Ambulance Girls At War

by Deborah Burrows

  He frowned ‘I’m pretty sure they don’t.’

  ‘Do you think they know you came to my birthday party?’

  ‘Maybe. Lowell and Casey aren’t my biggest fans. But why would that make Lowell ask you out?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Unless he wants to cut me out of the picture. It might amuse him to steal my girl.’

  ‘I’m not your girl.’

  ‘He might think otherwise. Be sure to let him know how things stand between us.’

  ‘That you think I’m an annoying child and I think you’re sneaky, mysterious and often intensely irritating?’

  He gave me his heart-stopping smile. ‘I don’t think you’re annoying.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘And you wonder why I find you irritating.’

  ‘Nope. I’ve never wondered about that.’ He flicked my cheek with a long finger. ‘Want to meet me for dinner Saturday night, to tell me about your lunch with Lowell?’

  ‘All right.’

  His face became shadowed. ‘Try not to give too much away, kid.’

  ‘I’m not a kid.’

  ‘Sure.’

  We agreed that he’d come to the club to collect me and we’d go to the little French place in Dean Street, where he had taken me to before.

  Dan Lowell called for me on Saturday morning in a big black saloon that looked expensive and powerful and emitted a low, thrumming sound. I got in and it swept me along Soho’s narrow streets, dealing easily with potholes and bomb debris. Driving in London’s bomb blasted thoroughfares took some skill, as I well knew, so I didn’t distract him by talking. Instead I enjoyed the soft leather seat and the pervasive scent of luxury.

  I stole a look at Lowell. He looked trustworthy, in a clean, American sort of way. Like Michael his teeth were perfect, his hands well kept and his blond hair neat. Undeniably an attractive man. I tried to find something to dislike and settled on his tie, which was garish, a vivid red-and-blue tartan.

  Perhaps he felt me looking, because he flicked me a glance and smiled. I smiled back, feeling relief that his smile, although very attractive, did not make my heart thump painfully. I looked away, out of the car, and made some random remark about the bomb damage.

  He drove well, taking the maze of closed roads and diversions in his stride, until he reached the outskirts of London. We crested a hill and a landscape of patched green velvet stretched out in front of us, little fields bisected by hedges with scattered clumps of trees. Far into the distance I caught sight of a larger wood, and beyond that a ring of low hills.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked.

  ‘I thought you’d appreciate a chance to escape London. Forget about the war for a while.’

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘A pretty little pub I know in Surrey.’

  I settled back into the soft leather. ‘Sounds divine.’

  It was one of those chocolate box cover English country pubs that Americans love so much. He parked outside and ushered me in. I asked for a sherry, and he had a beer. While we waited for our lunch we sat in a wooden snug that had been polished by the rears of unnumbered patrons through the centuries.

  I sipped my sherry and wondered when Lowell would tell me why he had brought me all the way out there. Instead, he asked me about myself and I told him the official version. Widowed mother, trained in dance at Italia Conti Academy in London, left school to begin a dancing career. Became a Tiller Girl and danced in London, then in Paris at the Folies Bergère. Returned to England when war broke out and joined the Auxiliary Ambulance Service.

  ‘Tiller Girl,’ he said musingly. ‘They’re the high-steppers, not the topless ones?’

  I gave him a look. ‘No, we are not the topless ones. Fully, if sometimes scantily, clothed at all times.’

  He smiled. ‘I’d sure give anything to see you dance.’

  ‘I won’t be dancing again until we win the war.’

  ‘You sound pretty sure of victory.’

  ‘I am.’

  He took a long swallow of beer, and I waited.

  ‘Thanks for coming out with me,’ he said, with a winning smile. ‘As soon as I saw you that day I thought, that’s a fine young woman and I’d like to know her better.’

  I smiled, but inside I was confused. Surely he wasn’t courting me?

  He looked up as the barmaid approached to tell us that lunch would be served in the little parlour. We followed her in to a small, panelled room set up with five tables. She showed us to a table by a casement window of diamond-paned leaded glass that allowed a fractured view of the empty beer garden outside.

  As we settled in to a lunch of leek and potato soup (‘From the Victory Garden’), followed by chicken casserole (‘An old boiler, just killed this morning’) and apple pie with real cream (‘From our Daisy; she’s marvellous for milk’), we talked about the weather, the delights of the countryside and – a perennial favourite – what would go under the ration next.

  By the time the coffee was served the room had emptied of diners and we were alone. I looked at Lowell over the rim of my cup. He leaned back, pulled out a cigarette case of etched steel, opened it and offered it to me. I shook my head.

  ‘Mind if I do?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not.’

  Slowly, deliberately, he lit the cigarette, took a deep breath and blew a stream of smoke away from me.

  ‘Maisie, I wanted to get you alone to warn you off Mike Harker.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ My heart began to thump.

  ‘We know that you’ve been seeing him and—’

  ‘You’ve been spying on me?’

  ‘Not at all. We’ve been keeping an eye on Harker. Ever since his wife died he’s become a lone wolf. Blames the Germans for it all, I guess.’

  ‘Well they did torpedo the ship his wife was on,’ I said drily. ‘A ship that was carrying a cargo of children.’

  ‘Yes, it was a terrible thing,’ he said, attempting a placating tone, ‘but it was always on the cards. I liked Vivian Harker a lot, but she knew the risks when she got on board that boat.’

  I stared at him. ‘It was a war crime.’

  He slowly shook his head. ‘How could that U-boat commander have known it was a boatload of children? It was a British ship on the open sea, and a fair target.’

  I bit back any reply. He had a point, but it was such a shocking tragedy that emotion trumped such reasoning. I supposed that Michael felt the same way I did.

  ‘Your country is at war with Germany,’ Lowell went on. ‘Mine isn’t. America has to tread very carefully as far as Germany is concerned. At present we’re a neutral country, and most Americans want it to stay that way.’

  ‘What has Mr Harker to do with all this?’

  ‘He’s not treading carefully. He’s blundering around, making my job more difficult. His mistakes could have an impact on America’s involvement in this war, and not in a good way for Britain.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We know that Harker was with you at the Café de Paris that night. We suspect that Harker murdered Egan to steal what he was carrying.’

  I couldn’t help a gasp at that and an unthinking, ‘No. He told me—’

  ‘He told you he didn’t touch Egan? We think that Harker either smothered him on purpose or stopped his mouth to keep him quiet while he searched him. Either way, we think Harker caused Egan’s death.’

  ‘Mr Egan was already dying,’ I said, through stiff lips. ‘Michael didn’t touch him until after he was already dead.’

  My mind was racing, jumping to conclusions, then discounting them. Had Michael lied to me? I had seen him bending over Egan. Had his hand been over the man’s mouth? He’d told me that Egan was already dead, but how did I know that was true? Michael had been willing to loot his body, after all. What did I really know about Michael Harker other than that he was unscrupulous, willing to trick me to get the locket. He had charmed me, called me ‘kid’, lulled me into thinking he was harmless. Making me fall for his
…

  I remembered his feverish attempt to save the people trapped in the bombed house. Michael was a good man. He had to be. I couldn’t believe that he’d murder a colleague. I couldn’t have misjudged him so badly. I couldn’t feel so much for a man who was a villain.

  Lowell was still talking. ‘We know that you and Harker are more than friends, Maisie. I saw you together at the Hungaria.’

  I gave him a look. ‘That’s simply not true. Mr Harker did come to my birthday party, but I didn’t invite him, Celia Ashwin did. This is a silly conversation.’

  He leaned across the table and looked straight into my eyes. ‘Do you want to know what we think? We think that Harker spun you some yarn and you believed him.’

  ‘Who is “we”? You keep saying “we”.’

  ‘Me and John Casey. We’re responsible for security at the embassy. We have real doubts about Michael Harker’s bona fides. As I said, he’s become a lone wolf, doesn’t trust anyone any more. And that makes him dangerous. You’re very young, Maisie. Michael Harker is highly trained and knows how to deal with women. I’ve seen them fall for his tricks on many occasions. He’s charming. You’re not the first girl to be taken in by him.’

  I swallowed, looked down, felt ill. Then I became indignant.

  ‘I’m not sure I even believe you. Celia Ashwin told me that you were one of her husband’s good friends before the war. One of the fascists who hung around him. Why should I believe a fascist?’

  Lowell’s face closed up as completely as if a shutter had fallen across it. ‘I was instructed to befriend Ashwin,’ he said. ‘The only side I’m on is America’s. I support whatever policy my government supports. At present, Roosevelt is helping you all he can, within the bounds of our Neutrality Acts. And that means I am, too.’

  ‘And you don’t think that’s the case with Michael Harker?’

  ‘Harker is carrying out a personal vendetta, and it’ll blow up in all our faces if he’s not stopped. If he carries on it could affect British–American relations, which would be a disaster for this country.’

  ‘A vendetta?’

  ‘He knew that Egan was a fifth columnist. So did we. We’d been watching Egan for a while.’

  ‘You and Casey?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Mr Egan was an American fifth columnist? But America’s neutral.’

  ‘We do have them. Mainly people who are sympathetic to Russia, communists who want to destroy America. Lately, though, the Germans have been getting in on the act. White Russians, too.’

  My mind was spinning. How had we got from Michael at my birthday party to American fifth columnists? Lily’s husband, Jim, was a White Russian. What Lowell was telling me sounded like a plot from one of the Saint novels.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. That was an understatement.

  ‘Harker wanted to confront Egan. We think he did, and he killed him.’

  I realised that I was gripping my hands together tightly, and that my palms were moist. I wiped them surreptitiously on my skirt.

  Lowell went on. ‘The way Harker’s going, he’ll ruin his career and he could do some real damage to your war effort into the bargain.’

  ‘But what do you want from me?’

  ‘Fill in some details about what happened in the Café de Paris that night. When Harker searched Egan’s body, did he take everything? We know Egan gave you the fob, although we can’t work out why, but Egan’s wallet, document folder, diary and watch are all missing. We know Harker took the wallet and watch, but we need to know if he took the rest as well.’ He looked straight into my eyes. ‘Maisie, it’s in Harker’s interests for us to know all of it. He’s looking at suspension at the very least. Do this for him.’

  He seemed to know most of it already, and I thought there would be no harm in letting him know the whole.

  ‘Michael Harker did not kill Mr Egan,’ I said. ‘I’m absolutely sure of that. And I told the absolute truth when I said that I didn’t know that Mr Egan had given me the fob before he died. Mr Harker only took his wallet and a watch. I never saw any document folder or diary.’

  In my defence, I was only twenty and I’d never been involved in anything like that before.

  Everyone makes mistakes at twenty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Lowell dropped me outside the club at four o’clock that afternoon. I had a great deal to think about and I was due to meet Michael for dinner that evening. As I climbed the stairs to my room I considered what Lowell had told me. He thought that Michael was behaving like a hothead, trying to avenge the death of his wife. Michael had never struck me as a hothead. Even when he began his rescue of the trapped couple, he thought it through and worked out the best way to get to them. He’d been irritated at me when I refused to hand over the watch fob and wouldn’t leave the dangerous tunnel, but I’d not yet seen him really lose his temper.

  On the other hand, Celia thought that Dan Lowell had been a close friend of Cedric Ashwin. Her husband had definitely been a fascist sympathiser who had admired Hitler. Had Lowell spent time with Ashwin’s group only because he had been instructed to do so, or had it been his own inclination?

  I wished I had someone to talk it over with. Someone who knew both men. Celia. She lived in Gray’s Inn Road, up near Clerkenwell. I glanced at my watch. Ten past four. Michael was due to pick me up at eight. I had time.

  So I ran downstairs. Celia obviously wasn’t on the phone because her number was in the book as her flats, St Andrew’s Court. I put a coin into the slot and dialled. The Irish doorman answered, said he would go upstairs to fetch her. A few minutes later and she was on the line.

  ‘Hello? Is that you, Maisie? Whatever is wrong?’

  Now I had no idea what to say to her. ‘Um, I was wondering if you were free to have a word with me. Not on the phone, in your flat.’

  ‘Simon’s here. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No-o, I don’t think so. It’s important.’

  ‘Come over then.’

  I took the Tube and was there in half an hour.

  I’d not spent a lot of time with Dr Simon Levy before, although I had known his brother, David, quite well. Simon wasn’t as handsome as David had been, but he had a pleasant, likeable face and an easy manner. Celia asked me to sit down. I sat in her big, comfortable armchair and wondered what I should say.

  ‘Um, you must be wondering why I was so secretive on the phone just now. I’m afraid I’ll have to remain secretive, but you’re the only person I know who knows both Michael Harker and Dan Lowell.’

  ‘I know neither of them well,’ said Celia. ‘What are you after?’

  I sighed. ‘They both work for US Intelligence. Michael for the War Office and Dan Lowell for the Department of State. I’m not sure what that difference means.’

  Simon answered. ‘The State Department advises the president and represents the US in international affairs and foreign policy issues. It also runs the embassy.’

  ‘So Lowell may well be responsible for security matters to do with the embassy. He said he was, together with John Casey.’

  Simon nodded. ‘I’d say it’s likely.’

  ‘What about the War Office?’

  ‘If Michael Harker is in the War Office then it’s odds on that he’s in a position similar to an agent in our Secret Intelligence Service.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  Simon shrugged and gave me a smile. ‘It’s top secret, obviously. I think it’s generally accepted that they gather intelligence about foreign powers.’

  ‘Spies?’

  ‘Spies,’ he agreed.

  ‘So who should I should believe?’ I wailed. ‘Lowell spun me some yarn about Michael being a wild card, who’s dangerous. Michael says he doesn’t trust Lowell and he is looking after Britain’s interests.’ I looked at Simon. ‘I – I can’t tell you any more.’

  Celia handed me a brandy and I took a gulp. It burned like fire all the way down, but felt wonderful.

  She was
drinking sherry, and took a sip. ‘I didn’t know him well, but I liked Michael Harker,’ she said, and shrugged. ‘I was never too fond of Dan Lowell, and I detested John Casey.’

  I pressed on. ‘Lowell told me that he’d been instructed to get close to your – to Cedric Ashwin – and he didn’t believe any of what he was saying to him.’

  Celia shrugged. ‘He gave a good impression of believing every word that came out of Cedric’s mouth. And I’m sure he told Cedric that he was part-German.’

  ‘Lowell isn’t a German name.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Names can be changed. Lots of Germans changed their names in the first war. Lots of British Jews are changing their names in this one, in case of German invasion.’

  ‘But not you?’

  His expression firmed. ‘I’ll live and die as Simon Levy,’ he said.

  ‘Lowell might have been ordered to tell Cedric that,’ I argued. ‘To help him to infiltrate the British fascists.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Celia. ‘But why would the Americans want to infiltrate the British fascists?’ She took another sip of sherry and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Dan Lowell was always pleasant enough to me, but …’ She gave a delicate shrug. ‘As I said before, he seemed to be a committed American isolationist and an admirer of Hitler.’

  ‘But you liked Michael Harker.’

  ‘Yes. Again, pure instinct and probably completely unreliable, because I scarcely know the man. I met him a few times at embassy parties. He never came to our house, although Vivian came once on her own to a party we held.’ She took another sip. ‘Poor Vivian. What a horrible end.’

  ‘Lowell said that Michael was on a vendetta, trying to get revenge for Vivian’s death on the City of Benares.’

  Celia considered this. ‘Well, it’s possible, I suppose. But, honestly, they never seemed like lovebirds to me. You can usually tell when people are happy together.’ She glanced at Simon, and they shared a smile. ‘Vivian Harker was rather disparaging about her husband on at least one occasion. I thought it poor form, and wandered off. Perhaps all the passion was on his side. It happens. Or maybe he feels guilty for not being the husband she wanted and he’s trying to make it up to her somehow, now she’s gone.’