Les hesitated. "Do you still claim you are in London merely for a honeymoon, old chap? Even after this attempt to kill you?"
I remembered the hypodermic on the stairs and started to say that I wasn't certain now that homicide had been intended, at least not immediately. The fact that there had been a hypo loaded and ready made it look more like kidnapping. There are easier ways of killing a man than sticking him with a needle, but it's a convenient method of keeping him asleep after you've sapped him down from behind. It depended on what the thing contained, of course, but I remembered that various other agents had disappeared for a while before they had reappeared dead. But this wasn't information I was supposed to have.
I grinned at my British colleague. "And do you still insist that you called me up just to congratulate me on my marriage and offer me a car, old chap?" He looked a little embarrassed and didn't answer right away. I said, "Come on, be a pal, tell me who the guy was."
Les said rather stiffly, "If you insist that you are not officially involved, then I must insist that I can't discuss-"
"Sure, sure," I said. "It doesn't matter. A man like that will be in the files. I'U have a list of the possibilities, and what they're working on currently, as soon I phone the description to Washington… Wait a minute." I'd been doing some heavy thinking about the impersonator. I said, "Take away the moustache and the nervous manner, give him short gray hair and about twenty pounds more weight, and who have you got? Do you remember a certain ingenious gent named Basil?"
"Basil is dead." Les didn't really mean it. He was just trying it out to hear how it sounded. He was always a little too tricky for his own good. "Basil was executed for party disloyalty about eighteen months ago, in Moscow."
I said, "Sure. Basil is supposed to have bet on the wrong political horse. He's supposed to have got himself purged or liquidated or whatever the current euphemism may be. That's what it says on the official record-and how many officially dead men have you seen come back to life? I don't ever cross them off unless I get to bury them myself, and then I want to dig them up every couple of years to make sure they're still there. Basil, eh?"
Les sighed. "Very well. From your description, it probably was Basil. He's certainly involved. You have a good memory, old chap."
"It may be good but it's too damn slow. I wasn't expecting to walk in on a masquerade, but I really should have spotted him. Of course, I've never met him before, but I've studied his dossier plenty of times. Were his supposed disgrace and death just a cover-up for something tricky? I mean, is he still doing business for the same old firm, or did he actually get into trouble, escape execution somehow, and take employment elsewhere?" I waited, got no answer, and glanced at Les irritably. "Oh, for God's sake, man, give your security a rest!"
He said reluctantly, "We have reason to believe that Basil has changed allegiance, but we do not know who his new employers are. Now you'd better stop trying to get something for nothing, old boy, and leave quickly, unless you want to spend several hours in a police station. I will take care of the official explanations. Use the back stairs. Sorry not to be able to drive you back to the hotel, but you can catch the underground just beyond the square."
"Sure," I said. I went to the door, remembered my manners, and looked back. "Oh, incidentally," I said, "thanks. They had me boxed. I never heard a Browning sound prettier."
His long horse face looked embarrassed. He said, "Be careful leaving, old boy. Basil may still be hanging around."
After battling treacherous impersonators and mysterious Asiatics, riding the subway seemed anticlimactic. So did my visit to a quiet library where I checked out the Scots Peerage reference Basil had given me, in his character of Walling. I found it quite genuine. I also, with the help of the librarian, checked on Ann McRue and learned that it was, as I'd been told, supposed to have died out-or been killed off-over two hundred years ago. I wondered if Basil was regretting having given me this much information. Apparently he'd played the Walling part straight, that being the easiest way. After all, I wasn't supposed to be going anywhere with what I'd learned.
There was no suggestion in the reference works that any member of Clan McRue had ever migrated to America and started a new line under a different version of the family name, but it was the sort of negative proposition that would be hard to establish at all, let alone in an hour. Even so, I kept the helpful librarian well after his official closing time.
When I got back to the hotel, everything looked so peaceful and respectable that I found it hard to remember that not long ago I'd been fighting for my life-or at least, if the evidence of the hypo was to be accepted, my liberty. Then I saw Vadya having a drink alone in the big formal lounge off the lobby, and the place seemed less restful. Her legs were gracefully crossed, displaying a lot of sheer nylon. I had a hunch it was an invitation, but I passed it up and started for the stairs. A polite male voice called me back.
"Your key, sir."
I turned and took the room key from the clerk behind the desk. I looked at the key with its heavy tag, which was supposed to keep you from forgetfully running off with it. The last time I'd seen it-assuming it was the same key, and I thought it was-it had been lying on the dresser upstairs beside Winnie's cigarettes, when I'd picked them up to give them to her.. The man behind the desk cleared his throat discreetly.
"Madame left a note for you, sir," he said. "She asked me to be sure to give it to you when you returned."
He held out a sealed envelope of hotel stationery. I took it. My name was written on it in a funny, sloppy scrawl I'd seen before. Specimens of handwriting are, of course, part of every agent's file, and I'd studied up on Winnie's before leaving Washington.
I said slowly, "Madame went out?"
She wasn't supposed to go out. I'd asked her not to. And she was a trained operative, not a flighty kid. Having said she'd stay, she'd stay-unless she couldn't help herself.
The clerk corrected me. "Madame checked out, sir."
His face betrayed a struggle between diplomacy and curiosity. There's something about newlyweds and their problems that intrigues even hardened hotel men who've seen them come and go by the thousands.
"What do you mean, checked out?" I demanded. "You mean she took her luggage and-" I stopped abruptly, as if startling possibilities had suddenly occurred to me, which wasn't far wrong. "Did she leave alone?" I asked.
"No, a lady and a gentleman called for her, sir." "What did they look like?"
The man hesitated. "The lady was, er, Oriental, sir."
The damn case seemed to be lousy with Fu Manchus, both male and female, or somebody was trying hard to give that impression. 1 wasn't really sold on the idea, not yet anyway; nor was I taking Basil's official disgrace at face value, no matter what my British colleagues might think about it. Basil had been on the same team as Vadya once, and while it isn't safe to take for granted that all Communists are going to be forever buddies, neither can you safely assume that they hate each other just because they say so.
I muttered a word of thanks to the clerk and swung away and plunged toward the stairs like a deeply troubled and preoccupied man. Under the circumstances, it didn't require a great deal of acting talent. I didn't glance toward the smart, slightly overweight lady sipping a martini in the lounge, seemingly without a care in the world. If she was waiting there for me, as seemed likely, she could wait a little longer.
chapter SEVEN
There was nothing in the room, of course. I mean, there were no signs of violence. There were no clues, or if there were I didn't spot them as such-I'm not much of a clue man. There were no cute little last-minute oh-help-me messages scrawled in lipstick on the bathroom mirror. Well, there wouldn't be. We weren't dealing with amateurs.
That was the catch. The only amateur involved, by decree, was Winnie herself. I realized belatedly that I might as well have skipped the precaution of making her stay in the hotel. She was no safer there than elsewhere, with the instructions she carried. She was my sweet, ha
rmless, gutless little bride, and she was under orders to remain so no matter what happened, to me or to her, until she got herself next to a gent named McRow or got herself killed. The latter possibility was one we hadn't considered as fully as we might have, since I was the one who was supposed to be running the big risks. On the other hand, I was allowed to fight back. Winnie wasn't.
If strangers called from downstairs, perhaps claiming to be old friends of mine, she had to invite them up politely. When they knocked on the door, she had to open unsuspectingly, just like the innocent honeymoon kid she was supposed to be. If she was grabbed, she had to forget everything she'd ever learned about defending herself. And if, with a couple of preliminary slaps for emphasis, she was ordered to write something at the point of a gun, she had to write, with convincing big tears of pain and fright trickling down her cheeks.
I didn't look around too hard. I didn't even want to know if they'd planted a few hearing aids on me while they were in here. It seemed unlikely they'd pass up the chance. I just sat down on the bed and tore open the envelope. The note inside was very good. Without going into details, it hinted at all kinds of fascinating secrets and relationships.
Dear Matt:
I have just learned something that hurts me very much. I'm sure you know what I mean. I've been a blind little fool. Please don't try to find me.
Winnie
I frowned at this thoughtfully. It was really a very fine note. It said all the right things to everybody who might read it, from me to the hotel maid who might find it in the wastebasket later.
To me, of course, it was a warning in double-talk. It said quite clearly that if I tried to find Winnie, she'd be hurt very much. Presumably I was supposed to wait for contact to be made, meanwhile playing the part of the older husband whose young wife had learned his dreadful secret and left him. I was supposed to keep things quiet with this story, disturbing neither the hotel management nor the authorities. The implication, not necessarily reliable, was that if I did all this, Winnie would be okay and might even be released eventually, perhaps in return for further cooperation on my part.
I stared at the note grimly. I'm sure you know, it said, presumably meaning that I surely knew with whom I was dealing, but I didn't really. I only knew that Vadya bad moved into the hotel here at just about the same time that Basil was getting ready to receive me at Wilmot Square, but I couldn't be absolutely certain they were working together. These could have been independent actions triggered by my phone call to Walling. The first thing I had to do was determine, maybe by a process of elimination, just who did have Winnie. Of course, I'd been warned not to try to find her, but that was routine. As a desperate husband who was also a trained and ruthless agent, I wouldn't really be expected to do nothing at all.
I reached for the phone. It took me a while to learn Les's current office number, and a while longer to reach him. Then I had him on the line.
"Crowe-Barham here."
"Helm," I said. "Did you get everything taken care of at that place, amigo?"
"I did," he said, "but there is a feeling in the higher echelons that a certain amount of reciprocity would be very nice, old chap. If you ask for our assistance, it has been suggested, you might at least take us into your confidence."
"Who asked?" I said. "Check your tapes of the conversation, old pal. I asked nothing. You called and made the offer, unsolicited. Not that I'm not grateful, and all that jazz." Before he could speak, I went on quickly, "But I'm asking now. Are Her Majesty's troops still at my disposal? My wife is missing."
There was a brief silence; then he said quietly, "I say, I am sorry to hear it. What can we do to help?"
"I need a quiet room. A very quiet room-soundproof perhaps and a car with a deaf-and-dumb chauffeur." After a moment I added without expression, "The car and driver you lent me this afternoon would do fine."
There was another little pause. "Are you planning to leave anything in the quiet room, old boy? I mean, who cleans up afterwards, you or we?" I didn't say anything. There was yet another silence. I could visualize him frowning, perhaps chewing or tugging at his moustache, while he made up his mind. Then his voice came again:
"Ah, well, accidents sometimes happen in this work, don't you know? If one should occur, just leave the debris, slip the latch, and let the door lock behind you. We'll take care of things again. Incidentally, it would seem as if somebody wanted you both alive. We found a hypodermic on the stairs at Wilmot Square. The contents would have put you under for quite a while, but they would not have killed you."
"I see. Thanks for the information."
"There have been some very odd kidnappings lately. We do not quite understand the purpose. Killing, yes, but not kidnapping. Perhaps you have something to contribute on the subject."
"I'm afraid not," I said. "All I know is that my wife is missing."
"To be sure." His voice was cool. "Well, where and when will you want the car?"
I told him. Afterwards, I replaced the phone, got up and made a face at my image in the dresser mirror. I don't really like asking help from people I have to lie to, or lying to people I have to ask for help. I got my suitcase, threw it on the bed and did some tricks to open a camouflaged compartment holding, among other ingenious toys, my little.38 Special revolver: the snub-nosed, five-shot, aluminum-framed model that, too light to absorb much of the recoil of its heavy cartridge, will damn near tear your hand off when you fire it, not to mention blasting holes in both eardrums.
It is, in my opinion, just about as logical a weapon for a man in a supposedly hush-hush job as a 20mm antitank gun, but it's what the efficiency experts in Washington have decided we need. Regulations state that we must keep the miniature cannon handy at all times, cover permitting, but no experienced operative takes that rule seriously. I'll carry it in my suitcase because I have to, but I'm damned if I'll wear it unnecessarily. Nothing can get you into more trouble, particularly in a foreign country, than a firearm. Winnie, of course, had orders to carry no weapons whatever on this assignment, in line with her innocent act. When the time came for her to do her stuff, I was supposed to supply whatever she needed out of my private stock.
I closed the secret compartment, tucked the wicked little gun under my waistband, buttoned my coat and topcoat over it, and put my hat back on. There was one more item I required, and it was one that wasn't supplied in the standard agent's travel kit. I didn't have anything suitable in my belongings. My only belt was needed to keep my pants up. I might even need it for other purposes, sooner or later, since it's a rather special belt.
Luck came to my rescue-if it was luck. Maybe I'd found a clue after all. In hastily cleaning out the dresser, packing under duress, Winnie had apparently overlooked one small drawer. It contained some gloves, some nylons still in the plastic factory package, some odds and ends of cosmetics and costume jewelry, and a couple of belts. I chose a wide, black, soft-leather number with a big, tricky, dramatic buckle. Flashy though it was, it looked as if it might possibly be strong enough for what I had in mind. I coiled it up and dropped it into my pocket and went downstairs.
Claridge's lounge bore no resemblance to the kind of dark, cramped chrome-plated cocktail-trap you'd find in, say, a New York hotel. It was a high-ceilinged, light, rambling, luxurious, pillared room that could have been the anteroom of a castle or palace where high-class people awaited audience with royalty. Silent waiters glided about with drinks procured from some unknown source. Nothing so vulgar as a bar was in evidence.
Vadya, still sitting at the same table near the door, was doing her part to maintain the tone of the place. She looked very high-class indeed. I walked up and seated myself facing her after tossing my hat and coat on an empty chair. I ordered a martini from the waiter who materialized at my side.
Vadya showed no surprise at seeing me. "Better make it a double, darling," she said lazily. "They serve them in thimbles around here."
"Make it a double," I said.
"And get me another, pl
ease."
"And another for the lady," I said.
The waiter bowed and vanished. I leaned back and regarded Vadya with critical interest. After all, aside from our momentary encounter in the hotel doorway, it had been a couple of years since I'd seen her last.
She was putting on quite a show. Her hairdo was big but elaborately simple, if the words aren't incompatible. The thrown-back mink stole was the real stuff. Her suit was tan wool-beige is the technical term, I believe-with a straight, short, close-fitting skirt, and a straight, short, loose-fitting jacket. I wondered idly what had happened to the old-fashioned notion of cutting jackets to fit the female human form. I'd thought it was kind of a nice idea, but then, fashion-wise, I'm obviously way behind the times.
There was a high-collared blouse of the kind of silk associated with caterpillars and mulberry trees instead of chemical vats. Her nylons were so sheer as to be almost nonexistent, just a nebulous hint of stocking, and her pumps had heels a yard long and an eighth of an inch in diameter. Well, almost. She looked sleek and well-fed and expensive.
The last time I'd seen her, on the other side of the Atlantic, she'd been playing a younger, leaner, and cheaper role. I could remember her dressed in grubby white shorts, as short and tight as the law allowed, and a limp boy's shirt with a missing button. I could also recall her dressed in even less. It had been quite an intriguing assignment, the one that had brought us together out there in the great Southwest.
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