Troy had not expected to hear his own words repeated back to him quite so soon, and quite so precisely, if at all. But this was his cue.
‘Let me recap. The Tin Man killed the Dutchman.’
‘Yes.’
‘You killed the German.’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you think there’s a third man at large? And that the Third Man killed Walter?’
‘I know what you’re saying. It doesn’t make sense. It’s… well, excessive. To mint a phrase, it’s overkill. But who else?’
‘Have you considered the possibility that the Tin Man killed Walter?’
Clearly he hadn’t. The pain on his face was sharp as etching.
‘No. No. I hadn’t. Truth to tell, it doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s the saddest thought I ever had to think. Worlds have collapsed for less.’
‘Captain-I’m not telling you the tooth fairy doesn’t exist, I’m just reiterating what you told me. Stahl is trained in all this malarkey. As capable of breaking a man’s neck as of shooting him at close range and vice versa.’
‘I know. Believe me I know. It’s just that in this scenario I seem to have taken on the role of the Cowardly Lion. I guess I’m shocked. Stahl and I were on the same side. Walter and I were on the same side. Stahl was my working life. Almost my raison d’etre. And Walter Stilton was the kindest, sweetest man I ever met. Here…’
Cormack dug into his inside pocket and pulled out an envelope.
‘See. Always the joker. Always a smile on his lips.’
Troy took in the letter at a single glance. The note that had become Walter’s death warrant-and there at the end ‘Wot larx’.
‘He was always saying that. A grin as wide as the Chesapeake Bay when he said it. And I still don’t know what it means.’
Troy did. It was the first thing that looked even remotely like a clue.
They had talked away the day. Supped his week’s tea ration. It was still light, but it was close to nine in the evening. Troy was flagging badly. He dearly wanted an early night.
‘Forgive me if I don’t show you out-arm’s playing up a bit-but you’ll have no difficulty finding a cab in the Lane.’
‘I was thinking of taking the subway. I’ve never actually been on it.’
‘Underground,’ said Troy. ‘Tube at a pinch, not subway. Turn right at the end of the court and head up to Tottenham Court Road. Perfectly straightforward. Central Line. Two stops to Bond Street and you’re home. Be warned, it’ll be filling up already.’
‘Filling up?’
‘Shelterers. They tend to bag their places early. Nobody waits for it to get dark anymore.’
‘But there hasn’t been a raid in weeks. Not since early May.’
‘I doubt that Londoners think a few weeks’ respite means it’s over.’
§ 75
Cal had always had a little difficulty with right and left. It seemed to go with eyeglasses and a generally poor co-ordination. The only two physical skills he had ever mastered were the bicycle and sexual intercourse, and he wasn’t too confident about either of those. Emerging from Goodwin’s Court, he turned left, and walked off in the direction of Trafalgar Square. Missing the subway sign he walked on-past Charing Cross railway station and down to within sight the river. He realised he was lost. Surely Troy would have mentioned crossing the river? But-there was another subway station. Its route map made no sense to him. Something from the Modernist school-a Mondrian or some such. A mass of coloured lines and precisely graded angles and countless interlocks, dozens of them, maybe even hundreds. He asked at the ticket booth.
‘Bond Street, guvner? You want the Bakerloo. Change at Oxford Circus.’
Bakerloo. That was easy. It was what you got when you married Waterloo to Baker Street. But he could have sworn Troy said Central-and he certainly hadn’t mentioned any changes.
The depth was startling. Washington had no subway. New York’s ran in trenches just below the surface, bolted to the Manhattan bedrock. This system required two escalators to take you down to an oppressively narrow tunnel, from which the train emerged as closely fitted as a cork in a bottle. He took a northbound train, sat in a completely empty car-he’d never seen a padded cell, but this could well resemble one-and stared at the map above the long row of seats. The train pulled into Trafalgar Square. He’d just about got the hang of it now. He’d found Bond Street on the map, though he still wasn’t wholly sure where he had gone wrong. A man got in-black hat, black suit-and sat opposite Cal, clutching a folded newspaper. Cal gave him the merest glance-the English were not inclined to impromptu chats with strangers-and went back to the map-still looking for the proof of his own error-how had he managed to miss a string of words as long as Tottenham, Court and Road?
The man took off his hat, Cal’s eyes drawn back to him by the gesture. Bald at the forehead and crown. Black hair turning salt and pepper. A small black moustache, and pale, steely-he thought the cliché insisted-blue eyes. It was Stahl. Stahl with his hair carefully shaved and dyed. He would never have known him but for the intensity of the gaze. Aimed at him like gun barrels. He should have guessed. Of course he would have changed his appearance. The police sketch looked nothing like him-it looked like ‘Peter Robinson’.
‘Wolf?’ he said tentatively.
‘Calvin,’ said an accented Mid-European voice.
‘I… I… don’t know what to say.’
‘Then perhaps you should listen instead. There is, after all, so much at stake.’
Cal started forward for no reason he could think of, got up from his seat half standing. Stahl waved him back down with the folded newspaper, like a gunel sticking a gun out through the fabric of his coat pocket. At once both hammy and effective.
‘You’re not carrying a gun, are you, Calvin?’
Cal sat back in the seat, felt his bottom bump against it sharply.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not. I’m kind of off guns at the moment. Do you really need a gun? You didn’t seem to need one when you killed Smulders.’
‘Was that his name? No-a gun would have brought heaven and hell down about my ears. However, as you will observe, we are a hundred feet under London and quite alone.’
‘You surely don’t think you have anything to fear from me?’
‘No. Of course not. Just your willingness to panic.’
‘Then why didn’t you just come in?’
‘Who was I to trust? I had been safe in Berlin until someone gave me away. Someone on our side. That’s a very limited number of people.’
‘You mean you thought it was me?’
‘I didn’t know who it was, hence I suspected everyone and trusted no one.’
‘What changed your mind?’
‘Stilton.’
‘Walter? You met Walter?’
‘Stilton was beyond suspicion. He knew so little, after all. An honest copper, as the English are so fond of deluding themselves. Stilton convinced me you were innocent. An innocent, to be precise. “The lad’s guileless, could no more fib than George Washington and the cherry tree.” Said you couldn’t even keep your affair with his daughter a secret. Lies showed in your face like etching in glass.’
Cal felt he must be blushing deeper than bortsch. Was this what Walter really thought of him? Had Walter known everything?
‘Walter knew about me and Kitty?’
‘Calvin-I knew about you and Kitty. I watched her park her motorbike in Brook Street night after night. I should think the whole of Claridge’s staff knew about you and Kitty.’