Heathersleigh Homecoming

by Michael Phillips

  And this silly outfit!

  Why didn’t she just get on a train to Cherbourg before any more time went by and get away from Ramsay once and for all?

  She started to stand up, glancing around absently as she did, when all of a sudden, not more than ten feet in front of her, the tall form of Hartwell Barclay walked past.

  Amanda’s eyes widened to saucers and she froze halfway out of her chair. She could almost feel the hair standing up on her arms and head. Her whole body chilled at sight of the white hair, the tall thin form, the eyes that had exercised such a magnetic, mesmerizing power over her. All her confidence of an hour earlier when alone in front of the mirror in her room instantly vanished. Her knees quivered and her stomach lurched slightly in the direction of her throat.

  Barclay was striding across the lobby toward the stairs, looking about casually. She saw his eyes roving in her direction. They lit momentarily upon her . . . then continued on.

  Her paralysis lasted but a second or two. Then he was gone. She eased back down into her chair, heart pounding.

  What was this, she thought, a convention of the Fountain of Light!

  Next thing she knew, Ramsay’s mother would show up! A little makeup and haircut would not deceive her. She would see through it in an instant. She had better watch herself, thought Amanda, gradually getting her breath back. For all she knew, Mrs. Halifax might be here already.

  But Mr. Barclay had seen her and had looked right through her. Seeing his eyes again had terrified her. Amanda knew he would never be able to exercise the same mind-control over her as before. But he was still a forceful presence whom she would just as soon avoid.

  After a few minutes she rose and returned to her room. With Hartwell Barclay now on the scene, she had to rethink her strategy.

  If she even had one!

  72

  Questions

  At the Admiralty in London, the First Lord of the Admiralty listened to the report that the exchange had been made with success, and, it was all but certain, without detection. Churchill nodded, obviously pleased, though with grave expression.

  “Where is the Dauntless now, Lieutenant Langham?” he asked.

  “Hopefully safely through the Greek islands and approaching Malta,” replied a young man of confident bearing, blond, tall, and with a rich baritone voice. He carried himself as one who would one day himself be a leader and commander in the military ranks of which he now occupied the bottom rung on the officers’ ladder.

  “That should put her in the Orkneys in three or four days,” said Churchill. “Have we made more progress in penetrating the Prussian Intelligence Service?”

  “No, sir—unfortunately not,” answered Churchill’s assistant. “But they do appear to be operating from somewhere on British soil.”

  “Have you spoken recently with the Secret Service?”

  “I met with Mr. Whyte last week, sir. They are just as much in the dark as we are.”

  “We’ve got to find their headquarters!” exploded Churchill in an uncharacteristic moment of anger as he slammed his fist down on the table. “There are still far too many moles among us. They will be our undoing if we do not root them out. What about our friend Beauchamp?”

  “Still no trace of his whereabouts, sir,” answered Langham, “nor sign that he has left the country.”

  “Then he is still either in Britain or has been smuggled out through their network. We’ve got to penetrate it!”

  Churchill paused briefly, then glanced seriously toward his youthful aide.

  “I want you to devote even greater attention to this matter than previously, Lieutenant,” he said. “Pull out every file. Start over. Investigate everything we have on this security problem . . . the moles, the apparent spy network, the M.P. Beauchamp and his disappearance. Meet again with Jack Whyte. Whatever files of theirs he can open to you, ask him to do so. I want to know what they’ve got. And you are acquainted with Colonel Forsythe—the army’s intelligence expert. Talk to him as well. We have to regain command of the seas and put a stop to this U-boat infiltration. Somewhere there have to be clues we have missed. I want you to make this your personal mission on my behalf.”

  “I understand, sir,” said Langham.

  “No one else has been able to find where they are coming in, or how the messages are wreaking havoc with our communications. Maybe you will have better luck.”

  73

  Overheard Schemes

  Amanda went downstairs to breakfast early the following morning.

  She had to try to find out what they were up to. And she wanted to be safely in place at her table in the corner before either Ramsay or Barclay made an appearance, and with a copy of the day’s newspaper to hold up in front of her face if need be.

  She had been sitting at the table almost an hour, and had drawn out her own breakfast about as long as was credible, when the two men walked in together, absent the presence of either female member of the potential trio, Greenfield or Mrs. Halifax. Amanda thought she detected Ramsay’s eyes resting upon her for the briefest of seconds. Trying to act nonchalant, though her heart began to pound the moment she knew he was looking at her, she took a slow sip from a cup of lukewarm tea, then casually raised the paper in front of her up just to her eyes. Slowly Ramsay looked away.

  Whew! she thought. She had apparently passed the first test of the new mademoiselle look with flying colors.

  Her self-congratulations, however, were a little too hasty. The men proceeded to serve themselves, then began walking her way.

  Oh no! thought Amanda. They’ve seen me . . . they know . . . they know!

  She was about to spring to her feet and make a dash for it, when they sat down two tables away. She relaxed, collected herself again, and strained to listen.

  “ . . . still convinced she’s in England?” Mr. Barclay was saying.

  “Of course,” replied Ramsay. “Where else would she be?”

  “Then you need to get over there as quickly as possible.”

  “And you?”

  “ . . . can’t risk it,” said Barclay, “ . . . recognize me.”

  “I can handle Amanda,” said Ramsay.

  “Like you’ve handled her up till now?”

  Ramsay shot the older man an angry glance.

  “In any event a telegram came in for me just moments ago,” Barclay went on, “that may require my attention on another matter. The services of the lighthouse are needed. So unfortunately I have no choice but to let you deal with the girl on your own. I hope you can keep from bungling it again.”

  Swallowing his mounting annoyance at Barclay’s barbs, Ramsay took a drink of coffee. “What kind of matter?” he asked.

  “Another defection. But of a considerably higher level of importance than your wife’s.”

  “What are your plans, then?”

  “I am being met by an operative in Prussian Intelligence who needs to intercept the defector. I have to catch a train north after breakfast tomorrow. I must take him to England.”

  “I can still get through by normal channels,” said Ramsay. “I’ve got double citizenship and passports. I know Amanda’s places. If she has returned to London, I’ll find her.”

  “I’ll meet you at the lighthouse,” said Barclay “ . . . and make sure you have the girl this time.”

  “I will leave tomorrow as well.”

  “Why not today?”

  “What’s the rush? You won’t be to the lighthouse for several days. I want to make the most of my time with Adriane. I will be in London by tomorrow night.”

  “Unfortunately, I will be somewhere between here and Antwerp.”

  Both men were silent a few minutes.

  “Come to think of it,” said Barclay at length, “don’t bother bringing the girl to the lighthouse.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “I think we both know well enough what I mean. Just take care of it.”

  “Do you realize you’re talking about my wife?” sneered R
amsay.

  “I didn’t think you were the sentimental type, Halifax. I think it’s time you started thinking of yourself as a widower.”

  Amanda sucked in a shocked gasp. So, they were planning to kill her!

  For another twenty minutes she kept her face securely hidden behind the newspaper, but could not concentrate on anything other than what she had heard. When Ramsay and Barclay finally rose to leave, she waited another minute or two, then followed them from the room.

  If they were both leaving after breakfast tomorrow, she had twenty-four hours to decide which of the two she was going to follow.

  Depending on her plan, she might also need another brief shopping excursion into the city.

  74

  Surprise Intruder

  When Ramsay Halifax walked into the dining room of l’Atelier des Prés early the following morning with Adriane Grünsfeld on one arm and Hartwell Barclay walking along on the other side, his thoughts inexplicably turned briefly to the colorfully attired young Frenchwoman he had noticed about the hotel, and wondered why she wasn’t seated at her customary table in the corner. Perhaps she had finally checked out.

  The reason for her absence, however, was of quite another nature. She was, in fact, at that very moment carrying out a scheme she had been going over in her mind since yesterday for gaining entry into the room he and his mistress had left only minutes before.

  “Excuse me, miss,” said Amanda to the maid in her practiced French. “I am Miss Sadie’s stage assistant. She is on her way to the theater and left behind one of the most important parts of her costume—the hat in which she sings the finale of the last act. She needs it desperately, but she was already late and asked me to bring it. She told me to hurry back and find Fayette.”

  “I am Fayette,” said the maid.

  “Good. Miss Sadie said you would be so kind as to let me into the room. It is 369.”

  “Yes, I know Miss Sadie’s room.”

  “Will you let me in, please—I am in a hurry to get to the theater myself.”

  Amanda now pulled out a twenty-franc note.

  “Miss Sadie asked me to give you this for your trouble,” she said.

  Persuaded perhaps by the fact that she had seen Amanda several times the day before in this same corridor apparently just leaving room 369—an occurrence which Amanda had carefully orchestrated to coincide with both Ramsay’s and Adriane’s absence from the room, and no doubt likewise induced by the sudden appearance of the bill—the maid called Fayette took the bill from Amanda’s hand, turned, and led the way toward the room in question. In another thirty seconds Amanda was safely inside with the door locked behind her.

  Now she had to work fast.

  Meanwhile, downstairs in the breakfast room, the trio was making plans to depart the French city, Barclay for his rendezvous with the Prussian, Ramsay for his hoped rendezvous with Amanda in London, and the actress Sadie Greenfield for an appointment with her afternoon’s audience at the theater.

  “When will I see you again, Ramsay darling?” she asked.

  “Mere days, my dear,” he answered jovially, “mere days. After my return I shall be all yours.”

  Hartwell Barclay had had enough of such talk. He rose.

  “Don’t be too confident of that,” he said. “We may yet have other work to do after this little episode is over.”

  75

  North From Paris

  Leaving Ramsay’s room, Amanda hurried down the hall, then quickly up the stairway.

  She walked straight to her room and began hurriedly changing clothes. The next phase of her plan required an altogether different fashion statement, one which she hoped would draw far fewer eyes than had Mademoiselle Très Chic.

  She had made arrangements to keep some of her things at the hotel until she returned. She had already left them at the desk. She needed to travel as lightly as possible. She was ready to go and would await Barclay on the street outside the station, watch and listen to find out where he was going, and make use of Gertrut Oswald’s passport one last time to follow him.

  She left her room and started toward the lobby.

  Halfway down the first flight of stairs, suddenly she heard the voices of the three coming up from the ground floor.

  “ . . . all goes well . . . see you in the north . . . or perhaps Vienna. . . .” It was Barclay’s voice.

  “ . . . may need to use the lighthouse myself,” said Ramsay, “ . . . how it develops.”

  “I’m off, then,” said Barclay, “ . . . train to Brussels . . . thirty-five minutes.”

  The next thing she heard, two sets of feet began to ascend the stairs along with Ramsay’s and Sadie’s voices. Amanda slunk back out of sight on the landing of the fourth floor. Closer and closer came the voices, then turned off the landing at the third floor. The instant they were down the hall toward their room, Amanda flew down the rest of the way. There was not a second to waste. She couldn’t lose Barclay now.

  She exited onto the street just in time to see him disappearing in a cab in the direction of the station. She hailed another and was soon on her way after him.

  She reached the station less than a minute behind the white-haired Englishman and hurried inside. The sights and sounds and bustle of the station reminded her of the terror of the Vienna station when she had just barely escaped his clutches. Now the tables were turned—she was following him. And she wouldn’t be so easily recognizable now!

  She glanced quickly at the schedule board.

  There it was—Brussels, nine-thirteen.

  Where was Barclay? She’d lost him!

  Frantically she looked all about. There he was, stopped briefly at a kiosk. Perfect—she would board the train ahead of him! He would suspect nothing.

  Amanda ran for the ticket window.

  76

  Ramsay’s Fury

  Notwithstanding that they too would be parting in another couple of hours, Ramsay and Adriane entered their suite leisurely and in bright spirits.

  Ramsay took off his coat, tossed it over a chair, sat down on the couch, and opened the newspaper he had brought up from the lobby. He did not notice anything amiss until twenty or thirty minutes later as he began thinking about his own preparations to leave.

  Chatting with Adriane, he walked to his bureau to gather up his personal things. There, on top of his own wallet, sat a very strange, yet somehow familiar-looking, red beret. He looked at it, momentarily confused. Beside it, neatly folded, was a silk chartreuse scarf.

  “Darling, this isn’t yours . . . ?” he began with a bewildered expression, reaching out and picking up the beret. “I’m sure I’ve seen it, but don’t recall—”

  Suddenly he stopped. What was that paper beneath it . . . that oddly familiar handwriting!

  “What the—” he exclaimed, throwing down the beret and grabbing up the single sheet of hotel stationery with the sinking feeling of having been duped.

  Just a couple of little items to remember me by, Ramsay dear, he read. I won’t be needing them again now that they have served their purpose. At first I thought you recognized me, but the more I saw of you these last few days, the more I realized you had eyes only for another. Under the circumstances, I didn’t think you’d mind giving me a little money, especially in that it does not appear that providing for me is high among your concerns of the moment. Call it a sharing of assets between husband and wife. Give Adriane my regards, but don’t try to follow me. You couldn’t find me in Milan, and you won’t find me in Paris.

  Even before he was finished, her name was again on his lips with nearly as much venom as it had been in Vienna.

  Amanda! he shouted angrily as he now rifled through his things.

  “My money!” he cried. “The minx has stolen every franc I had . . . and my passport is with them!”

  “You can’t mean she was actually in our room,” said Adriane. “How could she have gotten in?”

  Ramsay shook his head, spinning about in a rage, tearing through every
drawer in the bureau.

  “Must have been when we were at breakfast,” he said, gradually calming. “I can’t tell . . . she may have taken more too. I had some papers. . . .”

  Even in the midst of his search, he felt almost a begrudging admiration for Amanda’s spunk.

  “How did you do it, you shrew?” he said half to himself, sitting back down to take stock of the suddenly changed situation. “Barclay may have misjudged you, Amanda my dear. But I never did. Maybe I knew you had it in you all along.”

  A thin smile broke across his lips, and he added silently to himself, “It’s too bad, Amanda. We might have had something together, you and me, if it wasn’t for your blasted English morality. Unfortunately, it’s too late for you now. You have gone too far this time . . . and now I shall have to kill you.”

  “Where do you think she is?” asked Adriane. “Maybe she’s still in the hotel.”

  “Oh no, she’s gone by now,” said Ramsay, the momentary smile disappearing from his face. “If I know Amanda, she is long gone.”

  “Where, then?”

  “On her way to England, no doubt. But I’ll be on the ship from Cherbourg this afternoon. Of course, she’ll expect that, and you can bet I won’t see her on board.”

  “What about your passport?”

  Ramsay smiled and pulled back his coat to reach inside its vest pocket.

  “Fortunately,” he said, “I have duplicates.”

  He paused and grew pensive. “I don’t know where she is at this moment,” he said. “But one thing is for certain. She’ll be back in London before the week’s out. And that’s where I will get my hands on her again. She may be feeling herself very clever after this little game with the scarf and the hat, prancing about under my nose. But she won’t outsmart me again.”

  77

  Spy vs. Spy

  Hartwell Barclay sat in the northbound train toward Brussels.