‘You realise that there are those who wish to drag America into this dogfight, don’t you, Diona?’ Henry enquired, pouring them both some more brandy. ‘And if that’s the case, our cause will be lost, I would say. There is no way we are going to be able to take on Uncle Sam. But while the Yanks are still dragging their feet, we still have a chance. That is why – and this is for your ears only, my duck – that is why we are coming to what could be the moment we have all been waiting for. Won’t that be good? Will madame not be pleased with monsieur if this is so?’
‘I do so hate it when people talk in riddles,’ Poppy replied, taking care to look as though she was drinking when in fact she was getting rid of as much as possible in a convenient plant pot placed in the middle of the table. ‘How can madame say whether she will be pleased or not when she hasn’t the slightest idea what monsieur is talking about?’
‘I like it when you are cross with me, madame,’ Henry replied quietly.
‘I shall be even crosser if you don’t tell me.’
‘Ah.’ Henry smiled, a smile that Poppy found singularly unamusing.
‘In that case, madame, I shall not tell you.’
For a moment Poppy failed to read the game – then suddenly she cottoned on.
‘In that case I shall not be cross, monsieur,’ she replied, eyeing him coldly, an expression which she had no difficulty at all in mustering.
‘Oh, please,’ Henry mock pleaded. ‘Please be cruel and cross.’
‘So tell me everything – and I mean everything.’ Poppy sighed, closing her eyes and then opening them very wide for effect. ‘And when and if you do – then, and only then.’
There was a silence at the dining table. Henry steadily regarded the beautiful woman opposite him, whom he now considered to be far and away the most exciting and attractive woman he could ever remember meeting.
‘Diona – madame,’ he smiled, lapsing into a French accent. ‘What would you say to monsieur – or what would you do for monsieur – if he told you that the little Fat Man is soon to be just a memory?’
‘The little Fat Man?’ Poppy stared at Henry as coolly as she could while realising at once who their target must be. She lit a fresh cigarette.
‘I don’t honestly think you have the ability to carry out what you’re hinting at,’ she said, blowing a thin plume of smoke upwards. ‘I think the trouble with half the people I have met with you is that they are – as the saying has it – full of wind and a certain amount of fury and signifying damn’ all.’
‘You would be surprised, madame,’ Henry replied, a flicker of anger appearing in his cold eyes. ‘We are really rather well organised, as it happens. If our coup succeeds, we have people in place to step into certain shoes. As you may imagine, there would be a certain amount of chaos if the Fat Man goes. Ally this to the somewhat parlous state of our present defences, and the well-known depletion of our armed forces – the air force particularly needing to recoup – and you will soon see that, with the sudden loss of its head, this country will be running around like the famous headless chicken.’
‘I understood we had plenty of reserves left after the last air battle,’ Poppy said casually. ‘That the air force repulsed the so-called enemy with plenty to spare.’
‘Not what our spies told us, madame. The Fat Man was actually at Uxbridge at 11 Group’s HQ during what turned out to be the last day of the battle – and when he asked at a very crucial stage how many reserves there were, Vice-Marshal Park had to tell him none.’
‘That’s how close it was?’
‘Last gasp stuff. The Germans have plenty of air strength left when they care to use it. We have sweet Fanny. So it is time to strike, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘It will be no cakewalk, madame, most certainly not, but it will be successful, believe me. Now I’m bored. I want a little entertainment. Are you in the mood for a little entertainment?’
‘Later.’ Poppy handed him her cigarette to extinguish for her. ‘If it is of any interest, it is well known that the Fat Man travels everywhere in a bullet-proof car with a Tommy gun on the seat beside him.’
Henry Lypton opened his eyes wider than normal, generally a sign of slight amusement. To underwrite this the corners of his thin-lipped mouth curled upwards almost into a smile while he clapped his long-fingered, lilywhite hands slowly twice.
‘That is well known. But we have other plans. Once inside the houses of friends he is notoriously careless. Sits up drinking at dinner for hours on end, starts work late in the night, when everyone else has retired. Quite a soft target for us, really, when you think of it.’
Poppy nodded. All this was well noted in patrician circles. More than that it was all too true. The Fat Man could be said to be quite an easy target, if, that is, they had infiltrated his inner circle, which judging from Lypton’s expression would seem to be the case.
‘Your suite or mine?’ Henry Lypton wondered aloud after he had paid the cab off and they were strolling towards their hotel entrance.
‘Neither, Henry,’ Poppy replied with a tired sigh. ‘You really haven’t been anywhere near bad enough for me to allow you to visit, and I certainly am not going to call on you.’
‘Oh, but madame?’ Henry wheedled, taking one of Poppy’s arms just above the elbow. Had he been directly wired to the mains Poppy reckoned she could not have felt a more uncomfortable and unpleasant frisson. ‘I have been very bad, I assure you. If the Lizard and the others – if they knew how dreadfully indiscreet I have been, I shudder to think what they would do to me.’
‘Then surely your greatest final pleasure, Henry Lypton, would be for me to tell them what a bad boy you really are?’
Poppy shook herself free and turned to stare at him as they stood in the hotel foyer.
‘I think – that is one doubtful pleasure I would rather forgo, madame,’ Henry replied smoothly.
‘So long as we understand each other.’
Lypton swallowed and nodded.
Poppy gave him one last look of contempt, turned on her high heels and took the elevator to her floor, shutting the lift door over on him and refusing to let him accompany her as his final humiliation. Lypton turned away looking strangely satisfied.
After making sure she was alone, Poppy sat down at her desk and wrote the all-important information she had on a note to her Head of Section. She then transcribed it into code and folded it into as small a note as she could, sliding it in the bottom of a specially prepared matchbox that she then placed not in her gas mask case with her gun, as she had been taught, but in a pocket of the coat and skirt she intended to wear the following day.
Preparing for bed she recapped what was required of her over the next week. She had managed to sidestep lunch the following day with Henry Lypton, pleading a previous lunch engagement with a non-existent relative whom she was relying on Jack Ward to conjure up, since she knew she would as always be shadowed everywhere she went.
In the evening she had a dinner engagement with Elizabeth Dunedin, who was throwing a party especially for Ambeline Melford, freshly returned from Germany where she had been the Führer’s house guest in his mountain retreat. Finally on Friday morning Henry had arranged to pick her up in his Bentley and drive them both to what he had promised would be a mighty celebration – rumour being that there would even be a firework display.
Poppy had protested lightly that she understood fireworks were now proscribed, to which Henry had winked and said she was to think beyond just ordinary fireworks. Now, having dined with the hateful man and learned what was more than possibly afoot, Poppy had a very good idea exactly what Henry Lypton had meant by his remark.
That left Poppy enough time to make her drop in the morning. But remembering Jack Ward’s instructions, and mindful of quite how vigilant the most dedicated of her set of newfound friends were, Poppy knew she had to stick to the protocol, or risk failure.
She had changed for bed when there was a knock on the out
er door of her suite.
‘Hotel security, madam,’ a voice called. ‘Would you please be kind enough to open this door?’
‘I don’t wish to.’
‘I don’t know why you shouldn’t.’
‘Because it’s ten to midnight and I don’t know who the devil you are.’
‘I understand perfectly, madam. But all you have to do is ring down to the desk and check that the manager has instructed a Mr George Bulstrode to call on you.’
‘At this hour of the night?’
‘This is an emergency, madam. I would not be troubling you otherwise.’ The man on the other side of the door paused, then lowered his voice. ‘You are in a little bit of danger, madam. You really must open the door.’
‘And if I refuse?’ Poppy said in her haughtiest tones.
‘I shall have to use my master key.’
Poppy hesitated, and then, pulling her silk wrap around her, she opened the door and admitted her visitor.
He looked every inch a hotel private detective, with his clean but shabby dark suit, his large cheap shoes, his somewhat sad drooping moustache and his reddened nose.
‘Sit down, Mr Bulstrode,’ Poppy said brusquely, indicating a straight-backed chair. ‘I just want to put on some clothes. I really am not in the habit of receiving callers at this time of night. I must cover myself.’
Bulstrode acknowledged his thanks with a brief nod of his head and moved towards the chair while Poppy, keeping an eye on him, headed for her bedroom to pull a sweater and pair of slacks over her silk pyjamas. When she returned to the sitting room, Scott was sitting on the sofa smoking a Black Russian cigarette.
‘Scott,’ Poppy said, factually, determined not to give him the pleasure of hearing her surprise.
Scott grinned.
‘Heil Hitler.’
‘Scott!’ Poppy said, dropping her voice. ‘There could be microphones.’
‘There are no microphones,’ Scott assured her. ‘I should know. I was there at the discussion as to whether or not you should be bugged. I was all for it – but they decided against it, purely because they didn’t know anyone who could do it. Honestly. That lot. When they’re not being vile they’re being stupid.’
‘That lot, as you call them,’ Poppy remarked tersely, ‘are about to try to assassinate the Prime Minister.’
Scott stared at Poppy, then lit a fresh cigarette.
‘We knew they had a VIP target,’ he nodded. ‘But the money was on this American billionaire staying just up the road. One of Roosevelt’s top buddies – and more important one of his top investors. He’s all for America coming into the war and the word was that if they could take him out of the equation, Roosevelt would feel less sympathetic to Britain.’
‘It’s not him,’ Poppy replied. ‘I have it from the – I was about to say the horse’s mouth but that would demean the horse. I have it from the Reptile. The Fat Man, as they call Churchill, is an easy target once inside one of these country house parties. Loves to sit up and drink, stays awake all night with minimum security dictating to hapless secretaries, that sort of thing.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘Quite.’
‘Have you informed the office?’
‘Can’t. Not until tomorrow.’
‘Any idea of the date for this?’
‘Mention of fireworks makes me think it just might be on Saturday night.’
Scott looked at his watch.
‘Can’t get to a public phone box now, not without rousing suspicion, and can’t use a telephone from here, so I dare say it’ll have to wait until dawn.’
‘I’d say.’
Scott smiled at her and began to tidy up his disguise.
‘This wasn’t just fun and games,’ he told her. ‘This was très necessary, my friend. You have no idea how much trouble I went to just to call on you.’
Poppy shook her head at that, not believing him.
‘Your fun and games will land you in trouble one day.’
‘Then I’ll be perfectly poised to say it was fun while it lasted. Anyway – I’d go to even more trouble than this to see you.’
Now Poppy stopped, momentarily thrown off balance.
‘Me?’ she echoed. ‘Why on earth?’
‘Because I admire you.’
‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘So tell me.’ Scott sat back in his chair and smiled at her, flicking his long hair back from his bright eyes.
‘I’m not anything. I mean – not anything very much, truly I am not. The real me is not at all interesting.’
‘Oh yes you are. Oh yes you are.’
‘I’m not. I’m really dreadfully ordinary, really quite plain – I wear glasses most of the time – and I read an awful lot. And I only really like dogs.’
‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘It’s entirely true.’
‘What I see is a beautiful, elegant and poised young woman—’
‘That’s just makeup.’
‘You wear elegant and poised makeup?’
‘I meant the beautiful bit. I really am quite dreadfully plain. I’ve been told so from birth.’
‘And now I’m telling you differently,’ Scott replied. ‘You are one of the most beautiful women I’ve met.’
‘What are you trying to do?’ Poppy asked him. ‘Are you trying to do what I think you’re trying to do?’
‘I wouldn’t know how to answer that.’ Scott looked quizzical. ‘I really wouldn’t.’
‘Are you trying to—’ Poppy tried again, before frowning and running aground. ‘Are you – er – flirting with me?’
‘Flirting with you? I hope not. I really hate flirts.’
‘So then what are you doing?’
‘Telling you the truth. I think you’re perfectly beautiful – perfectly gorgeous, extremely clever – and above all remarkably brave.’
‘No more than you, Scott.’
‘That goes without saying,’ Scott replied, pokerfaced. ‘Including the extremely clever bit. Everyone knows I am Jack Ward’s favourite boy. I am H Section’s perfect master of disguise, will o’ the wisp, not to mention Secret Weapon.’
‘I don’t think you’re ever serious,’ Poppy said, sinking down into the chair opposite. ‘Not ever. So please, don’t joke. It can be a little tiring.’
‘I’m being perfectly serious now, Poppy. I’ve never been more serious. I think you’re what my grandfather would call a “stunner”. In fact if you really must know I wish to God you weren’t on this shoot. I wish to God you were safe home in some lovely bed in some lovely big comfortable house somewhere out of bombing range and with nothing to do with this wretched business you’ve got yourself involved in.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘A very good reason. I have fallen madly, head over heels, in love with you.’
There was a small, stunned silence while Poppy looked at Scott as though he were mad.
‘No you haven’t,’ she said. ‘Of course you haven’t.’
‘Come on.’ Scott laughed. ‘Let me be the best judge of that.’
‘You are flirting. I knew it.’
‘I am not flirting. I am telling you the truth. I. Am. Crazy. About. You.’
‘I think you ought to go to bed.’
‘I think you ought to as well.’
‘I was just about to. Why did you come here anyway? Just to tell me what you’ve just told me?’
It was Scott’s turn to stare, which he did, for quite a while. Then he burst out laughing.
‘What I’ve just told you – Poppy – people would cross continents, frozen seas, universes to tell someone they were in love with them.’
‘Some people might.’
‘I’m one of them.’
‘Thank you – but you can’t be serious. Now go to bed.’
‘On one condition.’
‘No.’
‘On one condition.’
‘Oh very well.’ Poppy looked
at him, trying her best to appear glum.
‘You at least let me kiss you.’
‘You want to kiss me?’
Poppy managed to make it sound as if what Scott was requesting was supernatural.
‘Yes. I want to kiss you.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Scott.’
‘Why?’
‘People don’t announce they want to kiss someone. They just – they just kiss someone.’
‘You have a lot of experience in this field?’
‘Enough,’ Poppy lied. Suddenly wishing she was still Diona she switched to her character, and using the change in voice and manner she said, ‘Besides, I don’t kiss house detectives.’
‘Fair enough.’
Scott got to his feet, put out his cigarette, smiled at Poppy and moved towards the door as if to leave. Poppy followed on behind him, now feeling somewhat glum.
‘Right,’ Scott said by the door, turning back to her. ‘Goodnight, Poppy.’
‘Goodnight, Scott.’
He kissed her then, taking her by complete surprise. Nor was it a sweet or chaste goodnight kiss. It was a real kiss, a proper kiss, a kiss of love. Poppy was astounded.
‘I don’t think I should have done that. I really don’t think I should have done that,’ he said.
‘You shouldn’t.’
‘I’d better go.’
‘Yes, you’d better,’ Poppy agreed.
‘I really had,’ Scott repeated.
‘Yes you had,’ Poppy agreed again. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Poppy.’
And of course he kissed her again, and then again.
‘You really should go,’ Poppy whispered, barely audibly.
‘I know,’ Scott whispered back. ‘I’m trying to. But I’m finding it rather difficult.’
‘Me, too.’
‘I could stay.’
Daughters Of Eden: The Eden Series Book 1 Page 36
