Some, mostly those who had walked to the gates and were now strolling up Westbourne Park Road towards the Portobello Road looking for taxis, had taken the events with a certain amount of amused relish. They chattered and laughed as they walked along, listening to the distant sounds of machine-gun fire.
“Well,” said Dr von Krupp, who was of this party, “it’s back to square one, I suppose.”
“Do you live in London?” asked Una Persson, her arm around Sebastian Auchinek’s neck.
“Oh, I think I’ll want to now.” The doctor grinned.
In Spiro Koutrouboussis’s landau, which had been the first carriage to get away, Captain Nye and Catherine Cornelius embraced in a long and tender kiss. They were already halfway to the Surrey border, heading for Ironmaster House.
Spiro Koutrouboussis was still in the Casa, having survived the massacre of his colleagues. He had a gun and was looking for his host. He bumped into Frank on the stairs, mistook him for Jerry, and shot him. Frank, thinking that he had been shot by Jerry, returned the fire. The two bodies tumbled down the stairs together.
Miss Brunner and Major Nye gave up any thoughts of revenge and clambered into the major’s camouflaged Humber Snipe. As they roared away, one of the violinists emerged on the steps and lifted his tommy gun to his shoulder, firing after them, but the bullets bounced off the car’s armour and then they had turned a corner and were safe.
Easing the car into Ladbroke Grove, Major Nye asked Miss Brunner: “Well, what did you make of all that?”
“Now that I look back,” she said, “I suppose it seems inevitable. But not to worry.”
“I must say you know how to make the best of things,” he said admiringly.
Slowly the great house grew still until the only sound that could be heard anywhere was the purring of the small black-and-white cat as it stretched itself, licked its whiskers, then settled back to sleep again.
THE PEACE TALKS Concluding Remarks
Upon his return from exile at the request of the new revolutionary junta, Prinz Lobkowitz made a short speech as he stepped off the airship. The speech was addressed to Colonel Pyat and an ecstatic crowd. He said:
“The war, my friends, is ceaseless. The most we can expect in our lives are a few pauses in the struggle, a few moments of tranquillity. We must appreciate those moments while we have them.”
PROLOGUE (continued)
… the ghosts of the unborn. And the ghosts of the unknown: the war dead and those who died in the concentration camps. Dying in anonymity, without witnesses, they are never decently brought to rest. It’s hard to explain. And yet the birth of every new child is a kind of resurrection. Every child welcomed into the world helps to lay a ghost to rest. But it takes so long. And these days, it’s hardly a lasting solution. Perhaps we should simply stop killing people.
—Maurice Lescoq,
Leavetaking
SHOT THREE
‘MIRACLE CURE’ OF FRANCES, 6
The Pope has been asked to declare that six-year-old Frances Burns is a miracle girl. Three years ago, she was dying of cancer. Surgeons who had been fighting for her life gave her only a few days to live. Now she is a happy, laughing tomboy of a girl. And the consultant who treated her admits: “A miracle is not too strong a term for her recovery.” The astonishing cure of Frances Burns began when her mother, Mrs Deirdre Burns, took her pain-racked daughter from Dennistoun, Glasgow, to the Roman Catholic shrine of Lourdes in Southern France. Frances was bathed in the waters of the mountain spring where thousands of invalids have sought a cure. Back in Glasgow, after two days in the Sick Children’s Hospital, Frances sat up and asked for food. A week later the tumours on her face had disappeared. She was on the road to an amazing recovery. The panel of 31 specialists who make up the Lourdes Medical Bureau have asked the Pope to consider pronouncing Frances’s cure a miracle.
The Sun, 23 August, 1971
THE THEATRE
Una Persson was on stage. She was playing Sue Orph, latest of Simon Vaizey’s sophisticated heroines, in Vaizey’s most successful musical comedy to date—Bright Autumn— at the Prince of Wales Theatre. The house was full and Una noticed her old agent, Sebastian Auchinek, occupying one of the front stalls. Auchinek was in politics now and writing thousands of articles and pamphlets. His latest production was called ‘A New Deal for Britain’s Jews’.
Draped in a light pink silk Chanel pyjama suit, Una leaned against a grand piano and confronted her leading man, Douglas Crawford, as he said:
“I never guessed you kept a diary, darling.”
Una held the book insouciantly in one long hand and said lightly: “Oh, darling, it’s hardly a real diary.”
The line had become a catchphrase everywhere now. Comedians imitated it on the wireless. It might have been written especially for her rich ‘R’s.
“But it is secret, I suppose,” Douglas continued. “Is it awfully secret?”
“It is rather.”
“I thought we weren’t to have secrets, you and I. I thought we had agreed it wouldn’t be that kind of marriage.” He was offended.
She was eager to reassure him. “Darling, it isn’t—it’s just that—”
Icily remote, he said: “Yes?”
“Oh, darling, don’t be a bear!” She turned away from him, looking down at the keys of the piano.
“A prig, you mean, don’t you?” He folded his arms and stalked to the cocktail cabinet at the far end of the stage. “Well, what if I am a prig? What if I love you so horribly I can’t stand to think of you keeping secrets from me? You know, people who keep diaries are usually afraid of something. Isn’t that what they say? What are you frightened of, Susan? What have you written about that man you saw last night—you know—that man? What’s his name?” He pretended he didn’t care, but it was obvious to the audience that he was barely in control of his passions.
Una replied in a high, offended tone, speaking rapidly: “You know perfectly well what his name is. It’s Vivian Gantry.” She paused, becoming reminiscent. “We were lovers—years ago…”
“And you still love him? Is that what you’re frightened to tell me? Is that what you’ve written in your damned diary?” Douglas wheeled round, his face tortured with emotion.
Una dropped the diary and swept towards him. “Oh, you fool, you fool, you sweet, precious fool! How could I love anybody but you?”
“Tell me.”
She stopped suddenly, lowering her head. Then she turned to point at the fallen diary. “Very well, read it if you like.”
He hesitated. He started to mix himself a drink at the cabinet. “What does it say?”
“That I love you in so many ways I can’t even say it to your face.”
“Oh?” It was possible to see now that he wanted to believe her but was still cautious.
Her voice was almost a whisper and yet it reached the back of the theatre. “Yes, Charles. I suppose I’m too much in love with you, really…”
He put the drink down and seized her shoulders. Her face remained averted. “Swear it?” he said, almost savagely. “Do you swear it, Sue?”
She recovered her composure and stared him directly in the eyes. Mockingly, spreading her fingers over her heart, she said lightly, but with something of an edge to her voice. “Very well, if you think it necessary. There! I swear it.” Her tone softened. She took his hand. “Now stop all this—this silly jealousy.”
By now he was completely miserable for having doubted her. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry.” He folded her in his arms. Softly the orchestra started the introduction to the most popular song of the show. “I am a bear! An utterly boorish bear! And a prig! How could I possibly, possibly doubt you. Forgive me?”
Her voice was warm and soft when she breathed:
“Forgive you.”
“Oh, darling!”
He began to sing:
“You know I’d be blue, dear,
With someone new, dear.
I’ll never weary—of you.
/> Heartbreak and sorrow,
Will never spoil tomorrow,
And I’ll never be blue, dear, again…”
As the curtain fell on the act, Sebastian Auchinek, his eyes full of tears, clapped and clapped until a hand fell on his shoulder and he looked into the grave, polite faces of two plain-clothes policemen. “Sorry to interrupt your evening out, sir. But we wonder if you wouldn’t mind coming with us to answer one or two questions.”
It was like a bad detective story compared with the fantasy he had just been watching. He said almost pathetically and with an attempt at levity:
“Can’t I answer them here?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. We’ve a warrant, you see.”
“What are you arresting me for?”
“Wouldn’t it be less embarrassing if we answered that when we’re in the street, sir?”
“I suppose so. Can I get my coat?”
“That’s waiting for you in the lobby, sir.” The policeman scratched his little moustache. “We took the liberty.”
Sebastian Auchinek looked around at the other people in the stalls, but they were all involved in getting to the bar, studying their programmes or chatting amongst themselves.
“I see,” he said. “Well…” He got up, shrugging. “I am Miss Persson’s manager, you know. The papers will know you’ve arrested me.”
“Not an arrest, as such, sir. A request for help. That’s all.”
“Then surely I can see the play through?”
“It’s urgent, sir.”
Auchinek sighed. He darted one last look at the curtain, drew one last breath of the atmosphere, and then left by a side exit.
THE FLYING BOAT
The great grey flying boat manoeuvred on her two outer forward-facing propellers, slewing round in the shallows until she faced the main expanse of the blue lake. Save for the ripples which spread from the flying boat’s massive angular floats, the lake was flat, shining and still. In the early-morning air the growling Curtiss Conqueror engines drowned every other sound. The boat was a Dornier DoX with twelve 600hp liquid-cooled back-to-back engines mounted on her 160ft wing.
There was space on the ship for a hundred and fifty, but, with the exception of Captain Nye who was piloting the plane, there were only four people aboard.
Even the snow-capped grandeur of the Swiss Alps failed to dwarf the monoplane as she coursed over tranquil Lake Geneva, all twelve props twirling when Captain Nye flicked the toggle-switches which brought them to life.
“We’re flying light. We’ll make time, everything else being equal.” He chatted casually to Frank Cornelius who lounged seedily in the roomy co-pilot’s chair and stared through the glass at the glare from the rising sun, a ball of pulsing brass whose rays pierced the morning mist.
The boat surged across the deserted lake and headed towards the ruins of the city on the far shore. Captain Nye waited until the very last minute before taking her up, flying playfully low over the collection of shanties near the lakeside. A few children scattered in fright; then the Dornier was climbing steeply, banking into the sun, going East.
“She’s an ugly bitch, but she’s fast.” Captain Nye levelled out. They were doing at least 130 mph. “Go and check if the ladies are all right, would you, old man?” They were now well clear of all but the highest mountains.
Frank unstrapped himself and slid the cabin door open. He crossed Joubert and Petit’s 60ft Art Deco ballroom and descended the angular staircase to the first-class deck where Miss Brunner and his sister Catherine were already seated on high bar-stools having Pimms Number Ones prepared for them by Professor Hira. The physicist was to be their guide on this expedition.
“Everything okay?” said Frank. “Isn’t it smooth?”
“Beautiful,” said Miss Brunner, dabbing at her Eton crop and winking. Catherine looked away. Through the observation ports she could see the clean, shimmering peaks. “It’s a lovely day,” she said.
“We’ll make Rowe Island by Monday easily,” said Frank. “Six thousand miles, just like that. It’s incredible!”
“Aren’t you flinging yourself rather too hard into the part, Frankie, dear?” Miss Brunner fingered her lip-rouge.
“Dear Miss B. You’ve no enthusiasm left at all. I think I’ll stroll back to the pilot’s cabin.” Frank blew a kiss to his sister and another to Professor Hira. Pointedly he ignored Miss Brunner. They were always quarrelling; even the Indian physicist paid no attention, placing the tall slab-side Vuitton glasses with a click on the zigzag black-and-white inlay of the Kroll bar. He didn’t drink himself, but he was a wizard at mixing things up.
“It’ll be nice to visit the island again,” said Catherine. “So warm. People go there for their health, I hear.”
“Just as we are, dear, really.” Miss Brunner adjusted her white cardigan over the blue-and-black silk day dress, offering Catherine a Gold Flake from her thin silver cigarette case. Catherine accepted. Professor Hira leaned over the bar and lit the cigarettes with the big table lighter which had been built to resemble a heavy Egyptian sarcophagus, but which was really made of aluminium and, like so much of the flying boat’s equipment, a spin-off from the airship industry. Miss Brunner found airships not sufficiently chic for her taste; indeed, even Catherine thought them a trifle gross. Still, they did enable ordinary members of the public to travel from country to country for comparatively little money, if that was a good idea. She was disturbed, however, by the prediction that they would one day take the place of the flying boat. Progress was progress, but she was sure that people of taste would always prefer the elegance of an aircraft like the Dornier, with her lovely Joubert and Petit and Josef Hoffman interiors. Catherine leaned her elbow on the bar, her hand curving back at the wrist, the jade cigarette holder gripped loosely between her forefinger and middle finger perfectly matching the plain jade bangle on her slim arm. She wore the minimum of make-up, the minimum of clothing on her torso. Miss Brunner gave her an admiring once-over. “Frank is vulgar, but you, dear, are more than perfect.”
Catherine smiled a private smile, her foot tapping to the rhythm of the Ipana Troubadours record Professor Hira had just placed on the Victorphone. The muffled sound of the Curtiss Conquerors seemed to be beating to the same time. “I’ll get by—as long as I have you,” sang Catherine with the record.
“But Frank, I think, is more in tune, eh?” said Professor Hira, breaking both their moods.
Miss Brunner was frosty. “Should that be a compliment, I wonder?” She slid from her stool. “I’m going to the powder room. I feel a mess.”
Catherine watched her go through the door marked Damen. Sometimes Miss Brunner could be a real stickler for form.
Left alone with Catherine, Professor Hira was ill at ease. He cleared his throat, he beamed, he played with the cocktail shakers, he looked vaguely up at the roof. Once, when they struck some mild disturbance, he made a move to help her steady herself, then became embarrassed, changing his mind halfway through the motion.
Catherine decided to check the cargo. With a pleasant nod to the professor, she gathered up her Worth skirts and walked aft. The companionway led down to the second-class lower deck, which Hoffman had redesigned as a galley and dining cabin. She went through the galley and into the cool forward cargo hold. Aside from their yellow-and-black pigskin luggage, there was only one piece of cargo, a cream-coloured box about five feet long, three feet wide and three feet deep. The lid of the box was padlocked. Catherine took a key from the side pocket of the little gold Delaunay bag and inserted it into the lock, turning it twice. Then she opened the lid. Inside was the shiny white skeleton of a child, aged between ten and twelve. The skull was damaged. In the bone of the forehead, just above and between the eye-sockets, was a large, regularly shaped hole.
As a mother might move a sleeping child before drawing the covers over it for the night, Catherine rearranged the skeleton on its red and white leather cushions. She leaned with a fond smile into the box, kissing the skull ju
st above its injury; then tenderly she closed the lid and padlocked it up, murmuring: “Don’t worry.”
She sighed, pressing her palms together in front of her lips. “The Indian Ocean is the friendliest in the world, Professor Hira says. And Rowe Island is the friendliest island in the Indian Ocean. We’ll all be able to rest there.” She staggered as the plane hit more turbulence, banking steeply. She managed to grasp the yellow-and-green silk safety rope secured to the bulkhead. The Dornier righted herself almost immediately. Catherine checked that the box hadn’t shifted in its moorings and then carefully she began to make her way back to the bar.
THE PIER
“It’s the ’ottest summer in years,” Mrs Cornelius was saying as she waded back to the shore, her jazzy print dress hitched above her red, dumpy knees. She was sweating like a sow, but she was happy, out of breath, having a high old time at Brighton. She’d been to the races, been on the seafront miniature railway, had two sticks of rock, some winkles, five pints of Guinness, a bit of skate and chips and a singsong in the pub just before she’d been sick. Being sick had cleared her system and now she felt like a million dollars. It did you good. Colonel Pyat, in perfect civilian summer dress, a white linen suit, a panama hat, two-tone shoes and a malacca cane over his arm, stood on the pebbles holding Tiddles, Mrs Cornelius’s small black-and-white cat, which, of late, she had taken to carrying everywhere she went, even to the shops, the pictures or, like today, on their honeymoon day excursion to the seaside.
“Wot abart th’ pier?” Mrs Cornelius panted. She cocked her thumb over her damp shoulder at the East Pier, an affair of rusty scaffolding holding a dance hall, a theatre, a penny arcade and a funfair. From where she stood on the bank she could hear the dodgems clattering and crashing. Every so often, there came a high-pitched giggle, an excited yell.