“Her name is Daphne Eldemore, and she lives at 42, Brighthill Road, Leeds. It says here: ‘Take a tram from Central Station’.”
“How is it we missed her when we went through the files?” I asked.
“Because,” she said tiredly, “she was still filed under theingénues.”
There was no answer to this one, so I thanked her and hung up.
I drove Jill home quite early in the evening, and I kissed her good-night at her front door.
And that was very pleasant indeed.
CHAPTER 7
ON Monday morning, when I arrived at Alice’s office, Jill’s welcoming smile was not that of a stenographer type 3(b) (female). She greeted me with a well-balanced combination of personal pleasure and attention to duty — that is to say, nobody saw us kissing.
“Lipstick,” said Alice laconically. “Here’s a handkerchief.”
“I have one,” I said with dignity.
“Well, use it then. And please remember it’s Monday morning. Also this is Government Property.”
“Sorry,” I said, “I forgot my George Orwell. How are things progressing?” I drew up a chair. “Have you traced the woman?”
“Daphne Eldemore? Not yet. She left Leeds several months ago. But we’ll find her. Now go home, I’ve got work to do.”
“Can I take Jill out for a coffee first?”
“Certainly not.”
“Didn’t you get the flowers?”
“What flowers?”
“I sent you some flowers this morning.”
She looked up. “What a ridiculous, hypocritical thing to do. What sort?”
“Roses. Two dozen.”
“They’ll have a fit downstairs when they arrive.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s hardly usual to deliver flowers to a government office. Why did you send them?”
“Because I thought you’d let me take Jill out for coffee if I did. However, events appear to have happened in the wrong order.”
“Excuse me,” said Jill, coming in with a parcel. “This has just come for you, Miss Redgate.”
“Thank you,” said Alice, with a dead-pan expression. “And I think you’d better stop calling me ‘Miss Redgate’ in front of Joel. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but somehow it makes me feel dated.” She looked at the label on the box. “Belman’s, eh? I bet they’re in Cellophane.”
“They are,” I said.
Alice handed the box back to Jill. “Go and arrange these,” she instructed, “and then you can go out for coffee with dear Joel.” Jill went back to the outer office.
“And now,” said Alice, turning back to me, “if you can concentrate for one moment, you may as well be in on the latest developments.”
“DidThey turn up at the cinema again?” I knew there was something she hadn’t told me, and I was getting excited.
“No; but then it’s possible that they use a different theatre each time.”
I stared hard at the photograph that Agnes had delivered on the Sunday morning, as if by doing so I could extract some hidden secret from it.
This was the woman all right — there was no doubt about that — ‘Daphne Eldemore,’ read Dandy Roberts’ annotation, ‘rather nondescript actress. Good for tours and rep. Cheap,’
“You haven’t told me any of the background of this business,” I said. “But, presumably, your bowler-hatted agent must have had some reason for taking an interest in that cinema?”
“I told you, we had a tip-off.”
“What sort of tip off? Surely not from the usual sort of informer; such a person would go to Scotland Yard or the local police. This must have been from someone who knows a bit about you, and your organization. And don’t forget, you haven’t told me what on earth you’re doing here, anyway! I can only guess it is some kind of counterintelligence work. If you want any help from me youmusttell mesomething.”
“All right. I’ll tell you all I know. Heaven knows, it’s not much!” She burrowed for something beneath her feet. “Just help me put this on the desk, will you?” It turned out to be a tape-recorder that had been folded neatly under the knee-hole of the desk.
“You were half right about the nature of the information we had,” she continued, as she plugged in the machine and ran the tape back to the beginning. “We got it direct from the police. They made this recording of a telephone call received the day you went to the cinema — Friday, wasn’t it?”
“Thursday.”
“Thursday, then. They sent it straight round to us and that’s why we had a man there. Listen.”
“I’ve had a great deal of trouble,” complained the informer, “in persuading your people to put someone important on the line.”
“Well, I’m Detective Inspector Ferguson,” boomed the other voice, “and I think I’m quite important enough for you. So perhaps you’d better tell me what you have got to say.”
“All right, all right! Don’t lose your hair!” protested the instrument, “I just wanted to make sure. And incidentally, please don’t trace the call. I’m in a phone-box at a railway station, and if a policeman suddenly comes up while I’m still talking I might not live to help you again — and we don’t wantthat, do we?”
“Do you think you’re being watched?”
“Iknow I’m being watched.”
“Well, for someone who’s being watched,” said the inspector, “you’re certainly taking your time!”
“Of course.” There was rather a nasty little laugh. “Don’t you see, a hasty telephone call would look extremely suspicious. As it is, I’m waving and smiling quite openly through the glass at my friend outside. He thinks I’m talking to a girl friend. If he suddenly opens the door I’ll have to pretend I am, so don’t be surprised if I start calling you by the most endearing names. I shan’t mean it, I promise you.”
“All right,” said the inspector, “we won’t trace the call. I shouldn’t like your precious life to be endangered.”
“Good. That settles that, then. Of course, you might think this is a hoax, mightn’t you? In which case we’re both wasting our valuable time.”
“I shall certainly think so if you don’t get on with it!”
“Do you know the news theatre at Oxford Circus?”
“Yes.” Ferguson mentioned its name.
“That’s right. Well, if you send a man down to the restaurant — it has a café downstairs — did you know?”
“Yes, yes! Goon.”
“Well,Ithink it’s quite anice café! Anyway, if you send a plain-clothes man down there at about noon today you might hear something about this Delanez business ...
“Delanez?” interrupted the inspector, “who the Hell’s Delanez?”
“Tut! tut! Don’t you ever read the papers? Well, never mind. It was some time back, but you can easily find out. My friend really is getting impatient, so I’ll simply have to stop now.”
“But — how do we recognize ...”
“... no, that’s my last word, Sybil. Why should you have to stay with your mother? If you won’t come to me for once, that’s the end of it. Good-bye.” There was a bang as the receiver was replaced with some violence, and that was the end of the recording.
“A very nice piece of entertainment,” I observed. “What an unsavoury character!”
Alice pressed a button and the machine stopped.
“Quite! Well, theydid trace the call, of course, but didn’t act on it. Even the life of a little worm like that has to be protected.”
“Where did it come from?”
“There’s a block of call-boxes right at the end — the hotel end — of platform one, Paddington Station. The call came from one of them. But there was probably no particular reason why he called from there, except that there is plenty of noise to drown the conversation. Using a main-line terminus was probably just a red herring.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. Call it female intuition, if you like.”
“So that’s why they employ you!” I exclaimed. “Now I understand why you’re allowed to refurnish your office and outrage the whole tradition of government departments. The men are okay at most things, but — no intuition! You’re the Head of the Hunch Department. And how many hunches do you have to have per week to stay in business?”
“If I were your girl friend I’d say you were working from your script again.”
“Have you two been discussing me?” I groaned.
“Naturally,” she said drily, “we both have quite an interest. Here she is, anyway. You’d better take her out for coffee or it’ll be lunch-time. Those flowers look lovely, Jill. You’d never guess they were a bribe!” Alice set off the sulphuric in the remark by a certain humour in her eyes. I hadn’t seen them like that for a very long time.
“By the way,” I said, pausing on my way out of the office, “whois Delanez?”
Alice was running back the tape again. “Delanez,” she said, “was the Boroslovakian Ambassador in London, until he resigned and obtained political asylum in England about two years ago.”
“Well, what’s all the fuss about, then?”
She turned off the machine with a snap. “Like Detective Inspector Ferguson,” she said, “you don’t read the papers. Three days ago a political uprising began in Boroslovakia.”
“That’s another kick in the teeth for the boys in the Kremlin.”
“I hope so. But the Kremlin is not without its resources. Delanez had much influence in the State before he came to England. He was regarded as a sort of Tito by the people. Then there were some mysterious reshuffles and he came here and moved more or less out of the political scene, and at the same time Boroslovakia was absorbed as a Satellite. The Russians now realize their mistake; Delanez is the only person who could help them crush the uprising.”
“Surely he wouldn’t be prepared to do that?”
“Not of his own free will, of course.”
“Well, they could hardly do anything about it now that he’s safely tucked away in England, farming pigs or something.”
“You wouldn’t have thought so, would you? But they’ve made a start. He’s disappeared.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“Yes, it is a little startling, isn’t it? But so was that business of Petrov in Australia; yet they very nearly got him out of the country! It looks as if they’re trying to do the same thing here. And it’s the job of this organization to stop them. So you see,” she said, “you didn’t do so badly when you noticed that the number 22 bus should not have gone along the Tottenham Court Road!”
CHAPTER 8
THE telephone was ringing.
I found the light switch and fumbled for the receiver. The electric clock indicated a few minutes after midnight. “Yes?” I croaked.
“Were you asleep?” inquired the instrument, with an unmistakable rasp. I could almost smell that filthy cigar. “Yes,” I said, “but don’t let that bother you.”
“It’s very uncivilized,” said Dandy, “to go to bed before two — unless, of course, you’ve got a woman.”
“I have not,” I replied with emphasis, “got a woman. And if I had I don’t think I would much appreciate being rung up at this hour.”
There was a chuckle at the other end. “Sorry! Anyway, it’s about that girl, Daphne Eldemore. I suppose you didn’t manage to find her latest address?”
“No. Not so far. Unless, of course, they found out today and didn’t call me. But I rather doubt that.”
“Well, I’ve been spreading the word around a bit — you know, among some of the smaller agents who specialize, like I used to, in provincial stuff. And what do you think? I’ve just run into Cliff Miller (he used to work for me, you know; now he’s on his own) and he says he booked her yesterday for a small character part in a film. Apparently she was pretty thrilled with it — about the biggest thing she’d done. But she never showed up; and when he tried to get in touch with her he just got a load of nothing. Always out when he phoned. Of course, it wasn’t difficult to find someone else, so he didn’t persist overmuch. She’s living in Camden Town, by the way.”
This was pretty good. “Does he know the address?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact he remembered it without having to go to the office; which is a good thing, because we’re having a whale of an orgy at theSandbag Club. Why don’t you come along?”
“Theaddress, Dandy!”
Another chuckle. “All right, you dull bastard! It’s one of those smart-sounding places — that’s why it was easy to remember, for it hardly fits the woman; but I suppose it’s a big house that’s been split up into small flats. It’s number 29 Park Village West, and it’s just by Regent’s Park.”
I didn’t think the residents of Albany Street would care to have it described asCamden Town, but I skipped that one. “You’re a bright boy,” I said; “you may get a medal for this. Now be a good chap and go back to your riotous living ...”
Impulsively I decided to phone Jill. I knew I had no good reason for doing so, and even as I dialled the number I told myself she wouldn’t thank me for waking her at this hour. Yet I persisted, and soon heard the ringing tone in my ear.
It stopped, and there was a clatter. I imagined the girl sleepily groping for the receiver in the darkness, as she wondered what manner of crisis had caused her telephone to summon her from deep sleep. I cursed myself for a fool, and contemplated the idea of hastily replacing the instrument, so that the authorship of my folly might always remain anonymous. But she spoke in time, very sleepily.
“It’s Joel,” I said. “’And I’m being very silly.”
“Why?” she asked, logically.
“Because one doesn’t ring people up in the middle of the night for no reason.”
She thought about this for a moment. “True,” she said, eventually. “One doesn’t. Therefore there mustbe a reason.”
“Dandy phoned,” I said. “He’s got a London address for that Eldemore woman.”
“Fine,” she said. “But that doesn’t sound like the reason.”
“No,” I said, “it doesn’t.” There was a long pause. She wasn’t helping me much over this. “You’re wrong,” I said rather desperately. “There isn’t any reason at all. I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.” I waited for a well-earned reprimand.
She said: “Isn’t that a reason?”
“You’re making me say things I didn’t mean to say,” I said lamely.
“Why not say them, if they’re true?” she asked.
“I might get snubbed,” I explained.
“Why do you always expect to be snubbed?”
She was hard up against the barbed-wire now. And I realized that what I said next would be pretty important. But it was out of my hands. We were playing the Truth Game, and that had its own volition. “Because of Murtha House,” I said. “Because of Alice. Because of the scene in the coffee bar, and the way I acted the night we went to the theatre. And because I ring you up in the middle of the night and reveal all the things I’m revealing now.”
The silence was unbearable, and I knew I had made a fool of myself. I knew this was the moment for her to tell me, as to a child, that I was barking up the wrong tree; that she had regarded me simply as a friend, and if that was the way I felt perhaps it would be better if we didn’t see each other any more.
She said: “What happened to the barbed-wire? I felt sure I was going to get a sharp, painful jab of it just then.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me that I’m a raving lunatic?”
I asked.
“I think we’re both lunatics!” she said.
“You realize what I’m trying to tell you, Jill?”
Another pause. “Yes,” she agreed, “I think I get the general idea!”
I could distinctly hear my wrist-watch ticking from where it lay on the chest of drawers. “And you?” I said.
This time her answer came back immediately. There was an audible smile in her voi
ce now. But she was laughing at both of us, not just at me. “Well, I didn’t hang up on you, did I? ...”
*
This conversation was hardly calculated to leave me in a mood for sleep, so I decided to drive round to join Dandy Roberts at theSandbag Club.
Two thoughts competed for top place in my mind. One was the vision of Jill answering the telephone in the middle of the night, and not being irritable about it; the other was the consideration of a very unglamorous woman with a mole on her cheek, whose sole function within the orbit of my life was to provide the one known link with Delanez and a nondescript, sour voice speaking from a phone-booth in Paddington Station.
Dandy had left the club, and I didn’t bother to go in.
I admit I qualify in more ways than one for the lunatic asylum; there are many things I have done on the spur of the moment which would do little to restrain any sane person from signing a certificate of insanity with alacrity and confidence. Thus I headed the car for Park Village West. I had no formulated plan, except to go there and see what I could see.
Park Village West is actually a crescent with a bump in it, and both entrances give access to Albany Street. Most of its inhabitants are well off, if not vulgarly (and enviably) rich. There was evidence of this when I nosed my little car among the Bentleys, Sapphires and Jaguars that made the place look like a midnight motor show. Before I stopped I cut the engine and lights and steered by moonlight, in a way, I hoped, that wouldn’t draw too much attention to myself.
A lamp was turned on in number 29, but it was on the top floor and it was impossible to see anything through the gauze curtain. All the same, a closer inspection of the house might bear fruit. I climbed out of the car as quietly as I could.
My footsteps sounded loud on the road surface, which was of gravel and inevitably made a crunching noise with every step I took. It seemed an age before I reached the grass lawn of the house in question. When I got there a ground-floor light was switched on, flooding the whole garden in a way which rendered me only too visible. My heart seemed to stop beating for a moment, and I froze where I was for a fraction of a second, then leapt for cover. Apart from anything else I was trespassing, whereas I had yet to prove that anyone in this house had broken the law.
The Cummings Report Page 5