was in her element, she fitted in, she knew this world. Yes,
she was at home here. He could find out, he thought, without
much difficulty where she figured in the diplomatic
world, but would that tell him where she really had her
place?
The young woman in the slacks who had spoken to him
suddenly at Frankfurt had had an eager intelligent face.
Was that the real woman, or was this casual social acquaintance
the real woman? Was one of those personalities a part
being played? And if so, which one? And there might be more
than just those two personalities. He wondered. He wanted
to find out.
Or had the fact that he had been asked to meet her been
pure coincidence? Milly Jean was rising to her feet. The
p-t.p. 65 c
other ladies rose with her. Then suddenly an unexpected
clamour arose. A clamour from outside the house. Shouts.
Yells. The crash of breaking glass in a window. Shouts.
Sounds--surely pistol shots. Signora Gasparo spoke, clutching
Stafford Nye's arm.
'What again!' she exclaimed. 'D�'ol--again it is those
terrible students. It is the same in our country. Why do
they attack Embassies? They fight, resist the police--go
marching, shouting idiotic things, lie down in the streets. Si, si. We have them in Rome--in Milan--We have them
like a pest everywhere in Europe. Why are they never happy,
these young ones? What do they want?'
Stafford Nye sipped his brandy and listened to the heavy
accents of Mr Charles Staggenham, who was being pontifical
and taking his time about it. The commotion had subsided.
It would seem that the police had marched off some of the
hotheads. It was one of those occurrences which once would
have been thought extraordinary and even alarming but which
were now taken as a matter of course.
'A larger police force. That's what we need. A larger
police force. It's more than these chaps can deal with. It's
the same everywhere, they say. I was talking to Herr Lurwitz
the other day. They have their troubles, so have the French.
Not quite so much of it in the Scandinavian countries. What
do they- all want--just trouble? I tell you if I had my way--'
Stafford Nye removed his mind to another subject while
keeping up a flattering pretence as Charles Staggenham
explained just what his way would be, which in any case
was easily to be anticipated beforehand.
'Shouting about Vietnam and all that. What do any of
them know about Vietnam. None of them have ever been
there, have they?'
'One would think it very unlikely,' said Sir Stafford Nye,
'Man was telling me earlier this evening, they've had a
lot of trouble in California. In the universities--If we had a
sensible policy . . .'
Presently the men joined the ladies in the drawing-room
Stafford Nye, moving with that leisurely grace, that air o) complete lack of purpose he found so useful, sat down by s
golden-haired, talkative woman whom he knew moderately well, and who could be guaranteed seldom to say anything worth listening to as regards ideas or wit, but who wa;
excessively knowledgeable about all her fellow creatures withir
the bounds of her acquaintance. Stafford Nye asked no direc
questions but presently, without the lady being even aware or
66
the means by which he had guided the subject of conversation, he was hearing a few remarks about the Countess Renata
Zerkowski.
'Still very good-looking, isn't she? She doesn't come over
here very often nowadays. Mostly New York, you know,
or that wonderful island place. You know the one I mean.
Not Minorca. One of the other ones in the Mediterranean.
Her sister's married to that soap king, at least I think it's a
soap king. Not the Greek one. He's Swedish, I think. Rolling
in money. And then of course, she spends a lot of time in
some castle place in the Dolomites--or near Munich--very
musical, she always has been. She said you'd met before,
didn't she?'
'Yes. A year or two years ago, I think.'
'Oh yes, I suppose when she was over in England before.
They say she was mixed up in the Czechoslovakian business.
Or do I mean the Polish trouble? Oh dear, it's so difficult, isn't it. All the names, I mean. They have so many z's and it's . Most peculiar, and so hard to spell. She's very literary.
You know, gets up petitions for people to sign. To give writers
asylum here, or whatever it is. Not that anyone really pays
much attention. I mean, what else can one think of nowadays
except how one can possibly pay one's own taxes. The travel
allowance makes things a little better but not much. I mean,
you've got to get the money, haven't you, before you can
take it abroad. I don't know how anyone manages to have
money now, but there's a lot of it about. Oh yes, there's a
lot of it about.'
She looked down in a complacent fashion at her left
hand, on which were two solitaire rings, one a diamond
and one an emerald, which seemed to prove conclusively
that a considerable amount of money had been spent upon
her at least.
The evening drew on to its close. He knew very little
more about his passenger from Frankfurt than he had known before. He knew that she had a facade, a facade it seemed
to him, very highly faceted, if you could use those two
alliterative words together. She was interested in music.
Well, he had met her at the Festival Hall, had he not? Fond
of outdoor sports. Rich relations who owned Mediterranean
islands. Given to supporting literary charities. Somebody in
fact who had good connections, was well related, had entries
to the social field. Not apparently highly political and yet,
quietly perhaps, affiliated to some group. Someone who moved
about from place to place and country to country. Moving 67
among the rich, amongst the talented, about the literary world,
He thought of espionage for a moment or two. That
seemed the most likely answer. And yet he was not wholly satisfied with it.
The evening drew on. It came at last to be his turn to
be collected by his hostess. Milly Jean was very good at
her job.
'I've been longing to talk to you for ages. I wanted to
hear about Malaya. I'm so stupid about all these places in Asia, you know, I mix them up. Tell me, what happened
out there? Anything interesting or was everything terribly
boring?'
'I'm sure you can guess the answer to that one.'
'Well, I should guess it was very boring. But perhaps
you're not allowed to say so.'
'Oh yes, I can think it, and I can say it It wasn't really
my cup of tea, you know.'
'Why did you go then?'
'Oh well, I'm always fond of travelling, I like seeing countries.'
'You're such an intriguing person in many ways. Really,
of course, all diplomatic life is very boring, isn't it? / oughtn't
to say so. I only say it to you.'
Very blue eyes. Blue like bluebells in a wood. They
opened a little wider and the black brows above them came
<
br /> down gently at the outside corners while the inside corner' went up a little. It made her face look like a rather beautiful Persian cat. He wondered what Milly Jean was really like
Her soft voice was that of a southerner. The beautifully
shaped little head, her profile with the perfection of a coin--
what was she really like? No fool, he thought. One who
could use social weapons when needed, who could charrn when she wished to, who could withdraw into being enigmatic.
If she wanted anything from anyone she would b
adroit in getting it. He noticed the intensity of the glanc'- she was giving him now. Did she want something of him
He didn't know. He didn't think it could be likely. Sb?
said, 'Have you met Mr Staggenham?'
'Ah yes. I was talking to him at the dinner table. I hadn't
met him before.'
'He is said to be very important,' said Milly Jean. 'He
the President of PBF as you know.'
'One should know all those things,' said Sir Staff 01" Nye. 'PBF and DCV. LYH. And all the world of initials.'
'Hateful,' said Milly Jean. 'Hateful. All these initials, no
68
personalities, no people any more. Just initials. What a hateful
world! That's what I sometimes think. What a hateful
world. I want it to be different, quite, quite different--'
Did she mean that? He thought for one moment that
perhaps she did. Interesting . . ,
Grosvenor Square was quietness itself. There were traces
of broken glass still on the pavements. There were even
eggs, squashed tomatoes and fragments of gleaming metal.
But above, the stars were peaceful. Car after car drove up
to the Embassy door to collect the home-going guests. The
police were there in the corners of the square but without
ostentation. Everything was under control. One of the political
guests leaving spoke to one of the police officers. He came
back and murmured, 'Not too many arrests. Eight. They'll be
up at Bow Street in the morning. More or less the usual lot.
Petronella was here, of course, and Stephen and his crowd.
Ah well. One would think they'd get tired of it one of these
days.'
'You live not very far from here, don't you?' said a
voice in Sir Stafford Nye's ear. A deep contralto voice. 'I can drop you on my way.'
'No, no. I can walk perfectly. It's only ten minutes or so.'
It will be no trouble to me, I assure you,' said the Countess
Zerkowski. She added, 'I'm staying at the St James's Tower.'
The St James's Tower was one of the newer hotels.
'you are very kind.'
It was a big, expensive-looking hire car that waited. The
chauffeur opened the door, the Countess Renata got in and
Sir Stafford Nye followed her. It was she who gave Sir
Stafford Nye's address to the chauffeur. The car drove off.
'So you know where I live?' he said.
'Why not?'
He wondered just what that answer meant: Why not?
'Why not indeed,' he said. 'You know so much, don't
you?' He added, 'It was kind of you to return my passport.'
'I thought it might save certain inconveniences. It might
be simpler if you burnt it. You've been issued with a new
�ne, I presume--'
'You presume correctly.'
'Your bandit's cloak you will find in the bottom drawer
of your tallboy. It was put there tonight. I believed that
Perhaps to purchase another one would not satisfy you, and indeed that to find one similar might not be possible.' a--It will mean more to me now that it has been through
^
certain�adventures,' said Stafford Nye. He added, 'It has
served its purpose.'
The car purred through the night
The Countess Zerkowski said:
"Yes. It has served its purpose since I am here�alive . . .'
Sir Stafford Nye said nothing. He was assuming, rightly
or not, that she wanted him to ask questions, to press her,
to know more of what she had been doing, of what fate
she had escaped. She wanted him to display curiosity, but
Sir Stafford Nye was not going to display curiosity. He rather
enjoyed not doing so. He heard her laugh very gently. Yet he
fancied, rather surprisingly, that it was a pleased laugh, a
laugh of satisfaction, not of stalemate.
'Did you enjoy your evening?' she said.
'A good party, I think, but Milly Jean always gives good
parties.'
'You know her well then?'
'I knew her when she was a girl in New York before
she married. A pocket Venus.'
She looked at him in faint surprise.
'Is that your term for her?'
'Actually, no. It was said to me by an elderly relative
of mine.'
'Yes, it isn't a description that one hears given often of a
woman nowadays. It fits her, I think, very well. Only�'
'Only what?'
'Venus is seductive, is she not? Is she also ambitious!
'You think Milly Jean Cortman is ambitious?'
'Oh yes. That above all.'
'And you think to be the wife of the Ambassador to St
James's is insufficient to satisfy ambition?'
'Oh no,' said the Countess. 'That is only the beginning.'
He did not answer. He was looking out through th
car window. He began to speak, then stopped himself. H
noted her quick glance at him, but she too was silent. ]
was not till they were going over a bridge with the Thanif
below them that he said:
'So you are not giving me a lift home and you are nc
going back to the St James's Tower. We are crossing th
Thames. We met there once before, crossing a bridgi
Where are you taking me?'
'Do you mind?'
'I think I do.'
'Yes, I can see you might.'
'Well of course you are quite in the mode. Hi-jackir
70
is the fashion nowadays, isn't it? You have hi-jacked me.
Why?'
'Because, like once before, I have need of you.' She added,
'And others have need of you.'
'Indeed.'
'And that does not please you.'
''It would please me better to be asked.'
"If I had asked, would you have come?'
'Perhaps yes, perhaps no.'
'I am sorry.'
'I wonder.'
They drove on through the night in silence. It was not
a drive through lonely country, they were on a main road.
Now and then the lights picked up a name or a signpost so
that Stafford Nye saw quite clearly where their route lay.
Through Surrey and through the first residential portions
of Sussex. Occasionally he thought they took a detour or a
side road which was not the most direct route, but even of
this he could not be sure. He almost asked his companion whether this was being done because they might possibly
have been followed from London. But he had determined
rather firmly on his policy of silence. It was for her to speak,
for her to give information. He found her, even with the
additional information he had been able to get, an enigmatic character.
They were driving to the country after a dinner party
in London. They were, he was pretty sure, in one of the
more expensive types of hire
car. This was something planned
beforehand. Reasonable, nothing doubtful or unexpected
about it. Soon, he imagined, he would find out where it was
they were going. Unless, that is, they were going to drive
as far as the coast. That also was possible, he thought. Haslemere,
he saw on a signpost. Now they were skirting Godalniing.
All very plain and above board. The rich countryside
of moneyed suburbia. Agreeable woods, handsome residences.
They took a few side turns and then as the car finally slowed,
they seemed to be arriving at their destination. Gates. A small
white lodge by the gates. Up a drive, well-kept rhododendrons
on either side of it. They turned round a bend and drew up
before a house. 'Stockbroker Tudor,' murmured Sir Stafford
Nye, under his breath. His companion turned her bead inquiringly.
'Just a comment,' said Stafford Nye. 'Pay no attention. 1 take it we are now arriving at the destination of your
choice?'
71
"And you don't admire the look of it very much.'
The grounds seem well-kept up,' said Sir Stafford, follow
ing the beam of the headlights as the car rounded the bend.
'Takes money to keep these places up and in good order.
I should say this was a comfortable house to live in.'
'Comfortable but not beautiful. The man who lives in it
prefers comfort to beauty, I should say.'
'Perhaps wisely,' said Sir Stafford. 'And yet in some ways
he is very appreciative of beauty, of some kinds of beauty,'
They drew up before the well-lighted porch. Sir Stafford
got out and tendered an arm to help his companion. The
chauffeur had mounted the steps and pressed the bell. He
looked inquiringly at the woman as she ascended the steps.
'You won't be requiring me again tonight, m'lady?'
'No. That's all for now. We'll telephone down in the
morning.'
'Good night. Good night, sir.'
There were footsteps inside and the door was flung openSir
Stafford had expected some kind of butler, but instead there was a tall grenadier of a parlour-maid. Grey-haired,
tight-lipped, eminently reliable and competent, he though...
An invaluable asset and hard to find nowadays. Trustworthy,
capable of being fierce.
'I am afraid we are a little late,' said Renata.
The master is in the library. He asked that you and the gentleman should come to him there when you arrived.'
Chapter 9
THE HOUSE NEAR GODALMING
She led the way up the broad staircase and the two of
them followed her. Yes, thought Stafford Nye, a very comfortable
house. Jacobean paper, a most unsightly carved
oak staircase but pleasantly shallow treads. Pictures nice';
chosen but of no particular artistic interest. A rich man '
house, he thought. A man, not of bad taste, a man of coi
ventional tastes. Good thick pile carpet of an agreeab;^ plum-coloured texture.
On the first floor, the grenadier-like parlour-maid we ;
to the first door along it. She opened it and stood back
let them go in but she made no announcement of name
The Countess went in first and Sir Stafford Nye followed
her. He heard the door shut quietly behind him.
There were four people in the room. Sitting behind a
large desk which was well covered with papers, documents,
an open map or two and presumably other papers which
were in the course of discussion, was a large, fat man with
a very yellow face. It was a face Sir Stafford Nye had seen
before, though he could not for the moment attach the
proper name to it. It was a man whom he had met only
in a casual fashion, and yet the occasion had been an
important one. ,He should know, yes, definitely he should
know. But why�why wouldn't the name come?
With a slight struggle, the figure sitting at the desk rose
to his feet. He took the Countess Renata's outstretched
hand.
'You've arrived,' he said, 'splendid.'
'Yes. Let me introduce you, though I think you already
know him. Sir Stafford Nye, Mr Robinson.'
Of course. In Sir Stafford Nye's brain something clicked
like a camera. That fitted in, too, with another name. Pikeaway. To say that he knew all about Mr Robinson was not
true. He knew about Mr Robinson all that Mr Robinson
permitted to be known. His name, as far as anyone knew,
was Robinson, though it might have been any name of foreign
origin. No one had ever suggested anything of that kind.
Recognition came also of his personal appearance. The high
forehead, the melancholy dark eyes, the large generous mouth,
and the impressive white teeth�false teeth, presumably, but
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