'Ah, my dear fellow,' said Sir George, speaking briskly and cheerfully in a way that did not match his ascetic and sad appearance. 'Quite a long time since we've met, I think.'
'Sit down, sit down do,' said Pikeaway. 'Have a cigar?'
Sir George shuddered slightly.
'No, thank you,' he said, 'no, thanks very much.'
He looked hard at the windows. Colonel Pikeaway did not take the hint. Sir George cleared his throat and coughed again before saying:
'Er - I believe Horsham has been to see you.'
'Yes, Horsham's been and said his piece,' said Colonel Pikeaway, slowly allowing his eyes to close again.
'I thought it was the best way. I mean, that he should call upon you here. It's most important that things shouldn't get round anywhere.'
'Ah,' said Colonel Pikeaway, 'but they will, won't they?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'They will,' said Colonel Pikeaway.
'I don't know how much you - er - well, know about this last business.'
'We know everything here,' said Colonel Pikeaway. 'That's what we're for.'
'Oh - oh yes, yes certainly. About Sir S.N. - you know who I mean?'
'Recently a passenger from Frankfurt,' said Colonel Pikeaway.
'Most extraordinary business. Most extraordinary. One wonders - one really does not know, one can't begin to imagine...'
Colonel Pikeaway listened kindly.
'What is one to think?' pursued Sir George. 'Do you know him personally?'
'I've come across him once or twice,' said Colonel Pikeaway.
'One really cannot help wondering -'
Colonel Pikeaway subdued a yawn with some difficulty. He was rather tired of Sir George's thinking, wondering, and imagining. He had a poor opinion anyway of Sir George's process of thought. A cautious man, a man who could be relied upon to run his department in a cautious manner. Not a man of scintillating intellect. Perhaps, thought Colonel Pikeaway, all the better for that. At any rate, those who think and wonder and are not quite sure are reasonably safe in the place where God and the electors have put them.
'One cannot quite forget,' continued Sir George, 'the disillusionment we have suffered in the past.'
Colonel Pikeaway smiled kindly.
'Charleston, Conway and Courtland,' he said. 'Fully trusted, vetted and approved of. All beginning with C, all crooked as sin.'
'Sometimes I wonder if we can trust anyone,' said Sir George unhappily.
'That's easy,' said Colonel Pikeaway, 'you can't.'
'Now take Stafford Nye,' said Sir George. 'Good family, excellent family, knew his father, his grandfather.'
'Often a slip-up in the third generation,' said Colonel Pikeaway.
The remark did not help Sir George.
'I cannot help doubting - I mean, sometimes he doesn't really seem serious.'
'Took my two nieces to see the chateaux of the Loire when I was a young man,' said Colonel Pikeaway unexpectedly. 'Man fishing on the bank. I had my fishing-rod with me, too. He said to me, "Vous n'êtes pas un pecheur sérieux. Vous avez des femmes avec vous".'
'You mean you think Sir Stafford -?'
'No, no, never been mixed up with women much. Irony's his trouble. Likes surprising people. He can't help liking to score off people.'
'Well, that's not very satisfactory, is it?'
'Why not?' said Colonel Pikeaway. 'Liking a private joke is much better than having some deal with a defector.'
'If one could feel that he was really sound. What would you say - your personal opinion?'
'Sound as a bell,' said Colonel Pikeaway. 'If a bell is sound. It makes a sound, but that's different, isn't it?' He smiled kindly. 'Shouldn't worry, if I were you,' he said.
Sir Stafford Nye pushed aside his cup of coffee. He picked up the newspaper, glancing over the headlines, then he turned it carefully to the page which gave Personal advertisements. He'd looked down that particular column for seven days now. It was disappointing but not surprising. Why on earth should he expect to find an answer? His eye went slowly down miscellaneous peculiarities which had always made that particular page rather fascinating in his eyes. They were not so strictly personal. Half of them or even more than half were disguised advertisements or offers of things for sale or wanted for sale. They should perhaps have been put under a different heading but they had found their way here considering that they were more likely to catch the eye that way. They included one or two of the hopeful variety.
'Young man who objects to hard work and who would like an easy life would be glad to undertake a job that would suit him.'
'Girl wants to travel to Cambodia. Refuses to look after children.'
'Firearm used at Waterloo. What offers.'
'Glorious fun-fur coat. Must be sold immediately. Owner going abroad.'
'Do you know Jenny Capstan? Her cakes are superb. Come to 14 Lizzard Street, S.W.3.'
For a moment Stafford Nye's finger came to a stop. Jenny Capstan. He liked the name. Was there any Lizzard Street? He supposed so. He had never heard of it. With a sigh, the finger went down the column and almost at once was arrested once more.
'Passenger from Frankfurt, Thursday Nov. 11, Hungerford Bridge 7.20.'
Thursday, November 11th. That was - yes, that was today. Sir Stafford Nye leaned back in his chair and drank more coffee. He was excited, stimulated. Hungerford. Hungerford Bridge. He got up and went into the kitchenette. Mrs Worrit was cutting potatoes into strips and throwing them into a large bowl of water. She looked up with some slight surprise.
'Anything you want, sir?'
'Yes,' said Sir Stafford Nye. 'If anyone said Hungerford Bridge to you, where would you go?'
'Where should I go?' Mrs Worrit considered. 'You mean if I wanted to go, do you?'
'We can proceed on that assumption.'
'Well, then, I suppose I'd go to Hungerford Bridge, wouldn't I?'
'You mean you would go to Hungerford in Berkshire?' Where is that?' said Mrs Worrit.
'Eight miles beyond Newbury.'
'I've heard of Newbury. My old man backed a horse there last year. Did well, too.'
'So you'd go to Hungerford near Newbury?'
'No, of course I wouldn't,' said Mrs Worrit. 'Go all that way - what for? I'd go to Hungerford Bridge, of course.'
'You mean -?'
'Well, it's near Charing Cross. You know where it is. Over the Thames.'
'Yes,' said Sir Stafford Nye. 'Yes, I do know where it is quite well. Thank you, Mrs Worrit.'
It had been, he felt, rather like tossing a penny heads or tails. An advertisement in a morning paper in London meant Hungerford Railway Bridge in London. Presumably therefore that is what the advertiser meant, although about this particular advertiser Sir Stafford Nye was not at all sure. Her ideas, from the brief experience he had had of her, were original ideas. They were not the normal responses to be expected. But still, what else could one do. Besides, there were probably other Hungerfords, and possibly they would also have bridges, in various parts of England. But today, well, today he would see.
It was a cold windy evening with occasional bursts of thin misty rain. Sir Stafford Nye turned up the collar of his mackintosh and plodded on. It was not the first time he had gone across Hungerford Bridge, but it had never seemed to him a walk to take for pleasure. Beneath him was the river and crossing the bridge were large quantities of hurrying figures like himself. Their mackintoshes pulled round them, their hats pulled down and on the part of one and all of them an earnest desire to get home and out of the wind and rain as soon as possible. It would be, thought Sir Stafford Nye, very difficult to recognize anybody in this scurrying crowd. 7.20. Not a good moment to choose for a rendezvous of any kind. Perhaps it was Hungerford Bridge in Berkshire. Anyway, it seemed very odd.
He plodded on. He kept an even pace, not overtaking those ahead of him, pushing past those coming the opposite way. He went fast enough not to be overtaken by the others behind him, though it would be possible for them to do so if they wanted to. A joke, perhaps, thought Stafford Nye. Not quite his kind of joke, but someone else's.
And yet - not her brand of humour either, he would have thought. Hurrying figures passed him again, pushing him slightly aside. A woman in a mackintosh was coming along, walking heavily. She collided with him, slipped, dropped to her knees. He assisted her up.
'All right?'
'Yes, thanks.'
She hurried on, but as she passed him, her wet hand, by which he had held her as he pulled her to her feet, slipped something into the palm of his hand, closing the fingers over it. Then she was gone, vanishing behind him, mingling with the crowd. Stafford Nye went on. He couldn't overtake her. She did not wish to be overtaken, either. He hurried on and his hand held something firmly. And so, at long last it seemed, he came to the end of the bridge on the Surrey side.
A few minutes later he had turned into a small café and sat there behind a table, ordering coffee. Then he looked at what was in his hand. It was a very thin oilskin envelope. Inside it was a cheap quality white envelope. That too he opened. What was inside surprised him. It was a ticket. A ticket for the Festival Hall for the following evening.
Chapter 5
WAGNERIAN MOTIF
Sir Stafford Nye adjusted himself more comfortably in his seat and listened to the persistent hammering of the Nibelungen, with which the programme began.
Though he enjoyed Wagnerian opera, Siegfried was by no means his favourite of the operas composing the Ring. Rheingold and Gotterdammerung were his two preferences, the music of the young Siegfried, listening to the songs the birds, had always for some strange reason irritated him instead of filling him with melodic satisfaction. It might have been because he went to a performance in Munich in his young days which had displayed a magnificent tenor of unfortunately over-magnificent proportions, and he had been too young to divorce the joy of music from the visual joy of seeing a young Siegfried that looked even passably young. The fact of an outsized tenor rolling about on the ground in an access of boyishness had revolted him. He was also not particularly fond of birds and forest murmurs. No, give him the Rhine Maidens every time, although in Munich even the Rhine Maidens in those days had been of fairly solid proportions. But that mattered less. Carried away by the melodic flow of water and the joyous impersonal song, he had not allowed visual appreciation to matter.
From time to time he looked about him casually. He had taken his seat fairly early. It was a full house, as it usually was. The intermission came. Sir Stafford rose and looked about him. The seat beside his had remained empty. Someone who was supposed to have arrived had not arrived.
Was that the answer, or was it merely a case of being excluded because someone had arrived late, which practice still held on the occasions when Wagnerian music was listened to.
He went out, strolled about, drank a cup of coffee, smoked a cigarette, and returned when the summons came. This time, as he drew near, he saw that the seat next to his was filled. Immediately his excitement returned. He regained his seat and sat down. Yes, it was the woman of the Frankfurt Air Lounge. She did not look at him, she was looking straight ahead. Her face in profile was as clean-cut and pure as he remembered it. Her head turned slightly, and her eyes passed over him but without recognition. So intent was that non-recognition that it was as good as a word spoken. This was a meeting that was not to be acknowledged. Not now, at any event. The lights began to dim. The woman beside him turned.
'Excuse me, could I look at your programme? I have dropped mine, I'm afraid, coming to my seat.'
'Of course,' he said.
He handed over the programme and she took it from him. She opened it, studied the items. The lights went lower. The second half of the programme began. It started with the overture to Lohengrin. At the end of it she handed back the programme to him with a few words of thanks.
'Thank you so much. It was very kind of you.'
The next item was the Siegfried forest murmur music. He consulted the programme she had returned to him. It was then that he noticed something faintly pencilled at the foot of a page. He did not attempt to read it now. Indeed, the light would have not been sufficient. He merely closed the programme and held it. He had not, he was quite sure, written anything there himself. Not, that is, in his own programme. She had, he thought, had her own programme ready, folded perhaps in her handbag and had already written some message ready to pass to him. Altogether, it seemed to him, there was still that atmosphere of secrecy, of danger. The meeting on Hungerford Bridge and the envelope with the ticket forced into his hand. And now the silent woman who sat beside him. He glanced at her once or twice with the quick, careless glance that one gives to a stranger sitting next to one. She lolled back in her seat; her high-necked dress was of dull black crêpe, an antique torque of gold encircled her neck. Her dark hair was cropped closely and shaped to her head. She did not glance at him or return any look. He wondered. Was there someone in the seats of the Festival Hall watching her - or watching him? Noting whether they looked or spoke to each other? Presumably there must he, or there must be at least the possibility of such a thing.
She had answered his appeal in the newspaper advertisement. Let that be enough for him. His curiosity was unimpaired, but he did at least know now that Daphne Theodofanous - alias Mary Ann - was here in London. There were possibilities in the future of his learning more of what was afoot. But the plan of campaign must be left to her. He must follow her lead. As be had obeyed her in the airport, so he would obey her now and - let him admit it - life had become suddenly more interesting. This was better than the boring conferences of his political life. Had a car really tried to run him down the other night? He thought it had. Two attempts - not only one. It was easy enough to imagine that one was the target of assault, people drove so recklessly nowadays that you could easily fancy malice aforethought when it was not so. He folded his programme, did not look at it again. The music came to its end. The woman next to him spoke. She did not turn her head or appear to speak to him, but she spoke aloud, with a little sigh between the words as though she was communing with herself or possibly to her neighbour on the other side.
