by Joel N. Ross
“You could’ve saved yourself the trouble,” Tom told him.
Rugg shrugged a massive shoulder.
“A parcel’s what we’re after,” Renard said.
“A parcel of what?”
“Haven’t a hint.”
“Sure,” Tom said. “Wait here. I’ll get you a parcel.”
Renard smiled a malicious smile. “Sharp as a snail’s tooth, our Mr. Wall.”
The clock said it was a few minutes after seven. Tom’s mouth was stale from sleep. He’d slept, and woken, and ended facedown on the floor. He needed a plan, needed a Colt, needed a miracle. “You mind if I brush my teeth?”
“Bugger your blinkin’ teeth.”
“Brush ’em every morning, just like Mother told me.”
“Every morning—you hear?” Renard asked Rugg. “Playing the pennywhistle is our Mr. Wall.”
“Come hold my hand if you’re afraid I’ll slip down the drainpipe.” Soon as he said it, Tom realized Renard meant something else. “It’s seven o’clock. It’s—what day is it?”
“It’s night.”
“Christ.” He stood. “I slept eighteen hours.”
Rugg shoved him back onto the bed.
“Eighteen hours, I need to take a leak.” He stood again, and Rugg preceded him into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth. Pissed and washed his hands. There was no plan. There was no miracle. And short of his .30-caliber BAR, what did he need? A hand grenade.
In the other room, Renard was sitting in the chair reading Audrey’s note. “Nice bit of quiff, is she?”
“Try to take me, Renard.” Tom grabbed his lighter and the pack of Players. “Without lover boy here helping.”
Renard frowned, maybe realizing Tom was different now. Nothing like eighteen hours of beauty sleep. “You talk tough, yobbo, but I’ve seen you fold.”
“Just you and me.” Tom stuck a cigarette in his mouth and flicked the lighter. “One hand tied behind my back.”
He inhaled and offered the pack to Rugg, who shook his head. Tom could make a play, but the room was too small and Rugg was too big. Keep them talking, then. Sure, that was a plan.
“We got all the time in the world,” Renard said. “Even know which bird is yours, black hair and high explosives. Don’t expect she’ll come knocking; it’s dinner below. All the time in the world.” He flicked one of the jobber’s spent cigarette butts onto the floor. “What’re these, then?”
“British cigarettes.”
“Girl named Venus.” Renard glanced at the note. “She remains always yours. What’s the nightly?”
He couldn’t let them drag Audrey into this. “Girl leaves a note for all her customers.”
“What’s the blinkin’ nightly?”
“Told her I had half a crown. She said no worries, she had change.”
“Old joke, that,” Renard said. “Now, your teeth sparkly, Mr. Wall? Fancy combing your hair?” Renard flipped idly through Tristram Shandy as he spoke, and Tom wondered if he knew what it contained. “Cleanliness and godliness, yobbo—where the fuck is that parcel?”
Renard slammed the book shut, and Rugg tapped Tom in the stomach.
Tom folded and his cigarette flew across the room. Rugg eased him onto the floor. Tom’s breath came in wheezes. He watched the cigarette smolder on the carpet and tried to form words. No luck.
“We’ll waste more than tobacco,” Renard said, “you don’t pass along that parcel, Sonder’s parcel. You know Sonder.”
“Never heard of it.”
“We know you have.” Renard removed his plaid coat and folded it carefully onto the desk. “We blinkin’ well know.”
“Oh, Sonder. Sure.”
“He gave you something.”
“Fashion tips. Told me only weasels wear plaid.”
“Corridor’s empty.” Renard ground out Tom’s cigarette with his toe. “We got a sign propped, end of the passage. What’s that say again?”
“Fookin’ maintenance.”
“All alone, yobbo.” Renard grinned toothily. “Good thick doors.”
“He gave me nothing.”
“Who is he?”
“A neighbor, an old neighbor. We used to play poker.”
“That right?”
“I knew him in the States. In D.C.”
“D.C.,” Renard said. “A Yank, then, is he?”
“American as apple pie,” Tom said.
“Apple a day.” Renard took a steak knife from his pocket—six inches long, the blade mottled with rust. “Found this in the gutter. Bit of everything caked on here.”
“I don’t know any Sonder.”
“He knows you. American as Wiener-bloody-schnitzel. Rugg.”
Rugg clubbed Tom on the temple with an open hand. Tom’s knees buckled and he almost fell. They knew Sondegger was German, but they didn’t know his full name. Knew about the microphotograph—it had to be the “parcel”—but didn’t know it was in the book on the table. If it was in the book on the table . . .
Rugg shoved him into the chair and tied his wrists to the chair arms, palms up.
“Blinkin’ disgraceful,” Renard said, looking at the bandages. “Seeping through. That’s nasty foul, that.” He yanked at the gauze. “You ought to take better care.”
Tom saw without looking: The hand was puffy and streaked red. The fingers clenched and unclenched. Sondegger had driven the pencil into the seam of his palm. . . .
“Nasty foul,” Rugg said.
“Pain don’t bother you, does it, yob? Old boot leather. Time we got civilized. I’ll go gentle with the cutter.” Renard tightened his grip on the blade and brought it toward Tom’s hand. “Like a surgeon.”
“Stop,” Tom said. “I’ll tell you.”
“’Course you will. Only question is when.”
“Sonder’s German. He’s in London. He’s working for the COI, the Americans. It’s a new agency. He—”
Rugg grabbed Tom’s head from behind and twisted. “When we get done blotting you, we call on your girl.”
Tom felt his neck bones strain. His bound arms spasmed; he was on the verge of blacking out. At least his teeth were clean.
“Fuck he care for the girl?” Renard said.
“He cares,” Rugg said. “Don’t you, Wall?”
Pain flared at the base of his skull. He was almost gone. He tried to say, Don’t need a big band . . .
Rugg released him. “Do his other hand, squit. Do his left.”
“His other hand? Oh-ho. Right you are.” Renard twirled the knife until he held the haft in his fist. “You’ve one good hand, yobbo, till I pin it to the chair, infect it worse than that mess you’ve already got. No hands, stumps for wrists. Give you six seconds. Five. Four . . .”
HARRIET SUPPRESSED A SIGH as Mr. Uphill’s shadow fell across her desk. She was busy and hadn’t time to spare.
“Officially, Mrs. Wall, you are what?” he said. “The coordinating officer of WIT.”
“Days like this, I hardly remember.”
“You may take my word on the matter.” Mr. Uphill tapped an open folder on her desk. “You’ve been here since . . . I believe you arrived at five this morning?”
“Surely not five.”
“You signed in at seven minutes past. It’s now twenty-one minutes after five in the evening. Twelve hours is sufficient for a single day.”
“There’s a good deal still to be done,” she said, gesturing at her cluttered desk. “That dispatch minute we received is alarming. I really ought—”
“You really ought to tend the home fires before the blaze, Mrs. Wall.”
She bit back a sharp retort. “Yes, Mr. Uphill. There are only a few final things. . . .”
The dispatch had arrived that morning, sent from an ALBANS authorized source to select offices that r
an agents into occupied Europe. There had been a serious breach: A Nazi agent was at liberty in England and could fatally compromise their agents, her agents. Governess had been tortured; Mathilde, executed; Nanette, missing. Now a single Nazi agent could kill the rest. The dispatch instructed Harriet to evaluate all documentation according to the eight specified guidelines. It was work enough for two weeks. She had three days. She could not save her young ladies; she could only ensure that their loss would cripple nothing but themselves.
“Mrs. Wall?” Uphill said.
“I’m very nearly finished,” she said.
“No, my dear. You have finished,” Uphill said. “You’re no good to us exhausted. Mistakes will creep in, and we’re better safe than sorry.”
She bristled at the cliché, but she knew he couldn’t help himself. He spoke as he thought. And on the rare occasions he “put his foot down,” he was immovable.
She tidied her desk under his watchful gaze, and was too soon home.
The house was empty. Her worry for Earl mingled with her fear for her young ladies—though she worried far more for them. He’d gone to ground for reasons she couldn’t imagine, and would surface for reasons she’d never learn. He was Earl, untarnished by fear or failure, untrammeled by imagination. Unlike Tom, walking into the raid to find the death that had eluded him on Crete.
There was a knock at the front: Mrs. Turnbull from next door. “I’d have you in, Mrs. Turnbull, but—”
“Oh, I’ve no time myself. Mr. Pomfret’s come for dinner. But a young woman came this morning and asked that I give you this.” She handed Harriet a sheet of paper folded around a small weight. “You wouldn’t have a trickle of tinned milk to spare?”
Harriet waved Mrs. Turnbull toward her kitchen and unfolded the note. A key was inside. In neat girlish script the message said Mr. Wall was in difficulty and needed Mrs. Wall. It was a matter of grave importance. If possible, please go to the following address. . . .
The note was unsigned. The address was the Waterfall. She’d never been. She’d never wanted to know. But if Earl was there, if he needed her . . .
“FOUR. BLINKIN’ THREE . . .” Renard rested the tip of the blade on Tom’s palm and hefted Tristram Shandy to pound down like a hammer on a nail. “See he don’t yell too long, Rugg. The door’s thick, but it ain’t—”
“I’ll talk,” Tom said. “I’ll fucking sing.”
“First tap won’t do a jot of harm, yob. Was I at two or three?”
There was a scratching at the door.
“Police!” Tom bellowed. “Get the pol—”
Rugg shut him up and yanked the fire door open. “We’d best sod off. One exit, and this ain’t our town.”
Renard swore and grabbed his coat, still holding Tristram Shandy, and Tom gripped the chair with both hands and kicked. Caught Renard on the back of the thigh and knocked him off balance. Renard dropped the coat and book and turned on Tom, his face murderous. He swiped the knife at Tom’s hand, and Tom bucked in the chair and took a shallow cut on the forearm. He yelled again, and Rugg grabbed Renard and dragged him into the darkness, slamming the fire door shut behind them.
Tom collapsed into the chair, and there was another scratching at the door. The lock snicked open, the handle turned, and he half-laughed. “Harriet?”
“Tom? I heard— Good Lord! What on earth?”
“Rough couple days. Untie me. No—lock that door first,” he said, gesturing toward the fire door with his chin. “Now, Harry! Drag the chair and prop it— Harriet, just fucking do it. I didn’t tie myself. Now the other door. Lock it. . . . Good, thank you. Now untie me.”
She inspected him as she loosed the knots, noting the cut on his arm, his sweat-slick face. Her gray velvet eyes revealed no disgust at the ruin of his palm. “You need medical attention, Tommy. It’s quite horrific.”
He looked at the scratch on his arm. “Needs to be cleaned is all.”
“Don’t be an idiot. You know what I mean.”
Rugg grinding into his hand, Sondegger’s pencil piercing the tissue with splinters and lead. “I need a shower.”
“It’s infected, Tom.”
He opened a drawer and grabbed a fresh shirt. “It’s fine.”
“Tommy, you have to— That’s Earl’s shirt.” She looked in the drawer. “That’s all Earl’s.”
“I borrowed a few of his things. After I rented the room.”
“The room.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s yours?”
“Sure. Don’t look like that—I didn’t decorate it. I just needed somewhere to sleep.” He never could lie to Harriet, but she wanted to believe him. “Needed some clothes.”
“Earl . . .” she said. “He didn’t—”
Tom shut the bathroom door before she could ask. He started trembling. What if they’d done it? What if both hands were cut and infected? The trembling slowed, then stopped. He’d finally slept. He was okay. Not quite four-oh, but he’d do. He washed the new cut. Put his unbandaged right hand under the water until it ached. Dried himself and rebandaged his right hand and dressed.
“Help with my tie?” he asked, opening the door.
Harriet was holding Renard’s coat at arm’s length, watching the bright fabric sway. She was far away. Her lips were down-turned and the faint lines at her eyes had deepened.
“Not your size,” he said. “And drape-cut plaid does nothing for you.”
She was paler than usual. She was sublime. She’d come for him.
“Harriet,” he said.
“Mmm?”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I expected Earl.”
“Swell.” Then he realized. “You heard from him?”
“I was given a message. I was afraid . . .” She folded the coat over her arm. “The note said it was urgent.”
“Who sent it?”
“Mrs. Turnbull—my neighbor—said a young woman claimed Mr. Wall needed me.”
“True enough,” he said.
“The room key was—” She caught some expression in his face. “Who is she?”
“A friend.”
The girl had laid her heart at his feet, and he’d walked away. She’d told her story and she’d wept in his arms, and he’d . . . Had he called her Harriet?
Yeah, he had.
He’d refused her kindness and laughter and her open heart, and she’d still brought Harriet to his side. The girl knew he ached for Harriet, knew he wanted Harriet instead of her. So she’d given him Harriet. She was some kind of woman.
“A friend,” he repeated. “Are you happy with Earl?”
“I’d be happier if he were here.”
“Sure, but—are you, do you . . .”
She said, “I am and I do, Tommy. I love my husband.”
Tom fiddled with his lighter. “I ever tell you about the summer in Maine? He taught me to fish, taught me to sink or swim.”
“Which were you doing just now?”
He tried to grin. “Dead man’s float.”
“More new friends?”
“Rugg and Renard,” he said. “They do odd jobs. Used to be Blackshirts.”
Her mouth tightened. “They’re political?”
“In their charming homespun fashion.”
She went paler and slumped into the chair. Hearing about Rugg and Renard hit her harder than Earl’s absence, harder than seeing Tom’s hand. She was tough, but something pained her. Tom didn’t know what. He looked at her, and she just shook her head, so he took the rusty knife into the bathroom and rinsed off the blood and grime.
Back in the room, he said, “Toss me that book.”
She tossed him Tristram Shandy and he sawed carefully at the spine.
“Whatever are you doing?”
“Eighteen hours of sleep,
Harry. I’m a new man.” He ripped the binding away. Nothing inside. He ran a finger down the spine, felt a crease, and picked at the leather. Something was lodged inside. He caught it with a fingernail, a tiny square of film—a microphotograph.
“Is that microfilm?” She came closer. “That’s microfilm, Tom. What on earth . . .”
“I’m not sure. Something to do with Earl.”
“We’ll take it to Inter-Services.”
“Earl is COI,” he said. “This is American.”
She objected. It was her husband’s; it was found in London. They were allies. Even if the United States refused to fight while Europe fell, she knew her duty.
Tom knew duty, too. “And my loyalty,” he said, “doesn’t change with the weather.”
Her voice went cold enough to burn. “If you’re suggesting that I cannot be trusted— I assure you, Thomas, I can be trusted with things of value.”
He said some hard words, and she returned them, fighting like an old married couple. The thought made him smile. Her face cleared and she brushed her hair behind her ears. “We seem to have misplaced the subject,” she said.
They decided to compromise. First, they needed the microphotograph enlarged. It could be nothing, a flat waste of time. Or it could be the key to Earl, the key to Sondegger and the Double-Cross Committee. Could be the key to a sneak attack on the States, or a checkmate in the chess game he was playing with the Hun—playing blind, and running out of time.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
EVENING, DECEMBER 4, 1941
THE FLOWERPOT THEATRE was small and old and closed; bomb-damaged. The stairs were roped off and a statue had been shattered and lay facedown in the rubble. There was a dusty plaque on the wall. Highcastle rubbed it clean with his sleeve and read WE THAT LIVE TO PLEASE MUST PLEASE TO LIVE.
The author’s name was obscured. Rupert would know, but Rupert was dead—and Sondegger was free. Highcastle had failed.
He’d stopped at the Flowerpot en route to the Metropolitan Police. He had his men combing the streets for the Hun, had them roused to a panic. There was no lead they wouldn’t pursue, and it wouldn’t achieve bugger all—there were no leads to follow. Sondegger’s only trail was the bodies at the safe house, and his knowledge of Earl Wall.
