The Golden Horns. John Burke
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Sometimes, the results were interesting; sometimes the noise was indescribable. But there was a rage for this sort of archaic reconstruction, and the ensemble was flourishing.
It seemed unlikely that Birgitte was interested in the eccentric works of minor composers whose names had been almost forgotten. But young Clifford, with his shy, brown eyes and his boyishly greedy mouth, presumably had an appeal of his own to her.
Martin was not sure whether to be glad or sorry for the young man. He knew the passion of which Birgitte was capable, and the exultation she could arouse in a man’s heart.
But he knew also what her contempt and bitterness could be like.
He hoped Sean Clifford would come out of it alive!
At any rate, it was a relief. Whatever plans Birgitte might have had regarding himself, she had abandoned them now. Her time was occupied with this new, presentable young man.
Martin did not imagine she would try to enlist Clifford’s aid, in any smuggling venture: he was the wrong kind for that sort of thing. He was merely the plaything for an idle hour.
Just as I used to be, he thought grimly: just as I would have been again if she’d had her way.
The days passed swiftly.
His world was filled with music. He listened to music, talked about music, and wrote about music—wrote articles, sent cables, and made notes for future use.
There were receptions, meetings, cocktail parties, late suppers that went on for hours until there were the intimations of dawn beyond the copper spires of the city….
And then, at last, the Festival was ended and he was on his way home.
* * * *
The Cockaigne Ensemble was on the boat with Martin. Sean Clifford nodded to him as they cast off, and in the bar during the course of the evening he edged over and spoke.
“Wonderful place, Copenhagen.” His face was strangely restless—almost apprehensive, thought Martin doubtfully.
“Wonderful,” he dutifully agreed.
“I’m surprised your editor didn’t send you by air. You rich critics….”
Clifford was brashly aggressive. He seemed as though he could not stop talking.
Or as though he wanted to appear at his ease, and had to stick close to someone—not one of his fellow musicians, but someone who would calm him down somehow.
Martin said: “I don’t like travelling by air.”
“I’m all in favour of it myself,” Clifford chattered on. “Bobbing up and down on the sea for hours, after that long train journey—and then another train journey at the other end... Liverpool Street of all depressing places…instead of taking a couple of hours for the whole trip.”
Martin remembered the plane sinking lower over Jutland. He felt the rush of wind, the drop into silence, and the tug of the parachute opening. Danish soil rushed up to meet him…
He said: “I like to forget about aeroplanes. I had enough of them during the war.”
“For myself,”—there was no stopping Clifford—“I’d have been on the plane this morning if it weren’t for all the luggage we have to carry. All our instruments, you know.” He laughed unsteadily. “Lot of old scrap-iron.”
“Well,” Martin shrugged, “if you will play such eccentric old things, you’ve only yourselves to blame.”
He was glad to get away from young Clifford—glad when they reached Liverpool Street the following day, and glad as the taxi whirled him away from the station.
He let himself into his flat and pushed his two heavy cases into a corner of the small entrance hall. First things first: a drink and a cigarette, and a sprawl in his favourite chair.
He was just lowering himself gratefully into its cushioned depths when the doorbell buzzed softly.
Martin sighed. For a moment he considered ignoring it; but a doorbell, like a telephone bell, was a challenge he could never brush aside. He went to the door and opened it.
There was nobody there. Ahead of him was the stairwell, to his right the lift doors.
He emerged from the flat to glance along towards the lifts...and was slashed savagely across the back of the head by something hard—something that drove a surge of pain into his head, exploded a blaze of light before his eyes, and then thrust him down into a reeling, tumultuous darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
Berkley Square was flooded with sunlight. The bodywork of cars parked against the kerb were hot to the touch, and office windows around the square stood gaspingly open.
Martin Slade glanced up at the first floor windows of the building he was approaching, as though hoping they might reveal something about the identity of the occupant of the rooms behind.
But they remained impassive and non-committal.
He went in and prodded the button for the lift. First floor, they had told him on the telephone. It was not far to walk, but this was not the sort of day when anyone walked more than he had to.
The lift purred up; the doors opened; across a richly carpeted passage another door faced him.
He went in.
The brunette behind the desk just inside the door looked up and smiled. Then she blinked at Martin, and smiled even more.
Fifteen years ago he would have been wild with delight at knowing he could make women look at him like that. Now it didn’t matter—not as much as it had done, anyway.
“Yes, sir?” Zoe Peters said in a breathless voice that sounded as though it might rush up an octave if not kept strictly under control.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Logan. Martin Slade.”
“Mr. Slade,” she repeated. “Yes. Oh, absolutely, Mr. Slade.”
A moment later he was being shown into a spacious, well-appointed room overlooking the Square. A man rose from behind the desk to meet him.
Martin, who had had doubts on his way here, was suddenly sure that he had done right in coming. He knew that he had come to the right man
David Logan said: “Sit down. Mr. Slade.”
Martin had met men like this during the war—not many, for there were not many of this calibre. When you met them, you knew them right away. Apparently dispassionate, saturnine men whose rare smiles were sardonic and disillusioned, they were capable of endurance to a degree beyond that of most mortals.
Martin had seen such a man smoke his last cigarette, tell a joke, break into an unexpectedly charming grin, and then go out towards death with steely determination in his eyes and all the tense magnificence of a fearless tiger.
He said: “I’d like you to help me. Mr. Slade, but I’m not sure if the job is up your street.”
“Just give me a few details, and we’ll see. I get a lot of varying traffic up my street, you know!”
“Actually,” said Martin slowly, trying to work out what he must say and how best to start, “I think it concerns a murder.”
“You think it concerns a murder?” One satanic eyebrow lifted querulously.
“The Clifford murder,” said Martin. “You’ve read about it this morning?”
David Logan nodded. “But if you know anything about that—anything at all—you ought to be telling the police. I’m not the man for you. It’s your duty—”
“I know all that,” interrupted Martin. “But I can’t talk to the police. There are reasons.”
“Then why come to me? If you want to pass on information anonymously to the police, I can arrange that for you, but