oh, Jerry! I’m cold.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll deal with all that. What are these people doing in my house?”

  “Dancing.”

  “You might have dressed for the occasion,” said Koutrouboussis, eyeing the gun. Jerry put the gun in his big pocket.“

  “It took some time getting warm, myself,” he said, by way of apology. “How’s tricks, Koutrouboussis?”

  “The tricks are over. I am back in legitimate business now.”

  “Just as well. God, you go away for a little while and you come back to find the place crammed with guests. Is this my party, then?”

  “I suspect so.”

  Jerry laughed. “Oho! You know me of old, don’t you? But this isn’t Holland Park. It’s Ladbroke Grove. I’m reformed. I lead a very quiet life, these days.”

  “Jerry!” Catherine had turned quite blue and seemed on the point of collapse. “Jerry!”

  He wrapped his arms around her. “There. Is that better?”

  “A bit.”

  “I can see I’m going to have to take steps.” Jerry poured himself a large whisky from the decanter on the ebony-and-marble table. “I suppose Frank’s about?”

  “And Mum.”

  “Fuck.”

  “She’s all right, Jerry. Tonight.”

  “I haven’t got a lot of time, either,” said Jerry to himself. “Still…”

  “How long are you staying for, Jerry?”

  “Not long. Don’t worry.” He smiled at her, full of misery. “This is like the old days. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Miss Brunner came into the Games Room. “I knew it. You’d better not try anything, Mr Cornelius.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. This is my place, after all.”

  “Sod you. You set it up.”

  Jerry shrugged.

  “Christ!” She spat on the rug.

  In the Morning Room, the Prime Minister of England and the President of the United States were sitting side by side in the same big chair. “Culturally, of course,” said the President, “we have always been exceptionally close. That must stand for something.”

  The Prime Minister laughed happily. “Me? I’ll stand for anything. What’s the score?”

  The lights went out. The President giggled.

  In the main ballroom the music went on for some time, until the candles and the flambeaux began to dim, to gutter and finally extinguish themselves. Everyone murmured with delight, expecting a surprise. Laughter filled the great hall as men and women speculated on the nature of the treat.

  At the entrance, the gold doors swung back; the glass doors swung back. A cold wind blew.

  In the gardens the glow-worms and the fireflies were still, but there was one light, from the beam of a large flashlight held in the hand of a shadowy figure who swung up the steps into the Casa Grande. The figure wore a short topcoat with its wide lapels turned up to frame a long, pale face. The eyes gleamed in the reflected glare from the flashlight. The figure entered the ballroom and pushed its way through the silent throng until it stood beneath the musicians’ gallery.

  The voice was cool: “There’s been a mistake. It’s time to call it a day, I’m afraid. You are all on private property and I advise you to leave at once. Anyone still here in half an hour will be shot!”

  “Good God!” Prinz Lobkowitz stepped forward. “Who on earth?”

  “This is difficult for me,” said the figure. It directed the flashlight upwards. “It’s to do with the third law of thermodynamics, I suppose.” The musicians had replaced their instruments with a variety of sub-machine guns and automatic pistols. “But I won’t bore you with a speech.”

  “Do you realise what you are doing?” Prinz Lobkowitz swept his hands to indicate the crowd. “You could wreck everything.”

  “Perhaps. But things have to keep moving, don’t they? Now you must leave.”

  A machine gun sounded. Bullets struck the chandeliers and glass flew. The guests began to scream and mill about. The ex-Queen of England went down, her shoulders cut by several shards. Mr Robert D. Feet, the pedant, clutched a bleeding eye. Others sustained less important injuries. The scramble for the exit began. It was almost dignified.

  * * *

  As the guests flooded from the Casa Grande, others began to arrive from the various guest castles. They wanted to know why the lights had gone out.
Car engines started up. Horses stamped and snorted. Wheels churned in gravel. There was a smell of May.

  In the cinema, Frank Cornelius began to guess that something was up. Abandoning Helen Sweet, he crept to the doors and gingerly unlocked them. “Jerry?”

  In the Yellow Room Bishop Beesley was struggling to get his surplice on over the hardening chocolate, leaving the half-eaten ex-nun on the floor where she lay. He adjusted his mitre, picked up his crook, stooped for one last lick and then hurried out.

  In the Morning Room the President of the United States and the Prime Minister of England had already left. Only the cat remained, sleeping peacefully in a warm chair.

  Captain Nye found the library and opened the door. “Are you there, Miss Cornelius?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m feeling awfully better.”

  “We must go.”

  “I’m afraid we must.”

  “This will be the ruin of the talks.”

  “Quite a good ruin, though.”

  Laughing, they left the library.

  Mrs Cornelius, Professor Hira and Herr Marek were already in Ladbroke Grove. “It’ll be nice to get back.” Mrs C. felt in her reticule for her key. “It’s only round the corner, luckily.” The three of them were unaware that anything had happened to mar the ball.

  “Can you smell valerian?” asked Flash Gordon as Helen Sweet, weeping, stumbled into his hedge. “You’re a little darling, aren’t you?” He gathered her up. “Come and see Holland Park with me.”

  She sniffed. “All right.”

  “What’s bad news for some is good news for others,” said Lady Sue as her carriage raced past the couple. She had lost her tiara but had gained Bishop Beesley. She didn’t know at that point that he wasn’t a negro.

  Slumped in the far corner of the brougham, the bishop groaned. He had horrible indigestion.

  Cars and carriages erupted into Ladbroke Grove, scattering in all directions, some colliding in the gloom (for the gas-lamps had also been extinguished). A small boy was run over by Colonel Pyat’s Lamborghini.

  In the third bedroom of the Casa del Monte, several Oxford dons and the most corrupt and feeble-minded paperback publisher in America were blown to bits by explosive shells from the big Schmeisser in the hands of the second cellist. The publisher, for one, was almost grateful for this change of pace.