A Poison of Passengers Read online

  A Poison Of Passengers

  by

  Jack Treby

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Jack Treby

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Acknowledgements

  Hilary And The Hurricane

  Murder At Flaxton Isle

  The Pineapple Republic

  The Scandal At Bletchley

  The Gunpowder Treason

  Also by Jack Treby

  THE HILARY MANNINGHAM-BUTLER MYSTERIES

  The Scandal at Bletchley

  The Red Zeppelin

  The Devil’s Brew

  Hilary and the Hurricane (a novelette)

  A Poison of Passengers

  The Pineapple Republic

  The Stiletto (forthcoming)

  www.jacktreby.com

  Copyright © Jack Treby 2018

  Published by Carter & Allan

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers

  Chapter One

  ‘It’s a bomb!’ some fat idiot yelled, as I was heading for the exit. ‘They’ve found a bomb!’

  Until that moment, the evacuation had been proceeding calmly. We had risen from our tables, as directed, and made our way towards the rear of the building. There was no panic, no jostling, no anxious babble of conversation, just a well ordered movement of people obeying the instructions from on high. Admittedly, none of us had the foggiest idea what was going on, but in the absence of any concrete information we were content for the time being to do as we were told.

  The banging of a spoon a minute or so earlier had been the first indication that anything was amiss. Leopardi’s Restaurant, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, was heaving with customers and it took a moment for the sound to penetrate the fog of animated conversation. A few dozen tables were spread out across the floor and a good hundred and fifty people were busily tucking in to various unsavoury dishes. The waiter holding the spoon was not far from my table, however, and when he lifted it and started bashing a silver tray in his other hand, I could not help but pay attention. He was a small fellow, smartly dressed, with an elongated moustache in the Italian style. That was hardly surprising, since this was an Italian restaurant. The man’s voice was loud but firm.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I can can have your attention.’ A gaggle of waiters froze at the sound of his voice. This was clearly the head man. ‘As a matter of some urgency, I must ask you all to vacate the premises immediately,’ he said. That provoked an understandable reaction from the diners, though one of puzzlement rather than fear. ‘There is no time to explain,’ he insisted, as one or two hesitant questions were thrown at him across the floor. ‘For your own safety, would you please make your way quickly to the exit at the rear of the building.’ He gestured to a small corridor, normally curtained off. An arrow indicated that this was the way to the restrooms. Presumably, an exit of some kind was located just beyond that. The waiter’s tone was serious enough to brook no opposition and people immediately began to push back their chairs and gather up their possessions. ‘Please move quickly,’ he directed. ‘This is a matter of some urgency.’

  My companion, Terrance Greenfield, was already on his feet. He was an amiable fellow in late middle age, grey haired and distinguished, with a faintly receding hairline. His clothes were a little crumpled – that faded nobility common to many an Englishman abroad – and his brow was sporting a puzzled frown. He removed his napkin and placed it down on the table. Greenfield was not the sort of fellow to be perturbed by an unexpected development.

  I was not quite so sanguine. The head waiter was doing his best to look calm, but some of the junior flunkeys were as white as the proverbial sheet. ‘What on earth do you think’s going on?’ I asked Greenfield, as we circled the table and moved together into the flow of people now making their way towards the rear of the restaurant. Nobody was showing any signs of distress. This was an orderly retreat rather than a stampede. We might have been conducting a fire drill. Perhaps it was a fire, I thought suddenly, glancing around. But there was no sign of any smoke.

  Greenfield scratched the side of his chin. ‘Haven’t the faintest idea,’ he admitted, as we shuffled quietly along. His ignorance only made the matter more disturbing, so far as I was concerned. Terrence Greenfield was a big noise in the British secret service. It was rare for him to be in the dark about anything.

  A few of the other diners were having whispered conversations. Leopardi’s was a respectable establishment, but it wasn’t exactly in the top tier. Bankers and office workers were rubbing shoulders with shopkeepers and the odd courting couple. The décor was similarly pleasant but uninspiring, with bright lights and flowered wallpaper. The tables now being abandoned were piled high with plates of spaghetti and other Italian monstrosities, and the sheer number of people crammed into the place made it a lively establishment at any time of day. Nine o’clock in the evening, however, was peak time, and I had to give credit to the good sense of my fellow diners as we made our way slowly towards the exit. Why we could not use the front of the building, I had no idea. The corridor leading to the restrooms was only wide enough to take two or three men abreast, but with a little consideration it would only be a matter of minutes before we had all passed through and out onto the street.

  It was then that some fat idiot announced his theory about the bomb and all hell broke lose.

  The cry was immediately echoed across the length of the restaurant. ‘A bomb! A bomb!’ Two words to strike fear into the heart of any New Yorker. We had all read the papers over the Christmas break and seen the horrific pictures. The bombing campaign had begun in earnest on Boxing Day 1931. But none of us had thought to be caught up in it like this. If indeed it was a bomb. ‘We gotta get out of here!’ some fool in a checked shirt yelled.

  And then, all at once, we were in the middle of a stampede. The crowd, so calm a moment before, now became a desperate mob, determined to fight its way out of the building. I had barely had time to register the “B” word before I encountered a jagged elbow and felt a shoulder bashing heavily against me. I staggered sideways, almost losing my footing as I collided with a nearby table. ‘For goodness sake!’ I muttered, grabbing hold of the table top. Greenfield stepped across to help steady my arm. The ugly mass of now panicking diners were converging on that far corridor and fights were breaking out among the office workers, as people tried to force their way through. I saw one bounder pull at the dress of an elderly woman, attempting to shove her out of the way, but the solid looking woman fetched him a hefty wallop with her handbag and it was he who dropped to the floor. A little boy, out late with his parents, was screaming in fright, his mother having been swept away from him. A quick-witted waiter, who had managed not to lose his cool, swiftly gathered the boy up and pulled him to safety, through a second door marked “PRIVATE”.

  I caught a glimpse of gleaming metal behind the double doors. That must be the kitchens
, I thought. Another way out of the building.

  A couple of other diners had spotted the opportunity and, abandoning the crowd, made their own, private escape. Greenfield met my eye and we quickly followed suit, through the hefty flapping doors. Behind us, there were cries of anger and distress. The kitchen itself was empty, however. The staff had already retreated through a rear door out onto the road. I could hardly blame them. We threaded our way through the kitchen and out into a dark side street.

  It was a comparatively mild evening for early January, which is to say bitterly cold, but I didn’t care. It was a relief to be outside. Could it really be a bomb, I wondered, looking back at the restaurant. What kind of scoundrel would leave a crate of dynamite in a public place? The slaughter would be indiscriminate.

  A dozen or more people were now crowding up behind us, having followed us out through the kitchens. Many more were spooling onto the street to our left, via the bins bordering the restroom exit. There wasn’t enough room on the pavement for so many people and the diners were already spilling out into the middle of the road, to the consternation of several passing taxi drivers. Horns were blaring angrily.

  Greenfield and I threaded ourselves through the traffic and across the street, helping one young man who had tripped and narrowly avoided a motorcar. Finally reaching the far kerb, we turned around and looked back at the restaurant. My breath was a cloud of vapour in the air. There had not been time to gather our hats and coats but I was at least passably dressed in a smart jacket and waistcoat. Greenfield was similarly attired, but some of the womenfolk were in light cotton evening dresses. The waiter who had called the alarm now appeared to the right of the bins and began fielding a torrent of irate questions. In the distance, I could hear several police sirens as New York’s finest raced towards the scene.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Greenfield asked me. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I shuddered, gathering myself up on the far pavement. ‘Do you think it really could be a bomb?’ Leopardi’s was an Italian restaurant and Italians were behind the recent terror campaign. The ex-patriot community was at war, communists against fascists, and things had escalated just after Christmas when a series of letter bombs had been sent to prominent supporters of Mussolini. It was no wonder that the thought of a bomb had provoked such a panic.

  Greenfield was perplexed. ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed, in answer to my question. ‘Leopardi’s no supporter of fascism. Bombing his place makes no sense. He’s a restaurateur. He has no interest in politics.’ And hitherto, the bombs had all been aimed at individuals, not members of the public.

  I gazed across the road, at the crowd still spreading out from the rear of the building. ‘Well, somebody has a grudge against him.’

  ‘So it appears. I don’t like this at all.’

  The police cars were now screeching to a halt, out of sight at the front of the building.

  ‘I’m not exactly thrilled about it myself,’ I muttered. ‘Next time, Terrance, I think I’ll choose the restaurant.’

  Greenfield was too distracted to smile. ‘Look, are you all right out here for a minute? I’m going to try to find out what’s going on.’

  I regarded the man in surprise. ‘Well, yes, I’m fine, but...what are you going to do? You’re not going back in there?’

  Greenfield shook his head. ‘I’ll head round the front. See if I can find out what’s happening. Won’t be two ticks.’

  I watched him move off. The fellow had a death wish. Of course, as a member of the security services, Greenfield was used to tricky situations, but there was no call this time to put himself in the line of fire. Whatever was going on at Leopardi’s, it surely had nothing to do with us.

  In hindsight, having dinner at an Italian restaurant on my last evening in New York was perhaps not the best idea. Terrance Greenfield was a colleague of mine, an amiable bean counter beavering away diligently on behalf of the British establishment. The Secret Intelligence Bureau had an office in New York and he was one of the senior men. I was quite fond of Greenfield, though I did not know him well. He was a good looking fellow in his later years, grey haired but with a warm twinkle in his eye. The two of us had met up at Leopardi’s at eight o’clock and settled in a quiet corner, well away from the main entrance.

  ‘Not enjoying the food?’ Greenfield had asked, swirling a mound of spaghetti on the end of his fork as we moved onto the main course. He had recommended the fish, but I was beginning to have second thoughts. The damn thing was drenched in olive oil and goodness knows what else. I gave out a heavy sigh, looking down at the thing. The Mediterranean diet is supposed to do wonders for one’s health, but I would happily have traded a few years of my life for a decent Sunday roast and a half bottle of whisky.

  ‘Oh, it’s well cooked,’ I said, staring glumly at the oily monstrosity before me. ‘I’m just having trouble picking out all the bones.’

  ‘You should have gone with the spaghetti,’ Greenfield said, bringing the fork to his mouth and expertly sucking it up; then he reached for his napkin and dabbed at his lips. His was the first friendly face I had seen when I arrived in the United States. I had flown over by Zeppelin the previous April. Greenfield had welcomed me to the New York office and helped me to establish my new identity. Mr Henry Buxton, no less, one of several aliases I had used in recent years. It didn’t have quite the same ring as my real name – Hilary Manningham-Butler – but it was serviceable enough. I had returned to New York just before Christmas, after an horrendous few months in Central America, and Greenfield had been equally welcoming. The idea of a night out with him on my last evening in the Americas was an appealing one, even allowing for the unfortunate choice of restaurant.

  ‘You’ll like the dessert anyway.’ Greenfield sat back in his chair. ‘Leopardi makes the best ice cream in America.’ I rolled my eyes and stabbed at the fish one last time. He could see I was not convinced. ‘Well, you’ll have no complaints about the Galitia, at any rate. The food onboard is first rate.’ The RMS Galitia was a steamship departing for Southampton first thing tomorrow.

  I had travelled on the ship a couple of times before, albeit some years ago. This time, I had booked myself a first class ticket. It was a bit of an extravagance but I could just about afford it. I’d had such a terrible time of late – in Guatemala and British Honduras – that I felt the need for a little luxury, even if it did stretch the budget somewhat. After two years away from home, I had finally decided to return to England. I was fed up gallivanting around the globe, getting caught up in other people’s business. I had not exactly left the old country in a blaze of glory, but I was pining now for the home comforts and enough was enough. I had a new identity and a decent pot of money set aside. So long as I avoided my old haunts in London and the home counties, I would be safe enough.

  ‘Well,’ said Greenfield, ‘I wish you Godspeed tomorrow.’ He raised his glass.

  The soda water the waiter had brought us had been augmented by a few drops of whisky from my canteen. We clinked the glasses together. It was an awful nuisance, having to bring one’s own alcohol out to a restaurant like this. That was one thing I would definitely not miss about America: their ridiculous laws on alcohol. At least the waiters were happy to turn a blind eye. They had enough on their plate, with the rather loud clientele crammed into the place at this time of the evening. Leopardi’s was a smart enough establishment but it was a far cry from the Ritz.

  ‘There is one little favour you might do for us,’ Greenfield added quietly, once we had taken a quick gulp from our glasses.

  Here it comes, I thought. I did not for a minute believe I had been invited out this evening for purely social reasons. There is always a price tag when it comes to the British Secret Service.

  Greenfield did not beat about the bush. ‘There’s a chap travelling with you on the Galitia tomorrow. An American gentleman.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Used to be one of ours. Did a bit of work for us
during the war.’ The Great War, of course. ‘He’s freelance now and got himself involved in all sorts of disreputable activity.’

  ‘A gangster?’

  ‘Well, after a fashion. Not one of the nastier ones, thank goodness, but we have standing orders to keep an eye on him. The people back home have given us a watching brief.’

  ‘And you want me to keep an eye on him on the voyage to Southampton?’

  ‘Just a fatherly eye,’ Greenfield reassured me. ‘Nothing too onerous.’

  ‘You do realise, strictly speaking, I am no longer an employee of His Majesty’s Government?’ I had resigned my commission in Guatemala. Well, “resigned” is perhaps not the most accurate term. I had got myself into a bit of a pickle and had been forced to flee the country. My life of late had been one disaster after another.

  ‘I appreciate that,’ Greenfield said. ‘But this isn’t anything complicated or dangerous. Just a favour from on high. And it will stand you in good stead when you get back home.’

  ‘I see.’ Actually, that was important to me. My attempts to find work in British Honduras, the next country along, had been soundly rebuffed; and although I now had quite a sum of money put by, it would not last forever. At some point, I would have to throw myself on the mercy of my old bosses back in London. ‘Very well. So who is this scoundrel?’

  Greenfield reached into his jacket and pulled out a small photograph. He placed it on the table in front of me. I had just taken a mouthful of fish and I almost choked at the sight of it, a bone briefly lodging in the back of my gullet. I coughed and reached quickly for a swig of whisky.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Greenfield asked, with some concern.

  ‘Yes, I...I just didn’t...’ I stared down at the photograph. That face. My God. It was as familiar to me as that of my own father.