The Swap

by Nancy Boyarsky

  When Nicole explained she’d come to speak to the manager, the desk clerk lifted a section of the counter and led her back to a small, untidy office where a gray-haired woman was working at a computer. She stood up and gave Nicole a tentative smile. She was slightly built with deeply-lined skin and eyes of startling blue. Hearing her voice, Nicole felt a sudden surge of hope. The woman’s accent was identical to Alice’s.

  “I’m Mrs. Hall,” she said when Nicole introduced herself. “Timothy left a note about your call. I wish I could help. But I’m afraid I don’t know — what did you say your friend’s name was?”

  “Alice McConnehy,” Nicole said. “She told me she knew the people who own this hotel.”

  Mrs. Hall looked puzzled. “There’s only me. I’m the proprietor.”

  “Maybe you’d know her by sight,” Nicole said. “She’s about my size and has red hair and rather prominent blue eyes.”

  “Is she in some sort of trouble?” the woman said.

  Nicole shrugged. “She hasn’t done anything wrong. I’m sure of it.”

  Mrs. Hall slowly shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone answering that description. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look all in. Why don’t you have a sit down and let me bring you some tea.”

  “No, thanks,” Nicole said. “But I would like to call a cab.”

  The woman insisted on making the call herself then asked Nicole to wait in her office. “It will take ten or fifteen minutes. The driver will know to come in and ask for you. Now make yourself comfortable, and I’ll bring you some tea.”

  This time Nicole said, “That would be nice. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  As soon as the woman left, Nicole began to wander around the room. She studied pictures on the wall — colored photos of woodland lakes — and glanced over stacks of papers on the desk. It occurred to her that the woman might be lying, that she might have her own reasons for not admitting she knew Alice. She took a more careful look around, as if something in the room might yield up a clue, but all she saw were hotel bills and invoices for goods like detergent, toilet paper, bath soap, and paper towels.

  She was behind the desk, reading the information displayed on the computer screen — room charges for someone named Hazzan Abduhl — when Mrs. Hall walked in carrying a small tray. Nicole moved quickly away from the computer, but if the woman was annoyed, she gave no sign of it. She glanced at the displayed record and said, “They’re all Arabs, every one of them. The whole of Kuwait moves up here for the summer. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

  While Nicole drank her tea, Mrs. Hall asked where she was from and what it was like living in L.A. Looking into the woman’s earnest blue eyes, Nicole decided that Mrs. Hall was probably telling the truth about not knowing Alice. It must have been someone else who Alice wanted her to contact. But try as she might, she couldn’t remember Alice mentioning anyone except the people who owned this hotel.

  The woman appeared to be in no great hurry to return to her work. Nicole, on the other hand, was beginning to feel tired and anxious to get back to the house; it seemed an eternity before word came that the cab was waiting in front.

  “I wish you luck finding your friend,” Mrs. Hall said as she showed Nicole back to the lobby. Then she added, “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Graves. We have a lot of crime in London, pickpockets and robbers. They like to prey on tourists. The people who stay here — poor things — they’re like lambs to the slaughter.”

  Nicole was on her way back through the lobby, past the veiled women and their children, when Mrs. Hall came dashing out carrying her raincoat. “Wait! You left your mac.”

  By the time she climbed into the cab, Nicole was exhausted. Her head and, in fact, her whole body ached. The morning had been a complete waste of time.

  She asked the cabby to let her off in front of a pharmacy on Chiswick’s main shopping street so she could buy some aspirin. She planned to take a couple before walking back to the house. Maybe the fresh air would do her good.

  She got out of the cab, pulled some money out of her purse, and, after checking to be sure it was enough, thrust it into the cabby’s waiting hand.

  The wind was brisk. When she put her hands in her coat pockets to warm them, she noticed a piece of paper in the right one. She took it out and stared at it, a folded sheet. On one side, a message had been printed in large block letters. It read, “Do not open until you are alone.” She glanced at the warning, then shoved it, still-folded, back in her pocket as she hurried into the pharmacy.

  While she waited in line to pay for the aspirin, she kept reaching into her pocket to touch the folded paper, fingering its edges. Once she was outside again, she paused and glanced around. Except for a small crowd waiting for the bus, the street was almost empty. At the bus stop, the people appeared harmless and preoccupied— two plump women who might have been twins carried string shopping bags; a small cluster of girls giggled; a dirty-faced, disheveled old man dozed on one of the benches. A few yards away, a teenage boy with long greasy hair slouched against the wall, his face buried in a book.

  None of them were paying the least bit of attention to her. She was taking one last look around before pulling out the note, when she spotted Reinhardt. He was half a block away, standing at the end of a line waiting at an ATM. At that very moment, he glanced in her direction, and their eyes met; for Nicole, the impact of that eye contact was like an electric shock.

  She turned and, after a quick glance to her left, started across the street. The bleat of a horn and the screech of tires nearby almost made her heart stop. On her right, coming at her from the wrong side of the road, a car screeched to a stop a few inches away. A man stuck his head out of the window and screamed something she couldn’t understand. Blindly, she ran the rest of the way across the street. She hurried through the first open doorway, finding herself in a tiny grocery store.

  Her heart was still pounding as she made her way around crates of apples, tomatoes, grapes, lettuce, and squash to peer through the front window. Across the street, there was no longer anyone in line at the ATM. The sidewalk in front of the bank was empty.

  She killed a few minutes cruising the aisles. She settled on some items she thought she could use — a loaf of bread, milk, and cereal. She used her last £10 note to pay for her purchases and hurried out of the store. Only when she reached the Lowrys’ corner did she allow herself to look back. The street was empty.

  She ran the rest of the way home. Once inside, she slammed the front door and locked it. Leaning against it, she pulled out the note:

  Nicole:

  Sorry to send you chasing all over London, but I have to be very careful. I want to talk to you, Nicole, and I wonder if you would bring something I left at the house. It’s an envelope I hid under a loose floorboard in the upstairs hall by the door to the bathroom. The carpet is tacked down, so you’ll have to rip it up. You’ll find more tacks in the linen cupboard.

  It’s just some money and a key to a storage locker. If it isn’t there, the police will have taken it. I don’t think this is likely, but even if they did, please come anyway.

  Meet me tomorrow morning at 11:30 at the Pig and Whistle Coffee Shop at Canary Wharf. Don’t come by taxi because someone might follow you. The tube is best: Take the District Line to Edgware Road Line at Earl’s Court, then to the Central Line at Notting Hill Gate. Get off at Bank and follow the blue signs (down two flights of escalators) to the Docklands Light Rail. Get off at Canary Wharf. The trip will take about an hour.

  If you think you’re being followed, turn around and go back. If you don’t come, I’ll know what happened.

  Take care, Nicole. There is something I must talk to you about. You are in danger.

  Locating the loose floorboard was easy. She had, in fact, noticed it creak the first time she walked through the house. Once the carpet was rolled back, she pulled up the board and found the envelope.

  She
was just opening it, when she remembered she’d turned off her phone. She pulled it out and turned it on. It rang almost immediately.

  “Where were you?” Brad said. “I must have called a dozen times. If you hadn’t answered just now, I was coming home.”

  “I was reading a book in the yard,” she said. “I guess I fell asleep.”

  He was quiet a moment. Then, in a gentler tone, “Please—just stay in the house ‘til you’re better. I’m really worried about you. Look, about tonight—I’ve got to meet with some people, and—well—I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She’d opened the envelope and was staring at the contents. Just as Alice had said, it held a half dozen £50 notes and a key.

  “So I invited them over to our place,” Brad was saying. “There will be six of us. I’m having food delivered. You don’t have to worry about a thing. We can meet in the dining room, so we won’t be in your way. We’ll be there around 7:00, 7:30. I mean, is that all right?”

  “Sure,” she said absently. “Fine.”

  As she hung up, she thought of Brenda and wondered if he’d have the nerve to invite her, and if she’d actually have the chutzpah to come. Had Brad told her yet that their romance was over? Had he told her anything?

  She tacked the carpet back down, using the hammer and nails she found in the linen closet. Then she put the envelope in her purse. Before Brad and the others arrived, she fixed herself an omelet, ate it, and washed the dishes.

  The knocker on the front door sounded, and there they were — Brad, three disgruntled-looking Brits, and Brenda, hanging back at the edge of the porch. From the anguished expression on Brenda’s face, Nicole decided that, indeed, Brad had spoken to her.

  Nicole smiled and greeted the men as Brad introduced them. When he was done, she turned to Brenda and said, “It’s so good to see you again.” She was careful to insert just the right degree of warmth she’d be expected to bestow on her husband’s administrative aide.

  Before the food arrived, Nicole made her excuses and retreated upstairs. From the spare bedroom, she located a small black and white TV, which she moved to the night table in the Lowrys’ room. She got into bed and flipped channels until she found something that looked mindless enough to suit her mood. The show turned out to be a sitcom about a cabinet minister, a man perennially in trouble with his wife and his mistress, who also happened to be his administrative assistant. The sound of the TV had to compete with the hum of voices floating up from the meeting. Despite the noise and her awareness of Brenda’s presence downstairs, it wasn’t long before Nicole was asleep.

  Thirteen

  As Nicole entered the station, she expected a long, steep escalator to plunge her into the depths of the London Underground. But Turnham Green, with its small station, offered no such drama. Passing through one of the turnstiles, she walked down a short flight of stairs into the brightness of an outdoor station. True, it was below street level but hardly worthy of being called a subway.

  She kept looking around. So far, there was no sign of Reinhardt. He hadn’t followed her to the station; she was sure of that. And now, with the exception of a few old ladies and herself, the terminal was empty.

  It was a good five minutes before a train roared in. At the front of the car, she chose an empty seat in a row facing backward so she could keep her eye on the door. Once settled, she reached into her purse for Alice’s note and reread her instructions. At the first stop, she studied each new passenger, noting height and gender, then looking closely to be sure Reinhardt hadn’t managed to assume a new size and shape. She took note of who settled in for a long ride and who remained standing, poised to depart after a station or two.

  After a few minutes, the train entered a tunnel that took it beneath the city. She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to relax.

  Breakfast that morning had been stressful; she thought Brad would never leave. He’d lingered over his coffee, dawdled over his laptop, and hurried back upstairs several times for things he’d forgotten. Clearly, he was hanging around, hoping for forgiveness. He had the same cringing aura of remorse she’d seen in Arnold, their terrier, when he was punished for chewing something up — a pair of shoes, an eyeglass case complete with glasses, and, on one occasion, the electric razor Brad had left lying on the edge of the sink.

  Rather than inspiring sympathy, Brad’s demeanor reinforced her suspicion that he was hiding something beyond the now-admitted affair with Brenda. Nicole couldn’t stop wondering how much trouble he might be in.

  The train slowed and pulled to a stop. When she looked around, she realized it was Earl’s Court, where she had to change trains. This was easily done, and the new train waited while more people poured in. By the time it started up again, the car was packed, and Nicole could see nothing beyond the man standing in the aisle next to her.

  At last the train began to slow again, and the sign outside the window told her this was her stop, Notting Hill Gate. As she got to her feet, a man at the rear of the car caught her eye. He wore a Panama hat and was a couple of inches taller than the people around him. She couldn’t quite see his face but there was something familiar about him — his posture, the set of his shoulders.

  For a long moment she stood frozen to the spot. As soon as her initial shock passed, she had an irresistible urge to run, to bolt from the train. She’d just begun to push her way down the aisle when a bell rang. The doors trembled, then snapped shut, and the train was on its way again.

  It was too late to resume her seat; someone had taken it. She made her way through the crush of passengers to a spot near the door. There, she hung onto a pole and chewed her fingernails, trying to figure out what to do. She was aware of the man’s reflection in the window. He seemed to be edging closer while studying the subway map on the opposite wall.

  A plan began to hatch. As they pulled into the next station, she remained facing away from the door, as if she had no interest in getting off. The signs identified the stop as Paddington, which was an intersection of major subway lines. As passengers filed off, and more got on, Nicole waited.

  At last the bell rang, and the doors made their first trembling pass at closing. At that moment, just before they closed in earnest, she bolted from the train and sprinted along the platform toward the exit sign.

  As she passed through the archway into the stairwell, she heard an alarm go off behind her — a loud, excited oinking sound. She couldn’t resist looking back. All the waiting passengers had shoved their way onto the train, which was now sitting on the tracks with its doors closed. All doors but one, that is, which was wedged slightly ajar by the arm and shoulder of someone inside.

  If there was a mechanism that made the doors spring open when an arm or leg became stuck in its jaws, it wasn’t working. The man — Reinhardt or whoever he was — was using his free arm in a desperate attempt to pry the doors open. She turned and ran.

  The shriek of the alarm followed her up the escalator until she reached the top. When the sound was no longer audible, she glanced back, but the only people behind her were travelers like herself, standing at ease while the moving staircase carried them to the top. There was no one in pursuit.

  Her stomach still churning, she hurried on. After checking the subway map again, she realized she had to transfer to the Central Line at Oxford Circus. That was what fascinated her about the underground. You could get from any point in Central London to any other point through dozens of different routes, using a network of trains that crisscrossed the city.

  She made her way down to the platform and waited less than a minute before the next train came. Once she found a seat and got herself settled, she noticed that the sick feeling in her stomach was gone, although she was still wary, on the lookout for Reinhardt. She checked the map again and realized she’d boarded the wrong train. She was on the Victoria Line, not the Central Line. She’d have to get off and figure out a new route.

  When the train pulled into Victoria Stati
on, she got off and followed other passengers and through a series of connecting passages. She was about to ask directions when she noticed a tourist information sign pointing to the enormous escalator up ahead. The escalator carried her up, up, up, into the roar of a building large enough to hold several airplane hangars. At the top was a huge glass dome, made up of thousands of small panes of glass like a Victorian exposition building. A warren of shops had been constructed inside, converting the structure into a modern shopping mall.

  Like an airline terminal, the place was packed. Impatient commuters stood in disorganized rows, staring up at a huge black and white electronic board, which was constantly being updated with the latest train arrivals, departures, and track assignments. Others fidgeted in long lines, waiting to buy tickets or get information about train routes and times.

  The line in front of the Tourist Information kiosk was especially long. As soon as she saw it, she realized it would be a mistake to get in line to ask directions. If Reinhardt somehow did manage to pick up her trail, he’d spot her the moment he walked into the station.

  On the opposite side, she noticed a coffee shop, its interior too dim to make out the faces of the people inside. She headed toward it, glancing back over her shoulder. Her plan was to walk into the coffee shop and ask one of the employees how to get to the right platform for the next leg of the journey. Then she’d spend a minute or two scanning the station from the other side of the darkened glass before exiting back into the teeming hub of commuters.