No answer.

  I ran out to the basement steps. “Nan, Nan!”

  A sound below. My heart banged into my stomach and both clenched up like a fist. She was lying dazed on the bottom step. I carried her up the stair to the flat.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Nothing. I twisted my ankle, that’s all.”

  But as I was putting a blanket around her shoulders, she screamed. I had to cut the sweater away to examine her arm.

  “You can mend your sweater,” I said to her protests. “Damn, Nan, I think there’s a bone broken. I’m sure it’s broken.”

  She didn’t want to admit this, and when she did, she was of a mind to walk to the phone box, herself, for the ambulance. “Not on your life,” I said, and ran down to call in the report. A broken arm did not sound too bad to the post; she’d have a long wait—and exasperated, I said, “She’s nearly seventy. She may have other injuries.”

  “We have priorities, you know.”

  That was Liam. It had to be. A damn stickler for regulations. “For God’s sake, Liam, I know it’s you.”

  “Francis?” There was something in his voice, some more than casual interest that I registered only too late.

  “Yes, of course it’s Francis. And she needs help now.” I spelled her name for the third time and hung up.

  When I got back to the flat, I knew I’d done the right thing, because I saw that her face was bruised too. She maintained that she’d tumbled in the darkness. “You know my sight, dear boy.”

  I did, and I knew that she maneuvered in the blackout better than any sighted person. She knew every inch of the flat and the basement, too. After I pointed this out, she reluctantly admitted that she’d been knocked over by someone rushing up the stairs. Her sense of a presence in the dark basement had not been illusionary. She would have to go to Bella’s, and I would have to keep watch.

  Morning dawned before the ambulance came. We rode together to the hospital, the ambulance jouncing over ruts and debris, Nan gripping my hand against the pain. She was for getting the arm splinted and heading straight home. With the ward crowded, the doctor was tempted to let her go, but I complained so loudly that she was assigned a bed.

  While they worked on casting her arm, I called Bella to ask about Nan’s staying a few days in Holland Park Road. I’d run through my pocket change before I satisfied all Bella’s questions and made sufficient explanation for my absence. There I stood in the hall—Nan hurt and my own future cloudy—listening to Bella’s laments about the stalled painting and Madame’s desires for a color just one (or maybe two) shades darker than café au lait. Truly life begins in tragedy but ends in farce, with some omnipotent prankster hostile even to our dignity. In this case, the crowning touch was a twenty-five-foot ladder, “almost as good as scaffolding,” which Bella had obtained. I promised to take a look—anything to get Nan a safe berth.

  “All this was unnecessary, dear boy,” she said when the ward sisters had her settled at last. “And the expense!”

  “We’ll think of something.” I patted my jacket pockets hoping for a stray pound, and touched paper. The envelope. I must have found it in my delirium and stuck it in my pocket. No matter, I’d hide the photos as soon as I got home.

  “What is it, dear boy?” Nan’s sense of something amiss is uncanny.

  “I’ve just found those photos in my pocket,” I said, and it’s a good thing I didn’t say more, because at that moment, a heavy figure in a dark topcoat appeared at the end of the ward: my inspector.

  Not to put too fine a point on it, he’d come to arrest me. Liam, my former colleague and unregenerate squealer, had called the police as soon as he dispatched the ambulance. I didn’t fancy being in the inspector’s hands, especially not carrying photos of his recreational pursuits. I might believe (and quite logically) that George Frahm was more likely Damien’s killer, but I wasn’t willing to rule out the inspector. Not to that extent.

  I tried a bluff first. Nan had been injured by someone skulking in the basement. How good of him to investigate. This was a real crime, a real injury, but an old lady with a broken arm was not enough to distract him. I was to be charged, among other things, with evading arrest.

  Nan had a few choice things to say about that. I calmed her down, told her not to worry, and leaned over to kiss her good-bye.

  She knew what was what. Under cover of my embrace, my light-fingered nanny slipped the envelope from my pocket and slid it beneath the sheets.

  “Dear boy,” she said, “leave everything to me.”

  Another of my inspector’s acolytes appeared with handcuffs. This one was young and blond and, if anything, even more attractive than Handsome who’d visited our flat.

  “You do have an eye,” I said, and winked. I nearly wound up at the bottom of the stair for my pains. Remember, Francis, the inspector has no sense of humor!

  We got into his big, dark car with the fetching assistant driving for a circuitous journey through the previous night’s bomb damage. The inspector remained silent and serious, as befitting a guardian of the law, though at one point he half turned to say, “You’ve made a serious mistake.”

  I shrugged. Nan would call Arnold, and Arnold would call a lawyer and then we’d see. I expected my interview to begin promptly, but when we finally reached the station, I was put into a holding cell still populated by the night’s catch of the drunk and disorderly. As their numbers thinned out I claimed a stretch of bench and fell asleep, only to awake, stiff and disoriented, by a great rattling at the door. The clock over the desk indicated late afternoon; Arnold had worked his magic; I was getting out.

  Or so I thought. Instead, I was marched down the hall to one of the narrow interview rooms. The badly painted stone walls, the stale smoke, the single dangling bulb over the scarred deal table were all familiar. I’d been here before, and the image had lingered in my nightmares. Sitting in one of the two straight chairs was my inspector. With a nod from him, the sergeant took off my handcuffs and left the room. We were set for having a private conversation. Was that good or bad?

  I was left to wonder, because he sat and stared at me for the longest time, his heavy brows shadowing his eyes, his jutting nose and strong chin catching the light. His silence and scrutiny were meant to intimidate me, and they were impressive, but he wasn’t used to painters. I sat and stared back; he was my type, my original type, before I met Arnold and embarked on civilized pleasure. I thought a ground of Venetian red—there was a purple undertone to the shadows—then maybe cad yellow medium if the picture tended hot, or yellow ochre if it ran cold. Hard to say which would be better; my inspector was a violent man who mostly had himself under control. Mostly, though as I sat there facing a variety of dangers, I realized that what I considered control might be a kind of torpor, such as I had noticed in him before—a suspension of emotion and action until a suitable trigger presented itself. That was not a pleasant thought.

  “I am set to charge you with murder, although we might negotiate to manslaughter. That’s up to you; I’d expect a confession for that.”

  This was as fantastic as some radio drama. “You have great expectations,” I said.

  “You lack an alibi for the murders of First Lieutenant Morris Batchelder and Jeremy Gowen. Whose corpses you conveniently ‘discovered’. You have also been pursuing Colin Williams and Aubrey Teck.”

  “On your orders!” I said indignantly, but I began to fear he might believe all this nonsense.

  “It appears,” he continued, fixing me with his glacial eye, “that you wish to eliminate anyone who might know of your involvement with Damien Hiller’s murder. We know you were acquainted, we know your tastes, we know that on the night Hiller was killed you were in the area where the body was discovered. You won’t deny that.”

  I needed to bring him back to reality. “You were probably in the park as well.”

  “Pursuant to police duties,” he replied.

  “Sure. Entrapment and threatening and what’s the proper term for fucking in the park?”

  He leaned over and struck me in the face. I hoped Arnold would hurry up with a lawyer.

  “If you believe all that, why did you coerce me into getting to know Teck?”

  “Coercion? You have no proof of that. I don’t believe there’s any record of that, not a line. And who will be believed? A senior police inspector or a decorator known to half the poofs in London?”

  “Strictly Mayfair!” I protested. I wouldn’t have him insulting Nan’s judgment.

  “This is no joking matter. Hiller’s death is my priority at the moment.” I couldn’t help looking surprised at this. And hopeful, too. The RAF man had been the big focus only weeks before. Either they had someone for that, or something else had taken me out of the picture.

  “What about our brave boys in blue? Have we stopped losing pilots? Are the Jerries dropping flowers now?”

  “A confession in Damien’s death,” the inspector continued implacably, “is your best bet for your own personal safety. A crime of passion, a lovers’ quarrel—I can guarantee you’ll escape the gallows.”

  “Thank you very much, but an innocent man expects to avoid jail as well.”

  “I don’t think you appreciate your situation. You’re safe here. And, of course, if you confess, you will remain confined and protected. Consider what might happen if you should be out even on bail. Damien had”—here he had the grace to hesitate—“friends. Friends who might be interested in settling up the score.”

  “I’ll take my chances with Damien’s friends,” I said, though my recent experiences in Stepney indicated my position would be precarious. But danger is the spice of life, eh, Francis?

  “We’ll see about that. I expect one of them is in the holding cell by this time. Call me when you change your mind.” He opened the door and shouted for the sergeant, who led me back to the cell. It was empty now except for a vaguely familiar figure monopolizing the bench with his feet up and a cigarette in hand, as nonchalant as if he were on a bar stool somewhere deep in Stepney. The inspector hadn’t been kidding—or maybe he had a sense of humor after all, because when the guard closed the door behind me, I saw that I was confined with George Frahm.

  I felt like a small boy left alone on the playground with the school bully, and, for the first time, I was frightened. Night was coming; the guard might slumber; something disagreeable, even fatal, could easily ensue. It wouldn’t be the first time a prisoner had been seriously injured, and I suspected George had been arrested for just that purpose. Here was proof, if any more was needed, how deeply the inspector was involved.

  George blew a smoke ring in my direction and settled himself more comfortably on the bench. I’d be damned if I’d sit on the filthy floor—and asking him to shift was clearly out of the question. I leaned against the wall beyond his reach, crossed my arms, and tried to look indifferent. Surely Nan would have gotten in touch with Arnold by this time, and Arnold would have contacted a lawyer. And any lawyer would see that the inspector’s case was tissue thin, that he’d been counting on George to frighten me into a confession to poor Damien’s murder.

  Even under the worst circumstances, such a confession would surely be thrown out, wouldn’t it? I didn’t like to imagine otherwise. But even temporarily, the inspector wanted a suspect, a confession, everything official. Why was that? Could he know about the photos? I doubted that. He’d only be trading my knowledge for an obligation to George—hardly a rational bargain. But whatever we think, man is no more rational than other creatures; self-interest rules us all, including George, who was now staring back at me and preparing—I could see clearly how his mind worked—to provoke me in some way.

  I would have to attempt charm as a delaying tactic until Arnold could get me out. But not too much. If George did me any damage, I guessed his excuse would be that I had “interfered,” as they liked to put it, with him. I shifted my shoulders and positioned myself so that I could keep one eye on George and, with a tilt of my head, one on the duty sergeant, who was doing some paperwork with what struck me as unhealthy absorption.

  “Getting tired, are you?” asked George.

  “Not a bit,” I said, though, in truth, I was beginning to feel wobbly again.

  “Might as well make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Seeing we’re to be mates. You can sit on the bucket.”

  He was like a great schoolboy. I would refuse to go anywhere near the pestilent-smelling latrine bucket. He would attempt to force me, an assault that he would pass off as innocent horseplay. Where was the lawyer? Nan would not have waited to call, and Arnold must have found a lawyer by this time, must have. And then from somewhere beyond the oblivion of fever, I remembered that Arnold had planned to visit his son at Eton. Could this have been the evil day? Could he have gone early? Taken the boy to lunch, lingered to see the house rugby or a little of the Wall game? Wasn’t that what good parents did—not that I’d know about that. “I’d have to turn it over on your shoes.”

  This touch of levity did not find favor.

  He got up, slowly. Types like George savor the moment, but I had no doubt he’d strike quickly enough. He glanced into the foyer where the sergeant was still at the desk, poring over his papers. I smiled to show that I knew what he was up to, that he wasn’t going to spook me so easily.

  He went to the corner of the cell and shouted, “Are we to have dinner? We’re perishing here!”

  The sergeant lifted his head, checked the clock over the door, then stood up. It was like watching a play, with every move choreographed. “They’re late. I’ll check,” he said and rose from the desk. George and I stood watching each other until we heard the foyer door open and close, then he lunged at me, and I kicked him with all my strength. He hopped on one foot and swung at my mouth. Instant pain, instant blood. I flailed at his head, connecting with his nose, but he had me caught against the bars of the cell where, being smaller and lighter, I was likely to suffer the worst of the struggle. He gripped my hair for a moment, then decided he’d try to throw me to the floor and shifted his grip. Remembering street fights in France, I lifted my head and snapped it into the center of his chest.

  He gave a gasp and staggered back. I picked up the dripping bucket as a weapon and shouted for the guard.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’d like to say I emerged victorious from the fracas—more accurately, I confess a draw. I lost a tooth and collected a black eye; George got a bloody nose, a charley horse where I kicked him, and, as it turned out, the worst of the latrine bucket—a small triumph I intend to savor.

  Of course, the duty officer came back in high dudgeon, called for assistance, and made a great show of “securing” the lockup. I admired George’s display of righteous indignation and offended innocence, but I knew I’d made a dangerous enemy. Before I saw fit to defend myself, the job had been a business matter; now it was personal, or, as he put it, “I’ll have your liver for a fry-up.” I wouldn’t have put it past him.

  Perhaps this comment persuaded officialdom to separate us. George was left in the lockup while I was moved to a smaller cell, from which, very late, I was summoned, still dirty and supperless.

  Once again, the interview room. Or one of them. I found the rooms along the corridor, identical and facing mirror images of themselves, an unsettling touch. This one opened with the usual dungeon rattle and clank to reveal the inspector sitting with an ashtray in front of him. Set to poison my lungs and bring on an asthma attack? Oh, no. The sergeant left, the door closed, and without a word, the inspector drew a photo from his jacket, turned it briefly so that I could see it was a recognizable image of a heavy man without his tweed coat—or his tweed trousers, either—being serviced by a slight, naked boy. He dropped it into the ashtray and struck a match. We sat and watched the paper curl and brown, the images writhing and blackening; under better circumstances I’d doubtless have been inspired.

  When it was reduced to ash, my theatrical inspector poked the soft black flakes with one finger. “That’s it,” he said. “The last of them. You needn’t have hoped for anything from those. You have nothing to bargain with. Be assured of that.”

  I admit to momentary doubt. Could he have seen Nan take the photos? If he had, he wouldn’t have hesitated—

  “I think now you’ll agree that you’ll be safest in police custody,” he said, eager to clinch the deal.

  “I’ve just been injured in police custody.”

  “Nothing like what could have happened to you outside.”

  I wasn’t so sure of that: outside, I’d have wit enough to keep well clear of George. As the inspector continued in this vein, I was not so sure he had the rest of the pictures, either. Nan would have offered him one as proof, but I thought I could count on her to keep the rest well hidden. And the inspector hadn’t mentioned the strip of film, so clever Nan had kept that, at least, from him. If I had to choose between trusting my Inspector or my old nanny, there was no contest. I’d go with Nan and gamble; I just had to keep my nerve.

  “So you have all the photos?” Try to remain expressionless, Francis.

  “Of course.”

  “Which you’ve already burned.”

  “No point in having material like that lying around.”

  “Must have been quite a conflagration.”

  Was there just a hint of hesitation? I was right, I was sure I was.

  “We’ll start from the beginning,” he said, unscrewing his pen and preparing to write. “Exactly where were you on the night of Damien Hiller’s murder?”

  I leaned back and folded my arms. “You’re lying to me. You don’t have all the photos, not all of them. I know you don’t.”

  “The old lady gave them to me,” he insisted.

  “No, Nan did not. She would not have. I won’t believe that unless she tells me herself.”

 

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