The Poison Tide (17 page)

‘Fitzgerald will call for you at ten tomorrow. Ramsgate train at eleven. He’ll brief you, he’s a good fellow . . .’

Wolff nodded.

‘One more thing.’ He frowned and his gaze slipped to an indeterminate point somewhere over Wolff’s right shoulder. ‘Your friend, Curtis – you won’t have heard – killed a few weeks ago . . . gas attack. Heard his widow was trying to reach you . . . thought you should know.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Silence. Wolff couldn’t think of anything more to say. God, he hoped Reggie didn’t know.

‘Well, good luck,’ said C briskly. ‘And when you’re there, keep me informed, no reason why you can’t in America.’

He was disappointed to find that his apartment was just as he’d left it. He felt the same after every operation. The maid had left a few letters on his desk, two of them from his mother. It was six o’clock in the evening; he was hungry, tired and generally low. He had a little under seventeen hours in London, and no appetite for any sort of social gathering, even dinner in a restaurant. ‘All right,’ he sighed, and he walked to his drawing-room sideboard and poured a whisky.

After fifteen minutes, the operator put him through. His mother wasn’t surprised to hear his voice, although it was six months since they’d last spoken. She had never asked him where he was or what he was doing, even as a small boy home from the fen after dark, wet to the skin, late for supper. ‘Don’t you care?’ he’d shouted once. ‘God will guide your steps,’ she’d replied. No doubt she thought the same still, but in her quiet way she was pleased to hear from him, wanted to tell him of the farm – ‘your farm’ she called it, more in hope than expectation. She was worried there wouldn’t be young men for the harvest, she said, and everything was so dear; she was putting two of the fields to bulbs; one of the neighbouring farms had invested in a tractor, perhaps she should do the same. They didn’t speak for long because she struggled with the telephone, obliging him to repeat everything two, three times. ‘May the Lord keep you, Sebastian,’ she shouted in Dutch. ‘I pray for you always.’ She didn’t ask when he would visit. When she’d gone, he followed her in his imagination, from the dark farmhouse hall to the kitchen, the heavy ticking of the Black Forest clock, her spaniel in a basket in front of the range, a black shawl about her shoulders, a little bent now – she was almost seventy – busying herself with her embroidery or her supper, something without meat because it was Friday.

Wolff poured another, stiffer drink, then cranked the telephone for a second time.

‘Kensington, double six-three-five, please, operator.’

Yes, Mrs Curtis was at home; would he wait just a moment?

‘Violet, it’s me,’ he said, before she had a chance to ask. ‘I’m so sorry about Reggie. I’ve only just heard.’

The line crackled menacingly, for four, five, six seconds – more.

‘How are you managing?’ he asked at last. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t . . .’

‘You bastard.’ Her voice shook with quiet fury.

Silence again.

‘I’m sorry, Violet,’ he ventured again.

‘Bastard.’

‘I wish I could . . .’

‘Bastard.’

Another silence.

‘Perhaps I should . . .’

‘Bastard, bastard,’ louder this time.

‘All right . . .’

‘What do you want?’

‘Nothing, I . . .’

‘Then leave me alone,’ she shouted, tears in her voice.

‘Yes, of course, I’m . . .’

Clunk, the line went dead. Bloody stupid, he should have written to her. First-class bastard, she was right; left without a word of explanation or even a goodbye. He picked up one of the unopened letters on his desk, then tossed it back again. Poor old Reggie. God, he’d made a mess of things, but dammit, she was responsible too. After a long bath and another whisky he dressed in an old suit and walked round the corner to a restaurant. He ate a little, drank a lot and brooded for the best part of an hour. Then he ambled to the Langham and ordered another whisky. At eleven he reeled home, content at least that he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder. He hauled himself up the stairs by the banisters, then bounced along the corridor to his bedroom and was blearily considering removing his trousers when there was a sobering knock at the door.

‘Who is it?’ he shouted, in a distant voice.

‘Me.’

‘Violet?’

Head to foot in black, her small round face covered by a veil, she was rocking backwards and forwards like a Jew at the Wailing Wall: drunk.

‘Where have you been?’ she whined. ‘Where? I’m so lonely.’

‘You better come inside,’ he said softly.

‘No,’ she snapped.

Wolff shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

For a few seconds an awkward silence, then she began to cry. ‘I loved him, you know,’ she sobbed, ‘in my way. But he wrote to me, he wrote . . .’

‘Come on,’ he took her gently by the arm, ‘not here.’

She unlaced her boots and curled her feet beneath her as she’d done many times before on his couch. She wanted another drink, the glass rattling against her teeth as she shook with tears, and when she’d emptied it she was able to tell him in a small voice that Reggie ‘knew’. Knew she was fucking his friend. He knew.

‘But he didn’t need to, did he?’ she asked, in a small voice.

‘Need to what?’

‘Die.’ Her face crumpled again.

‘No,’ he said, wiping a tear from her cheek with his forefinger, ‘didn’t need to die.’

Fraught with emotion, too much wine, she asked him with bedroom eyes if they should, and he wanted to although he knew it was a mistake. Later, beneath a tangle of sheets, her warm body pressed to his, her little face framed by damp blonde hair, she smiled up at him and whispered, ‘I love you.’

He bent to kiss her forehead so she couldn’t see his face.

‘I like your beard,’ she giggled; ‘it tickles. You look like a king.’

He stroked a strand of hair from her cheek.

‘We can be together now, can’t we?’

He kissed her again.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No . . .’ she pushed his face away; ‘wouldn’t you?’

‘I have to leave in the morning,’ he told her, and no, he couldn’t say where or for how long. A job, that’s all, a job for the Navy. No, she couldn’t ring or write.

‘You don’t love me,’ she said, rolling away from him. She’d always wanted him to love her a little, but only a little, and now Reggie was dead she wanted more.

He leant forward and kissed her shoulder. ‘I’ll always love you.’

‘Will you?’

‘Of course.’

Why not say so? He knew she’d forget him after a few days, comfortable in her grief, content with five thousand a year, young and desirable – widow’s weeds suited her – a little lace handkerchief at the corner of her eye at the mention of ‘poor Reggie’; seconds later the smiles and laughter of a most resilient heart. But afterwards he regretted saying he loved her, even if she knew it wasn’t true. It was another lie, he reflected, watching her curled warm against him. Reggie had choked to death knowing his wife was fucking his friend; it might have been his last yellow image. Violet wasn’t to blame, she was wired in a different way; she knew no better, a happy creature of instinct who never lay awake worrying about purpose or her future. No, it was his betrayal, his lie. Violet, Reggie, Roger Casement, they all met him in a no-man’s-land where there was no right or wrong, only something his masters called ‘duty’.

In the morning, she fussed about him, brushing a suit jacket, straightening his tie, barely exchanging glances. ‘I’ll wait for you,’ she whispered as he kissed her goodbye.

And on the train, he was happy for Fitzgerald to talk all the way to Ramsgate.

They’d questioned Dilger in a desultory fashion, opened his case, held a few bottles to a dim light, then apologised for the inconvenience. It was over, the ship was under way, the case was in his cabin again. The moment had passed, fear and a conscienceless opportunity to sink it in the briny. Doctor Anton Dilger, physician, was returning to the New World from the Old with his glass phials, no more obstacles, no possible excuses, plain sailing to New York. He was relieved and he knew he should be pleased. The others had escaped too. He’d watched the priest hoisted, skirts flying, from the steam pinnacle. De Witt had managed it like a sailor but looked worn out, crumpled, as if the British had interrogated him through the night. But if they had discovered he was an arms smuggler the ship would surely have sailed without him. Dilger didn’t see him in the dining saloon that evening or at the card tables. He drank a little, gambled a little, then retired to his cabin. The wine, the worry of the last few days, it was some time before he was able to sleep, and then it was only for a short while. At three o’clock he woke gasping for breath, his sheets wet with perspiration, and reached a trembling hand for the glass of water he’d left on his bedside table.

Fool, he murmured. Bloody fool. Just a dream. Only a dream.

W
OLFF CHECKED INTO
the Algonquin on West 44th Street, a quiet room at the rear of the hotel with discreet access to the fire escape, comfortable enough for a few days, too expensive for Christensen. They’d crossed from the Jersey City side together but parted at the ferry terminal. Father Nicholson was staying at a Manhattan church house, Christensen in Harlem with ‘a friend’ who, to judge by his sly smile, he was expecting to pay in his usual way. Ever mindful of Casement’s holy cause, the priest had undertaken to arrange a meeting with Irish leaders at once. But for a few hours Wolff was free to stride along Broadway, relishing the June heat and his own company, craning up at the office buildings with an engineer’s eye. From blinding midday sunshine into shade, a canyon street of skyscrapers alive with the noise of the motor car, monumental, brash, full of inexhaustible optimism. Let the old world tear itself apart, the new century belonged to America. His spirits had lifted as the
Rotterdam
passed through the Narrows, Liberty on the port side, Manhattan dead ahead, teetering at the edge of the bay like a sailor’s sweetheart in high heels, changed beyond recognition since his last visit – or was that the impression the new Woolworth Building made on the skyline? Like sloughing necrotic skin – Christensen, his palm always open, the priest with his righteous prattle, Violet, the Bureau, all the refuse of the teeming shore he’d left, and if it was only an illusion – after all, wasn’t he here with his own poison? – well, for as long as it lasted it was welcome.

At Wanamaker’s he bought some light shirts and was measured for a summer suit, then he visited a barber for a haircut and a shave, to emerge an hour later with a new face, a new name, no longer Mr de Witt with his short Dutch ‘
v
’ but an American with a long city ‘
w
’. By then there was a late-afternoon breeze on Broadway and a fresh urgency in the step of office workers that anticipated the end of the working day. Wolff took a cab to the corner with Chambers Street and walked at the same businesslike pace across the park to the post office. In its cool hall he wrote a short note to a Mr Spencer
in London, queued at the counter, paid for the postage and watched it drop into the bag. A little further along Broadway, he visited the Western Union office and sent another by messenger to Mr Ponting
at the Yacht Club.

By the time he got back to the Algonquin it was half past five and Christensen was fidgeting impatiently in the lobby. Where had Mr de Witt been? They must hurry, it was arranged for that evening: the priest was going to meet them at 51 Chambers Street – ask for Justice Cohalan. He was on edge in the cab, keen to ingratiate himself, complimenting Wolff on his clean shave. ‘You know, there’s a lot I can do here,’ he added plaintively. ‘I know New York . . . I could help you, help in your . . . work.’ Perhaps they could meet later, a meal or a drink, he knew a bar where there were – and he leant across to whisper behind his hand – girls. His breath smelt of beer and fish. Wolff sighed. Ah, Adler, you know you don’t have anything to offer here but your silence and you’re in too deep for that to be worth more than a few dollars. It was always difficult saying ‘goodbye’ to the Adlers. ‘I don’t want to go back to Berlin,’ he explained as the cab came to a halt, ‘not yet . . . Tell them that, won’t you . . .’

‘Why don’t you tell them yourself?’

Number 51 Chambers Street was a new limestone skyscraper in the beaux arts style, paid for by interest earned on the savings of two generations of Irish emigrants. Above the vast banking hall where tellers behind bronze grilles counted thousands in and out every day, were several floors belonging to Holy Mother Church. With her special dispensation, Justice Cohalan occupied rooms on the tenth. ‘He’s a passionate fellow for a lawyer,’ Casement had said; ‘a fine man, knows everyone, and close to Devoy.’ Veteran republican, friend of Parnell, jailbird and journalist, gun runner, foreign legionnaire, implacable enemy of the British for more than half a century: ‘Devoy
is
Irish America,’ Casement said; ‘he’s the one you must explain things to.’ They were Roger’s delegation, the collective voice of his reason: priest, prostitute, spy. Comic and yet strangely appropriate, each of them represented something particular of the man. The part that the spy had rehearsed promenading the
Rotterdam
was loyal friend and businessman.

Father Nicholson greeted them in the lobby. ‘It’s most of the executive of Clan na Gael,’ he said, hunting round anxiously for an ashtray. ‘I’ve given Sir Roger’s letter to Mr Devoy already.’ He filled the elevator with incense and sweat. There were a dozen of them round a boardroom table, heavy, middle aged or elderly, distinctly Irish in the self-conscious way of the American exile, all of them men but for a young woman in her early twenties who was there to take the minutes and was pretty enough to draw Wolff’s eye. From the head of the table, Justice Cohalan spoke a few cool words of welcome and indicated that they should take the empty chairs at the bottom. How was Sir Roger faring? he asked, broad shoulders wriggling uncomfortably; they had read his letter with concern. Concern was written deeply in his remarkably long face. He was a tough-looking man who might have made his living with a pick and a shovel. Wolff’s gaze wandered round the table as the priest spoke of Casement’s hopes for the brigade, of its spirit, of its new green uniform, of the need for more young Irishmen to fight alongside ‘our brothers’. Nicholson spoke with passion – more perhaps than he managed on a Sunday – and they listened with the respect they would offer any priest, but with no warmth. There was a long silence when he finished, only the scratching of the secretary’s pen.