‘I know it’s a lot to ask for.’

‘It’s too much to ask for, Cal.’ Sensing the disappointment he was quick to explain. ‘You I trust, and I mean that with my life, but these crooks in Whitehall would promise the moon to get what they want, then say it’s cheese when the time comes to pay. I deal with them already, my boy, and I know that what I say is true.’

‘I could try and get some kind of guarantee,’ Cal replied, wondering what kind of sum Peter Lanchester could get committed in the kind of arrangement they had discussed, or indeed, whether he could get any committed at all.

Cal said that without the faintest idea of how he might achieve such a thing. The only matter on which he was certain was this: that if he needed sudden large sums of money while abroad, and his experience told him he might, the Government machine moved too slowly to oblige, quite apart from the fact that there was no way of keeping such transactions secret from the kind of people who had already got him and Peter Lanchester into trouble; getting funds from HMG could be fatal.

It was with obvious caveats that he outlined what he hoped would happen with SIS and Monty softened somewhat; he was happy to match any sum already committed as long as he had assurances that Cal would be in a position to reimburse him. If he sensed the assurances he was given were speculative he had the good grace to keep that to himself and he did have one possible solution.

‘Look, in Prague, you go see Elsa. She knows how to contact me, and if the need is a good one – and she will have to be convinced – then maybe we can do something.’

‘I’d still like the documentation.’

Monty nodded. ‘That’s easy, I’ll have Marita do the letters and, because it will make you safer, I will send cables to Germany and Czechoslovakia to say that a representative of mine might call to do some personal business.’

‘I won’t be travelling under my own name,’ Cal said, pulling out the same details he had given to Snuffly Bower, ‘and as well as your letters I need you to use your clout to get visas for Czechoslovakia and Germany.’

Monty shook his head and took the proffered list. ‘God alone knows why you do these things, Cal, but if it is any help, I am glad you do.’

CHAPTER NINE

He returned to the Goring to find two messages, one from Peter Lanchester asking him to be at the Savile Club at seven that evening, with the added information that it was important. There was no explanation as to why but it was not a summons he thought he should ignore, which was not entirely the case with the second one.

That was from his wife, a slightly irritable missive to say she knew he was back in London and why had he not called – no doubt someone spotted him at the Goring. Among the many reasons that might make people like Monty Redfern wonder why he did what he did, Lizzie Jardine had to be numbered as a possible part.

She was a wife he could not live with, a woman who, because of her staunch Catholic upbringing, would not countenance divorce but who, nevertheless, did not see her religion as being a bar to either infidelity or making him miserable.

He could not look at any note from her without the recurrence of the very unpleasant memory which had blighted, probably, both their lives, certainly his own. On his surprise return from the Teschen region he had found his wife in bed with a lover. Still in uniform, still armed with his pistol, he had pulled it out and put a bullet in the man’s left eye.

That had made the Jardines a true cause célèbre. Quite naturally he had been arraigned for murder, which led to a trial at the Old Bailey. What had surprised society more than the act was the fact that he had been acquitted, it being termed a crime of passion. To this day Cal knew wherever he went he attracted both comment and interest, not least from women, who saw him not only as a good-looking man, but also as a dangerous but enticing prospect.

‘Lizzie.’

‘Darling, you are being cruel again.’

That voice, that tone. ‘I only got back yesterday.’

‘Am I allowed to know from where?’

‘Somewhere that you would find extremely boring.’

‘If I was with you I might not be bored.’

‘Lizzie, if you were with me you would be throwing the crockery at the walls after twenty-four hours. Bored no, furious yes.’

‘That is mean.’

‘No, my darling, it is true.’

Such events had happened too often; the usual pattern was a night out with Lizzie in which she would introduce him to all her louche, and to Cal’s mind, tedious friends, the kind of people reported in the society columns of the daily newspapers as though what they did – basically the same thing night after night – was of interest. It always ended in tears, too often in the morning.

‘Binkie Forrester is having an end-of-the-month bash tonight and I have no one to take me.’

‘Have you already told the poor bugger who was down to escort you to find another partner, or are you waiting for me to weaken?’

‘You sound as though you don’t believe I can be without a man on my arm.’

‘I’ve never known you struggle.’

‘Plllleeeease?’

How many P’s and L’s had she managed to get into that request?

‘I have an appointment tonight already.’

The voice was sharper. ‘When?’

He should have lied; why was he too weak to lie? ‘Seven.’

‘I will be ready at nine, do not be a beast and leave me to go to Binkie’s alone. It would be too shaming.’

‘I’m damned if I will,’ Cal said, to a phone which had already hit the cradle at the other end.

‘Going on somewhere, old boy?’

It was hardly surprising Peter Lanchester asked this; Cal was in full evening wear, black tie, starched shirt with pearl studs, tuxedo and highly polished court shoes. If he noticed the glare he got in return he managed to ignore it. Earlier, with a whisky in his hand, Callum Jardine had been adamant that his wife would go to hell, a resolve that had weakened as the time came to dress, partly because a couple more drinks had been consumed.

He looked around the well-appointed lobby of the Savile Club where he had been met, all highly polished panelling, sparkling chandeliers, and on the stairs that led to the public rooms, deep red carpet. If anything, the sense of plenty seemed to deepen his irritation.

‘This your club?’

‘No,’ Peter replied before turning to the porter. ‘Please tell Sir Robert that I will take our guest straight out to the courtyard.’

‘Don’t I even get a drink?’

‘There are drinks waiting for us.’

Peter turned and made his way past the bottom of the stairs to a door which led out on to a flagstoned courtyard, entirely enclosed by the upper storeys of the building, Cal following. Being the time of year, though it was not sunlit, there was sufficient residual illumination from the sky to see clearly and warmth from the day to make the atmosphere pleasantly cool.

In one corner sat a table with two chairs, topped with glasses and bottles, as well as a club servant standing by to pour and serve, and by the time Peter’s mysterious knight joined them both men had drinks in their hands. Seeing him emerge, Cal observed a tall fellow in a navy-blue three-piece suit, soft-collared shirt and nondescript tie, with a strong handsome face.

‘Sir Robert Vansittart,’ Peter intoned, having introduced Cal.

Vansittart took a drink from the club servant before politely dismissing him and he then addressed Cal in a deep bass voice, his eyes taking in his attire. ‘I hope asking you to meet with me has not inconvenienced your evening?’

There was a terrible temptation to bark that he could keep him here all night if he wanted until Cal realised he was in danger of being brusque to no purpose. Whoever this man was it was nothing to do with him that Lizzie Jardine was a minx and he was too weak to resist her wiles, so he answered in a soft negative.