by Joel N. Ross
“You going out?” he asked. “We need to find Inch. I thought you might— What? Oh. Miss Pritchett, Harriet Wall.”
Audrey liked that she was rated first in the introduction. Didn’t like that she was wearing an old sweater and baggy slacks and her hair was a shapeless lump. She said she was charmed to meet Mrs. Wall. Lady Harriet said likewise, with a perfectly posh accent, and smiled as if she meant it. Her eyes were warm and clear, but Audrey saw a hint of wariness. Good. Lady Harriet offered her hand and Audrey resisted the urge to curtsy. She laughed at herself, and Lady Harriet’s wariness sharpened into suspicion: afraid of what she’d learn of her husband during her visit to the demimonde. The graceful swan was afraid of the waddling duck!
“Take no notice,” Audrey said. “Excess levity is a failing of mine—one of masses.”
“I cannot believe that, Miss Pritchett.”
“Oh, ask anyone. Ask Tommy.”
They turned to Tom, who feigned interest in his matchbook.
“You have lovely hands,” Audrey said. “Do you salve them?”
“They’re my only passable feature, and all I do is neglect them shamefully.”
“Well, I suppose”—Audrey was careful not to look at Tom—“I suppose one is sometimes best treated by those things one most neglects.”
“Or one most neglects those things that treat one best.”
Audrey managed an agreeable smile, unsure if Lady Harriet was speaking of Tom or his brother, although entirely sure she’d not win a duel of wits.
“We need Inch,” Tom said. “You know where he is?”
“Your husband is a member here,” Audrey said, making pleasant conversation.
“Yes.” Lady Harriet’s eyes grew a shade tighter.
“How lucky you are! All the girls are terribly jealous. He’s quite dashing.”
“I’ve always thought so.”
“And a novelty, as well. An American gentleman, I mean. Well, there are two of them now.” Audrey glanced at Tom. “No longer so unusual.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” Lady Harriet said. “Tom continues to surprise.”
Audrey gritted her teeth into a smile. “Isn’t that the loveliest thing about very old friends?”
“Christ,” Tom said. “You can chat later.”
Is that what he thought they’d been doing? Chatting? Even the brightest men could be so stupid. “You’re looking for Inch,” Audrey said.
“Harriet spoke to his commander. They’ve no idea where he is. Thought he’d be here, but the doorman’s blowing smoke.”
“Tom said you might help us find him.” Lady Harriet’s gaze was suddenly calm and direct. “It would mean a great deal. It’s more important than we can say.”
Beautiful, smart, and sincere. Awful cow. Still, Audrey owed Inch. Would he want to be found? If it were just Tommy . . .
“He mentioned he was taking his niece on an outing,” she said. “The Sickert Exhibition? Do you have the address of his family home?”
Lady Harriet said she’d already rung.
There was one other address that Audrey knew. She tried to rise above the pettiness. She failed. “Terribly sorry,” she said. “I’ve no idea where he might be.”
THE TURBOT WAS MERELY ADEQUATE, but the duck and plum pie was excellent, and the poulet à l’estragon better still.
Chilton dabbed at his mouth with the linen napkin. He did not, as a rule, enjoy coming to town, but the business of politics required sacrifice. Sadly, the club offered only marmalade dumpling with clotted cream to finish—closer to Harriet’s taste than his own.
Chilton smiled into his wineglass, thinking of his daughter. She was an eccentric, but he enjoyed sending her home with parcels of steak and kidney in order to satisfy her “low cravings.” It was, however, problematic when her eccentricities intruded into the realm of the political. Lady Chilton had known better, and he’d hoped Harriet would emulate her mother. He’d hoped her flirtation with politics would have ended long since. It hadn’t, and now they both must pay the price.
Chilton had meditated on dead Mr. Melville’s note at some length. Herr Sonder was apparently a German defector who intended to damage the Abwehr network, using the parcel he’d given Tom. Chilton did not have a clear idea of this turncoat’s plans, of course, but he could not allow any such antifascist initiative to proceed. He had instructed Rugg and Renard to secure the defector’s parcel from Tom . . . at any price.
“You may suppress Tom Wall,” he’d told them. “To prevent the parcel being delivered.”
“‘Suppress’?” Renard had asked.
“If need be, to prevent him from damaging our interests—Tom Wall must die.”
They had understood that at least, and brightened with malignant purpose. A pity, but the business of politics required sacrifice. Chilton finished his wine and stood from the table. No time to dwell on it. He had his own task to perform, which would brook no delay.
THE BELL JINGLED as Sondegger entered Tudor’s Dry Cleaning and Pressing, from where he might observe the Waterfall. The bell was precisely the same pitch as the intermission bell at the Munich Kammerspiele, which he took as a propitious sign for his upcoming performance.
Performance and intelligence were as closely twined as life and breath; espionage and theater were the same. As a young man, Sondegger had traveled to Russia to study at the Moscow Art Theatre, to become one of Stanislavsky’s “knights of culture.” After the outbreak of the Great War, the Abwehr—the Nicolai Abwehr, not the current, contemptible organization—had approached him following a production of Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard. Was he loyal? Was he able? Was he willing?
He’d seen the potential immediately, and from that moment lived in two worlds, both of them stages. There were no lessons more apt for the world of shadows than those taught for the spotlights. Stanislavsky’s new Method was Sondegger’s inspiration: Truth cannot be separated from belief, nor belief from truth; the actor uses words to instill his inner vision in others; success requires complete surrender, passionate desire.
Following the Great War and the fall of imperial Germany, the Nicolai Abwehr had been briefly disbanded. But Sondegger’s service had not been forgotten, and when he was called upon again to trod the boards in the service of his country, he did not consider refusing. An actor was only as great as his parts, and there was no part greater than this.
He stepped farther into Tudor’s and closed the door gently behind. He identified two viable exits—stage right and stage left—and waited in the queue to speak with the clerk. He needed to find Tom immediately. Once informed of the location of the second microphotograph, Tom would faithfully deliver it.
In the mirror behind the counter, perfectly on cue, he caught sight of the American, who was walking past with a woman who could only be Lady Harriet. Sondegger did a little business with his borrowed briefcase and exited the shop in time to see them enter the Waterfall.
He was more than pleased with the serendipity. The Waterfall, however, was not the place for a delicate operation. He would wait for Tom to exit, then act.
Three locations recommended themselves as observation points. At the least of them, a sharp-faced man slouched against a lamppost, picking his protruding teeth with the folded edge of a newspaper. At the best, between a newspaper van and a wine bar, a matronly woman watched a chalk artist draw on the pavement as a large man cracked his knuckles nearby.
Sondegger secured the third point. He would whisper into Wall’s ear, ensure the proof was delivered. He would meet Duckblind and they would transmit. One report to the SD—to destroy the tainted Abwehr network—the other a code within a code, to his own cohort. The Americans would not intrude further in the war. Not, at least, until the British and Russians had been safely defeated.
HIGHCASTLE SAT AT HIS DESK, head in his hands, and ran his weary gaze over the map between his elbows—Henness
ey Gate, Tipcoe’s boardinghouse, Melville’s deadly rubble, the street where the bomb had killed Rupert and two unidentified children. . . .
Sixteen points on the map, mute and meaningless. Highcastle’s sole duty was keeping the Double-Cross System safe. He’d failed. He’d flooded London with direction-finding vans, trebled security for the turned agents, even sent Tom Wall and Lady Harriet after Earl, with Ginger tailing them in case of contact. Long shots didn’t come any longer.
A secretary tapped at the open door, carrying his lunch. Highcastle waved her away. There was an angle he was missing. He was missing Rupert, too. It was in memory of Rupert that he’d passed the microfilm to the Americans, despite his fears—and the Americans were frankly unimpressed. Didn’t make any sense, so Highcastle made inquiries and learned the Yanks had already received the bulk of the information several months ago.
One of MI-6’s double agents, a Slav code-named Quadrangle, had been sent to the States last summer with a microdot of his own. His microdot didn’t mention Ambassador Oshima, or the composition of the strike force—or the November eighteenth date of sail—but it contained exhaustive questions about the Pearl Harbor base. The similarity to Tom Wall’s microdot was striking, almost word for word.
Quadrangle had met the head of the Yanks’ domestic intelligence agency, the FBI—man named Hoover—after being kept waiting a month. Always the playboy, the Slav had passed the time living the good life in New York, with blond twins in his bed and FBI microphones in his lamp shades. When Hoover finally condescended to meet, he said he had no use for foreign spies. He confiscated Quadrangle’s funds, almost arrested his German contact, and threatened him with violating the Mann Act when he took an unmarried woman to Florida. Not a word about Pearl Harbor. As far as Highcastle could tell, the information died on Hoover’s desk.
Highcastle couldn’t figure it. Had Wall’s microdot been based—by the Hun or his masters—on Quadrangle’s microfilm, in an effort to deceive? Or did the duplication of the data mean it was correct?
The phone rang. It was Illingworth, saying the bomb that had killed Rupert was a BD2 Splitterbombe, no doubt a salvaged dud. And he had news about Mr. Melville.
“Melville, the transcriptionist who died in the rubble? It wasn’t an accident.”
“No, sir,” Illingworth said. “A pocket diary was found among his effects, and—”
“No diary in the original report.”
“The coroner’s office overlooked it. It wasn’t logged until last night.”
Highcastle grunted.
“Mr. Melville apparently established a relationship with Sondegger and had been, er, unduly influenced by him.”
“‘Unduly influenced’?”
“Melville had been turned, sir.”
“From the other room? By voice alone?”
“So it appears. He apparently believed he was acting for king and country. That Sondegger was working against the Germans.”
“Go on.”
Illingworth told him the diary mentioned Sondegger and Wall, mentioned a parcel for Tom and a meeting with Duckblind. “Melville used a highly personal form of stenography; we’ve had trouble deciphering it. However, if you recall the air-raid warden?”
“Who found Melville’s body?”
“He claims the body was warm when he found it. No lividity. No rigor.”
“And?”
“There was a young person on the scene, a young woman.”
“A witness? Tell me he got a name.”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Description?”
“Average height, slender, light hair, knee-length skirt. Likely in her early twenties. Nicely turned ankles, good accent.”
Something about Illingworth’s tone tugged at Highcastle. “You don’t peg her for a witness.”
“The warden thought he’d heard scuffling. When he saw the woman, he thought lovemaking. Then he saw the body.”
“She killed him? Bloody hell, Duckblind’s a woman! Blond and young, and I’d wager green-eyed.” It fit with what the Hun had told Tom, and Highcastle’s heart pounded with the chase. “I need every incident report checked for mention of a young woman. We need a general call.” He scribbled notes as he spoke. “Well done, Illingworth.”
“I took the liberty of authorizing the incident reports examined, sir. Not yet finished, of course, but there was one curiosity. A young woman wandered, by apparent accident, into Kingsway-F. She—”
“Which one is Kingsway-F?”
“The office building, sir.”
Bloody code names. It was a secure building, from which they ran some of the more trusted Double-Cross agents. “And?”
“Mr. Digby’s LCO is stationed there. Digby is, I believe, one of the names on the list you sent of Abwehr agents likely to be targets of the Hun’s investigation. It’s just possible that—”
“How long ago? Any distinguishing marks? Tell me something. Anything.”
“She had a dog, sir.”
“What about the bloody dog?”
“The men believe it was a Pekingese.”
Highcastle snorted. “She’s disposed of it already. Still, try notices about lost dogs. Paper the city, we might stumble on luck.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What else?” There had to be something. Something to scratch the itch at the base of Highcastle’s scalp, telling him he missed an angle.
“I’m afraid that’s all I have.”
Highcastle put his head back in his hands. A young woman with a well-turned ankle and a Pekingese, abroad in London. Impossible.
“I’VE REALLY NO IDEA where Inch might be.” Audrey pretended her cheeks weren’t flaming red, pretended she didn’t feel Tom’s disbelieving gaze. “You might ask Jacko and Murch, or his sister. Inch pretends to dislike her, but don’t believe it.” She was babbling, and unable to stop herself. “He dotes on his niece. He—”
“Audrey,” Tom said.
“Well, I haven’t any nieces,” she said desperately. “Or nephews. And I haven’t any idea where he might be, except— Oh!”
Inch was at the door, leaning on his crutch. “Hullo-ullo-ullo, what?” he said to Russell. “You rang and, like whatshisname’s hounds, I froth.”
Russell murmured something and gestured toward the three standing outside the door to Audrey’s flat.
Inch lurched forward. “The Duke of Wall and— Well! What divine creature do I see before me?” He bowed to Lady Harriet, playing the buffoon. “I have not had the pleasure, the honor—”
“Harriet, Flight Lieutenant Inch,” Tom said. “Inch, Mrs. Wall.”
“Lady Harriet! I say!”
She extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Flight Lieutenant.”
Inch leaned on his crutch, kissed her wrist. “Pleasure’s mine.”
“We have a couple questions, Inch,” Tom said.
“What?” Inch blinked. “I mean to say, a couple Hessians?”
Audrey almost laughed. Inch had a hard enough time with an American accent without being dazzled by Mrs. Wall. They’d be lucky to get a single coherent sentence from him.
“Questions about my husband,” Lady Harriet said. “Anything you might have inadvertently overheard. Perhaps about Hyde Street Misfits.”
Inch understood her well enough. “Hyde Street Misfits? ’Course it don’t exist. No such street. Chimera of an unbalanced mind.” He winked at Tom. “By which I mean yours, old boy, not my own.”
“We need to hear it again,” Tom said. “All of it.”
“Shall we go downstairs, then,” Inch said, “to table and chair and pianoforte? Nothing to offend the refined sensibility, Lady Harriet—least not this early, what?”
“A fine idea,” Lady Harriet said.
“I should be getting back,” Audrey said, gesturing to her flat. Because she could take no more. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wall.”
“We need you as well,” Tom said.
“Me?” Dressed like this, with Lady Harriet Wall present? Not unless Tom had a very good reason.
“To translate,” he said, eyeing Inch.
Not good enough. She preferred to sulk in her room.
“Charming outfit, Venus, by the by,” Inch said. “Oliva Twist, don’t you know, always so enchantingly waifish.”
Always? Curse Inch. Lady Harriet would think she didn’t know how to dress herself. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a jiff.” She slipped into her flat and yelled for Imogene. “Genie, help! I need—everything!”
Imogene’s voice floated from the back of the flat: “In the bedroom.” She’d already laid Audrey’s dusky rose wiggle dress on the bed.
“You angel!” Audrey said, pulling her sweater over her head. “It’s not too early for this?”
“There isn’t a man alive who’d care.”
“Tom won’t even notice.” Not even the wiggle dress, which was so tight that it made her walk with one foot directly in front of the other. “It’s horrid. They’re perfectly comfortable with each other.”
“Good,” Imogene said. “After comfort comes boredom. Not those stockings—these.”
“You think?”
“Men don’t want the comfortable, especially when horse-faced.”
“She’s beautiful, not horsey.”
“Stupid girl.” Imogene brushed Audrey’s hair fiercely. “She has the sort of beauty only women notice, and who cares for that?”
“Inch noticed.”
“There is nobody more womanish than he,” she said, pinning Audrey’s hair.
Audrey laughed. “I’ll tell him!”
“Do.” Imogene stepped back to survey her work, then pinched Audrey’s cheeks. “Glowing on the outside, as well. Now go dazzle. And Vee? Be nothing but yourself.”
TOM STUCK AN unlighted cigarette in his mouth and listened to Inch natter. Tea came. A comedian delivered unfunny lines from the stage and Inch delivered unfunny lines at the table. Tom should be in the East End, knocking on doors. . . .
