Queen Victoria's Revenge (14 page)

“Cheese and tomato, egg and cress, ham, salmon.”

“Yes.”

“Pardon?”

“One of each. And the same for my friend here.” He cut off a protestation with a raised hand. “A man can't eat alone. And some beer.”

Their arms filled, they found an empty table, where they went promptly to work. Teddy, as solid a trencherman as the starving Tony, ate his supplies with great gusto. It all disappeared very quickly and Tony went for some whisky to hold it down. This was dispensed in tiny bottles, so he bought a number of them to keep from running back and forth.

“You have a warm heart,” Teddy announced, “so we drink to that. Too bad we will be in Edinburgh soon and end such a good party.”

Edinburgh! Tony had put it from his mind for the pleasures of the moment; his spirits and his face fell. What to do? “Do you know the city well?”

“Been there almost two years now. Winters are terribly long. But spring looks better that way.”

“The station where we get in—is it big? I mean if someone were to not want to meet someone else in that station is there a different way out or something like that?”

“I knew the moment I first saw you you were getting away from the police.”

“No, really…”

Teddy touched a large, silencing finger to his lips and made shushing noises. “My momma always told me what the eye does not see the heart does not grieve. I imagine the same is true for what the ear do not hear. The rozzers will be waiting for you?”

“No, not the police, I guarantee you that. Just some people I don't want to meet.”

Teddy drank a small bottle of whisky straight in order to lubricate his thoughts, screwing up his face and looking skyward for inspiration. “No back way. Everyone has to pass the barrier to turn in tickets. I suppose your friends will be waiting there. Lots of ways out then, but no way to stop from being followed. You could take a cab?”

“They could follow me.”

“Bad idea cabs, expensive too.” The whisky was promoting no new thoughts so he surreptitiously tipped some rum into his glass, warm homely stimulation from a happier clime. “Now that's it, that is the very idea. There is a hotel right on top of the station, the North British Hotel, and just opposite the trains is a hall that leads to a private lift that goes up to that hotel. A long quiet hall that turns a corner. You just take that lift up to the hotel and walk out into Princes Street and be on your way. By the time they come the long way around you will be well gone.”

“But what is to stop them from coming up with me in the elevator?”

“Me.” Teddy smiled warmly and closed a dark fist about the size of a soup bowl. “I am a man of peace but do not like to see my friends molested.”

“I can't ask you to do that.”

“You did not ask, I suggested as you will recall. Will there be more than five of them?”

“I doubt it, one or maybe two in the most, but…”

“Why that will be fun. No need to fight, then. Just talk to them in a jolly manner for a bit until the lift leaves.”

Tony protested to no avail. In Teddy's world a friend was a friend, new or old, and what else were friends for if not to help one another? He frowned only when Tony mentioned money.

“Now, George, why do you want to go and talk like that?”

“No, not for you … I was thinking of … your friend's wife,” Tony improvised hurriedly; Teddy's smile returned instantly. “If you are going to help me, why can't I help her? If you give her ten, twenty pounds from me I'll bet there are plenty things she could spend that on.”

“You are so right. My friend only works part time in the shipyard, hard to make do with that. She will appreciate it.” The bills vanished and they drank to friendship. Outside, the dark landscape raced by, broken here and there by the lights of a lonely house, a car on a road. Soon the houses gathered together, streetlights appeared, the suburbs of a large city sprang up. The train rattled across switches and slowed, swaying from side to side.

“Coming into Waverly Station now,” Teddy announced, finishing the last of the little bottles. “You must see me again if ever you get back to Edinburgh—let me give you my address.” He wrote it, slowly and carefully, on one of the napkins, which Tony pocketed. “Let us take our time. Anyone else using the hotel lift will be arriving in first class, and we want them to clear away.”

They were among the last of the passengers to leave, surrendering their tickets as Tony searched the crowd. Was it possible there would be no welcoming committee? It was not possible. As they crossed the station away from the main body of passengers, three men, dressed alike in trench coats, sauntered after them. “Your friends?” Teddy asked, jerking a thumb cheerfully in their direction. Tony nodded. “No problem at all—this will be good fun.”

The sturdy Jamaican had a far different idea of fun than Tony had. They entered a passageway brightly decorated with railway murals on the wall, with a turn at the far end.

“Right,” Teddy announced, taking Tony's hand. “It was good meeting you, that is a long dull train trip otherwise.” He squeezed lightly, numbing Tony's fingers, patted him on his back to send him on his way, then carefully deposited his precious package against the wall, safe from harm, before turning to face their pursuers. “Run,” he said, and Tony did. His last view as he turned the corner was of the solid figure, fists on hips and legs widespread, standing in the path of the rushing men.

Of course the elevator was not there, though a silver-haired woman, with just a touch of blue at the ends of her hair and nose, was waiting before the closed door. From around the corner loud voices were raised in protest, countered by a soft but firm reply. She looked frightened and jabbed at the button. Tony whistled and admired a mural, aware of nothing. There was the scuffle of shoes and a sharp, plocking sound. Indelicate language was spoken. The elevator doors opened and the woman hurried in, Tony at her heels. They both stabbed at the button marked
LOBBY
; there was a roar of pain fading quickly into the distance as the doors closed. They rose slowly, in silence and solitude. Teddy had been as good as his word. But what next?

Move fast, whatever he did he had to do fast. Up until now he had had no idea of escape other than getting out of the hotel and mingling with the Saturday night crowds. No crowds in the lobby, however. Warm wood panels, rugs underfoot, a string quartet playing somewhere close by. His elevator companion turned left so Tony turned right toward a vision of distant revolving doors. Stay ahead of them. Down the corridor past the barbershop, still open, business slow, the barber himself standing by the door looking hopefully at the passers-by. Tony slowed, looked in, thought. The barber, little business for his own business with a shiny bald head, took the hesitation for a greater interest and pointed inward temptingly.

“You're next, sir.” As though Tony were first in an interminable queue stretching to the horizon. Was it possible?

“I need a shave?”

“Very good, sir.”

Why not! He folded his raincoat and cap out of sight on a chair, despite the barber's attempts to hang them up, then hurried to the chair. Feet high, striped cloth draped, tense moments before the lather was applied. After this, relief unfettered. He actually had the sharp pleasure of seeing, when the barber stepped aside to strop his razor, one of the burly trio from the station hurry by in the corridor outside. He had his hand to his jaw as he went and walked with a definite limp, sparing the barbershop only a brief glance as he passed. Done!

To the barber's delight, Tony partook of all the establishment offered; mud pack to soothe his razor-rasped face, haircut, singe, scalp massage with vibrator. It all took quite a while. The barber caught the spirit of Tony's dalliance and, after trimming his eyebrows and clipping a few hairs from his nose, could only step back and sigh, resources drained. A brushing was all that was left, he made the most of that, and accepted his payment as just due.

Nor had Tony wasted his time in the chair. He had pondered and rejected a number of plans until he found one that seemed most satisfactory. Since the barbershop ruse had worked so well, any pursuit must have fanned out from this center. It might be wise to remain just where he was, in the hotel above. An overwhelming fatigue added credence to the suggestion. With his new clothes and tonsorial splendor he looked neat enough for the role. Slip upstairs under a false name, lie low until the morning—then think about getting to London. A safe den for the moment was not to be despised. It would do fine.

A young and seemingly bored clerk nodded with fatigue at his request for a room.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?”

“No, plans changed, stay overnight, you know…”

“I think we can accommodate you. Single with bath, for one night. Will you fill out the form, please?”

Success. Pen poised, Tony wondered what would be an improvement over old George Wash for the register when the clerk's voice penetrated his concentration.

“If I could have your passport…”

TEN

“Passport, passport?” A cracked recording of a parrot voice.

“Yes, sir. You will see the space for the passport number here in the registration form. It is a law that all foreigners must register their passport numbers.”

Memories of an Empire widespread, a Commonwealth contracting, surged wildly through Tony's mind. “But I'm not a foreigner. Not really. Canadian.” Scenes from a war movie seen recently on television shot by. “You weren't asking our chaps for passports when we were here after the Dieppe raid.” He began filling out the form furiously. French Canadian, that's what, subtle touch there.
Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres,
name memorized for an art history exam long since dust, his own Washington address for want of better inspiration,
Quebec, Canada.
Had he spelled Quebec right? Too late now to worry; he pushed the form back across the desk with a flourish.

A key appeared, victory was his, the Dieppe raid successful after all the years. “That will be ten pounds, twenty-five with breakfast. Do you have any luggage, Mr. Ing-ress?”

“No. So I imagine you wouldn't mind if I paid in advance?”

No protests were made. An octogenarian bellhop appeared to clutch the key and shuffle a course to the left. At the room he unlocked the door, turned on the lights, opened the window, closed the curtains and did all the other traditional things bellhops do to remind guests of their tip-prone presence. Tony produced coins.

“Do you know if there are any trains to London tomorrow morning?”

“Head porter has the schedule.”

“I'm a little too tired to see the head porter, in fact I'm very tired. If I gave you some money do you think you could find out when there is a train, buy me a ticket and bring it to me in the morning?” Bills rustled. “This one is for you.” Why had he ordered a ticket when he already had one? He must be tired.

“First class, of course, sir? Single?”

“Of course. Of course.”

Escape provided for, fatigue leapt instantly upon him. Within a minute the bed was embracing him with feathery arms and oblivion descended. The next thing he was aware of was a discreet knocking that dredged him from the depths of slumber, blinking and trying to remember where he was and what he was doing here. A key rattled and the ancient bellhop shuffled in with a tray. A tug on the cord sent actinic sunlight searing into Tony's eyes and by the time his vision had cleared there was a cup of tea on the bedside table, with an envelope beside it.

“It's the ten-fourteen, sir, a fine train. Plenty of time for breakfast before you leave.”

The tea, stronger, hotter and a lot better than any he had ever had before, started the blood moving sluggishly through his veins and he went to shower to wake up. This proved impossible, room with bath meant just that, so he settled for a long soak, which, in many ways, was far superior. Baths, from Archimedes onward, have ever been the site of thought and he had a good deal of thinking to do.

Item: the Scottish liberationists were still on his trail and would surely be watching all the trains. He should be able to board his easily enough—but how to get off in safety? As long as they believed he was involved in the disappearance of the skyjack money they would be after him.

Item: the police would certainly be looking for him by now after the cashing of the marked bills. They were to be avoided as much as the Scotsmen.

Item: if he were ever to extricate himself from this mess he had to find the money and the man who had stolen it from the house in Carradale. He had some thoughts and suspicions on that subject but in order to do anything about them he needed help.

Item: the only help freely given so far in these British Isles had been by the jovial Teddy Buchanan—may he prosper forever!—and another visitor from the warmer parts of the world.

A quick scratch through his wallet produced the card and, after a little linguistic difficulty with the operator, a phone could be heard ringing miles away in distant London.

“Cohn's Fancy Bakery.”

“Onion bagel.”

“Nu, onion bagel? So what with onion bagel?”

“Listen, I was told to call this number and say onion bagel and then something would happen.”

“Sure something's going to happen, I'm going to tell you to drop dead…”
There was the sound of angry voices and the receiver rattled loudly against something, then a different man's voice spoke:

“Hello. What did you say?”

“Onion bagel, that's all, just onion bagel!”

“Right. Sorry about that—we have a new baker. Is this Hawkin?”

“Yes, of course. Is Esther there?”

“No, but she said if you called we were to help you. What's up?”