Chapter Eight
Hampstead Heath
SOME FEW MINUTES AFTER MRS. PURVIS HAD ADMITTED THE two policemen, Ambrose was seated comfortably in his worn leather armchair; it was situated behind the walnut desk in his book-lined study. Beneath a sunny south window stood his painting table where all of his watercolor materials were laid out just so. The low stone fireplace, swept clean this time of year, would be crackling merrily with nice pine logs come the first fall chill.
The room was his favorite. It housed, among its treasures, not only his collections of Buchan, Ambler, Dorothy L. Sayers, Zane Grey, and Rex Stout, but the complete first edition of Conan Doyle, and his Holmes memorabilia collection as well. A rare Moroccan bound edition of Hound of the Baskervilles lay on his desktop, and he drummed his fingers upon it impatiently.
Blast. He was not in the mood for company. He was in the mood for eggs.
The two young coppers (they were MI5, surprisingly, not the local constabulary as he’d deduced) had moved the side chairs up to the desk and were getting into their topic rapidly. Ambrose had retired only recently from New Scotland Yard as the Number One, so his bona fides had been quickly dispensed with at the door.
He was pleased to find that, despite a few years of assisting his dear friend Alexander Hawke in some messy undercover work abroad, he still enjoyed something of a reputation at Thames House, the MI5 headquarters building, and in the British law enforcement community. Or so it would appear by the sunny look of adulation on the face of the young chap opposite.
This eager junior man, Agent H. H. Davies was his name, was ogling Ambrose as if he might be some aging exhibit in the Yard’s Legends of Crime museum.
“The Georgi Markov affair, Chief Inspector,” Davies said, shaking his head in wonder. “When the KGB took out the Bulgarian dissident waiting for his bus. Ricin pellets in the umbrella tip. No one had ever even heard of the stuff and yet you, you—”
“Well,” Ambrose smiled, “I can hardly claim credit for—”
There was a loud cough from the other chair.
“So you know this Henry Bulling, Chief Inspector,” the senior agent, George Winfrey, interrupted, glowering at Davies. “Your nephew, I believe.”
“Ah. Facts, Winfrey, facts. He’s not my nephew. He’s my cousin, in point of fact.”
“And you were running him? For the Yard? Looking into the Chinese connection? I know that’s Topic A with you fellows these days.”
“Chinese connection? You mean, with the French? Really. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I am a detective, not a spymaster.”
“But you were running him, were you not?”
“In a very minor way…gossip, mainly. It is France, after all; in my view, merely a demented version of Italy. We do keep an eye on them, however. Especially, of late, this Bonaparte chap who’s causing so much trouble. A man to be watched very carefully. Now, tell me, gentlemen, what’s the gen, here? Is young Henry in trouble?”
“The gen?” Davies asked, leaning forward as if he expected some priceless gem of spy-speak to come spilling forth onto the master’s desk.
“Hmm. An Americanism I picked up from the author Hemingway via Lord Hawke, who devours his books. Gen. As in, intelligence. I mean to say, what’s up with Bulling?”
“He’s bolted, sir. Vanished. The French at the embassy are up in arms. Certain documents have gone missing from his department.”
“He’s on his own, then,” Ambrose said, tapping some Peterson’s Irish into the bowl of his favorite pipe. Firing it, he puffed out, “The Yard has no involvement in this, I assure you.”
“He hasn’t contacted you?”
“Certainly not.”
“He wasn’t directed to remove documents pertaining to China?”
“Asked and answered.”
“Did your cousin have reason to wish you ill, Chief Inspector?”
“Ill?” Ambrose said, suddenly looking up from a careful study of his signet ring. “Why do you ask that?”
“We tumbled his flat. Milk Street. Southeast London. We found a recently purchased weapon. A cheap target rifle with a 10X scope. Wrapped in oilcloth and stowed under a loose floorboard.”
“Under a loose floorboard. How original of him. And?”
“And these photographs, sir.”
Davies slid over a manila folder and Ambrose extracted six glossy eight-by-ten photographs. They were grainy telephoto black and whites. All six were taken on separate occasions by someone who had secreted himself deep within Hampstead Heath forest. And all of these long-lens photos depicted Congreve walking his new dog, Ranger, in the lovely hour just before sunset.
“Anything else?” Congreve asked, sliding the folder back to Davies without comment.
“A good deal else, Inspector,” Agent Winfrey said, pulling a wad of brochures from his leather satchel. He held one aloft. “Your cousin left his flat in quite a hurry. He was quite possibly abducted. There were signs of a struggle. We found this tract and others like it in his coat closet. All political. Pro-Chinese, Pro-French. Anti- American. Written, we’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to learn, by the French Foreign Trade minister in Paris, the same chap you mentioned a moment ago. Bonaparte. Translation Section is just getting round to translating this bit this morning.”
“Hand it over,” Ambrose said. “French is one of my languages, unfortunately.” Congreve had in his youth been a language scholar at Christ College, Cambridge, but tossed it all for a street beat with the Metropolitan Police. A decision he’d seldom regretted on his way to legendary status at the Yard. Never one to view a mystery from afar, rather he held the thing pinched between two fingers beneath his nose, sniffed the bouquet, then swallowed it whole.
He perused the overwrought anti-American polemic for some moments, then slipped it inside his opened red leather day diary. Something called OMOCO had published the self-serving diatribe on behalf of some radical French group calling themselves the Brigade Rouge. OMOCO. Somewhere, that name rang a bell. Oman—something or other. Oh, well, it would come to him.
“Anything else?” he asked, smiling. Mrs. Purvis had slipped silently into the room and was carefully gathering the empty cups and saucers. He was grateful for her quiet, efficient demeanor and, catching her eye, murmured a silent thank-you. The woman was good cheer and grace personified.
“With all due respect, Chief Inspector,” Winfrey said, “that pamphlet you’ve just taken is evidence in a missing persons case.”
“I’m well aware of that, Agent Winfrey. For professional reasons, I’d like my friend Alex Hawke to have a look at it. I’m happy to sign for it if you insist. One final question for you chaps before you go, if I may.”
“Shoot,” Davies said, earning a look from Winfrey. Shoot?
“What the blazes is the ‘Brigade Rouge’?” Congreve asked. “That’s a new one on me.”
“A spinoff of the old Union Corse crime family from Corsica. Quite fanatical. Ultraleftist paramilitary chaps, all former Union Corse foot soldiers and Foreign Legionnaire types, a few ex– Deuxieme Bureau. Been around for years but raising holy hell of late. Rumored to be responsible for this latest spate of political assassinations in France. We can’t prove it yet, but we’re working on it. Henry Bulling never mentioned that lot, eh?”
“Never.”
“Well. You’ll let us know straightaway should Henry Bulling contact you, won’t you, sir?” Winfrey said, getting to his feet.
“Unless he contacts me with a bullet to the heart, I shall indeed endeavor to do so.”
“If I may, sir. Until we find your cousin, I’m sure I need not say this. But do keep your eyes open, sir. I’d be happy to assign one or two of my men to sit outside for a few days. Unobtrusively, of course.”
“Won’t be necessary, but thank you for your concern. I’ve got young Ranger here. First line of defense in my personal homeland security system.” The dog emitted a rough bark as if on cue.
