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Perhaps if he were honest, Howard acknowledged, he could say the same of Bradley.
“What, exactly, do you suspect him of?” Bradley said at last.
“A slightly skewed judgment,” Howard answered. “An overlooking of some aspects of Hitler’s admirers. Goebbels, in particular. Maybe Cordell wants peace so badly he can’t see the warning in the building of these camps for Gypsies, Jews…whoever doesn’t fit the classic Aryan mold. It’s the oldest trick in the book o
f a demagogue to blame all your troubles on an identifiable group. Turn people’s attention to something they can hate, and they’ll leave you alone.”
“And isn’t it all the fault of the Communists?” Bradley asked, this time without aggression in his voice. “Aren’t they a disruptive, almost nihilistic force?”
“Yes,” Howard answered. “But sinking to their level of violence is joining them, not beating them…” He knew as he spoke that it was not really an answer.
Bradley knew it, too. “And isn’t that irrational anyway?”
“At the moment,” Howard agreed. “But I think it won’t always be. Hitler’s gaining power every week. He’s building up an enormous head of steam in Germany, of energy, violence, hatred. He’ll have to direct it somewhere else, in another few years.”
Bradley sat thinking that over for several moments. Then he sighed. “I don’t much like you, Howard. And I know you don’t like me, primarily because I’m not Lucas Standish, but I think you’re right, in this at least. And I dare say in the long run, if Hitler continues the way he’s going, I shall lose as many men as Standish. I’ll be glad if I save as many! And get the same kind of loyalty!” He looked directly at Howard.
Howard felt the heat burn up his face, but he did not look away. “You’ll get it from me, sir. Not the regard, but certainly the loyalty. And before I go, I have to tell you our man in Amalfi, Cossotto, was murdered. Don’t know by whom, or why. It’s possible it had nothing to do with us, but it would be dangerous to assume it.”
Bradley lost a little color in his face. “What’s happening in Amalfi, for God’s sake?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
“Who told you? Not the Italian police?”
“No, of course not. One of our own. Maybe there’s no connection. He was found in a hotel linen cupboard. Perhaps a jealous husband…or a thief.”
“Do you think so?”
“No.”
Bradley’s voice was sharp with exasperation. “Then who, for God’s sake?”
“I don’t know…”
“Then what are you doing to find out?”
“Very little I can do, without tipping my hand,” Howard replied. There was a degree of apology in his tone. “I am more concerned with damage control regarding what Newton is working on—and also, if and how anyone knew the connections. I want to find out as discreetly as possible. We don’t want to betray our interest in him, in case his death had nothing to do with us. Or it could have been a test to see if we would own it, either intentionally or accidentally, by becoming involved.”
“A trap?” Bradley said quietly.
“It’s possible. Our relationship with the Italian authorities is…a trifle uncertain. Mussolini is with us in some things, and very definitely against us in others.”
“The Italians were with us in the war,” Bradley pointed out. “Half of Britain has been having a love affair with Italy for centuries!”
“Love affairs and politics frequently cross,” Howard replied with a slightly twisted smile. “They are both highly volatile. And often end in one sort of war, or another.”
Bradley looked at him steadily, and Howard knew that, for a moment or two at least, they had an understanding. He took his leave while he was still ahead, as much as he ever would be with Bradley.
* * *
—
Howard thought about Cordell on his way home. He was late, as usual, but not sufficiently for Pamela to make an issue about it. They did not often quarrel these days. They both knew that nobody was going to win.
He arrived at the gate, opened it, and walked up the path. It was a handsome house with a garden full of flowers. The middle of May was the best time for gardens, although Pamela had chosen the plants so there was always something to give it color. There was a yellow rose in full bloom over the door. He presumed it must have a perfume, but he could not smell it.
He opened the door and went in. Should he apologize for being late? It happened regularly.
