Jim spoke up. ‘In a nutshell, you need to make Lowell think that Jack Moray is a sympathiser to the fascist cause, and that Moray has the microfilm. Moray’s been briefed and he knows what to do.’
Flabbergasted. That was the word. Flabbergasted.
‘Jack Moray?’ I said, weakly. ‘My station leader? Moray’s a bank clerk.’
Jim smiled. ‘He’s a bit more than that, but as we said earlier, all of this is top secret. It is crucial that Moray’s activities are kept confidential.’
His activities? Moray was a spy? Again my head seemed to spin. Was anything what I had thought it to be? Anyone?
I blew out a breath. ‘What you’re saying is that Mr Egan was going to meet Moray that night in the Café de Paris?’
Temple shook his head. ‘No. He was meeting another agent. The bomb detonated before our man could make contact with Egan. I now think that it was a stroke of luck, because otherwise we’d not have been able to be informed by Mr Harker that Egan was simply the man in the middle.’
I stared at him. Luck? Did he know how many people had died?
‘What if it isn’t Lowell?’
‘If he doesn’t act on the information you give him, then we’ll know to look elsewhere, probably John Casey.’
‘Perhaps you’d better explain the plan to me,’ I said. ‘In simple words, please, and in detail.’
So they did.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Dan Lowell picked me up in the same showy black saloon as before, and drove out of London, just as he had before. I’d dressed carefully, in a light summer frock with a lacy cardigan. After a cool start to summer, the weather had been gradually improving and that day was sunny and fairly warm. Fluffy white clouds drifted over the fields ahead of us. I imagined myself back in the south of France, tried to remember how I used to flirt, in the French way. Lightly and delicately.
‘It’s so lovely to breathe air that’s not scented with brick dust,’ I said, smiling and tilting my head slightly.
‘They seem to have stopped bombing London.’
‘The tip-and-run raiders still cause us problems. Even one raider can do a lot of damage, injure a lot of people. We were very busy on Thursday night. It gets you down after a while, all the damage and injuries. So it’s lovely to escape to the country. Thanks ever so much for inviting me.’
Lowell smiled. ‘Thank you for agreeing to come out with me. Our last meeting was tense.’
‘Because of Michael Harker?’ It was surprisingly pleasant to say Michael’s name to this man, who hated him enough to wrongly blame him for Egan’s death. A secret thrill ran through me to use such an off-hand tone in speaking of Michael.
‘Yes,’ said Lowell.
I shrugged, dismissively. ‘Is he still in England? I’ve not heard from him for weeks.’
‘No. He was sent away.’
‘What you told me about him shocked me, but I did feel sad for him, losing his wife like that and I can understand why he might want vengeance.’ I stole a look at Lowell. ‘He came to see me that night – after you and I met for lunch – and he was very angry at me indeed. We argued and he stormed off. It was horrible.’
Lowell shifted down a gear to drive off the main road on to a smaller, country road. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I got the feeling you really liked him.’
‘I did. I thought he was a nice man, and I was sorry we had such a nasty row. Anyway, he never contacted me again, so that’s that.’
‘Stupid of him.’ Lowell smiled. ‘Do you think I’m a nice man?’
I gave a laugh. ‘I hardly know you, Mr Lowell. So far, you seem very likeable, but I’ll – hmm – I’ll reserve my opinion.’
Lowell laughed as well. It was all very jolly, but I itched to slap him.
We pulled up at the same pretty country pub as before, and sat in the garden until lunch was ready. As before, I had a sherry and Lowell had a beer.
‘I’d love to visit the United States some day,’ I said. ‘It’s such a fascinating country. Of course I only know what I see in the movies. You, Mr Casey and Michael Harker are the only Americans I’ve really met.’ Which was a lie, but made me sound naïve and unsophisticated.
Lowell gave me a lazy smile. ‘I’ll head back to the States next year, probably.’
‘Lucky you. Escaping the bombing. Where are you from in America?’
‘I was born in Columbus, Ohio.’
‘Pretty name. Columbus.’
‘It’s a great place, but I haven’t lived there for years. I was living and working in DC before I came here.’
I smiled at him. ‘I have no idea what that means.’
‘Washington DC. Our nation’s capital.’
‘Oh, I suppose that makes sense, if you were working for the embassy. What do you do there?’
‘I’m involved with security.’
‘Important work,’ I said, sounding impressed. ‘Mr Harker never told me what he did, but I thought it must be that sort of thing.’
‘Because he searched poor Harry Egan’s body?’
I nodded, hoping he hadn’t invited me to lunch for the sole purpose of trying to obtain more information about Michael Harker, wanting to discredit him further.
We were called into lunch, watercress soup (‘from our own stream’), baked rabbit (‘trapped the coneys yesterday’) and peach cobbler (‘with our Daisy’s cream’).
‘I really do like you a lot, Maisie,’ he said over the soup. ‘I know you blame me for making Harker mad at you, but honestly, I was just trying to warn you about him, stop you from making a mistake with that guy. You’re too nice a girl to get your heart broken by someone like him. I hope you can forgive me.’
He sounded sincere, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘I don’t need looking after,’ I said, with my best French pout.
‘I know that, but I think Mike Harker’s bad news. I really do, Maisie. He caused us all sorts of trouble. And then he got you to lie for him. A man wouldn’t do that if he really cared about a girl.’
I looked down. I’d never been sure why I hadn’t told anyone about Michael searching Egan’s body, but Michael had never asked me to lie for him. He’d allowed me to make my own decision.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ I murmured, and looked at him, again through my lashes.
Lowell was a handsome man and the smile he gave me lit his face. It still didn’t affect my breathing or heart rate in any way. I had to face facts; I was besotted with Michael Harker. And that meant I had to get him back to Britain. The best way to do that was to expose Lowell or Casey or whoever was the traitor.
As we drank coffee, spy Maisie made an appearance as I performed the first of the tasks that Temple had given to me.
‘It was interesting,’ I said, ‘what you were saying the other night about the communists in Russia being worse than the Germans.’
Lowell gave me a cool look. ‘Why was that interesting?’
‘I met a few White Russians when I was dancing in France, and their stories about what happened in Russia during the Revolution were chilling. They hated the Soviets much more than the Germans. That was before the invasion of France, of course. But Moray also says that Communist Russia is a much more dangerous enemy to Britain than Germany and I respect his opinion on such things.’
‘Did Michael Harker discuss any of this with you?’
‘Not really. He said that we Londoners were very brave and he had a lot of respect for us.’ I screwed up my face, as if thinking. ‘No, we didn’t discuss politics really. He said that he supported Roosevelt and was pleased that he was helping us.’ I looked at Lowell. ‘I am, too. Although I really don’t understand Lend-Lease at all.’
I sounded like a five-year-old, which annoyed me. But Temple had instructed me to act as if I was young, inexperienced in political matters and uninterested in them. He also told me to slip in a few interesting ‘facts’ about Moray and what he believed in.
I leaned in towards Lowell and whis
pered, ‘Moray even visited Germany a few years ago. Before the war, of course. Sometimes I wonder if he might have German blood, but Moray isn’t a German name.’ I had decided to throw this in, just to see if Lowell took the bait.
‘You don’t need a German name to be from German stock,’ said Lowell. ‘My mom’s parents were born in Germany.’ He shrugged. ‘Germans make up the biggest immigrant group in the States. John Casey’s name was originally Classen but they changed it in the last war.’ He laughed. ‘Your own Royal family changed its name from Battenberg to Mountbatten. It’s not sinister. Being of German blood doesn’t automatically make you a supporter of Hitler.’
I smiled, and said, ‘Well, Moray says that Hitler is absolutely right about one thing.’
‘And what’s that,’ said Lowell, sounding bored.
Again I screwed up my face as if thinking. ‘That the survival of the white race is the most important thing. More important than anything. And that’s why he hopes the government makes peace with Germany and then we both turn on Russia.’
Lowell nodded. ‘That Mr Murray – is that the name? – he sounds like a fella with some common sense.’
I gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘No, it’s Moray. M O R A Y. He’s awfully brave, and very good as a station leader. We all think the world of him, although he was horrid to David Levy, who used to work with us. Moray really doesn’t like Jews.’
‘Levy? Celia Ashwin’s new man?’
‘No, that’s Simon Levy. David was his brother, who died.’ I shook my head. ‘Isn’t it scandalous? Her and Simon Levy, I mean.’
He nodded. ‘Her husband, Cedric Ashwin, will be turning in his grave.’
‘Ugh,’ I said, with a delicate shudder. ‘I hate that expression.’ Ugh indeed! Spy Maisie was such a chuff.
‘It’s a strange pairing, that’s for sure,’ said Lowell.
‘I just think it’s wrong. But it’s her life, of course. Moray is upset about it, I can tell.’
Spy Maisie was a chuff and anti-Semitic. I detested spy Maisie, who was pretty much everything I loathed.
‘Because he hates Jews?’
‘Probably. And I think he has a bit of a thing for Celia. Most men do.’
‘I prefer brunettes,’ said Lowell, with a smile.
He got a flirty glance through my lashes for that remark, and a simpering smile. Inside I was becoming worried. I had one more task to carry out, but I wasn’t sure how to introduce it.
‘Mr Egan’s locket certainly caused a lot of trouble,’ I said artlessly. ‘Gosh it scared me when the police thought I’d stolen it. Moray said I wasn’t to worry and he’d support me. When I showed it to him, he told me it wasn’t in the least valuable, but I suppose the photograph might have had sentimental value to Mr Egan’s widow.’
Lowell gave me a considering look. ‘When did Moray see it? I thought you told the police that you’d left it at your club. You told me and Casey that Harker tricked you into giving it to him the following morning, before you could take it to Scotland Yard.’
‘Oh, yes. What I told the men from Scotland Yard was absolutely true. I had left it at the club because I never expected that the police would turn up at the station that day. But after they left, I was so worried about it all that I had a long talk to Moray. He said he would support me if any charges were brought against me for looting, but he said he wanted to see the locket first. So I popped back to the club and picked it up to show him.’
Lowell was now staring at me. ‘You didn’t mention any of this to Casey and me.’
I opened my eyes widely. ‘Didn’t I? I told you I’d wanted to discuss it with Mr Moray.’ I frowned. ‘Or did I tell the police that?’
He said, in the measured tone people used when talking to small children, ‘You told the police that you wanted to discuss it with Moray, but you’d forgotten to do so and you didn’t have the locket with you because you’d left it at your boarding house.’
I nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. That’s right. And after the police left I did discuss it with Moray. He told me he wanted to see it. So I dashed home to get it.’
‘And he examined it thoroughly?’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I left it with him while I went to an incident.’
‘What did he say when you got back?’
‘He said that it was not very valuable, and I shouldn’t worry about being charged with theft for not turning it in immediately.’
Lowell nodded, but his mind was obviously elsewhere. I’d done the two tasks I’d been appointed, made it clear that Moray sympathised with fascism and let Lowell think that Moray had probably taken the microfilm. Well done, spy Maisie.
‘I wish I knew why Mr Egan gave it to me,’ I said, hoping I wasn’t over-egging the pudding. ‘He seemed upset to see Mr Harker. Perhaps that was it.’
Lowell nodded vacantly. ‘Perhaps.’ He seemed to collect himself. ‘Mr Moray’s right,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry about being charged. I’m sure no one thinks you’re a thief.’
The date went steadily downhill from then on. Lowell was obviously distracted, worried. He stopped trying to flirt or to obtain information from me, except for a few moments just before we returned to London.
‘So this Moray fella, what does he do in peacetime?’ he asked.
‘I think he’s a bank clerk.’
When he dropped me at the club, Lowell didn’t get out to open my door straight away.
‘Thanks for a lovely day, Maisie,’ he said. He didn’t suggest another meeting, for which I was grateful. Temple had made it very clear that I was to have nothing to do with Lowell after I’d done what they wanted me to do.
‘And thank you for lunch,’ I said, simpering.
‘We should do this again soon,’ he said. He made no attempt to pin me down to an actual date. I was no fool. He was giving me what the Americans called a brush off. I gave him the feminine equivalent.
‘That would be lovely.’ There was no hint of enthusiasm in my voice.
To make it perfectly clear, I leaned across and kissed his cheek, in the sexless sort of way a maiden aunt would kiss a schoolboy nephew.
We both now knew where we stood. Lowell saw me to the door of the club, returned to the car and drove off.
When I was alone in my room I thought about all that had happened that day. I’d done what I’d been instructed to do by Temple. I’d told Lowell about Moray being a fascist, and I’d led him to think that Moray had taken the microfilm. Whatever game Temple had in mind was now in play.
Jim had said that he would telephone me at the club that evening, so I went downstairs to the telephone to wait for the call. When it rang I picked it up immediately.
‘Hello?’
Jim’s oh-so-upper crust voice answered. ‘Hello. This is Jim Vassilikov. May I speak to Miss Halliday please?’
‘It’s me.’
‘All went well?’
‘Very well, I think.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Now forget all about it.’
But how could I do that?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Moray gave no indication that he knew that I knew about his other career when I arrived at the station early on Sunday morning. He waved at me through the office window when I entered the common room, as he always did, and made no effort to speak to me alone.
When we were sitting in the common room having elevenses Moray came in with his hands full of envelopes. He shook them at us.
‘These have been forwarded from the Crown Film Unit. Looks like our Ambulance Girls have got themselves some fans.’
The letters bore a range of addresses: ‘The girl who was Mary in Ambulance Girls At War’, ‘Miss Maisie Halliday (Mary) from Ambulance Girls At War’. Lily had used her maiden name in the credits, so her letters were addressed to: ‘Miss Lily Brennan (Little Sheila) from the Ambulance Girls movie’. Somewhat surprisingly, Celia, who was addressed as ‘The girl with the wool from Ambulance Girls At War’, or ‘Miss Palmer-Thomas (Lovely Linda
) from Ambulance Girls At War, had ten letters, as many as me and Lily combined.
I ripped one of mine open and read it aloud:
Dear Miss Halliday,
I hope that this letter reaches you. Wow! You are gorgeous. I cannot describe my feelings or dwell on your beauty sufficiently without using every piece of paper for sale in the local shop.
You are an absolute stunner. I don’t suppose you’d care for a pen pal? I’m in essential war work and can’t make it to London, but we could write.
Your devoted friend,
Yours faithfully,
Stanley Evans
Lily opened one addressed to her, which said:
Dear Miss Brennan,
I saw you in the wonderful short movie, Ambulance Girls At War, last week and was I blown over by you. You are some sheila, Sheila!
I am a lonely digger over here in England and I’m probably your most devoted fan. I don’t suppose we could meet?
Yours sincerely,
Charlie Williams
The others were all in a similar vein. Celia opened one of hers and burst out laughing.
Dear beautiful wool girl,
What a vision of loveliness you were in Ambulance Girls At War. Your white hands holding the wool, your expression of utter concentration, and your perfect Madonna-like features. Then you smiled! If you want to make a lonely airman happy, all you need do is to reply to this letter,
Yours sincerely,
Flying Officer Harwell
‘Are you going to reply?’ asked Powell.
The three of us exchanged glances and burst out laughing.
‘Of course not,’ said Lily.
The man was waiting outside our ambulance station when I went off shift the following morning. Average height (about an inch or so shorter than me), civilian clothes, grey raincoat and a shabby hat, standing stiffly in the early morning sunshine.
I waved at Celia, who raced past us on her bicycle. The man gazed at her until she disappeared around the corner, with an expression of what I could only describe as sheep-like devotion. When she was out of sight he turned and stared at me with an intensity in his eyes that I found off-putting. Especially when he stepped towards me.
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