The police, she thought as she unfolded the blazer, had been as expert in packing as Chuck. Everything looked as though it hadn’t been touched since he had filled his suitcase to the brim back in New York. Perhaps the police had only made a cursory examination of the clothes, like a Customs officer when nothing roused his suspicions. Why should they bother with clothes, anyway? They were what they seemed: the usual belongings of a young man who had been planning a holiday and not a suicide.
There’s nothing here, she decided, finding only a folded handkerchief in one of the blazer’s outside pockets. Inside, there was a slit pocket without one bulge showing in the silk lining. Nothing, she thought again, but dutifully searched inside the slit. Her fingers touched something light and thin, and drew out a folded sheet of airmail paper.
She opened it, and found a half page of typing: a letter, dated the twenty-sixth of February, to Paul Krantz, Shandon House, Appleton, NJ. Across its top left-hand corner were the words Copy to Tom. And at the bottom of the page, a hurried postscript, in pencil, with today’s date—the twenty-eighth of February: “Tom—I’ll hand this to you as I leave this evening. Didn’t want to discuss it directly until you had time to read, digest, and think it over. The original letter is signed, sealed, ready to mail—if Nealey doesn’t accept my first alternative. He began by denying everything this morning, then ended—after we had a bitter argument which I won—by a tentative admission of guilt, saying he needed time to consider, etc., etc. I have given him twenty-four hours to resign from Shandon Villa. If he does, then I needn’t send the letter to Krantz, and you can destroy your copy. If he doesn’t, I’ll see you before I leave for Gstaad. Any improvements to suggest on what I’ve written? As ever, Chuck.”
“Tom!” Dorothea called across the room. “I’ve found something. In the blazer pocket. A letter to Shandon House, telling them about the NATO—”
“Mentioning Rick Nealey?” Tom had risen, the address-book and a newspaper clipping in his hand. Quickly he reached her, seized the typed sheet, and scanned it. Yes, there it was, brief and neat in two decisive sentences: Heinrich Nealey was the only person who knew about Chuck’s possession of the entire NATO Memorandum; Heinrich Nealey was the only person who had access to the second and third sections of the memorandum, on the night of the twenty-third of November 1974.
As for the rest of the letter, equally concise, it began with Chuck’s admission of responsibility for the removal of the memorandum from Shandon House. It ended with Chuck’s resignation from the Institute, together with the statement that he had acted out of conscience and with the belief—which he still held—that the American public had the right to know the full contents of the first part of the NATO Memorandum.
Tom read the postscript again. And again. At last he said, “Chuck never had a chance, had he? He didn’t even realise that Nealey was a trained foreign agent—probably thought of him as an American who had been sidetracked into treason. Why else—” Tom looked challengingly at Thea—“did Chuck give him twenty-four hours, why delay in sending the letter when he wrote it on Wednesday?”
Because, she thought unhappily, Chuck was hoping he could avoid mailing the letter. “Perhaps,” she said, “he still couldn’t believe Rick Nealey had—” quickly she cancelled the word duped and found a kinder substitute—“betrayed him. Not until he met Nealey face to face.”
“But Chuck knew, before he met Nealey, that he had been tricked.” Tom gave her the small newspaper clipping. “I found this tucked between two of the memo pages. It’s from the Washington Post, published last Tuesday. One of those ‘now it can be revealed’ items.”
It was a brief report by one of the more sensational, but accurate, columnists, that the NATO Memorandum, part of which had been published by a prominent newspaper as a public service on the third of December 1974, had been delivered in its entirety to Soviet authorities. A reliable source at the Pentagon admitted that damage to Allied Intelligence agencies had been severe, and “in several cases, disastrous to agents in the field.”
“Yes,” Tom repeated, “he knew he had been tricked. Brad Gillon had told him, and he didn’t want to believe it. And then this appeared on Tuesday.” Tom put the newspaper clipping back inside Chuck’s address-book. “By Wednesday Chuck was ready to admit he had been duped. Duped. No other word for it. So he wrote the letter to Paul Krantz, changed his travel plans, came to Menton to confront Nealey—” Tom shook his head. “Good God, what a mess poor old Chuck made of everything! And always so sure he was right. Always so confident he could handle—” He broke off, turned away, said, “Chuck was out of his league.”
Dorothea began packing the last clothes back into place. “First alternative,” she said reflectively. “What did he mean by that? It was in the postscript, remember?”
As if I’ll ever forget that postscript, Tom thought. Chuck, still vacillating, trying to show he could be tough. And would he have handed me that letter to Krantz if Nealey had come to him this afternoon, accepted his terms? No, possibly not. Chuck would have taken the letter out of the blazer pocket, destroyed it, persuaded himself there was no longer any need to disturb me about it. And our talk together would have been nothing but evasions and reassurances.
“Tom—” Dorothea was saying, her eyes wide with anxiety as they studied his face.
“‘If Nealey doesn’t accept my first alternative,’” Tom quoted back exactly. “It’s a reference to some jottings he made as a memo in his engagement diary. Talking points with Nealey, I suppose. He was nervous—” The telephone rang. “Here, take it,” Tom said, giving her the little diary, pointing to the page, and hurrying to answer the call in his study.
Dorothea looked at the few lines of small writing. Alternatives: either N. resigns, removes self from Shandon Villa or any govt. or official posts, or I send letter to Krantz at Shandon House, including statements for necessary authorities.
Chuck was always hoping, Dorothea thought, that his ex-friend Nealey would accept the facts, disappear gracefully, cause no more trouble for anyone. And spare Chuck himself the necessity of resigning, of publicly admitting— Oh, Chuck, she told him in despair, why didn’t you go to Paul Krantz as soon as Brad Gillon had talked with you? Why did you believe a newspaper columnist more quickly than a friend of your brother’s? Everything would have been over by this time: Nealey dealt with, and you—yes, I know you’d have lost your job, but you’d still be alive.
Tom came back into the room. “That was Brad. Wanted to fly over here and help in any way. But I told him to stay in New York. There’s a job for him to do there—Tony’s idea, actually—concentrating on Nealey’s New York girl-friend and the ’phone calls made from her apartment. Nealey may just have slipped up there. I don’t think there’s much of a chance, though. He’s a wary devil. Still, sometimes they make mistakes. And every little—”
“But haven’t we got enough on Rick Nealey now?”
Tom took Chuck’s engagement diary from her, folded the letter to Krantz around it, placed them together behind the clock on the mantelpiece. “Your hands feel like ice,” he was saying worriedly. “Better get upstairs and put some warm clothes on. Or why not go to bed? I’ll join you as soon as Tony calls.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Then find a sweater and I’ll light the fire.” He began striking matches.
Dorothea moved towards the hall. It would take more than a fire and a warm sweater to get this chill out of her heart, she thought. “But we do have proof now, don’t we?”
“About Nealey?” Tom watched the first flames curl round the twists of paper, catch the kindling. “We have nothing that Tony and Brad didn’t already know. There’s no proof that Nealey is a KGB agent. Not a shred of hard evidence.” He remembered Tony’s frustration this afternoon. Now he was swallowing the same bitter brew.
“You mean,” said Dorothea, scandalised, angry, “he could get away with all this?”
“Darling, get upstairs and put some sensible clothing
on your frozen back.”
“It isn’t right, it isn’t just—”
“It seldom is,” said Tom. “Upstairs, Thea!”
When she came down again, dressed in wool pants and heavy sweater, the logs were flaring, two glasses of brandy had been poured, and the room was darkened except for one small table-lamp.
“Where’s the suitcase?” she asked.
“In the hall closet.” And let’s not talk about it, Tom’s voice seemed to say. He drew her down beside him on the couch and handed her a brandy. “We’ll soon get you warm, my girl. I was beginning to think you had gone to bed after all.” He tightened his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close, tried to relax and forget problems and worries in the gentle peace of this green and gold room. But he kept thinking about the information from Brad Gillon which he’d pass on to Tony when his call came through. A small item—and not worth mentioning to Thea, building up her expectations only to have them choked by more disappointment. But the small item was interesting enough to keep his mind harking back to Brad’s voice. “And tell Tony that the long job of examining the pages of the memorandum is almost complete. There was a jumble of fingerprints, but the experts have managed to isolate a few examples. They’ve got a couple—thumb and forefinger, at the top corner of two pages in section three of the memorandum—which they haven’t identified as yet.” As yet... But the fingerprints could belong to Chuck, and that would land us right back at the beginning. “What delayed you upstairs anyway?” Eleven forty on the mantelpiece clock. Tony’s call should be coming through soon.
“I just had to tidy up the bathroom—I left it in such a mess when I heard the car returning.”
“You didn’t open that damned window to air the place, did you?”
She almost had, and then remembered Tom’s warnings and left it closed. The window was one of Solange Michel’s brilliant notions. It was placed along the back of the tub, giving a daytime view of the hillside framed by the wisteria outside that climbed up and around to reach the overhang of roof. For modesty’s sake, when darkness came and the bathroom lights were on, the heavy silk shower-curtains could be drawn all around the tub, encasing it like a four-poster bed. “Too much trouble,” she admitted. To reach the window, she would have had to step into the bath and get all those heavy folds of curtain drawn back. “I thought this wasn’t the night to risk a displaced vertebra. When do you expect Tony’s call? Do you think he’ll have any further news?”
“I don’t know.” He cut off any speculations and rising hope on that subject by predicting, “Someone’s going to break their neck in that tub.”
“But it has the most beautiful view. You can sit in it and look out at—”
“Bulldozers and condominiums?”
Solange had never envisioned that. Dorothea laughed, and said, “Poor Solange.”
“Poor Maurice. How the hell does he stand all her high-falutin ideas?” It was good to hear that soft laugh, Tom thought: she’s relaxed and warm and she’ll even sleep tonight, once Tony calls and we get upstairs. (No place for a telephone in any bedroom, had been another of Solange’s ardent beliefs.) “But the effect is attractive, Tom,” Dorothea said, coming to Solange’s defence.
“Give me comfort, any old—” Tom stopped short, his body stiffening. “What was that?”
Dorothea felt a current of cold air circle around her bare ankles. “That,” she said, dropping her voice, “could have been my omelette pan. I left it in the sink and someone has just put his foot in it.”
“Coming through the window?”
“It’s open. I can feel a draught—”
Tom put a finger across her lips, set down his brandy glass, drew her quietly to her feet. He picked up a poker. “Leave by the terrace, get down to the nursery and waken Auguste. Tell him to call the police.”
“Not Tony?”
“Don’t know his number. Quick!” He was listening intently as he talked. Yes, a second sound, muffled but stumbling, came from the direction of the kitchen. He pushed her towards the French windows.
“And you?”
“Get the police,” he urged.
She pulled aside the long curtains just enough to let her open a window and step outside. A hand came out of the darkness, gripped her shoulder, and threw her back across the threshold. She half-fell, regained her balance, and then—as the man followed her into the room—retreated in panic towards Tom.
The man was saying, “No violence, monsieur. One movement from you, and my men will shoot both of you.”
And Tom, half-way to the window, the poker raised, froze in his tracks as he glanced back over his shoulder and saw, at the doorway, two other men with pistols drawn. Dorothea reached him, stood close beside him. He heard her quick intake of breath as she looked in horror at the two men now advancing into the room. Black ski-masks over hair and face, gashes of white skin at eyes and mouth; black coverall suits, tight over lean bodies; black gloves and rubber-soled shoes: completely anonymous, and because of that, more menacing. He caught her hand, gave it a reassuring grip, thought a hundred wild thoughts, and felt the despair of total helplessness.
21
For a long minute, nothing moved. The two black figures in their grotesque masks had halted, paying no attention to Dorothea or Tom. Their white slits of eyes were on the man who had stepped inside the French window. He preferred the shadows. Certainly he wasn’t risking one step nearer the light of the table-lamp beside the couch, although his identity was disguised by a nondescript dark coat, a black silk scarf loosely covering his chin and mouth, and a hat that was pulled well down over his brow. About my height, almost six feet, Tom noted; but of heavier build—powerful shoulders. Even the voice, distorted by the scarf, will be hard to recognise again. But he’s the boss, there’s no doubt about that. Those two others are waiting for their orders. He will make the decisions.
And he did. “Begin!” he was saying in French. “You upstairs.” He nodded to the taller of his two subordinates. To the other, “You—this floor!” He drew a revolver from his coat-pocket, folded his arms, kept his aim directed at Tom and Dorothea.
“Chuck’s case?” Dorothea asked Tom softly as she turned her head away from the watching man.
“Yes. And don’t let him think you understand French.”
She murmured, “That will be easy.”
“No talking!” the man commanded in French. “Drop that poker. Drop it. At once! Do you hear?”
Tom kept his grip on it, said to Dorothea, “They’ll speak more freely if they think we don’t understand what they’re—”
“Silence!” Again in French. “Or do you want me to let a bullet give you orders?”
Tom paid no attention. “You’re doing fine, darling,” he told her. And it was true. The initial tremble in her hand was gone. Panic and fear might still be there, but her face showed little sign of them. She stared at the man uncomprehendingly.
He broke into English. “No talking I Drop that poker. At once I’
Tom obeyed, and took Dorothea into his arms, “You’ve no objection to this?” he asked as a mild distraction from the poker—he had let it fall as near him as he could risk. “My wife hasn’t been feeling too—”
“Quiet!”
“May she sit down?” That could get Thea out of range.
“Stay as you are. Both of you!”
So they stayed. Overhead, light footsteps searched through the bedrooms. On the ground floor, light footsteps padded through study and dining-room. Drawers and doors were being opened and shut. But once they have found what they wanted, what then? They will know we’ve learned too much, he realised. Why the hell didn’t I leave everything in the suitcase? Then we could have seemed ignorant; then we could have stayed alive. How will they fake an explanation for our deaths? Something that could be accepted as purely accidental, a tragic occurrence. But what?
The masked figure who had been searching upstairs was the first to return. Nothing and no one, he reported. Only one
bedroom in use, along with its adjacent bathroom—an interior one. The rest of the upper floor, unoccupied: drawers and wardrobes empty, no closets. No luggage. No guests. No servants. These two were living here quite alone.
“And so, no interruptions.” The man by the window unfolded his arms, slipped his revolver back into his pocket. “Start searching this room. There may be closets behind the wood panelling.”
The telephone rang.
“Let it ring!” he yelled, so that even his man still at work in the study could hear his command. “Don’t cut the wire. People are living here. You understand?” Then he fell silent, seemed to be listening intently. “No telephone upstairs?” he asked as the ringing ended.
“None.”
“All right. Get on with your search.” He lifted back the cuff of his coat, studied his watch, compared the time with the clock on the mantelpiece. “Hurry, hurry! And what’s this?” he demanded of his second assistant, who had just entered from the study holding a sheaf of papers.
“Tom—your manuscript—” Dorothea said, her voice rising in indignation. “What do they want with—”
Tom silenced her with a kiss on her cheek and a murmur in her ear. “Show them the suitcase. Get into the hall. And up the stairs—”
Her eyes questioned him.
“Lock yourself in the bathroom and—”
The telephone rang again. And kept on ringing, making his whisper inaudible. Had she understood?
Dorothea tightened her hand on Tom’s arm. She raised her voice to be heard clearly above the ringing ’phone. “That manuscript is of no interest to you. But if you are looking for something special, then tell me what it is. I’ll show you where you can find it.” She took several steps away from Tom.
“We shall find it,” the man by the window told her, riffling through the pages of Tom’s manuscript. “Get back, there!”
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