‘Hullo there,’ said Hoste. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright.’
‘Oh, hullo …’
He laughed. ‘I thought for a moment you were trying to give me the slip. I spotted you in there and thought, I know that face …’ He sounded friendly, light-hearted. She covered her fluster by taking the programme from her pocket.
‘Did you enjoy the concerto?’
‘Oh, I always enjoy Rachmaninov.’
‘You’ve been going a good deal?’
‘Well, yes, since the poor old Queen’s Hall went …’ On the longest night of the May raids an incendiary bomb had scored a direct hit and burnt the place down.
Amy nodded sadly. ‘My parents used to take me there when I was a girl. I passed it the other day – to be honest, I could hardly bear to look.’
‘D’you remember saying we might go to hear some Elgar there?’
She did remember; it was while they were having dinner in Soho, the same night he had saved her life. She wondered if he thought it strange that she’d just disappeared. ‘I’ve been meaning to get in touch,’ she began, not sure where this lie would take her. ‘I – I’m sorry I haven’t –’
‘I thought you might still be in the flat when I got back that night,’ he said. ‘That is, I hoped you would be,’ he said, correcting himself with a little laugh.
She stole a glance at him; he was not put out, in fact he was being charming – as if he were pleased to see her. He looked different, somehow. The planes and contours of his face were more defined, his eyes bright with meaning. Not like a film star, quite, but perhaps like someone lower down the cast list.
‘What a night that was!’ he continued. ‘Heaviest raid of the lot. Now here we are in July and hardly a peep from them since.’
‘Every time I hear someone say they’re over I have to touch wood. Do you think – will there be more?’ She thought for a moment he might actually know.
‘I couldn’t say. After that pounding we took I can’t think why they didn’t come back and finish us off.’ Hearing a doomy note in this he added, ‘But if it is just a lull, there’s no reason not to enjoy it. I’ve noticed the shelters are only half full these days.’
‘Yes, I’d almost forgotten what a good night’s sleep felt like. Although –’ her voice turned musing – ‘I still wake up and swear I can hear those engines grinding away.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘One got so used to the sound.’
They had come to Piccadilly. She was on her way back to the office, and assumed he would turn up Shaftesbury Avenue in the direction of his own. But he asked if she would mind him accompanying her into Mayfair.
‘I haven’t that much work at the moment,’ he explained.
‘Oh …’ She braced herself to go on. ‘I wonder what you do all day?’
He looked at her in a puzzled way, and she worried that her question had sounded brusque. He mustn’t get the idea I’m snooping, she thought. After a moment he said, ‘I suppose it’s what most people in an office do – nothing of much interest. Just a lot of paperwork.’
She nodded. ‘Only … I recall you saying you had to travel about – Hastings, was it? You still do that?’
Again, there was a tiny pause. ‘Yes. I still do some work down there. And at Tunbridge Wells, Rochester, Broadstairs … Wherever they care to send me.’
They. She would like to have established who they were, but he already seemed bemused by her questions. Any more would look fishy. The paradox struck her with renewed force. How could this decent, amiable-looking man, who had shown every sign of supporting the war effort, how could he be a Nazi agent? People were mysterious, of course. You couldn’t always tell what was going on behind someone’s face. In the paper you saw photographs of quite ordinary-looking men who turned out to have committed a brutal murder. There may have been something in Hoste’s past that had distorted his mind and tipped his loyalty upside down. His political allegiances were murky, and his interest in Marita still baffled her. But if he were a rabid anti-Semite – and she couldn’t rule it out – he had kept it very quiet.
The trouble was, she had let these suspicions brew for weeks on end. If he was indeed an enemy within then who knew what terrible damage he might be doing to the country? He could be giving away secrets, or helping Germany prepare for an invasion. It was her duty to do something – she knew it. But what?
They had reached her office on Brook Street, and she thanked him for his company. He looked at her with a disarming expression.
‘I wonder – perhaps I could get us tickets for another concert. You mentioned Elgar, for instance.’
‘Erm …’ An intuition had told her that he might ask this, and she didn’t have a ready excuse. ‘I – I’d like that. Very much.’
‘Righto,’ he said, and with a tip of his hat he was gone. On her way up the stairs, she realised that she could easily have brushed him off. Instead she had accepted his offer with barely a hesitation. The prospect of going out with him again appealed to her. She couldn’t help liking him.
A letter had arrived for her since she had been out of the office. According to Miss Ducker it had been delivered by hand. She opened it and read:
Dear Amy,
Something was amiss between us the last time we met, and I’m sorry for it. I probably took your response to my news the wrong way. I certainly regret the harsh words that followed, because they made a rift in our friendship. May I hope that we can repair it? On one score at least we should no longer disagree – I have broken off my engagement to Christopher. For one reason or another, things had become difficult, and I decided that we should have some time apart to reflect. He cut up rough, which only made matters worse. I have been wretched about it in the days since, and am still trying to convince myself that it’s for the best. In the meantime, I would very much like to see you again, and write these words in the hope you will feel the same.
Yours, very affectionately,
Georgie
She put the letter down in a confusion of feelings. Mainly what she felt was relief at the prospect of reconciling with Georgie; she too had brooded over their estrangement. It was ridiculous to have fallen out over a mere misunderstanding. But she couldn’t ignore a needle in her conscience. Remembering the argument that had sparked it off, she wondered how much responsibility she bore in the matter. She had only warned Georgie against being precipitate, against jumping into marriage so quickly – the same thing she would have said to any friend. And yet it struck her as a real possibility that she had helped separate two people who loved one another.
Interviews with clients occupied her from three till five, though her mind was elsewhere, partly on the letter from Georgie but mostly on what she ought to do about Hoste. It had got to the point where not acting would be culpable negligence – a crime, in fact. She was packing up for the evening when an idea came to her; with a glance at her watch – nearly five thirty – she hurried out in the direction of Shepherd Market. She had passed the place dozens of times without giving it a moment’s thought: now it presented a way forward. It was situated in a narrow set of Victorian chambers whose door opened to her push. A notice stencilled on the wall pointed to Detective Agency on the second floor. She met no one on the way up, her shoes clacking and scraping on the tiled steps.
A light was on in an outer office just down the corridor, and she knocked before entering. Whoever occupied the desk here had left for the day. A door off to the side opened and a short, stocky man of about forty put his head round.
‘May I help you?’
Amy, with nothing prepared to say, made an apologetic face. ‘I suppose I should have made an appointment …’
The man swung open the door in invitation. ‘No need for that. If you’d like to step this way, Miss – ?’
He introduced himself as Moody, and belied his name in seeming perfectly even-tempered, with a soft and confidential voice to match. The merest cockney twang could be heard in it, w
hich she also thought reassuring – it made him sound fly, like someone you couldn’t get the better of. He wore a dark gaberdine suit and tie, like an undertaker’s. The office in which they sat was orderly but impersonal. A few watercolours of sylvan scenes hung on the walls, but no family photographs or personal tokens, and nothing to identify the nature of the business. Even the carpeted floor seemed to collude in the air of discretion. Moody took out a notepad and asked her how he might help. She took a deep breath.
‘Your line of work involves a lot of surveillance, I imagine – keeping a tail on people?’ With an open-palmed gesture he agreed that it did. ‘There is someone – a man – whom I suspect of … wrongdoing. I can’t be certain of it, which is why I’d like you to establish beyond doubt what he’s been up to.’
Moody put down his pen and looked at her. ‘This man – would I be right in assuming you know one another?’
‘Yes, we do.’
He inclined his head sympathetically. ‘Miss Strallen – if I may – we deal with cases like this all the time. Is he in fact your husband?’
She started at this. ‘No, no –’
‘But you are romantically attached?’
‘No, nothing like that. I don’t really know him well at all.’
Moody drew in his chin. It seemed he was already finding this a bit rum. ‘Then what d’you suppose he’s guilty of?’
‘Well, I’m not sure. That’s why I need you to investigate. I think – I have reason to believe – that he’s a subversive.’ It was the first time she had said it aloud. ‘That is, I think he’s an enemy agent.’
A sceptical furrow had creased Moody’s forehead. ‘Based on what evidence?’
She hesitated before recounting the story of being left in his flat during the raid, and her stumbling upon his cache of medals. Moody listened, his small grey eyes sliding over her, seeming to calculate the likelihood of her being crazy. When she came to the end he waited a moment, squaring his pad – on which he hadn’t yet made a note – and staring off thoughtfully.
‘You’re absolutely certain that these “medals” were German?’
‘I know what an Iron Cross looks like. I’ve seen one before.’
‘So you’d like me to tail this party, in order to discover … what exactly?’
Amy gave a half-shrug. ‘Some indication of what he’s doing. Perhaps from the people he meets – I don’t know.’
He puffed out his cheeks, then said, ‘Why not just report these suspicions of yours to the police?’
‘Because I don’t want to involve them unless it becomes unavoidable. This man –’ she searched for the words – ‘he once did me a great kindness. I can’t really – It would be ungrateful of me to try to have him arrested on a mere suspicion. That’s why I’d like you to … look into it.’
Moody stared at her for a moment, seeming to make up his mind. ‘I should warn you, Miss Strallen, this sort of investigation doesn’t come cheap. It entails long hours of waiting, watching – you understand?’
‘Yes. Perhaps you could tell me …’
He pulled open a drawer of his desk and picked out a card, which he slid across the table without comment. In very small print it listed his rates in pounds and shillings. He was so discreet he wouldn’t even mention money aloud, lest it contaminated the air.
‘There may also be incidental expenses. It all adds up.’
She sensed he was trying to put her off, possibly out of kindness: the job would be a costly one.
‘That’s fine,’ she said, pushing the card back to him. ‘When can you begin?’
They proceeded to the paperwork, and he made a note of Hoste’s home and office addresses. He asked her if she had a photograph of ‘the party’, but of course she did not. He took down a brief description instead, and she tried her best to make him sound distinctive – which, in appearance, he wasn’t.
‘When may I expect your first report?’ she said, rising to her feet.
‘Usually I would take two or three weeks to put something together.’ Then he added with pointed but not unfriendly irony: ‘But given the case may involve the security of the nation, I’ll contact you by the end of next week.’
After the incident of Mr Pruckner’s visit Amy decided not to think about Marita any more. In the past she had always been quick to smooth any ruffled feathers between them, first because she feared her disapproval, and second because she felt that Marita’s impatience was often justified – she was so much the cleverest of all her friends, and it seemed only right that she, Amy, should be the one to appease and conciliate. On this occasion, however, she was unwilling to play the peacemaker, for the simple reason that she had done nothing wrong. Mr Pruckner was her neighbour, and he deserved her friendliness and courtesy whether he was Jewish or not.
In truth she had been shocked by the vehemence of Marita’s hostility. It had been clear from the outset that she had no love of the Jews; in the old days, before she had joined the blackshirts, she had limited herself to a mocking aloofness, to sniping and carping. ‘They’ were always first in a queue, always ready to seize an advantage and bilk the unsuspecting. But never before had Amy heard her use a word like ‘degenerate’, or speak of them with such disgust in her voice. It was as if their offence to her had become personal, although, as far as she knew, Marita didn’t nurse a particular grievance. Following the surprise of their rapprochement she wondered if it was really possible for them to remain friends after all. When they had first got to know one another in the thirties she had been somewhat in awe of Marita – her intelligence, her striking looks, her terrifying social manner. Then had come the break, and during that long estrangement Amy had developed self-assurance, a spirit of independence, mostly through the success of the bureau. She no longer needed someone to look up to.
Perhaps her silence conveyed its own message, because Marita had telephoned a few days later and suggested going for a walk: it was a beautiful Saturday, warm with only the faintest breeze. They met at the south end of Regent’s Park and began strolling up the Broad Walk. All around the Nash terraces lay swathes of bomb damage, some of it being cleared up as they walked. The far-off sounds of tapping and tidying floated across the air.
Marita wore a sleeveless dress with a geometric pattern of purple and green. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, lent a more playful aspect to her angular face. Amy hadn’t envisaged any show of remorse from her, and in this at least her expectations were squarely met. Marita was not one for contrition, except in circumstances when it didn’t matter: she could apologise for being late, or forgetful, but she would not yield in any argument about politics.
‘You know me well enough by now, my darling. I am not going to make a fuss about what was said last week. Let us draw a veil over the unfortunate matter of your neighbours.’
‘Agreed,’ said Amy, who could not resist adding, ‘I suppose I should feel grateful that you still care to see me.’
Marita heard the slight sarcasm. ‘I accept that not all my friends share my view of how the world works. Some of them I am less inclined to judge than others.’
‘That sounds like you’re granting forgiveness.’
‘No, not forgiveness – only forbearance. In time I trust you will come to see that I was right. For now I should rather keep you as a friend than insist upon winning a point.’ She gave Amy a sidelong look. ‘You’ve become more forthright since I first knew you. Tell me, what happened to the friend whose engagement you argued over?’
Amy’s expression turned rueful. ‘I saw her on Thursday, as a matter of fact. She broke it off. She told me she’d had second thoughts, but I feel terrible now for creating a doubt in the first place. They might have got married and lived happily ever after.’
‘Most unlikely,’ said Marita crisply. ‘That this woman parted with her fiancé so soon afterwards suggests your warning was justified. Nobody forced her to break it off. I dare say she has a mind of her own.’
Amy nodded. ‘Oh yes, Georgi
e’s bright – she has a pretty important job in Whitehall.’
‘Whitehall? You didn’t tell me that. What does she do there?’
‘She’s secretary to a junior minister. Hard work, but she seems to thrive on it.’
‘I’m sure,’ came the reply, after a pause. ‘Well, it sounds to me like you did her a great favour. A husband might not like his wife getting cosy among the mandarins.’
Amy felt far from sure it was a favour she had done. On the night they met Georgie had shed tears about the break-up, but assured Amy that she would probably have made the decision even without the prompt of her advice. Christopher had been too eager to rush things along; and it had been naive of her to accept him quite so unthinkingly. Yet a voice within nagged away at Amy, accusing her: she had allowed personal instincts to overrule her professional integrity. As a marriage broker she ought to have put the client uppermost, not the friend. How far should loyalty compete with the demands of duty? She was well aware that the question pertained, more troublingly, to another recent friendship. In choosing to do the right thing you couldn’t always absolve yourself of doing the injurious thing.
They had stopped to sit down on one of the benches lining the Walk. Marita took out a slim silver cigarette case and offered one to Amy.
‘That’s a lovely thing,’ she said, admiring the case.
‘Bernard gave it me on our first wedding anniversary. He loves to give me presents, jewellery and such, but also little things which have a personal meaning. When we were first courting there was a famous German writer I admired – Bernard contacted the publisher and got a signed copy of his latest book for me.’
Amy found herself wondering, idly, if the book in question was Mein Kampf. She hoped it wasn’t.
‘You must miss him terribly,’ she said, putting a hand to Marita’s arm.
Marita looked away, considering. ‘Of course. But his letters are a consolation to me – and he writes such witty things about the camp, and the prisoners.’
Our Friends in Berlin Page 11
