Clouds of Smoke

[edyzmedieval]

Part III, final part, of the short story. Please enjoy.

And as always, feedback welcome!

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10:30 PM
White Club
Mayfair, London
9th of December 1938


Horace placed his hands gently on the bar counter.

"Where's the chief?"

Martin, a rather burly bartender with a thin French moustache, gave Horace a curious glance. The bartender was washing the glasses, cleaning them meticulously with his hands running on every single inch and side of the crystal objects. He smiled to Horace. Martin knew better than to simply point in a direction or another in such a setting. With a curt smile, he dropped his head slightly downwards and to his left, indicating the little tables that stood by the edge of the staircase that led to this second floor of the White Club. There were eight tables, most of them with two plush chairs each, but only two of them were occupied. And one of them was occupied by Lord Howe, the chief of the intelligence services and Horace's very own superior.

Horace led a five pound note to Martin and strutted with swagger towards Howe's table. He gave a warm smile and shook Howe's guest' hand and then saluted in a military fashion Howe himself, who smiled widely at the . Almost bald, but with two piercing emerald green eyes, Howe was of a tall stature and always fitted in three piece pinstriped suits. That was his own trademark and no one else around the White Club could match it or even imitate it. Howe smiled and rose his whisky glass, a touch of liquid swirling around the clear ice poured by Martin earlier.

"Horace! What a pleasure!"

Horace smiled. "Good evening, Sir. Please excuse my rather direct approach, but may I please request your presence in the Ivory Saloon in approximately five minutes? I say that this is of the utmost importance."

Lord Howe rose a thin eyebrow, placing his whisky glass on the wooden table. He brought his palms together and glanced at Horace.

"May I ask why, Horace? This is private duty after all, we're not at our offices."

"Sir, private duty is of no matter now. This is public duty."

Lord Howe glanced at his guest then back at Horace. "Very well Horace. I trust your judgement, I see you have a sense of urgency. But may I remind you this better be worth the time. I shall see you in five minutes in the Ivory Saloon."

Horace bowed and left Lord Howe with his guest.

***

Ivory Saloon, as it was labelled on the ivory-coloured door, had some connection to the ivory trade back in the old days but the saloon now was all teak wood, some marbling on the supporting colonnades and above all, a massive fireplace in the midst of it to bring warmth and cosiness to the guests. It held an oval table in it's midst with eight chair, two of them at each "top" of the oval. The "top" near the fireplace was empty but on one side, to Horace's left, stood Lord Howe, flanked by Lord Beckett, and on the other side stood Howe's guest, a bookish man at around forty years in a red suit jacket and two men clad in black suits which Horace presumed worked in the intelligence just as he did. Howe's guest in fact was a member of the House of Lords commissions on internal matters, which made all the more sense. From the other "top" of the oval, Horace brought his hands together and made a sweeping gesture.

"Sirs, I thank you all for coming. Lord Howe, Lord Beckett, Sirs, I have called upon you all to discuss a matter of grave importance I have recently found out." Horace made a pause for effect. "It concerns Lord Beckett."

Howe turned to Beckett. "What have you done, Beckett?"

Beckett shrugged. "I do not know, Sir. Maybe Horace here will care to enlighten us." Beckett pointed towards Horace as he spoke, shooting an icy glance when he finished his words. Horace nodded in return.

"Yes, Mr. Beckett, I understood that ugly glance. It concerns your mistress, should you be so interested to know about this."

Beckett snorted. "My mistress?"

"Yes, Mr. Beckett, your mistress. The English mistress you have been dallying with in the past months is in fact a German lady with a husband who is part of the enemy services. Matter of fact, during your drunk escapades into her arms, all of the info that you have slipped to her without wanting, or perhaps wanting, has been regularly conveyed back to the enemy lines. She married this man because it was imposed on her, but you had no idea and yet somehow all of the information was leaking to our foreign spies. Your dalliances with her are of great concern to us because of the information leak."

Beckett slammed a hand on the table. "Horace, your mouth. Keep it sealed."

Howe swished his hand. "Go on, Horace. Beckett seal your mouth or else I will."

Beckett growled underneath his moustache but could not say anything more.

"Mr. Beckett has been seeing Miss Mathilda for approximately four months, during which he has requested that I keep an eye on her at all times when I am off duty. I will not avoid the subject of that. Mr. Beckett has been most kind as a benefactor for me to earn more than my regular salary. However, my concerns about Miss Mathilda, despite them not being my business, have not been taken into consideration despite them being no longer a private duty but rather of public interest. I repeatedly told Mr. Beckett to be warned about her, to not say any private information to her, but it seems that it had

Howe cleared his throat. "How did you find out, Horace?"

"Mr. Beckett ordered me to follow her, but I had had enough, so I went to her apartment to inform her. Turns out her husband was there. He attacked me when he saw me and the fight for my pistol turned into two shots. They hit him, but he survived. Four men came to pick him up twenty minutes later."

Beckett rose to his feet. "You shot Mathilda?"

"Her husband, Sir."

"Beckett! Sit!" growled Howe.

Beckett sat down in a chorus of mumblings.

"Where is the husband?" asked Howe.

"In a hospital in London."

"And Mathilda?"

"Outside, in my car, under close guard."

"Where was this?"

"By the Court Road, Sir."

Howe narrowed his eyes. "This happened in the middle of London?"

Horace nodded. "Yes Sir."

"That's all that happened between you and him?"

"Yes Sir. I spoke with Mathilda afterwards, after I had taken her from the apartment and into my car to protect her. It was there that she told me everything, but I still have my doubts."

Howe flicked his hand. "Doubts on what, Horace?"

"She's not telling the whole truth. Mr. Beckett told her some confidential information because apparently her husband has been roaming around the country with access to all sorts of factories and industries that pertain to our own national defence."

Howe ran a hand over his face in despair. He stood like that for a couple of moments until Martin entered the saloon with a piece of paper in his hand. He bowed to Horace and showed him the scribbling.

"The man is fine Sir."

"Thank you Martin."

The bartender exited, leaving Howe and Beckett fuming but for different reasons. Without any expectation whatsoever, Howe rose from his chair and tapped Beckett on the shoulder.

"Four men heard this story. You better come up with a good defence in Parliament, Beckett." Howe left the table and headed for the door. "Horace, you've got minutes to go downstairs. I will see you at the office and I need all of the details. Including Mathilda."

Horace could only nod in acceptance.


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This is the end of the little short story. I hope you enjoyed it and as always, feedback welcome!