“In a very minor way…gossip, mainly. It is France, after all; in my view, merely a demented version of Italy. We do keep an eye on them, however. Especially, of late, this Bonaparte chap who’s causing so much trouble. A man to be watched very carefully. Now, tell me, gentlemen, what’s the gen, here? Is young Henry in trouble?”
“The gen?” Davies asked, leaning forward as if he expected some priceless gem of spy-speak to come spilling forth onto the master’s desk.
“Hmm. An Americanism I picked up from the author Hemingway via Lord Hawke, who devours his books. Gen. As in, intelligence. I mean to say, what’s up with Bulling?”
“He’s bolted, sir. Vanished. The French at the embassy are up in arms. Certain documents have gone missing from his department.”
“He’s on his own, then,” Ambrose said, tapping some Peterson’s Irish into the bowl of his favorite pipe. Firing it, he puffed out, “The Yard has no involvement in this, I assure you.”
“He hasn’t contacted you?”
“Certainly not.”
“He wasn’t directed to remove documents pertaining to China?”
“Asked and answered.”
“Did your cousin have reason to wish you ill, Chief Inspector?”
“Ill?” Ambrose said, suddenly looking up from a careful study of his signet ring. “Why do you ask that?”
“We tumbled his flat. Milk Street. Southeast London. We found a recently purchased weapon. A cheap target rifle with a 10X scope. Wrapped in oilcloth and stowed under a loose floorboard.”
“Under a loose floorboard. How original of him. And?”
“And these photographs, sir.”
Davies slid over a manila folder and Ambrose extracted six glossy eight-by-ten photographs. They were grainy telephoto black and whites. All six were taken on separate occasions by someone who had secreted himself deep within Hampstead Heath forest. And all of these long-lens photos depicted Congreve walking his new dog, Ranger, in the lovely hour just before sunset.
“Anything else?” Congreve asked, sliding the folder back to Davies without comment.
“A good deal else, Inspector,” Agent Winfrey said, pulling a wad of brochures from his leather satchel. He held one aloft. “Your cousin left his flat in quite a hurry. He was quite possibly abducted. There were signs of a struggle. We found this tract and others like it in his coat closet. All political. Pro-Chinese, Pro-French. Anti-American. Written, we’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to learn, by the French Foreign Trade minister in Paris, the same chap you mentioned a moment ago. Bonaparte. Translation Section is just getting round to translating this bit this morning.”
“Hand it over,” Ambrose said. “French is one of my languages, unfortunately.” Congreve had in his youth been a language scholar at Christ College, Cambridge, but tossed it all for a street beat with the Metropolitan Police. A decision he’d seldom regretted on his way to legendary status at the Yard. Never one to view a mystery from afar, rather he held the thing pinched between two fingers beneath his nose, sniffed the bouquet, then swallowed it whole.
He perused the overwrought anti-American polemic for some moments, then slipped it inside his opened red leather day diary. Something called OMOCO had published the self-serving diatribe on behalf of some radical French group calling themselves the Brigade Rouge. OMOCO. Somewhere, that name rang a bell. Oman—something or other. Oh, well, it would come to him.
“Anything else?” he asked, smiling. Mrs. Purvis had slipped silently into the room and was carefully gathering the empty cups and saucers. He was grateful for her quiet, efficient demeanor and, catching her eye, murmured a silent thank-you. The woman was good cheer and grace personified.
“With all due respect, Chief Inspector,” Winfrey said, “that pamphlet you’ve just taken is evidence in a missing persons case.”
“I’m well aware of that, Agent Winfrey. For professional reasons, I’d like my friend Alex Hawke to have a look at it. I’m happy to sign for it if you insist. One final question for you chaps before you go, if I may.”
“Shoot,” Davies said, earning a look from Winfrey. Shoot?
“What the blazes is the ‘Brigade Rouge’?” Congreve asked. “That’s a new one on me.”
“A spinoff of the old Union Corse crime family from Corsica. Quite fanatical. Ultraleftist paramilitary chaps, all former Union Corse foot soldiers and Foreign Legionnaire types, a few ex– Deuxième Bureau. Been around for years but raising holy hell of late. Rumored to be responsible for this latest spate of political assassinations in France. We can’t prove it yet, but we’re working on it. Henry Bulling never mentioned that lot, eh?”
“Never.”
“Well. You’ll let us know straightaway should Henry Bulling contact you, won’t you, sir?” Winfrey said, getting to his feet.
“Unless he contacts me with a bullet to the heart, I shall indeed endeavor to do so.”
“If I may, sir. Until we find your cousin, I’m sure I need not say this. But do keep your eyes open, sir. I’d be happy to assign one or two of my men to sit outside for a few days. Unobtrusively, of course.”
“Won’t be necessary, but thank you for your concern. I’ve got young Ranger here. First line of defense in my personal homeland security system.” The dog emitted a rough bark as if on cue.
“A great honor meeting you, sir,” Davies said, rising from his chair and sticking out his hand. “The man, the legend.”
Ambrose waved this ridiculous piffle away and picked up his beloved Conan Doyle first edition. He was just about to thumb open the thing when there came a sound next to his ear of an angry hornet and a neat round hole suddenly appeared smack dab in the middle of his precious Holmes.
At that precise moment, he saw Mrs. Purvis collapse to the carpet. The tea tray and its contents flew from her hands. A bright red stain appeared just below her starched white collar and spread rapidly. She moaned once and went silent.
“Mrs. Purvis!” Congreve shouted, knocking his armchair over backward as he leaped to his feet.
Chapter Nine
Cannes
HAWKE RACED DOWN THE DESERTED COMPANIONWAY, A grim corridor lit only by a few naked bulbs suspended from loose wires dangling from the overhead. Doors hung open on either side, small flyspecked cabins with double- or triple-tiered bunks, empty. At the far end, a large door in the bulkhead opened into the galley. He stepped inside. The stink of cabbage and rancid grease was overpowering. He was about to turn and retrace his steps when his eye caught a thin edge of yellow light between two tall cabinets loaded with rusty canned goods, stocks that appeared to be long past their best-by date.
He ripped at the shelving and dodged heavy falling cans of undoubtedly exquisite Chinese delicacies. The cabinet swung open easily, revealing a tiny broom closet of a room, no bigger than six by four. There was a metal rack upon which lay a man, pale and gaunt, who looked as if he’d neither eaten nor slept during his days in enemy hands. A tin plate with what appeared to be dried vomit rested on his chest, just below his chin. A foul slops bucket stood under his bed. At the sight of Hawke, he made to sit up, and the thin scrap of blanket fell away, revealing his legs. They were severely bruised and made fast to the frame with strips of heavy canvas.
The man smiled weakly up at Hawke as he entered.
“What part of China you from, mister?” he said, slurring his words.
“I look Chinese to you?” Alex said, and he had the knife in his hand, cutting the canvas from the frame, starting with the left leg.
“Can’t see too well. Where are you from then?”
“Place called Greybeard Island. Little rock out in the English Channel.”