“I’ll go when I can walk around by myself,” he said, a typically stubborn note to his voice.
Theo laughed; it was good to hear his father determined again.
“Is Laura coming to see you?” he asked. He hadn’t seen his sister for over a year, since she lived in Minnesota with her husband and three children, but it struck him that it would be good to take them to Prospect Park Zoo on their next visit. It was only a few years old, and he’d read that the brick and limestone buildings were decorated with sculpted scenes from Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book. The “picture-book” zoo, The New York Times had called it, which again reminded him of Alice.
Samuel said, “I know she wants to, but I doubt she’ll come any time soon with Raymond away. Anyway, the kids are too young to travel and not old enough to leave with anyone else.”
“Maybe you could go see her . . . once you’re feeling better. A vacation?”
“Are you kiddin’ me? Your mother and I would last about two days and then we’d be clamoring to come home. Nice idea, Theo, but keep it to yourself.” He winked.
Theo moved closer to the window, searching the vast parkland to see if he could detect any animals, and he sighed heavily. If he was honest, he’d grown quite excited at the idea of publishing The Zoo Chronicles, and less inquisitive about why she’d kept it a secret, but it would never happen now. And he didn’t know if Women and Children First would ever see the light of day either.
Something shook the treetops, a trail of brown shapes moving through the branches—the monkeys, perhaps—then the canopy settled back into place, shielding the creatures from view. Yes, The Zoo Chronicles was a book that people would want to read, and one that Partridge would benefit from publishing, and he needed to somehow show Walter that he was wrong.
“So, what’s on your mind, son?”
Theo spun round to find his father propped up in his chair, staring at him.
He swallowed hard, wondering whether this was the right time to ask for his father’s advice, or if he should wait until he was feeling better—but then what if that time never came? His father liked Virginia, both his parents did, so this wasn’t going to be easy.
“You haven’t always done what’s expected, have you?”
His father laughed. “Lord no, that would have got me into a whole heap of trouble. You do what’s least expected, and you’ve got to keep surprising people. Things would be a bit dull otherwise, you know that.” His chuckle sounded hoarse. Then he looked at his son’s poker face and grew serious. “Oh, you’re talking about women.”
Theo nodded.
“Ah, well . . . all I know about women is that when you’ve found the right one, you know, and you don’t need to go looking anyplace else. If Virginia is the right one, then you’ll know it.”
Theo moved over to the bed, perching on the edge so he could look his father in the eye. “But what if she isn’t? What if you think the right one might be someone else?”
“Hmm,” his father said, pressing his lips together and looking down as he rearranged the bedclothes. “Well, then you’re going to have to take a chance. You’re going to need to tell the ‘someone else’ how you feel.”
His father was right. He’d never told Alice how deeply he felt about her, because he already had a fiancée—although he’d never hid his feelings for her. Even here in New York he was doing things for her; he’d been to see Ike to make sure the Fourth Avenue Booksellers’ Association had got their sidewalk bookstands back, and he’d spent the whole morning searching for a book for her. He’d come across an article in The Washington Post some time ago, about the mysterious Ethel Vance. She was the author of the bestselling novel Escape, but Ethel Vance was a pseudonym and her true identity was one of the publishing industry’s most closely guarded secrets. It had caused quite a stir, and wagers were lost in literary circles when the real identity was revealed to be Grace Zaring Stone, the wife of a captain in the US Navy and the author of four previous books, one of which coincidentally was included in the first series of ASEs.
“I take it this ‘someone else’ doesn’t live in New York?”
Theo shook his head.
“Then I assume she lives in London?”
Theo nodded, avoiding eye contact.
“But what about your job?”
“I don’t know, Pop . . . I don’t know if I even want it anymore.” He didn’t want to worry his father with the details, or his concern over what Walter had asked him to do, but they both knew it was unlikely there would be a job for him if he forsook his daughter.
“So, you’re leaving us again.”
His days in New York had passed so quickly—meetings with the council, long days in the Partridge offices and with his parents, and only a few outings with Virginia and her friends—but now he wanted to go back. He’d decided on the taxi ride over that he would try to convince Walter to give him another chance before selling: just three more months. He had told his parents that he wouldn’t leave until his father was getting the right treatment and the best available team of specialists, and now he was.
“Only if you’re okay with it,” he said.
He didn’t even know if he could get on a flight. There had been many delays or abandoned flights over recent weeks with increased fighting in the mid-Atlantic as the Allies tried to destroy the U-boats.
“If you’re sure, Theo, then I am. You don’t need to stay here on my account. Although they could do with your support up at Yankee Stadium.”
Samuel smiled reassuringly, and Theo smiled back.
“Seriously, don’t tell your mother I said so, but you go if you need to. I know you’re not finished there. . . . But, son?”
“Yes?”
“Only if you’re certain she’s the right one.”
“Yes, Pop.”
Theo’s heart was already racing, an adrenaline rush at the thought of getting back to London, of the fight they had on their hands to turn things around with Walter, and of seeing Alice. But first he had to find a way to talk to his fiancée, to tell her how his affections had changed, and that he now imagined a different future.
Thirty-five
London, May 6, 1943
“So, this is it?” Alice asked, trying to hide her surprise.
She was staring down into a basement that could have easily been a bomb shelter, if it wasn’t for the tremor through her feet or the huge man standing by the door.
Alice and Ursula were on a darkened street in Chelsea, and Alice’s chest was already tightening, but her friend hadn’t taken no for an answer. She had been simultaneously skeptical and worried when Alice had told her about the plan with Joe Stevenson—and concerned that Alice wouldn’t be able to play her part convincingly. That was when Ursula had told her she knew just the place where they could rub shoulders with the sort of streetwise people she was trying to deceive: “Somewhere you’re as likely to find a villain as a vamp,” she’d said in her trademark ironic tone. Alice felt every bit the vamp now in the black crepe trousers and luxurious cream silk blouse that Ursula had saved all her clothing coupons for, just the type of ridiculously extravagant outfit that Ursula’s heroine, Katharine Hepburn, wore.
“This is certainly it,” Ursula replied, smiling with Elizabeth Arden’s de rigueur red-coated lips. Then she fixed Alice with a purposeful stare. “Ready?”
Alice had barely recognized her own reflection in the mirror—but she could certainly imagine that woman on Joe Stevenson’s arm.
She pressed her lips together, then remembered to breathe, and followed Ursula down.
The Gateways Club, or “the Gates,” as Ursula called it, had long been a haven for the arty crowd. She’d said that you truly were just as likely to bump into a truck driver or a bus conductor here as a writer or a criminal. It was the meeting place for the Chelsea Arts Club but also for the homosexual crowd, as well as one o
r two scurrilous characters, and that was what Alice was banking on tonight.
“Good evening, Miss Rousson,” said the muscle-bound doorman.
“Hello, Ronny,” Ursula replied, smiling as he opened the door and they stepped inside.
Green velvet curtains opened to reveal a wall of smoke and dancers, and, off to one side, a jazz band, the four musicians stooped like musical notes. It was a small space—just thirty-five by eighteen feet—and Alice stood entranced. It had been a real worry that she might get panicked underground, but she quickly forgot about that because this was unlike anywhere she’d ever been. Clusters of people fanned out like a spinning roulette wheel in the center of the room. Men and women sat at scattered tables, while others leaned on the wooden shelf that ran around the edges, resting elbows as they drank, cigarettes lengthening fingers. Glimpses of the walls showed murals of London—fashionable Londoners, scenes from the Gates and vivid renditions of city icons, all painted, Ursula had told her, by students from Chelsea Arts Club. It was a kaleidoscope of music and laughter, of dancing and conversation, like a colorful cabaret in full swing, and for a moment she forgot the reason she was there.
She followed Ursula, squeezing through the crowd as they headed to the bar at the other side and waited to get served. Ursula moved out of the way to let a man in a trilby and patterned scarf squeeze past, balancing a tray of drinks, then she shuffled closer to the bar.
As Alice stood and waited, she noticed her friend watching a group at a nearby table. They were playing a boisterous game of cards, the two men and three women heckling each other, then shrieking as a woman won. The men wore gauche suits, and two of the women didn’t appear to care that there was a luxury tax on cosmetics or a rationing on their clothes, still in fur jackets and glistening jewels. Their uproar died down and the winner collected her cards, slender arms and neck craned forward as she checked her fellow players had given up their money. Satisfied, she smiled and sat back in her chair, elegantly positioning a cigarette holder between her lips and turning sideways so one of the gentlemen could light it. The match flickered, illuminating her face, and she glanced up, catching Ursula’s eye where she stood at the bar. They held each other’s gaze for a second, then one of her companions said something to her and she turned away.
“Here you go,” Ursula said, returning with two glasses. “You need to have more patience than Joan of Arc if you want to get a drink here.”
“What is it?”
“Gin fizz.”
“Thank you.” Alice took a sip and winced at the bitter taste. “What do we do now, dance?” she asked uncertainly.
“Not yet. First, you’ve got to watch. See those two over there?” Ursula indicated the opposite corner. “What do you make of them?”
One was potbellied, casually dressed and wore a battered fedora, while the other was in an immaculate three-piece suit and kept his head down, examining his cuticles as his companion talked animatedly in his ear.
“The one in the suit is the crime boss and the other one’s his henchman?”
Ursula rolled her eyes. “No, Alice. That’s Ted Ware, the new owner, and I’m pretty sure the one in the suit recently lost the club to him in a poker game.”
Alice grimaced. “What about those ones over there?” she asked, staring at three men drinking at the bar. “Are they crooks?”
“No. Isn’t it obvious? They’re policemen.”
“Oh . . .”
Ursula leaned nearer as she explained. “Look how close together they’re sitting, the way they’re using their hands to communicate—it’s evident they work together. And see the way they’re glancing at each other and then around them? They’re talking about something serious . . . but they don’t want to be overheard.”
Alice screwed up her face. “I don’t see it. Isn’t it just because it’s noisy down here?”
Ursula sighed dramatically. “See, you’re far too naive. I think this plan of yours is a really bad idea. And I’d have thought you’d have learned by now, Alice,” she added worriedly, “that you can’t trust anyone. Especially men.”
Alice thought again, as she had a hundred times, about Theo, and how disappointed she was in him. But this was a completely different situation.
She let Ursula’s frustration settle before she answered. “I told you, if Olive trusts Joe, then that’s good enough for me.”
“And you’re certain you won’t let Michael go with you?”
“Absolutely not, I’m not going back on my word.”
It was touching that her friend was so concerned, but Alice really didn’t think a crash course in character observation was going to help at this late stage. Yes, it might make her less nervous around the people Joe was about to introduce her to, and therefore less likely to give herself away, but as far as she could see, the people down here didn’t look like hardened criminals anyway. She cast her eyes about for some shady characters, but all she noticed were people having fun. A group of nurses noisily celebrated a birthday, and onlookers cheered as first the birthday girl then other members of the group were propelled into the middle of their circle to dance. Alice couldn’t help but smile as the crowd’s excitement grew, the clapping building to a crescendo as the birthday girl’s footwork got faster in response, threatening to topple her. We could all do with a bit of cheer, Alice thought; the week’s news from Europe had been particularly disturbing. It was rumored that in Warsaw thousands of the Jewish community had been killed as they’d resisted deportation.
The dancers linked arms behind each other’s backs and twirled clockwise, bumping into one another as their feet struggled to keep pace, the musicians playing ever faster. Then the song ended, and the dancers broke apart.
“They don’t look like they’re going to cause too much trouble,” Alice commented, and downed the last of her drink.
While the band took a break, Ursula explained how to read a person’s body language, from their nervous gestures and anxious energy right down to how you should shake hands when you met them—unless your palms were sweaty, of course.
“See that one in the red dress over there?” Ursula pointed to a young woman with a female partner on the dance floor. The woman swayed and bobbed with such easy rhythm that Alice guessed she hadn’t only had one drink. When she placed her hands around her partner’s neck and kissed her, Alice shyly looked away. “She’s new to the scene,” Ursula said as she continued watching their embrace.
“What do you mean?”
Ursula explained how more and more women were experimenting; women who, in the increasing absence of men, decided to try a relationship with another woman. Of course, the Gates was the ideal place for this.
Alice didn’t ask how Ursula could tell; she wasn’t sure she was ready for the answer. But she did know that the knot in her stomach had loosened and she was actually enjoying herself; she felt just like Patricia Reece’s detective Mary Dray as she scrutinized everyone with Ursula’s help. “You’ve surprised me,” Alice told her, wishing she’d known how to do this before, as it might have been useful with Theo.
“What, twice in one week?” Ursula said, and they both laughed.
Ursula waved to a group on the other side of the bar, who waved back.
“You know a lot of people here,” Alice said, “don’t you?”
Ursula surveyed the room, her mouth curving into a half smile, then she grew serious. “Yes, I suppose I do. Although there are some individuals I’d never mix with on the other side of that green door, and I’ve seen things I would have preferred to avoid, but this unlikely group are the closest I’ve got to family.”
Alice nodded. “I know.”
“But I don’t think you do.” Ursula’s cheerful bravado was replaced with candor. “It’s the only place where people like me can really be ourselves, free of prying eyes and prejudice. The only place where we can show and receive affection,
and not be judged.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right, I don’t know, but I’m glad I came. And I’m glad you’ve trusted me enough to be yourself around me.”
“Hmm, wish I could say the same to you!” Ursula replied and rolled her eyes in mock annoyance.
They were sipping their drinks, listening to conversations ebb and flow around them, when the card winner suddenly materialized.
Ursula smiled at her and kissed her cheek. “Alice, this is Bridget.”
Bridget extended her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Alice,” she said in a rich, velvety tone. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Her face was angular, a wide brow set above intense green eyes. She was taller than Ursula, by a good foot or so, and dressed conservatively: navy trousers and a cornflower-blue blouse with an exquisite diamond leaf brooch pinned near her collarbone. This outfit was in keeping with her medical profession, which Ursula had mentioned. See, Alice thought, I am getting the hang of reading people. “Pleased to meet you too,” she said, then blurted, “We’re on the lookout for criminals.”
Ursula and Bridget exchanged a look, and Ursula whispered something to her before she placed a Sobranie between her lips.
Bridget leaned forward so Alice could hear her. “I’m sorry about your situation.”
“Thank you . . . and that reminds me, I really should go,” she said, looking at her watch; she was meeting Joe Stevenson in less than twelve hours’ time.
Ursula rolled her eyes. “You can’t go yet, we’re not finished!”
“It was nice to meet you, Bridget,” Alice said. “I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
“Likewise.”
They shook hands, then Alice turned to Ursula. “Are you sure about everything I told you?”
“If I don’t hear from you by four o’clock, I will go to Marylebone Lane Police Station and ask for Sergeant Mildred Burns—she knows everything.”
Alice quickly nodded and gave them both a reassuring smile.
When We Meet Again Page 24
