A Man Lies Dreaming (9 page)

The little tin drummer.

How
dare
he!

Somewhere out there, beyond the car’s window, out there in the dark city, there was a man not unlike himself. Wolf did not want to admit it but it was true. And Wolf was a man who seldom deluded himself. He knew who he was; he was always true to himself.

He felt hatred, yes. But it was hatred in service of a greater power: of destiny. Wolf had been shaped into a weapon by the circumstances of life. But a weapon did not kill indiscriminately. It was used, for a purpose.

What, then, was the killer’s
purpose
?

He was talking, Wolf realised. He was
communicating
, but his communication was not meant for the police.

No. It was meant directly for Wolf himself.

They were driving through St James’s Park. Wolf rested his head on the glass and looked out of the window at the dark trees as they passed. He had made little progress with the missing Jewish girl, though it was early days yet. Did his former associates hold her? And which of them owned the club he had visited? He determined to have another little chat with Rudolf Hess. He tried not to think of that woman, Ilse, and her cellar. He winced and shifted in his seat and his thoughts were as dark as the night.

The drive went smoothly. The driver spoke little; Wolf appreciated that. At last the chauffeur indicated and pulled onto Ebury Street. Wolf had been there once before, shortly after his arrival, a landless, penniless refugee on this cold and foreign island. Then, Sir Oswald and Lady Mosley had owned a flat in the building. Now, Wolf saw as they approached, they must have owned the entire bloody thing.

Torches were burning outside. Wolf wound down the window. The air smelled warm and scented as though he had crossed some invisible meridian line by coming here and was now in another country entirely, some tropical land divorced from both space and time. The flames of the torches reflected in the neighbours’ windows across the road. In their light Wolf saw Blackshirt foot soldiers standing to attention like an honour guard, and the flags of the lightning bolt that was the symbol of the British Union of Fascists waved in the breeze to either side of the grand entrance with its faux-Doric columns. The driver stilled the engine. Spilling from the house Wolf heard music, laughter, the tinkling of glass and the hum of conversation. The Mosleys’s party, it seemed, had been going on for a while.

The chauffeur came round and opened the door for Wolf and Wolf stepped out. He straightened his tie, brushed his hair to one side of his forehead.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘You’re welcome, sir.’

Wolf nodded. Then he took the invitation out of his breast pocket and marched to the entrance of the house.

‘Help you, sir?’

They were fresh-faced boys, really. They wore the Union’s futuristic uniform – high-waisted black trousers and black tight-fitting tunic tops that showed off their pectorals, and the whole thing set off by a wide black belt with a large square silver buckle. They looked like they belonged on a rocket ship from one of the American pulps. Most of them sported a pencil moustache, aping their leader. They looked like bulls: well-fed and aggressive. On the left breast of their tunic tops was the jagged lightning bolt of the BU.

‘My invitation.’

‘Of course, sir.’

The boy scanned the card and stepped aside. Wolf nodded to him civilly enough and went in.

Inside, a pungent cloud welcomed him: eau de toilette, eau de cologne, eau de parfum. Full-bodied cigars and slim ladies’ cigarettes and lawyers’ fragrant pipe-tobacco: it made his eyes water.

‘Wolf!’ It was almost a shriek. He turned and there, descending the grand staircase, was Lady Mosley in a fetching Parisian dress. Jewels sparkled on her wrists, at her neck. She came down to his level and hugged him.

‘Diana,’ he said.

‘It is
so
good to
see
you!’ Diana Mosley said.

‘Thank you for inviting me.’

‘But of
course
! My dear
Wolf
– it
is
Wolf, still, isn’t it?’

‘It is, yes.’

‘Wolf. How
romantic
.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘It’s been so
long
!’

Wolf nodded his head in silent acquiescence.

That night in ’34 he had been welcomed to their apartment like an exiled prince – valued, sympathised with, even admired – yet one whose power had waned, whose time had come and gone. He had come like a beggar, limping with the wound in his leg that he had sustained in the concentration camp, and they had spoken of what had passed and what was to come, but it was obvious to all of them, by then, that Germany was lost.

He had left. He would not take charity. Since then he never went back. Mosley then was a minor figure in British politics, almost a figure of ridicule. In the intervening years, with the dark shadow of communism growing ever longer across the Channel, he too had grown, in both power and status. And Wolf had not been invited back; there was that, too, to consider.

Until now.

‘You poor
dear
!’ Diana continued on, in that prattle British society women were so well-practised in. Wolf knew better than to underestimate her. None of the Mitford sisters were entirely stupid, though one of them, Jessica,
was
a devoted communist. Diana touched Wolf’s cheek, lightly. ‘What happened to your poor
face
?’

‘I fell.’

‘Did the police do this? How utterly
dreadful
. Things like this will never happen when Oswald is in power.’

When
, Wolf noted. Not
if
.

‘I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.’ Still, he was angry: the anger was never far from the surface. ‘There was a Jew inspector—’

‘A Jew! How
ghastly
!’

‘Well, it is of little significance.’

She squeezed his arm. ‘Oswald is just
dying
to see you,’ she said. ‘But he can wait. Come. Let’s get you something to drink.’

She led him into a large room with high windows. Guests milled about and he saw familiar faces, politicians and film stars, the usual assortment of trash one could find at any such gathering. A buffet ran from one wall to the other, every manner of beast and fowl represented, and Wolf realised just how hungry he was. Diana Mosley,
née
Mitford, brought him a tall glass. He took it from her. ‘Fresh orange and strawberries,’ she whispered, smiling. ‘We have them shipped over, darling. I made sure we’d have something waiting especially for you. Come. You must be
ravenous
!’

One buffet table, Wolf saw, was covered in vegetarian dishes, from an Indian-style curry to Italian lasagne and British shepherd’s pie. Diana took a plate and began to heap food onto it. ‘Here you are.’

He took it from her. Put his drink down on the table. Picked up a fork. Delicately sampled the curry. Diana watched him like a wife. ‘Eat!’ she said.

Wolf ate. The assortment of foods all blended together. He barely tasted any of it, the hunger was so strong. He ate with quick strong strokes, like a swimmer – like that good Aryan boy Johnny Weissmuller, who played Tarzan in the pictures.

When he was done he put the plate down and in seconds a waiter whisked it away. Wolf picked up his drink and took a sip. ‘You look well,’ he said.

‘I feel well,’ Diana said, and laughed. She touched his arm. ‘It really
is
so good to see you, Wolf. You have always been
such
an inspiration, to both of us, you know. Oswald values you highly.’

‘Is he here?’

‘He’s around. He would be delighted to see you.’

‘And I, him,’ Wolf said, politely.

‘Good!’ She clapped her hands. ‘But do let me show you around first, Wolf! It’s not often we get such distinguished company.’

‘You’re too kind, really.’

Wolf found himself dragged along in her wake. Her hand on his arm was surprisingly strong. She had always liked him more than she should have, he thought. The way her sister had. Now he was her prize, for one night. She was determined to show him off, the way she did her jewels. But unlike gold, Wolf’s value had not gone up in the intervening years.

‘Ah, Lady Mosley. What a delightful party.’

‘Thank you
so
much! Wolf, this is Mr Fleming. He’s a stockbroker.’

The man was handsome, with the bearing of a military man. ‘Call me Ian, please.’ He had a strong grip when they shook hands.

‘Mr Fleming almost bought our old flat from us, do you know!’ Diana said. ‘In the end we bought the whole place and did it up instead.’

‘A great gain for all of us,’ Fleming said, smiling. He looked at Wolf. That same look he always got. ‘You remind me of someone.’

Wolf shook his head. ‘I get that a lot,’ he said.

‘You are German!’

‘Austrian, actually.’

‘I studied in Austria. Kitzbühel.’

‘Did you,’ Wolf said. It was not exactly a question.

‘I’m sure you look like someone.’

‘Believe me, I am no one.’

Fleming peered at him closely. ‘Have you been in a fight?’ he said.

‘Really, Mr Fleming!’ Diana turned to Wolf, apologetic. ‘Mr Fleming was a journalist, you see. He was in Moscow, in fact, in ’33. At the time of the …’ she hesitated.

‘The Fall?’

Wolf noticed that the Fleming fellow had lost his smile. His eyes took on a cold aspect. Wolf knew that look, too.

Recognition.

‘Excuse me,’ Fleming said. He turned rather abruptly and went to join a group of City men by the half-open windows.

‘How rude!’ Diana said. ‘I am so sorry, Wolf.’

‘I take it he is not a supporter of the BU, either?’

Diana shrugged. ‘This is a private party, not a political one.’

‘I see that is Lord Rothermere of the
Daily Mail
there, talking to the writer – Williamson?’

‘Henry Williamson, yes. Wonderful writer.
Wonderful
. Have you read
A Chronicle of Ancient Sunlight
? No, well, anyway, of course yes, both of
them
are supporters, naturally.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘Was that your point?’

‘I was just curious.’

‘Do you know,’ Diana said, whispering mischievously, ‘It is rumoured Mr Fleming is sleeping with Baron O’Neill’s wife? While not knowing meanwhile that she, at the same time, is also having an affair with Lord Rothermere’s heir?’

‘A busy lady.’

‘Busy
indeed
!’ And Diana burst into laughter. ‘Poor Fleming,’ she said. ‘But he’s young.’

Wolf was rescued at that moment with the arrival of a young man as grey and unremarkable as his suit. Clearly, not a guest, but an employee. The man – a boy, really – whispered in Diana’s ear.

‘Yes, thank you, Alderman,’ she said. She turned to Wolf, apologetically. ‘Oswald is in his study, upstairs. He wishes to see you. Would you …?’ She gestured with her palm.

‘Of course.’

‘Just follow Alderman. It is
so
lovely to see you, Wolf.’

‘You too, Lady Mosley.’

‘Diana,
please
!’

Wolf took her hand and kissed it, gallantly. ‘Diana,’ he said.

‘Oh, Wolf!’

She fanned herself and laughed. Wolf took his leave, following the taciturn Alderman.

Up the stairs through more festive people, the men in suits and the women in dresses, and all expensive and expansive and all laughing gaily, and drinking and smoking, and chattering and parting before Wolf, like the Red Sea at the approach of Moses and the Israelites.

‘Please, sir,’ the boy said.

‘Yes, yes? What is it?’ Wolf said, impatiently.

‘I’m a big admirer of yours, sir.’

‘I see,’ Wolf said, who didn’t. ‘What of it?’

The boy reached into the breast pocket of his suit and brought out a small rectangular object and began to say, ‘Could you perhaps sign this—’ but Wolf wasn’t paying attention. ‘Mosley?’ he said, crossly, if only to the air. ‘Mosley, are you there? Blasted man.’

‘Here, sir,’ the young man said, with some obvious regret. Whatever it was he wanted to show Wolf had disappeared. They had reached the top floor. Oswald Mosley’s private office was in what had once been an attic. Alderman knocked, waited and pushed the oak door open. Beyond was a small, comfortable-looking room, with bookshelves and an antique desk and bronze lamps. It was warm and well lit. Behind the desk sat Oswald Mosley, perusing papers.

‘Mr Wolf to see you, sir.’

Mosley raised his head. He was a good-looking man, with thick black hair slicked back and a pencil moustache that made him look a little like a screen villain. He was dressed in a Savile Row suit rather than the BU uniform he had himself designed. The smile he gave Wolf was genuine, and beaming.

‘Sir Oswald,’ Wolf said.

‘Wolf!’ Mosley rose, his arms outstretched. ‘You may leave us, Alderman.’

‘Sir.’

Mosley advanced on Wolf as the door closed with a soft snick, leaving them alone in the room. Wolf bore the hug stoically. Before the Fall, no one would have dared greet him so informally.

‘It is so good to see you, my friend.’

‘And you.’ He was relieved when Mosley released him. He looked around the room. ‘You have come up in the world.’

Mosley shrugged. ‘I worked hard for it. There is much work before us. You of all people know—’

‘You are running for prime minister,’ Wolf said. He looked more closely at Mosley’s face, searching for those telltale signs of age since the last time they’d met. But it was strange. In recent months he had grown used to Mosley’s face, wherever he turned, looking down on him from billboards and posters glued to the city’s walls. At first no one had taken the British Union of Fascists seriously; now, the Blackshirts were everywhere and Mosley’s image, larger than life, haunted the dark city.

‘Yes,’ Mosley said. Shrugged with his palms open, disarmingly. ‘I am.’

‘Can you really afford to go to war with Germany?’

It was the question people were asking. Mosley ran on a platform opposing Marxism. He claimed a coming war was inevitable.

Mosley said, ‘Can we afford not to?’

‘A war with Germany is a war with Russia,’ Wolf said. ‘With Stalin and all his power.’