The Hidden Target

by Helen Macinnes

  Saturday morning, except for Renwick’s ’phone call to Nina, was uneventful—just a part of the waiting game.

  “Ed here. Thought you might like to drive out to Mount Vernon. Would you come?”

  “Oh, Ed, I’m sorry. I really am. But this afternoon, Beryl’s interior decorator wants me to choose the curtains for my room. She is bringing samples of material, and I’ve got to look through them.”

  “Couldn’t she postpone that until Monday?”

  “I tried. But she’s borrowing the samples from some wholesale house, and she has got to return them by Monday morning.”

  “Samples—you mean small scraps of cloth? That shouldn’t take you too long. Just flip through them.”

  “No, no. Large samples—enough to show the repeat in the pattern.” Nina was laughing. “It’s a very serious business, Ed. There will be an hour of argument, I know.”

  “When do you expect her?”

  “Some time this afternoon—that’s all she said.”

  “Well, why don’t you give me a ring as soon as she arrives— would you, Nina?”

  “Why, yes,” Nina said slowly.

  “We might make something yet of the afternoon. Just call me. Will you? And I’ll drop in unannounced and hurry the argument along.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “See you then.”

  Renwick put down the receiver, looked at the blue-and-white roses climbing over the long yellow curtains at his bedroom window.

  “Well?” asked MacEwan. He was lounging on the sofa bed, now back into early American shape, surrounded by sections of the New York Times and the Washington Post.

  “What’s a repeat in the pattern?”

  Mac shrugged, and had his own question. “Do you remember the days when a newspaper came in one piece and could be carried in your coat pocket?” He watched Renwick in amazement. “What the hell are you doing with that curtain?”

  “Got it!” Renwick said. “Yes, these samples could be quite large. Enough to hide an attaché case being carried into the house.”

  “Any case carried by Colbert will be spotted before she reaches the house.”

  “That’s what she feared, perhaps.”

  “When is she expected?”

  “Some time this afternoon.”

  Mac pushed aside the newspapers. “Trouble brewing in Iran. I can smell it.” He rose and picked up his leather jacket. “I’ll contact Bill, make sure his alarm-signal boys will keep working through the afternoon.”

  “Tell them to stay near O’Connell’s study. I’ll give them the high sign when it’s time to make their move. They know what to do.”

  “As planned. Shouldn’t be difficult. You’ve got the tough part.” Renwick had to keep Colbert in the house, prevent her from leaving or telephoning. “How will you do it?”

  “Play it by ear.”

  “She may not bring the case back today,” Mac reminded him as he opened the door.

  “Then we wait for tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.” Mac made no comment, just nodded and left.

  ***

  After lunch, Nina went upstairs to her room and chose a book and a chair at the window. From there she could see part of Dumbarton Road, and certainly any approach to the house. There was, she noticed, a heavy-looking van parked on the opposite side of the street. Probably it belonged to the workmen now tracking the burglar-alarm failure in the living-room.

  She couldn’t concentrate on reading. Even the silence of the house seemed to increase her nervousness. Her father was at the office today, a sign of disturbing news if he stayed there on a Saturday. Beryl was in her room on the floor below. Mattie, the cook, was in her far-off quarters where no one could hear her television. Saturday afternoon—a strange time to select curtain material. Nor could Nina understand why the walls had been painted blue and the strawberry-pink carpet had been laid before the curtains had been chosen. A roundabout way of decorating, she thought. And if the Colbert woman saddled me with blue and pink, why didn’t she complete the choice by herself? I’ll never like this room; never. But I won’t be here much longer. Whatever colours I choose in London for our flat, there certainly won’t be a blue wall. Or a pink carpet.

  She couldn’t concentrate on a book; she couldn’t concentrate on music from her record player. But at half-past three, her impatience was rewarded. Madame Colbert arrived in her black Thunderbird, driven by the young man who worked in her showroom. Nina was already on the ’phone when two large books of samples were being hauled by him out of the car while Madame Colbert carried a lighter load of chintz and satin draped over one arm.

  “Ed?” Nina asked as her call was immediately answered. “She’s here.”

  “See you, darling.” The call was over.

  Darling... He forgot to be careful. Smiling, she combed her hair, put on fresh lipstick, took a last look in the long mirror, and ran downstairs. On the second floor she slowed her steps and arrived, sedate and decorous, she hoped, in the hall. It wasn’t large: it still amazed her how expensive houses in Georgetown could be so crumpled up inside. But it ran through to a garden at the back, where Beryl had chosen to place a conservatory. Poor Father, Nina thought now, this house will never be finished. At least he had his study almost complete. Beryl and the Colbert woman were there, while across the hall the two repairmen hadn’t yet tracked down their problem.

  Nina avoided the samples deposited near the foot of the staircase, and hesitated. She could hear the Thunderbird being driven away. The Colbert woman must be planning a long visit. Nina overcame her aversion, and entered the study.

  “Nina, come and see what Thérèse has managed,” Beryl said. “Isn’t she wonderful? The stains have all gone, and it’s just the same old case as before. Thérèse, couldn’t your little man have removed the scratch on the side and that bruised look at the corner, too?”

  “I thought Mr. O’Connell wanted things just as he remembers them,” Thérèse Colbert remarked. However much I dislike her, thought Nina, I’ve got to admit she’s attractive: blue eyes and dark smooth hair and a ready smile. Her taste in clothes was elegant. And expensive. Today she had chosen a white wool dress to emphasise an excellent figure, half covered it with a mink coat draped over her shoulders. She pulled it off, dropped it on a chair.

  Nina came forward slowly. The attaché case had been laid with pride on the centre of the desk. “It looks very nice.” And what do I do with another case, all ready to give as a birthday present?

  Beryl stared at her stepdaughter. “Is that all you have to say? Nice? It’s a marvellous job. Your father will be delighted.” For a moment her hazel eyes looked reprovingly at Nina. She shook her head, auburn hair falling loosely, and exchanged a tolerant smile with Madame Colbert.

  Nina recovered herself, said, “I know he will be. He hates that leather envelope he has been carrying around. But how did you manage to have the stains removed? I thought that would have been impossible.” That is what Bob had believed, and Ron Gilman had agreed.

  “Just a little trade secret,” Madame Colbert said with a light laugh. “Now, shall we go upstairs and choose your curtains? I have brought a divine toile which I know you’ll adore. It’s one of the loose pieces of material in the hall, so that’s easy to carry. But Beryl, we’ll need help with the sample books. Do you think your workmen would oblige? Who recommended them to Mr. O’Connell?”

  “It’s a firm we have always used.”

  “You give me its address. I don’t have any adequate people to install alarm systems.”

  “Of course. But before we go upstairs—” Beryl walked over to the panelling that covered low cabinets under the bookshelves—“do look at this. Awful, isn’t it? Francis absolutely refuses to have any more paint stripped off. No more accidents, he says. We were lucky his books weren’t splashed, too. So what would you suggest, Thérèse? Dark green enamel to continue the colour of the carpet?”

  The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Nina said, half-way towards
the hall.

  Thérèse Colbert’s smiling scrutiny of Nina ended. “Very shy, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about her. This house is so very new to her. She must feel like a stranger, but she’ll soon become accustomed to us all.”

  “She talks little about her world trip.”

  “It couldn’t have been comfortable. Francis is amazed that she endured it for so long. Now, about this woodwork, Thérèse—”

  ***

  Nina opened the door, stood looking at him.

  “Hello, darling,” Renwick said softly, and stepped inside. A repairman gave a brief glance out from the living-room—one of last night’s baby-sitters, Renwick saw—and withdrew with a nod. Women’s voices came from another room a short distance along the hall. “Beryl and Colbert?”

  “In the study. Oh, Bob—”

  “What’s wrong?” He took her hands, resisted putting his arms around her.

  “The attaché case—it’s back. Stain-free.”

  “Where is it?”

  “On Father’s desk. And what will I do now for his birthday?” My last traveller’s cheque went on it, she thought in dismay; I even had his initials, small and neat, printed under the handle exactly as before.

  “Give him the one you bought. He’d like that.”

  “Two attaché cases?”

  “Always useful.” He drew her close, risked a kiss. “Where’s the present—in your room?”

  “No. Madame Colbert has been in and out of there every afternoon. She was upstairs when I brought the attaché case home yesterday, so—it’s in the coat closet.” Nina nodded to a narrow door in the wall under the staircase.

  Renwick let go her hands to pull off his Burberry. He hung it in the closet, looked puzzled as he saw only hats on the shelf above the rod. Quickly, he held aside the coats and glimpsed a package propped against the wall, hidden by their skirts. “Pretty good,” he said with a sudden smile, and shut the closet door. Pretty damn good, in fact. The smile vanished as he glanced towards the study: the voices were drifting nearer. “Get them upstairs, out of the hall. And after that—I’ve got to see her, Nina. Alone.” There was a moment of fear in the blue eyes that met his. He said nothing more.

  Nina’s face was tense, but she nodded and moved away from him as the voices grew clearer. Renwick braced himself.

  Beryl was saying, “Then you think we should keep the original brown? I did want something brighter. Oh—Mr. Renwick! But how nice!” They shook hands politely. “Did you come to see Nina?”

  “To see your husband actually.” His voice was easy, completely natural.

  “He ought to be home soon. At least I hope it will be soon. Oh, Madame Colbert—may I present Mr. Robert Renwick?”

  Always correct, thought Nina: Beryl really reads her Amy Vanderbilt. But, for once, Madame Colbert had lost her manners. She was standing as if transfixed, the usual smile quite wiped off her face.

  “We have met,” Renwick said.

  Thérèse Colbert’s composure returned. “Really?” she asked politely. “I’m afraid I—oh, yes, I remember now. Paris, wasn’t it?”

  “Brussels.”

  “You meet too many attractive men, Thérèse,” Beryl said with a laugh. And to Renwick, very sweetly, “You can’t expect Madame Colbert to remember all of you.”

  Quickly, Nina said, “I asked Bob to stay for tea—wait for Father.”

  “Of course.” Beryl recovered from her surprise. “That would be delightful. And you’ll stay, too, Thérèse. Once we choose the curtains, I’m sure you’d enjoy talking with—”

  “I’m afraid I must leave before tea time. Another appointment.”

  “But I thought—” began Beryl. Then she stopped thinking and could only feel a drop in the hall’s temperature. In her best tradition, she covered Thérèse’s refusal with a spate of words. The curtains had better be chosen right now. What about those heavy sample books, so cumbersome? Mr. Renwick, would he be so kind?

  Nina interrupted. “Carry those things up, and then carry them down? No need. I think I see something I like here.” She lifted three loose pieces of material at random and started towards the staircase. “Coming?” she asked Beryl. “Or do you trust my taste?”

  That decided it. “We’d better go,” Beryl told Thérèse Colbert, who gave up her momentary hesitation with a show of good grace. “Do excuse us, Mr. Renwick. You’ll find magazines in the living-room.”

  “I’ll be all right,” he assured her. He waited until Beryl’s inexhaustible talk dwindled into a far-off murmur. Then he moved quickly.

  Inside the living-room, the men had packed their gear. “Desk in the study,” he told them, and left for the coat closet as one of them made his way across the hall. The other opened the front door, signalled the van standing opposite to start pulling out of its parking space. Renwick had already torn off the birthday wrappings, jamming them into the closet’s furthest corner.

  Altogether, two minutes. He gave one last glance at Nina’s present, centred on the desk as the other attaché case had been, and left the study. The outside door was closing. A brief silence. Then he heard the van pull away from the front steps, travelling at slow speed, as he entered the living-room. Now, it was a matter of waiting.

  Not easy for him, but worse for the experts who were examining the attaché case, preparing to dissect it. He didn’t envy them that job: finding the detonator, disarming the explosive device—but what if they found nothing, just an empty case with no deadly lining? Then Colbert could walk out that front door. She would be kept under surveillance, of course—until she vanished one fine morning, heading for Lausanne again. And I would be the prize fool, the intelligence officer whose credibility lay in a thousand pieces. Interintell, too. It would suffer.

  No, he told himself, there has to be something in that damned attaché case: stains aren’t so easily and perfectly removed. It’s a substitution, it has to be. A clever piece of work, prepared well in advance, with details and measurements and photographs to make sure it was an exact reproduction. It has to be... He turned away from the window as he heard a light footstep in the hall, moved quickly.

  He was just in time to stop Thérèse Colbert from reaching the study.

  “My coat,” she explained. “I left my note-book in its pocket. I need it to mark down measurements and—”

  “Of course. In here?” He entered the study before she did, picked up her mink coat while she hesitated at the door. She glanced at the desk, seemed relieved. She was quite content to leave the study with Renwick.

  “Thank you,” she said with one of her old smiles. “You know, Bob, I did give you—what d’you call it?”

  “An out.”

  “That’s it. Why didn’t you take it? Why mention Brussels?”

  “Because,” he said, grasping her wrist and urging her towards the living-room, “I want to talk about Brussels.”

  “Have the workmen gone?”

  “Yes. We won’t be disturbed.” She knows they’ve gone. She heard the van drive away. That’s why she came down here, to check on the attaché case. I should have expected that, he thought. His wariness increased.

  “I really ought to go upstairs—”

  “They’ll manage without you for a few minutes.”

  “And I have to telephone—my next appointment—I’ll be late.”

  “We’ll talk first.” He released his hold on her wrist as he got her inside the living-room. He took her coat and handbag, dropped them on a settee, and closed the door. “Sit over there.” He pointed to a chair, well away from the window.

  Startled, she looked at him; but she crossed the room and sat down. He chose a chair close to the door, and faced her.

  “This,” she said with a light laugh, “is hardly the way for old friends to talk. It isn’t exactly tete-a-tete. You used to do better, Bob. Let’s sit on the couch and be comfortable.” She made as if to rise.

  “No. Stay there! I’m perfectly comfortable.”

/>   She changed her tactics. “Oh, Bob—I’m really sorry. About Brussels. Leaving you so quickly. But my mother was ill, very ill.”

  “Is she still in Lausanne?”

  Thérèse Colbert looked at him. “Yes,” she said, trying to guess how much he knew about Lausanne.

  “A useful place to drop out of sight.”

  “Really, Bob—”

  “You heard Maartens was dead, of course.”

  That silenced her.

  “And his grey-haired friend, too,” Renwick said. “And talking of death, weren’t you surprised to find me alive this afternoon?”

  “I had nothing—” It was a mistake. She bit her lip.

  “Nothing to do with that? Just a warning call to your control here in Washington? Who is he, Thérèse?”

  “You are mad, completely mad.” She rose.

  “You aren’t leaving,” he told her. “I locked the door. The key is in my pocket.”

  “I only wanted my cigarettes. In my bag.”

  He reached for her handbag, saying, “I’ll get them.” He found the cigarette case and a small Derringer tucked into a side pocket. “Neat little toy,” he said. “I hope you don’t play with it often.” He examined the cigarette case—this alarmed her—so he slipped it back into her handbag. The lighter was also dubious: a concealed camera, probably. He left it where it was in its own small pocket. He held up the Derringer. “Would you really have shot me with this?”

  “If necessary. It’s for my protection.” Her eyes were hard and cool.

  So she would have fired it, he realised. And pleaded? God only knew what story she would concoct: an accident, probably. He replaced the Derringer, snapped the bag shut, and dropped the bundle of evidence beside his chair. Sadly, he thought, she’s well trained: not just the pretty woman being caught by money, being blackmailed one step at a time into a deep and deeper morass. Right from the beginning, she knew what she was doing. “Sit down,” he told her, “and let’s talk about Theo.”

  Slowly, she sat down, even forgot to cross her legs and show a nicely moulded thigh at the split of her tight skirt.

  “You’ve never seen him, of course. And you never will. He died in Bombay. Or didn’t your control tell you? Probably not. Too many deaths are disturbing.”