World War 2 Thriller Collection

by Len Deighton

  ‘Right,’ said Mann. The car slowed as we got to the main entrance of the naval hospital. A sentry checked our identity cards and waved us through to the inner compound where another sentry checked them all over again.

  The car stopped outside the eight-storey building that had been designed to house violent patients. Still the faded signs and steel shutters could be seen on the lower floors. Inside there would be that depressing institutional look to it: hard floors, a lack of ornaments, doors that opened automatically and hissed like Japanese slaves, too much light and far too many bright red fire extinguishers. Even the art reproductions on the walls would have been chosen to dull the senses.

  ‘I get out here,’ said Mann. ‘I’m in the duty-surgeon’s accommodation, top floor. You’re in the VIP block.’

  I looked at him without bothering to conceal my anger. We had exchanged harsher words before, but we’d never come so close to a ding-dong row. I said, ‘Which block is Miss Bancroft in?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mann.

  ‘Then I shall have to phone the gate.’

  ‘She left this morning,’ said Mann. ‘They moved Mrs Bekuv and Red went with her.’

  My bad temper worsened. ‘You deliberately moved her so that I wouldn’t get a chance to talk with her.’

  ‘Are you telling me I should schedule this caper to fit in with your private life?’

  I didn’t answer.

  Mann said, ‘I’ll see you over here about nine in the morning. Maybe by that time you’ll be in a mood to understand.’

  ‘I understand already,’ I said, ‘I understand only too well. The PAD are moving in on you. And you are determined to put Professor Bekuv through the wringer and get results before the PAD get anything out of his wife. Yes, I understand. Red Bancroft is attached to PAD and you don’t like the idea of me being that close to your opposition. You don’t trust me, Major. Well, you’ve heard of self-fulfilling prophecies, haven’t you?’

  ‘Good night,’ said Mann. He got out and closed the door.

  I brought the window down. ‘Do I get an answer?’

  ‘Yes. Grow up,’ said Mann. He buttoned up his coat and put on the silly-looking tweed hat, with the brim turned down at front and back. ‘And stay away from Miss Bancroft – and that is an order.’

  I watched him as he marched into the lighted entrance. The two sets of glass doors opened automatically, but beyond them I could see the newly painted graticule of prison bars, and an armoured booth for the doorman.

  They’d provided me with the comparative luxury of a four-room house normally occupied by a US Navy captain, who was away on detachment to cinclant for a couple of months. His books and his furniture were still there. I had no doubt that this was the accommodation intended for Mann, until he swopped it for the cramped duty-surgeon’s rooms that were so close to Bekuv.

  I was tired, very tired. I thanked God for America, where even the poor-house probably has heated bathrooms. I opened my travelling bag and dumped my dirty linen into the laundry basket. Then I undressed and stepped into the shower. I stood there a long time, letting the hot water hammer at my muscles, and finished with water cold enough to make my teeth chatter. I grabbed the towel from the warm rack and wrapped it round myself before going into the kitchen. I set up a cup and saucer, filled the kettle and plugged in. While I waited for it to boil, I admired the captain’s library. There were a lot of high-powered psychiatry books, papers and bound volumes. There were war memoirs, too, a Shorter Oxford Dictionary, and Dickens and Balzac, and a collection of very old volumes about chemistry.

  I walked into the bedroom. It was a large room with a double bed. On one side of the room there were large wardrobes, the doors entirely covered by tinted glass. Standing in front of the mirror there was a tall slim woman; she was naked except for a triangular frill of black silk. It was Red Bancroft and she smiled, pleased that her joke had worked so well. Her smile became a different sort of smile as she watched me examining her nakedness. She was beautiful. I began to tell her so but she came towards me and put her fingers to my lips. With the other hand she loosened the damp towel from my waist and let it drop to the floor. She flinched as we embraced and she felt the cold water against her skin. My wet hair cascaded droplets over her face. We kissed, and she tightened her arms round me. I could not resist a glance at our reflection as we began our lovemaking.

  Hardly had we started than there was a shrill scream. Red struggled under me but I held her. ‘It’s the kettle,’ I said. ‘It’s sure to have a safety switch.’ She sank back across the bed smiling. And in due time there was the reassuring plop of the kettle’s switch.

  We exchanged no words, apart from incoherent cries and murmurs, and afterwards, when she got out of bed, I pulled the blanket over my shoulders and settled my head into the down pillows. I was almost asleep by the time she reappeared. I was amazed to see her fully dressed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said.

  She sat down on the bed and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. ‘I must go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  She looked at her watch. ‘We are moving Mrs Bekuv. I must be ready.’

  ‘Nice timing,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be bitter.’

  ‘Do you have to go?’

  ‘Do you have to do the job you do,’ she retorted. ‘This is my job and I’m damned good at it, so don’t treat me like the little woman.’

  ‘So why not tell me about your job?’

  ‘Did you tell me about your job – no, you didn’t, because you’re a secret agent –’

  ‘What’s this all about?’ I said. I sat up.

  She stretched her hand and touched my shoulder. ‘I’m telling you goodbye,’ she said. She shivered as if in apprehension.

  ‘Goodbye for now, you mean?’

  ‘I mean goodbye, goodbye.’

  ‘Just for the record,’ I said. ‘Am I using the wrong brand of toothpaste?’

  ‘Nothing personal, my darling. For a time you really had me going. Bessie Mann was asking me how many kids we were going to have, and I found myself looking at recipe books and baby carriages.’

  I looked at her, trying to decide what could account for this resolute farewell.

  ‘Don’t try to puzzle it out, darling,’ she said, and leaned over and gave me a sisterly kiss on the forehead. ‘I planned it that way.’

  ‘Only a woman would plan to say goodbye in bed,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t believe it, baby. I’ve had the kiss-off that way, more times than I care to remember.’ She got to her feet, and opened the wardrobe to get her suede overcoat. For a moment I thought someone was standing inside the wardrobe; but there were only two naval captain’s uniforms in cleaner’s transparent covers. She put her coat on carefully, watching herself in the mirror as she buttoned it.

  I got out of bed and pulled on one of the captain’s dressing-gowns. It was a little too short for me, but at the time I didn’t care. Red Bancroft went into the lounge and picked up a large suitcase, opened the front door and placed it outside. She turned back to me. ‘Look, darling, forget what I said just now – let’s not part this way.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘There isn’t time.’

  ‘I’ll make time.’

  ‘And I’m too mixed up to know myself. Let me take a rain-check.’

  ‘On a love affair?’ I said.

  ‘Please.’

  Before I could answer, there were voices at the door and two men barged in. They were a tough-looking couple, with longish hair and denim jackets. But the hair was recently washed and carefully parted, and the denims were cleaned and pressed, so that the men looked like the sort of college lecturers who smoke pot.

  ‘Scram,’ I told them.

  They didn’t spare me more than a glance. To Red Bancroft one of them said, ‘Is that your only bag?’

  She pointed to another large case and then turned to me. ‘I’ve got to go.’ />
  ‘Who are these creeps?’

  One of the men turned to me and said, ‘You sit down and shut up and you won’t get hurt.’

  ‘I see.’ I said it as passively as I could, and waited until he bent down to pick up Red’s case before lifting the back of his jacket with one hand, while the other hand snatched the pistol from the holster he wore on his belt. ‘Now let’s try all over again,’ I said, as he dropped the case and swung round at me. I’d already stepped far enough back to avoid any such counter action, and while he was still off balance I stepped forward and kicked the side of his knee, hard enough to make him yell. Without waiting to see him massaging the graze, I steered the Magnum to where the other one was standing. Even before I said anything he raised his hands. ‘High,’ I told him. ‘Keep those hands very, very high.’

  I went round the back of him and found his gun too. ‘You’ve got to be quicker than that, if you want to keep your gun that far round your belt,’ I told them. ‘Now let’s see who you are.’

  ‘You know who we are,’ said the first one. ‘What do you think we are doing in this security area?’

  ‘Keep your hands in the air, fatty,’ I said, ‘or I’ll come over there and give you a bruise in the other leg.’

  ‘We’re CIA,’ said the second man. ‘We’re moving Mrs Bekuv.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so,’ I said sarcastically. ‘And then I would have known that I was being threatened by goodies.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Let’s have your social security cards,’ I said. CIA men rarely carry identification papers but they are assigned a special batch of social security numbers that enable them to be identified by fellow operatives, and also by the social security computer if they are found floating in the harbour.

  Reluctantly the two men reached for their wallets. They did it one at a time, and very, very slowly. All the time Red Bancroft watched the fiasco, but said nothing. Neither did the expression on her face give an indication of her feelings, until she said, ‘All right, children, you’ve all had your fun. Now let’s get on with the job.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. I threw the Magnum back to its owner. His catch was so clumsy that he bared a knuckle on it. I noticed that he pulled the holster round to the front before putting the pistol back into it. ‘Now beat it while I say good night to the lady.’

  They went. They picked up the wallets from the table where I’d left them, walked over to the door and left, closing it behind them. There was the sudden noise of a helicopter engine. Red went across to the window. Over her shoulder I could see some lights and activity and then I heard the helicopter’s rotors turning as the clutch was engaged. Red Bancroft said, ‘Mrs Bekuv swims in the big indoor pool every morning before breakfast. This morning we’ll put her in the chopper and be down in St Petersburg, Florida, before it’s time for brunch.’ She turned away from the window and put one arm round my waist and hugged me. ‘Are you going to give me a second chance?’ she asked.

  I kissed her. She picked up her case and went to the door. I heard the voices of the two men and then the sound of a car engine. Soon after that the helicopter roared and lifted up over the roof tops. I still hadn’t answered her.

  15

  Mann gave Mrs Bekuv no time to say goodbye to her husband: that was all part of his scheme. We sat in Mann’s little office – originally intended for the duty nurse – and heard Andrei Bekuv walk down the corridor, calling his wife’s name.

  Mann sat hunched over a desk in the corner, watching the dark storm-clouds come racing in from the Atlantic. The rain beat upon the windows and the morning was so dark that Mann needed the desk light in order to read. He looked at me and winked as Andrei Bekuv came back.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Mann softly.

  Andrei Bekuv was silhouetted against the brightness of the corridor lighting as he opened the door and looked in on us.

  ‘Where is my wife, Major Mann? She wasn’t at breakfast, and she’s not swimming. Do you know where she has gone?’

  ‘We’ve moved her to Baltimore,’ said Mann without looking up from the papers he held under the desk light.

  ‘When? When was this?’ said Andrei Bekuv. He was jolted, and he scowled and looked at his watch. Bekuv was a creature of habit. Breakfast at seven, coffee at ten, a light lunch at one, dinner at seven thirty, in time for him to finish his meal and be in the armchair, with hi-fi tuned, ready for the evening concert. He insisted that the supply of vitamins in his medicine cabinet be replenished without his having to ask for them, and he liked decaffeinated coffee, served demi-tasse, in the evening, with fresh cream. And he liked to know where to find his wife.

  ‘When?’ repeated Bekuv.

  ‘Oh, some time early this morning.’ Mann turned the desk clock round to see it better. There was a barometer fitted into it and Mann tapped that. ‘They should be there by now. Do you want to phone her?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bekuv.

  Mann picked up the phone and went through a pantomime of asking for a number in Baltimore. He thanked someone at the other end. And then hung up. ‘Seems like we can’t get through to Baltimore from here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I didn’t think to ask. Do you want me to call the operator again?’

  Bekuv came into the room and sat down. ‘What game are you playing now, Major Mann?’

  ‘I might ask you the same question, Professor Bekuv,’ said Mann. From the clutter of papers and objects on the desk in front of him, Mann selected a large brown envelope. It contained something lumpy. He passed the envelope to Bekuv. ‘Take a look at that, for example.’

  Bekuv hesitated.

  ‘Go ahead, take a look at it.’

  Bekuv handled the envelope as if it might explode. I wondered afterwards if he guessed what was inside it. If he did, he was in no hurry to see it again. Finally, he ripped the edge of the envelope far enough to slide the contents out. There was a transparent plastic evidence bag with some typewritten labels attached to it. Inside the bag there was a flick-knife.

  ‘The police sent that over here yesterday afternoon, Professor Bekuv. It was found near the steps of the church, during a search made during the early hours of Christmas morning. You remember Christmas morning?’

  ‘It’s the one used to wound my wife,’ said Bekuv. He didn’t open the bag. He dropped it back into the envelope as if it might have carried traces of some fatal contagion. He tried to pass the envelope back to Mann but the major would not accept it from him.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mann.

  ‘What’s it supposed to mean?’ Bekuv demanded.

  ‘Supposed to mean?’ said Mann. ‘I’m glad you said supposed to mean, because there’s often a world of difference between what things mean, and what they are supposed to mean. For instance,’ said Mann, ‘that’s the knife that caused your wife’s wounds. Whether she was trying to knife you with it, or preventing you knifing her with it, or whether you were both trying to cut each other, or even turn it on yourselves, I wouldn’t be too sure.’

  ‘A man assaulted us,’ said Bekuv.

  ‘Yes, sure, that’s the other theory isn’t it? Didn’t I mention that one? Forgive me.’

  Bekuv looked at his watch. Whether he was thinking about his wife arriving in Baltimore, about his ten o’clock coffee or simply indulging in displacement activity that helped him gather his wits, there was no way of telling.

  Mann picked up some papers from his desk, read for a moment or two and then said, ‘Those gloves your wife was wearing … a shop in Fifth Avenue sells them for twenty-eight dollars a pair and advertises them as real kid, but in fact they make them from the skin of sheep. Now, that’s the kind of dishonesty I hate. How about you, Professor?’

  The professor did not commit himself: he grunted.

  Mann said, ‘Sheepskin. To make a pair of gloves like that, the tanning process removes the epidermal layer …’ Mann was reading from the paper ‘… to expose the corium minor or grain layer. It is the n
ature of this grain layer that enables a scientist to distinguish the age, sex and species of animal from which the skin originated.’

  Professor Bekuv said, ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘Hold on, Professor. I’m not through yet. It gets better. Did you know that the grain pattern from any piece of animal skin is as individual to that animal as a fingerprint is to one individual man?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what of it,’ said Mann. He put the papers back on his desk, turned to Bekuv and smiled. ‘The police forensic lab took leather prints off that knife. They say it was wielded by your bride. They say her Fifth Avenue gloves left prints on that knife as clear and as evidential as if she’d used her bare hands.’ Mann picked up another evidence bag that contained the gloves, and dropped it back on to the desk again. ‘The police say your wife knifed herself, Professor. And they say they can prove it.’

  Bekuv looked away.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mann, breathing a sigh. ‘The fact of the matter is that the investigation is closing as far as you are concerned. My people have lost interest in you – you’ve cost the American taxpayer too much money already. You’ll be allowed to live wherever you like – within reason – but you’ll have to find a place for yourself … the same goes for getting a job. No chair at NYU. You will have to read the vacancies in the papers. For the time being the two of you are being kept separate but that’s for your own protection. My people say that there will be more chance of your KGB squads killing you if you are together. Next year, of course, the danger will have subsided a little. By then there will probably be no objection to your living under the same roof again.’

  ‘Now wait a minute …’ said Bekuv.

  ‘Sorry it had to be this way, Professor. As your wife understood so well, this could have been a big one for us.’ He smiled to show that he held no ill feelings. ‘You’ll be able to keep the hi-fi and the recordings and stuff of course.’ He picked up papers from his desk and tapped them edge-down on the desk to tidy them.

  It was only then that Bekuv seemed to become aware of my presence in the dark corner of the office. He turned to me. ‘Is Miss Bancroft with my wife?’ he asked.