The Madagaskar Plan (11 page)

Burton pulled at his arms, but the rope was too tight. His mind was scrambling, sluggish. He heard the door lock behind him; the housekeeper’s footsteps faded. Nausea blurred his thoughts.

Cranley clicked his fingers close to Burton’s eyes. “Are you with me?”

When he got no reply, he tossed a glass of champagne in Burton’s face. The liquid made Burton focus; with it came a surge of alarm. He scanned the room for any means to free himself. A coal fire hummed in the hearth. There were empty bottles and clusters of glasses everywhere; the table was laden with the remnants of a buffet.

“I expect your full attention,” said Cranley, “especially since I’m going to thank you for what you did in Kongo.” There was a quality to his voice, something affable and golden, that Burton struggled not to like. “It played out exactly as I hoped. We baited Hochburg with Rhodesia, his hubris did the rest: he overstretched himself. Elisabethstadt surrendered yesterday.” He rummaged through Burton’s haversack till he found the Browning. “The only shame is that Madeleine wasn’t here. She always enjoyed parties.”

“She hated them.”

“I think I know my wife better than that.”

The circulation was dying in Burton’s arms. He tugged at the ropes again; there was the tiniest give around his stump. “What did you do to her?”

“I used to carry an HP myself,” said Cranley, aiming the pistol at Burton’s chest. “During the Spanish Civil War. It’s lighter than I recall”—he weighed it in his grip and depressed the safety catch—“but a fine weapon. Very accurate, never jams. You were going to shoot me in my sleep?”

Burton knew it would be better to say nothing but couldn’t contain himself. “I’m only here for Alice.” His plan had been to snatch the girl, flee to America, and vanish. Cranley, with his wealth and prestige, his strings of power, would be left impotent.

“Then you know nothing of me. Take my daughter and I’d hunt you for the rest of your days.”

“It was the least I owed Madeleine.”

Cranley scrutinized Burton, running his eyes from his boots to his beard. Burton stared back. Neither of them blinked. Previously, he had only seen photographs of Cranley. Up close, Burton was struck by the symmetry of his face, the unblemished skin, the beauty of his mouth; he could think of no other description. There was also an itchy, repressed quality to his features. He remembered something Madeleine once said: first class was never good enough for him. The whole time, Burton kept trying to worm his arm free.

“I can’t imagine what she saw in you.” Cranley’s eyes remained fixed. “She was from good Viennese stock. Though I confess it is intriguing to meet you, Major Cole. Is one’s rival the same as oneself, only in more … ‘concentrated’ form? Or the complete opposite.”

Finally he glanced away, a smirk parting his lips as if he had intended to avert his gaze all along. Near the fireplace was a liquor cabinet in the shape of a globe. It was antique: Russia stretched from Europe to the Pacific. Cranley poured himself a brandy, never letting the gun waver.

“Shall I tell you what distressed me most?” he said, perching himself on the table. “It’s those things the Nazis say about Jews. That they’re rodents. Unclean, conniving.” He inhaled the bouquet of the brandy. “Claptrap, of course. But when I discovered what she’d done to me … Propaganda is most hateful when it’s true.”

“You killed her.”

“What would you have done if it was
your
wife?” His jawline erupted in scarlet pinpricks. “If you’d given her a life beyond her imagination, then found her fucking some menial.” He was calm again. “I didn’t kill her.”

“Like you didn’t kill Patrick or the rest of my men in Kongo. You gave the order; that’s enough. Russell told me everything.”

“I doubt it.”

Cranley picked up the telephone from the table and dialed the operator. “Scotland Yard,” he said, specifying the extension number. While he waited to be connected, he examined the point of his shoe as if it were the most fascinating object in the world. Burton gave his arm another tug; the skin was chafing, but the rope felt slacker.

“One thing I am curious about. How did you escape the
Ibis
? I received confirmation that you were on board when it left Angola.”

“A day out to sea, we passed a freighter headed for Cape Town. Even half-dead on morphine, I reckoned someone would hit us. If not you, then Hochburg. I changed ships.”

“You are a remarkable man, Major.”

“Then up the east coast to Suez.”

Cranley nodded but was no longer interested. With a sardonic detachment, he watched Burton fight the rope before his attention returned to the phone. He identified himself as though his name were expected.

“That Suffolk business, the two dead officers, I have the killer here … in my house … No, I’m perfectly safe, he’s not going anywhere … Good, send them quickly but keep it discreet—I don’t want to alarm the neighbors.”

He replaced the receiver.

“We assumed you’d come here; they’re only minutes away.” He sipped his brandy. “There will be a guilty verdict, Major, and a noose. Personally, I’d rather you rot in prison for the rest of your days, but the law is the law. Whatever reputation you might have had will be ground into dirt. Worth nothing.”

Burton listened to those final words, the unrestrained thrill of them. “And in the dock, I’ll tell them what you did to Madeleine.”

“Which was?”

“You had her murdered.”

“No. She’s alive.”

He showed his wedding ring as if it were proof.

Burton felt a murmur of hope before dismissing it. Cranley was toying with him. “I don’t believe you.”

“Of course I thought about it. How it would feel—that final, pleading look in her eyes.” Another sip of brandy. “But as I said, I don’t believe in death penalties. They’re too kind. A bullet, or a rope, and it’s done. But a lifetime of torment: that is retribution.”

“So you sent her to the madhouse?”

“Is that what they’re saying?” Cranley clapped his leg, the sparkle in his eyes genuine. “One can always rely on the tittle-tattle of society women!”

“Then where is she?”

From outside came the sound of an engine.

Keeping the Browning pointed at Burton, Cranley stepped to the curtains. “The police, two cars.”

Burton twisted his wrist: just a few more inches.

“There’s one last thing I have to tell you,” said Cranley, returning to his perch. “Something for you to dwell upon in the months before you choke. The real reason why I couldn’t kill her.” He leaned in close, whispered as he prodded the Browning into Burton’s ribs. “It’s my baby.”

“You hadn’t touched her in months.”

“Only an idiot would believe a woman who lived a double life. Every time she returned from your trysts, I visited her room, smelled you on her.”

“You’re lying.”

Cranley’s next words emerged with complete assurance: “She never loved you, no matter what she professed. I hope you understand that.”

Burton tore at the rope. When it didn’t give, he hurled himself forward with such ferocity that the chair toppled over and they smashed into each other. The wood around his stump splintered, allowing him to free his arm. Burton grabbed the tie around his feet, forced it over his boots, and released his legs. Next he reached for the rope that bound his right wrist to the armrest. His stump was useless against the knot.

Cranley rose. He watched Burton struggle but made no attempt to stop him. “After your telegrams, I had the security improved. The house is locked like a fortress. Even if you could get past this”—he poked the air with the Browning—“you’d have no way out.”

“It isn’t loaded.”

Cranley pointed the pistol at Burton and fired. An empty snap. “You’re right: it’s not.” He placed the weapon on the table, his poise unaffected.

Burton would enjoy beating the confidence out of him. He gave up on the rope and got to his feet, the chair still secured to his arm; its seat caught the backs of his knees, making him stand like a hunchback. He stepped toward Cranley, who made no move to retreat.

Outside the engines stopped; doors opened and were carefully shut. The click of shoes as men hurried to the house.

Burton heaved the chair above his head and swung.

It came crashing down as Cranley slipped out of range. Burton lifted it again and smashed it against the table. On the third blow it broke into pieces, freeing him, though the armrest remained bound to him like a baton. He spun round as Cranley charged.

Burton toppled onto the table, dragging Cranley with him. They smashed into serving dishes and glasses. There was a burst of crockery; uneaten puddings splattered everywhere. Cranley grabbed a champagne bottle and slammed it down. The impact reverberated through the table, inches from Burton’s skull. The bottle flashed again, now a jagged neck of glass. Burton raised his hand to shield himself, the armrest deflecting the blow. He staggered to stand.

A fist cracked him in the ribs; then a second, harder punch to the gut, all knuckles.

Cranley hadn’t learned this at the Colonial Office, thought Burton as the blows continued. Somewhere in his past he’d been a brawler.

He was lifted up and punched across the table. Slid right over it, falling to the ground on the far side in a cascade of broken plates. His back arched as he dropped next to the fireplace.

Cranley walked round the table, snatched up the poker, and swiped it theatrically like a rapier. He grasped it in both hands and raised it above his head: no longer a sword but an axe. His mouth was stretched with fury.

Burton kicked the grate.

Coals tumbled everywhere, spewing fire across the carpet. The hems of Cranley’s trousers ignited. He dropped the poker and slapped at them till his hands smoked. Burton sought a flameless spot in which to lever himself up. From the hallway came the musical clanging of the doorbell.

Cranley retreated from the fire to the liquor cabinet and toppled it onto Burton. Alcohol fattened the flames. Burton forced the cabinet off and rolled beneath the table. In front of him was his discarded Browning. He picked it up and searched for his haversack. Across the room, Cranley had reached the door. He produced a master key and grasped the handle.

Burton saw what was about to happen, screwed himself into a ball. Covered his head.

There was a throaty noise as if someone had gulped sharply in his ear. Fresh oxygen was sucked into the room, the air sweet and lethal. A wave of fire rolled across the ceiling. The walls and furniture erupted in flames.

Burton’s face felt like it had been plunged into frying oil. He got to his feet and slammed a clip into the Browning. Cranley had been knocked to the ground by the blast. Burton stood over him and fired an inch from his head. Recocked the hammer.

“Where is she?”

“You’ll never find her.”

He dropped to his knees, pinning Cranley down, and whipped the Browning against his face.

“Where?” he roared.

When he received no reply, he struck a second time. A gash spread from Cranley’s brow to his cheekbone, the metal of the pistol coming away sticky. Each new blow was more frenzied and frustrated.

A pinging. Pieces of the chandelier fired into the room; it jerked from its fitting.

Burton stuffed the pistol into his waistband, grabbed Cranley by the throat, and dragged him deeper into the room, cocooning them in flames. He twisted the other man’s face into the blazing heat.

“Last chance,” said Burton. Each word charred his throat.

“I’d rather burn than let you see her again.”

“I’ll track her down.”

“All the records are gone. Immigration, marriage. She never existed—”

The chandelier plunged from the ceiling. Baubles of molten glass spat everywhere.

Cranley threw his arms around Burton, clutched him in a tight embrace, and rolled them both into the inferno. Burton’s jacket smoldered around his body, the ferocity of the heat searing his skin. The stink of scorched hair.

He cracked his head into Cranley’s face and freed himself. A blazing barrier separated them. Through the flames he glimpsed his Browning on the floor, out of reach. Cranley crawled to retrieve it.

Burton stumbled backward till he found the open door. He took the key from the lock, singeing his fingers, stepped into the hallway, and slammed the door shut. Seconds later Cranley’s fists were pounding on the other side. Burton turned the key and hurled it into the smoke.

Flames were creeping through the entire house. Burton covered his mouth and groped his way down the stairs, toward the front door. Mrs. Anderson was opening it, yelling in his direction. Three men hurried through: two in police uniforms, the other wearing a trench coat and carrying a tommy gun. Bullets sprayed the walls around him.

Burton doubled back to the mezzanine level, past a grandfather clock; it clanged crazily as its innards distorted in the heat. There was a pair of windows overlooking the street. He tried the first, found it locked and bolted. Through the glass he saw impenetrable fog, tinged orange; it had shrunk from the house as if it feared being scorched. The other window was similarly barred. Over the crackle of the fire, he heard Mrs. Anderson baying for him; one of the policemen barked orders. And between their voices he caught another: a cry from upstairs.

For an instant his heart skipped: Cranley had lied, Madeleine was imprisoned somewhere inside the house. Then he realized who he had heard. He scrambled to the main staircase and peered into the gathering smoke.

Not Madeleine. Alice.

CHAPTER NINE

BURTON AND MADELEINE became lovers in a grubby, second-class train compartment. Earlier they had talked themselves empty and decided not to see each other again. Better to end it when the only intimacies were grim tales of their pasts that they had never shared with anyone else and cautious kisses. Madeleine had wept too much to mean it. Through his own tears, Burton agreed with her reasons for the split—and, driving to the station, countered every one. They sat in silence on the train. Burton felt heartsick, pitted. He was thinking about a ruby he’d been given to save a Belgian industrialist from the Afrika Korps’ advance on Stanleyville. He would have traded the gem in an instant to read Madeleine’s mind.