The Girl From Peking

by George B Mair

  Grant was not satisfied. ‘She sounds interesting. But not interesting enough. Why are you so worried?’

  The Admiral stared at him coldly. ‘That is anyone’s guess, but she is being lionised everywhere. No party is complete without her. And her wardrobe is making Parisian couturiers pea green with envy. A columnist wrote today that she is the best dressed woman in Western Europe, which puts her right into the inner circles. So one is not surprised to find her invited to that absurd reception they are giving to your British delegation in Élysée Palace.’

  Grant prickled. ‘Not absurd, sir. Normal civility. After all the Prime Minister is leading it. And the reasons for his visit are important.’

  The Admiral stared at him sourly. ‘I don’t like these French politicians ever since they said they would pull their armed forces out of NATO. Next thing we’ll all be looking for a new sub-office in Brussels, or Rome or some damn place after we have gotten ourselves nicely organised here. But tell me, David. Why in the name of sanity should the President invite this high class international suspect to a political do like the Élysée affair? She is quite out of place.’

  Grant lit a cigarette. He had given up trying to stop for several months and decided that if he was due for a lung tumour he would take it smiling. And to Hell with doctors anyhow! ‘Maybe they want to pump her, sir. If that Chinese tour is true she might have a lot to say.’

  The Admiral shook his head. ‘Even if they were trying to please she wouldn’t get within miles of their nuclear stuff. Or meet any of the physicists. So why the interest?’

  ‘She may help to build up a picture of China in areas where information is scanty.’

  ‘Or lead us up the garden path with a lot of nonsense. And in any case she isn’t a trained observer.’

  But Grant knew his man. ‘Tell me the lot, sir. Would you care to put me fully in the picture?’

  Admiral Cooper glowered his distaste for modern life. ‘Our man Juin and all his confounded scientists are taking years off my life. But at least I’m still young enough to have an open mind, so I checked on her voice prints. Got me?’

  Grant was not enthusiastic about voice prints, although they had been used from time to time in the States, but he did accept that given time they might indeed become fool proof. Meanwhile he gave them a low rating. In a nutshell, an instrument converted sound into a graph and it was alleged that no two graphs were similar. ‘So you got her print through some clever trick with a portable tape or something and then got our people to match it against our files. Right?’

  ‘Right. And only one print compared favourably.’

  Grant flicked off an inch of ash. ‘I’ll buy it, sir. Who?’

  ‘Your former secretary, Jacqueline. The one you sprayed with acid on the Sahara. The Chinese double agent who pulled wool over your eyes for damn near two years.’

  Grant paused. The thing was impossible. This new woman looked no more like Jacqueline than he did Charlie Chaplin. ‘But the prints didn’t match?’

  The Admiral scowled. ‘Correct. But,’ he added curtly. ‘Our people say that there is a resemblance. They even suggest that if she had had some damage to her vocal cords it might be enough to explain any difference.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Grant knew his Chief well enough to appreciate that he never built except on a convincing foundation. And to date the evidence wasn’t enough.

  ‘Yes.’ The Admiral touched a button and a cinema screen unrolled, while Miss Sidders, his elderly secretary, focussed a transparency. It was a sample of handwriting blown up to at least ten feet by six. The words were in French. . . . ‘Mon cher ami,’ . . . a conventional enough beginning to a letter.

  And then Miss Sidders changed slides. The second had the same words. ‘Got it yesterday evening,’ said the Admiral. ‘The beginning of a letter to a young man the French are using to pump her about China’s background wonders.’

  ‘While their agent enjoys the foreground wonders.’

  Miss Sidders looked at Grant with distaste. ‘Remember that for the moment at least you are with a woman who is a lady and please don’t say things like that. Most ungentlemanly!’

  ‘Forgive,’ said Grant. ‘But how about having a second projector and a good look at these two specimens side by side? Or even superimposed.’

  Miss Sidders returned moments later with an old fashioned Aldis which had been in the department long before Grant had joined.

  The two specimens were shot against the screen, first superimposed and then, with a smaller picture of each, side by side. To Grant’s eyes there was little resemblance. ‘Not strictly correct,’ snapped the Admiral. ‘We’ve shown you these purely as a matter of interest. But our handwriting experts say that they could have been written by the same person.’

  ‘Could or were?’ Grant was not convinced.

  Miss Sidders pressed another button, and a light flashed on the wall. Grant knew this one of old. It stayed orange while the visitor walked along the corridor: switched to green at the corner where he turned left towards the office and snapped into red when he reached the door. The light switched off as the door opened but Grant reckoned that even as a gimmick it was pretty useless, and he looked curiously at the elderly man who had now taken a seat.

  ‘Switch on these pictures,’ said the Admiral, ‘and then, Monsieur Duroy, be so kind as to tell us why you feel that they have been written by the same hand.’

  Duroy lit a hand-rolled cigarette and spoke with it dangling from one corner of his mouth. There was a certain emphasis in the down stroke of the ‘m’. The ‘o’ was angled at roughly ten degrees from vertical and the ‘c’ was likewise pitched at a similar angle. Both ‘e’s were rather larger than one would have expected from the other letters and the ‘a’s were almost identical in having a downstroke which extended below the invisible base line. Neither of the ‘i’s had been dotted and the final comma was really a tiny circle with a longish tail. ‘So,’ concluded the expert, ‘I am of the opinion that they could have been written by the same person.’

  ‘Or by the same hand?’ queried Grant. ‘Is one right-handed and the other left?’

  Duroy shook his head. ‘Both done with the right hand.’

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are sure? Not the left?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Then, sir,’ snapped Grant. ‘It was not done by Jacqueline. She was left-handed.’

  The Admiral looked at him curiously. Grant could be a devil when irritated. ‘You don’t agree?’ he said softly. ‘Then if not kindly tell us why.’

  Grant stared at the screen. ‘The first specimen was certainly written by Jacqueline because I know her writing well. But every letter in the second sample is more bold and dashing, yet somehow more feminine. A sort of scrawl, whereas the first is neat. Like everything else about Jacqueline,’ he added. ‘That sprawling script is not in character.’

  Duroy received permission to leave. ‘You are entitled to your opinion, m’sieur. But I have told you mine. And I repeat. They could have been written by the same girl, a girl who was consciously trying to alter her style, but who didn’t know enough about refinements to do so properly.’

  ‘Well, David?’ The Admiral had emptied the room and even Miss Sidders had gone. ‘Any comment?’

  Grant shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s impossible for that woman you showed me to be Jacqueline. Different types altogether. And although the surgeons may have transplanted hearts I’ve never heard that they could give a woman an entire new face.’

  The words had slipped out. Almost without thinking. And as their significance struck both men Grant whistled softly through his teeth. If that were possible then she might indeed be Jacqueline. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked at last.

  The Admiral grinned. ‘Her story first reached me from Delhi. I spent long enough on the phone before deciding that the girl would need watching. So to rouse her curiosity I sent a collection of orchids to her room on the morning she arrived. They ought to have
made her dead curious. And by this time . . . nearly five weeks later . . . she’ll be leaning backwards to know who sent them. So we’ll send another collection this afternoon with a note to the effect that the sender looks forward to the third dance and a champagne cocktail at the Embassy party tomorrow. Okay?’

  ‘Okay indeed. But show me the photograph again.’

  He studied every detail of face and figure. ‘Different,’ he said at last. ‘Eyebrows thicker but more elegant, and turning up slantwise at each extremity. Eyelashes longer and strictly normal whereas Jacqueline preferred artificials. Lips less voluptuous but more aristocratic. And ditto the nose, which is a honey with that slightly turned up effect at the tip. Chin with a dimple and no tension lines around either forhead or lips. Breasts well concealed with that coat but looking a shade heavier than dear Jacquy’s: say a 38 D bra instead of Jacquy’s 36 B. But of course,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘two years have passed and she may have put on some weight. Our girl’s turn was sleek as a concave shoehorn but this one looks cuddly, rather more like the Venus de Milo, and where Jacqueline never wore any sort of girdle except a strip to hold up her stockings my bet is that this one likes to feel tucked in for just that little bit which boosts confidence. On balance I’d say there isn’t any reasonable point of resemblance, but maybe I blundered on target. Maybe they did give her a new face. Certainly she would need one after that acid. But if so then some Chinese wallah has a gift for plastic surgery which the West has still to learn.’

  The Admiral stood up. ‘Then act along these lines. She doesn’t ring true. Even French Security have an instinct that she’s a phoney, but her story is so complicated that it is extremely difficult to disprove.’

  ‘Maybe why she uses it, sir.’ Grant was smiling broadly. ‘Third dance and a Champagne cocktail! The sort of thing which makes our hack stuff worth while in the long run!’

  The Admiral snapped out a command as Grant was about to leave the office. ‘One minute, David.’

  ‘Sir.’ Grant snapped to attention and knew that the old man was on parade. ‘You have a knack of getting into the most bloody awful situations and then leaving my department to clear up the mess, but this time you are on home ground and will do nothing without consulting me. And you will do nothing to create what French newsmen call a situation. Understand?’

  Grant nodded. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Keep in line or else . . . out. Now is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  The Admiral looked at him uncertainly. ‘You know I don’t mean a word of it, David. Damn it! We’d be lost without you. But play it cool. This time. Just for the sake of peace everywhere. The woman may or may not be genuine, but if she turns out to be up to no good talk it over with me before you start anything.’

  Grant forced a smile. He guessed what it must have cost the old man to take some of it back at the last moment. And for sure his own seniors must have been breathing down his neck on several occasions when trouble had broken. But he had never once let Grant down yet and Grant knew that he never would.

  ‘I’ll be careful, sir.’

  The Admiral rang a bell. ‘Have tea before you go. Miss Sidders will bring it in. Hate drinking tea alone with that old gossip. Better join us.’

  Grant knew that ‘that old gossip’ was one of the most shrewd members of the department and that she could be trusted to cope with almost any situation on the diary. Her reaction time was remarkable for her age, and she could have reached the top as a character actress on the international stage. Miss Sidders, in fact, was dynamite, and one of the very few people whom Grant rated as better than himself on the job. ‘What do you think, Ma’am?’ he asked. ‘Is it Jacqueline?’

  She dropped two lumps into each cup, poured tea and sat down beside the table. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Why?’

  She smiled self-consciously. ‘I was at the Opéra on the night that the thief person was shot. And I tried to have a good look at the latest sensation. So I was fairly close when she drew the gun. It was carried in a thigh holster and I saw her legs. She was wearing a small protective device behind the metal of her suspenders and I’ve just remembered that Jacqueline was allergic to metal. She always used plastic or rubber clips against a nickel skin reaction. This woman does the same, so on balance I think it is the last small point which tilts the balance.’

  Grant forced a laugh. It was true that Jacqueline suffered from an allergy to the nickel of suspender clips and that she used sorbo rubber pads as protection. But trust Miss Sidders to spot the things which mattered. ‘Anything else?’ The story had rocked him. If Jacqueline was being launched into Parisian society like this something big must be cooking somewhere, for someone. And not least, possibly for himself!

  Miss Sidders stirred her tea with a spoon which Grant knew had been made from a coin minted during the reign of the Sun-King, and which was one of her mascots. ‘Perhaps one small point, Doctor,’ she said at last. ‘The girl de Massacré always entered the rear of a car putting her left leg in first and then turning to sit in the right hand back seat. And that is what this new woman also did. But it is the small points which add up, you know.’

  Grant finished his tea. He would be counting the hours until tomorrow evening . . . and the third dance followed by a Champagne cocktail. ‘See you,’ he said abruptly. ‘Quite a lot to think about.’

  Miss Sidders and the Admiral watched him leave the room and the woman spotted the tension in his jaw. ‘Something is going to happen,’ she said, ‘and my guess is it will be tomorrow evening.’

  The Admiral looked at her curiously. ‘Why?’

  Miss Sidders coughed. ‘He won’t rest till he sees her in a bath, or bed, or somewhere. He knew the girl de Massacré’s body better than he does his own. And it is my own belief, that since he is a man, he won’t rest till he knows this one equally well. He will want to see if she gives herself away in . . . what is the word . . . the technique of love-making, and he will be looking for some tiny blemish which is known only to a lover.’

  The Admiral laughed aloud. ‘And that from you!’

  His secretary gathered up the tea things. ‘I wasn’t always as old as this, sir, and even I have had a little experience.’ She whisked from the room and had the last word as she closed the door. ‘He was killed riding to hounds. I’m surprised you didn’t uncover that when you had me double-checked before my first promotion. Someone slipped up there, sir, I’m afraid.’

  The Admiral sparked a match. Women were the devil. He thought for a moment. And she was still handsome even in the middle sixties, or whatever it was. Pity for that poor chap! He puffed again and his eyes softened. Pity for Miss Sidders as well, come to think of it.

  And then a final thought struck him. If this new woman turned out to be Jacqueline de Massacré it might be a pity for many people before she had finished the battle with David Grant which now seemed inevitable.

  Chapter Five – ‘The price will be high’

  Grant loved Thailand. He appreciated Thai food and respected an ancient civilisation. The party was up to standard, and he watched Tania, as he had decided to call her until something had been proven otherwise, while she danced a Cha-cha-cha with a young Frenchman to whom he took an instant dislike. In the first place he was too good a dancer by half. And in the second Grant suspected that he was planning a seduction routine. In which case, he swore softly, the fellow would have to be luckier than he deserved, because Grant had promised that particular luxury for himself on that same night as the only possible way in which to discover whether or not she was really his old time secretary.

  Though he was now quite certain in his own mind that there wasn’t the slightest resemblance.

  This woman had a voice pitched several tones lower. There was a throaty seductiveness about her words which Jacqueline had lacked, and her carriage was different. Even her eyes were different, their pupils sparking with an excitement which Jacqueline had rarely shown, while her hands moved with a
grace which was more elegant and less vivacious. But there was only one sure-fire way to find out. And everything in his flat was ready, the bottle of Veuve Clicquot with a long playing Mantovani record, small chow with morsels of cheese, and even a dish of oysters thawing near his deep freeze.

  The music stopped and there was a brief interval while the floor cleared, but as the first notes of a Viennese waltz tinkled out Grant stepped forward to the group of men and women who surrounded her. ‘David Grant, Ma’am. An orchid told me that you were going to honour me with this dance.’

  She looked at him deadpan though Grant felt a rising tension as a flush mounted her cheeks. He had watched her look around the room at intervals during the past twenty minutes and knew that she was rattled. During the Cha-cha she had forced her laughs and yet somehow had never allowed herself to ‘go’. Her eyes had wandered into the darker corners but he knew that she had never noticed him studying her reflection in a mirror, or marked the alcove against which he was lounging near the door. He offered his arm before she could speak, bowed to the group and escorted her to the floor.

  He ignored mutterings behind them and took her waist. Grant was an above average dancer and knew that Jacqueline of old had been even better. Almost competitive standard, in fact, but before they had completed one round of the floor he realised that Tania was an amateur by comparison. While Tania almost read his thoughts and compelled herself to be occasionally just off beat.

  He had decided to let the girl speak first and watched the pulse in her neck rise to over ninety as they completed the first dance in silence. An encore was virtually certain, and as they politely applauded she looked at him curiously. ‘Do you speak, m’sieur? Or do you always say it with flowers?’