(1980) The Second Lady

by Irving Wallace

  ‘Have the British stage a raid on Ladbury’s. Billie’s secret visit makes it very suspect. I feel sure the Soviets use it as a drop. A sudden search might turn up the proof we need.’ ‘How did he react?’

  ‘As expected.’ Parker sighed. ‘A man who thinks there is nothing wrong with his wife isn’t going to think there is anything wrong with her visiting her dress designer. He just wouldn’t consider my request. And he sure was mad as hell that I followed his Billie.’

  Parker was suddenly aware of a movement beside him, and he saw that Nora was sitting up straight, her eyes bright with excitement.

  ‘Guy, I’ve just had a great idea,’ she said. ‘It was so obvious

  we overlooked it. If the President needs a real fact to be convinced, I know how to get him one. Billie’s fingerprints. They must be on file somewhere. Get them — somehow see if this First Lady’s prints match hers —’

  Parker interrupted her with a shake of his head. ‘No go. You’re on the right track, Nora. But a little late. I thought of that already — meant to tell you. I hoped to have the facts

  — if they supported us - to show the President. I phoned the White House, asked a close friend in the West Wing to locate Billie’s prints in confidence and send them over to me on the next courier flight. A routine hunt for her prints was instigated. Will you believe what happened? The computer showed the prints on file in the FBI, in the California Motor Vehicle Department, and I forget how many other places. So my friend requested a set. You know what? Not a single set of Billie’s prints was available anywhere. They were missing. Gone. Someone did a good job. So there we have another suspicion, but no facts.’

  ‘Dammit.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  They had turned into Brook Street and were approaching Claridge’s.

  ‘What’s next, Guy?’

  He heaved his shoulders. ‘I suppose I’ll keep trailing Billie and see if anything happens.’

  ‘Don’t bother any more today. Billie won’t be back from Buckingham Palace until later. She won’t be going out tonight. Wants to catch up on her correspondence. Wouldn’t you like to spend the evening with me?’

  He hardly heard her. ‘No,’ he said, slowing the car. ‘I mean yes, I’d like to — but —’ Deep in thought, he edged the Jaguar against the curb, some yards before the hotel doorman, and stopped it. His face lit up, and he slapped the steering wheel. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘It just struck me

  - what I should be doing.’ ‘What?’

  ‘Visiting Ladbury’s myself. Have a look around. Maybe invite him to dinner.’

  ‘I’d think twice about that,’ Nora said worriedly. ‘If your hunch is anywhere near right, you could be getting into trouble.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Parker made light of it. ‘The First Lady’s ghostwriter paying a visit to the First Lady’s dressmaker? Absolutely normal. Absolutely innocent.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. When do you intend to do it?’

  Parker held up his wristwatch. ‘Right now.’

  He brought the car up in front of Claridge’s entrance. The resplendent doorman hurried forward to open the Jaguar door.

  Nora leaned over and kissed Parker. ‘Guy, be careful.’

  ‘I’ll try. I want to see you again. Maybe even tonight. Hang around.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’ She touched his sleeve. ‘Guy, be very careful.’

  She stepped out of the car, and he drove off.

  Although the traffic was heavy at this hour, Parker reached Motcomb Street in less than fifteen minutes. He found a space a block from the Halkin Arcade and Ladbury’s shop, locked his car, and covered the distance on foot.

  At the elegant entrance to the dress designer’s shop, he paused momentarily to collect his wits. At last, he grasped the door handle, and the door swung inward. As he crossed the threshold, a bell somewhere above him announced his entrance.

  Standing on the deep plush off-white carpet, Parker surveyed the showroom. No salesperson was in sight. The room itself was richly and tastefully decorated. In the forefront, on a pedestal, a mannequin was draped in a black velvet cocktail suit and green scarf. Behind the mannequin rested a long glass case displaying jewellery. The walls on either side were lined with expensive clothes. Rectangular slots held sweaters and blouses. Dresses, skirts, suits, pants, were hung in alcoves. To the rear were two full-length mirrors, and a scattering of valuable antique chairs. Half the rear wall was covered with live vines that had climbed up several trellises. The other half of the rear wall featured a spiral staircase to

  the second floor, as well as an opening into a corridor that apparently led to fitting rooms and offices.

  Parker had almost a half-minute alone — the chic casualness, the air of aloofness, amused him — before someone materialized from the back. This was the mannish, heavy-set woman that Parker remembered seeing in the White House, Ladbury’s assistant, Rowena Quarles.

  She planted herself in front of Parker, eyeing him as she might an intruder. ‘Yes? May I help you?’

  T’d like to see Mr Ladbury,’ Parker said politely. ‘I’m working for Mrs Bradford. She suggested I see him.’ ‘Mrs Bradford?’

  ‘Billie Bradford. The First Lady, the American First Lady. I believe she is one of Mr Ladbury’s clients.’ Miss Quarles hesitated. ‘She sent you?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Mr Ladbury may be tied up. But let me see. Who shall I say is calling?’ ‘Mr Parker.’

  ‘If you’ll wait a moment, Mr Parker.’ She disappeared into the rear corridor. Parker wandered about the intimidating room, coming to rest before the glass case with its dazzling jewellery.

  From the corner of an eye, he saw the slender young man with a startling yellow fringe of hair on his forehead and a springy step approaching him quizzically.

  ‘Mr Parker?’ he inquired in a falsetto. ‘I’m Ladbury.’ He offered a drooping hand. ‘Mrs Bradford sent you?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Parker, releasing the designer’s hand. ‘But, in a way, yes. I’m Guy Parker, and I work in the White House. I’m assisting Mrs Bradford in writing her book. What she had really said was that I might interview any people she knew in London. She may have mentioned it to you.’

  ‘I’ve not heard a word concerning interviews,’ said Ladbury. ‘But I think I did hear her mention something of a book she was doing when I visited the White House recently.’ ‘Well, here I am about the book. I had hoped to catch you with a little free time to discuss her taste in fashions. What

  she doesn’t like, what she does like, how you met her, an anecdote or two. Perhaps you could even join me for a drink or dinner? I know it is short notice, but —’

  ‘You’re most gracious, thank you,’ Ladbury interrupted. ‘I do understand what you’re about on that book. I adore Mrs Bradford, and I’ll be only too glad to cooperate, Mr Parker, but I’m afraid not now.’ He consulted his gold Patek Philippe watch. ‘It’s a bit late. Almost closing time. We’ll be shutting down in a few minutes. After that I have a longstanding dinner appointment. I am sorry. But look here, why don’t you ring me in a day or two? We’ll set up a proper meeting when we can speak at leisure. Perhaps over lunch. How’s that?’

  ‘In a day or two. Fine. I’ll call you.’ Rowena Quarles had emerged from the rear corridor. ‘Telephone, Mr Ladbury!’ she called out. ‘Paris!’

  ‘Be right there!’ Ladbury called back. He turned to Parker. ‘Oh, dear, do forgive me for being abrupt, but I have been expecting this call for hours. Sorry about today. We’ll make up for it.’ He spun away, then said, ‘Remember me to Mrs Bradford. I must see her while she is in London.’

  Parker started for the door. At the door he halted, glanced around. Ladbury had vanished into the corridor. Once more, Parker had the room to himself. What were Ladbury’s last words?

  Remember me to Mrs Bradford. I must see her while she is in London.

  But Ladbury had seen her here in London. Parker, himself, had watched her enter this shop. She ha
d lied about it. Now Ladbury had lied about it. What was going on?

  His suspicions rekindled, he was tempted to find out the truth about this shop.

  He gazed across the room toward the corridor. Certainly, Ladbury must have his office back there. Parker made up his mind. He took the doorknob, opened the front door. The bell

  above sounded loudly. Without moving, Parker closed the door. He remained inside the shop.

  Turning, he moved as quietly as possible, abetted by the deep carpeting, to the rear. He squinted inside the lighted corridor. It was empty. Trying to hold his breath, he entered the corridor. From a midway point, he could hear Ladbury speaking on the telephone. Parker continued into the corridor. There were several curtained rooms to his left. The fitting rooms, he guessed. Treading softly, he moved on further up the corridor until Ladbury’s voice on the right could be heard distinctly as he addressed a colleague in Paris. Almost directly across from what must be Ladbury’s personal office was one more curtained room. Parker separated the curtains and slipped between them.

  He was in a medium-sized, attractively decorated, feminine dressing room. At both ends, tall three-way mirrors. Straight ahead, the wall was an open wardrobe filled with women’s gowns, the floor-length formal gowns taking up most of the rack. Quickly, Parker crossed to the wardrobe, pushed apart the formal dresses, stepped through them to the very wall, letting the dresses fall back together in front of him. Pressed uncomfortably against the hard wall, shielded by the dresses on their padded hangers, Parker was sure he could not be seen by anyone happening into the dressing room.

  He gave his full attention to listening. Coming from the office on the other side of the corridor, Ladbury’s voice was partially muffled, but still audible.

  Parker stood motionless behind the dresses, feeling suffocated by them, deeply conscious of the rashness of the risk he was taking. Should someone find him there, there would be no acceptable explanation and the consequences would be horrendous. If Ladbury’s shop was, indeed, a KGB contact point, his captors would eliminate him immediately. If it was legitimately only a couture house, his captors would turn him over to the local bobby as a common thief, or trespasser. The President would learn of his arrest and fire him promptly. He would be disgraced and helpless after that. He was beginning to have doubts about his suspicions and

  his amateur sleuthing, and was considering giving up his surveillance and leaving the shop while it was still possible, when the front doorbell rang out. He went rigid against the wall, but cocked an ear.

  Faintly, he could hear the front door close, then open again, the bell ringing again, the door closing once more. Over this he could hear Ladbury’s voice. ‘Attendez, attendez,’ Ladbury was saying into the phone. Now he was speaking to someone in his office. ‘That must be them. Here, Rowena, take the phone. Your French is better than mine. Tell her she’ll have her bloody shipment next week for certain. Don’t go on at length. Get rid of the miserable woman. We have business here … I’d better go see if they’ve arrived.’

  Parker peeked between the dresses, and beneath the ankle-length dressing room curtain he could make out the patent leather loafers of Ladbury emerging into the corridor. Apparently, Ladbury was looking toward his front door. In his high-pitched voice he called out to someone, ‘Ah, there you are, right on time! Come on back to the office! Oh, Baginov, let’s close the shop. Be a good fellow and secure the dead bolt on the front door. The spare key is in the pocket of the velvet suit model, the black velvet outfit on the mannequin. Don’t want any bloody customers coming in on us now …. There, that’s a good fellow!’

  Ladbury seemed to be waiting outside his office for the new arrivals. Then, beneath the curtain, a pair of brown suede shoes came up to Ladbury, followed by a pair of thick-soled black cowhide shoes.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Ladbury greeted his visitors shrilly, ‘I hear it’s good news.’

  ‘The best,’ an American voice with a pseudo-British accent and the slightest lisp replied. The lisp sounded vaguely familiar to Parker, but he could not immediately identify it.

  ‘Front door secure,’ a bass voice with a faint Russian accent reported.

  ‘We won’t be bothered now,’ said Ladbury. ‘Come into my office. I’ve some excellent sherry.’

  From his hidden post, Parker listened. For a short interval,

  he heard nothing. He wondered whether Ladbury had closed his office door.

  To Parker’s relief, Ladbury’s voice suddenly could be heard again, drifting toward him as if from some distance. ‘Here’s to a momentous success,’ said Ladbury. Apparently, the silence had taken place during a pouring of drinks, and now the four of them were toasting the good news. Parker tried to speculate on the reason for the celebration. If it was some kind of Soviet victory, what was an American doing here? If it was some kind of American or British triumph, what was a Soviet doing here?

  Ladbury could be heard again. ‘So our lady delivered?’

  ‘Not yet, but almost,’ the American said with his small lisp. ‘She simply informed me she has what we want. She will meet the Premier at the assigned rendezvous at eleven o’clock tonight. At that time, she will make her report.’

  ‘Do you want us to transmit this much?’ Ladbury inquired.

  ‘I think not,’ said the American. ‘Let’s wait until it is done.’

  ‘But the exchange — the timing —?’ This was Ladbury.

  The Russian voice at last. ‘There will be no exchange. After Vera passes on the information, her usefulness is ended. Then the other will be returned.’

  An extended silence.

  Ladbury broke it. ‘So our friend Vera is to be liquidated?’

  ‘It is necessary,’ said the Russian, who Parker remembered had been addressed as Baginov when he arrived.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Ladbury regretfully. ‘Too bad. Clever woman. That will happen after she sees the Premier?’

  ‘Tonight,’ said Baginov.

  ‘You have a safe place?’ wondered Ladbury.

  ‘Everything has been arranged,’ said Baginov.

  ‘What if the body is found one day?’ said Ladbury. ‘It could -‘

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Baginov. ‘It will not be identifiable. Not even the face. Acid.’

  Another silence.

  ‘When will we transmit?’ asked Ladbury.

  ‘You will be here from eleven o’clock tonight,’ said Baginov. ‘Fedin will join you with the code. On the other end, they will be ready to act.’

  ‘Settled,’ said Ladbury.

  Parker could hear the barely distinct sounds of shuffling — chairs or feet — and peeking out he glimpsed the movement of shoes, four pairs of them, one pair belonging to the Quarles woman, leaving the office. Shortly after, the sound of the front door closing. All the lights went out, obviously from a master switch.

  Parker remained stationary behind the rack of dresses. He did not know whether he was alone in the shop. Perhaps one of them had stayed behind. To be detected now meant certain death. Still, he could not continue too long in hiding. Sooner or later he would have to leave his position. In fact, the sooner the better.

  He decided to remain where he was fifteen minutes longer. If one of the four had stayed behind, any movement he made might be heard.

  This waiting gave him the first opportunity to absorb what he had overheard. What he had overheard, stripped of all his suspicions and fancies, came down to the bare facts that the three men he had listened to were acting covertly. They had a female agent named Vera. She had uncovered some secret information of enormous value. She was delivering it to ‘the Premier’ tonight. Since there was only one Premier in London at this time - Soviet Premier Dmitri Kirechenko - this was undoubtedly a Soviet operation related to the Summit, and the three men in Ladbury’s had been KGB agents. Certainly Baginov was one. Certainly, Ladbury. And an American with a slight lisp. Their female agent, Vera, having found what the Soviets needed to know, was to be killed immediately after delive
ring the information to the Premier. Not only killed, but disfigured.

  There was no denying it any more, Parker knew. Every bit of it supported his suspicions. This Vera was unquestionably Billie Bradford’s double. She had obtained vital information from the President. She was passing it on to the Premier. She must now be disposed of, and any evidence that she was a

  perfect double for the First Lady be destroyed, so that should the corpse be found there would be no clue to the Soviet plot. Then ‘the other’ - meaning the real Billie Bradford -would be returned, and perform as if nothing had happened.

  The enormity of the plot dizzied Parker. The fact that it was so near success compelled him to leave his hiding place.

  There had been no sound from anywhere in the shop for over fifteen minutes. Parker parted the hanging gowns and stepped out into the darkened dressing room. One hand held out before him, as if sleepwalking, he went in the direction of the corridor. His fingers touched the curtain. He pushed it aside and was in the corridor. There, a narrow sliver of light shone from the shop. He followed it cautiously into the main body of the shop. Several similar lights, inches above floor level, were serving as night-lights and aiding his progress. The front portion of Ladbury’s place was partially illuminated by an arcade lamp. Outside, it was early evening.

  At the front door, Parker halted. He was not surprised to find himself trembling. He tried the door. It held fast, secured from inside and out by the dead bolt. He would have to find a way to break out. At once, he remembered the spare key Ladbury had earlier ordered Baginov to use. Parker returned to the velvet suit on the mannequin. There were two pockets. One was empty. The other produced the key.

  With shaking hand, he unlocked the front door, stepped outside, locked the door again.

  He stood in the arcade staring at the key. If he kept it, the key would be missed later. He realized that he had better find a locksmith, make a duplicate, and return the original. He would have to consult the London telephone book, locate a locksmith who was open at this hour, perhaps one with twenty-four-hour service. As he headed for his car on rubbery legs, he had a flash of recall. When he had left his car in the intersecting street to follow the so-called First Lady, he had seen a shop that resembled a hardware store. In fact, it was an ironmonger’s shop. Maybe that would do.