'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 k'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 fa?ade, a fa?ade 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 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? I 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 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 charm when she wished to, who could withdraw into being enigmatic.
If she wanted anything from anyone she would be adroit in getting it. He noticed the intensity of the glance she was giving him now. Did she want something of him? He didn't know. He didn't think it could be likely. She 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 is the President of PBF as you know.'
'One should know all those things,' said Sir Stafford Nye. 'PBF and DCV. LYH. And all the world of initials.'
'Hateful,' said Milly Jean. 'Hateful. All these initials, no 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 one, 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.'
'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 the car window. He began to speak, then stopped himself. He noted her quick glance at him, but she too was silent. It was not till they were going over a bridge with the Thames below them that he said:
'So you are not giving me a lift home and you are not going back to the St James's Tower. We are crossing the Thames. We met there once before, crossing a bridge. 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-jacking 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 Godalming. 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 head inquiringly.
'Just a comment,' said Stafford Nye. 'Pay no attention. I take it we are now arriving at the destination of your choice?'
'And you don't admire the look of it very much.'
'The grounds seem well-kept up,' said Sir Stafford, following 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 open. Sir Stafford had expected some kind of butler, but instead there was a tall grenadier of a parlourmaid. Grey-haired, tight-lipped, eminently reliable and competent, he thought. 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 nicely chosen but of no particular artistic interest. A rich man's house, he thought. A man, not of bad taste, a man of conventional tastes. Good thick pile carpet of an agreeable plum-coloured texture.
On the first floor, the grenadier-like parlour-maid went to the first door along it. She opened it and stood back to let them go in but she made no announcement of names.
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.'
