Seven days later Shaw got stiffly out of the Portsmouth train at Waterloo and made for the Underground. It was fairly late in the day, and he decided his visit to the Old Man could wait until next morning. They’d already had his full report by cyphered signal; he’d sent that in during his last days in Gibraltar before embarking for home in the Cambridge when Debonnair had seen him off — she wasn’t coming home just yet, as her company’s business, owing to sundry interruptions, hadn’t yet been concluded. Waiting for a train to take him to Charing Cross, where he would change on to the District Line, Shaw grinned to himself as he thought back to that homeward run. Captain Kent-Thomas, of the Cambridge, had said, when he’d greeted Shaw on his quarterdeck:
“You again, Shaw, what? Haven’t they scragged the Admiralty Inspector?” The large, square form had frowned down at him, hands clasped behind the immense back, face glowering in mock scorn which hadn’t been all that mock. “Bet it was your blasted nose-poking that caused all that damn silly flap and panic the other day.”
Shaw had asked innocently, “Oh? What was that, sir? I must have missed it.”
“Missed it!” Kent-Thomas snorted. “S.N.A.S.O. tells me you’ve been gallivantin’ about in Tangier, so I’m not surprised you missed it.”
“Quite, sir,” Shaw murmured. “It was very nice in Tangier.”
“I’m certain it was. Wine, women, and song.” Kent-
Thomas sniffed. “I’ve been patrolling off Malaga, lookin’ out for some damn’ crook who’s wanted for extradition.” Shaw lifted an eyebrow. “What — all the time, sir?”
Kent-Thomas flushed. “Don’t be silly. Best part of twenty-four hours.”
“Well, I dare say it made a change. Er… did you find him — the crook?”
“No.”
At about six-fifteen Shaw got out of the District Line train at West Kensington station. He crossed over the road at the traffic lights and left-inclined into Gunterstone Road past the gardens in the Gunterstone and Gwendwr Roads intersection. It was so colourful — very colourful and gay. Something about it sent Shaw’s mind racing away from thoughts of the deserted flat which was waiting for him, and which would smell as dank as all places smell when they have been shut up for a time; sent his thoughts racing back to the Plaza Generalisimo Franco in La Linea, which was also a colourful little square; that reminded him once again that he’d have to see Latymer to-morrow. He fumbled in his pocket for his Dr Jenner’s and slid a tablet into his mouth, keeping it to one side so that it would melt slowly as the directions on the packet said. There was a sour taste in his mouth which the tablet soothed; though it couldn’t soothe it right away, for it was partly the sour taste of loathing for his job, of a nameless longing, and of defeat and self-reproach — that reactive feeling he always had except when he was actually on a job. The diplomatic hoo-ha over the boarding of the Ostrowiec was still going on, and he felt sorry for Hammersley, though the worst of the fuss was over now. And almost certainly there were things he could have handled better in the last two or three weeks, and he’d get a bawling-out, a bawling-out which wouldn’t stop Latymer giving him another assignment as soon as he’d have a spot of leave.
He gave a deep sigh. He didn’t realize he’d sighed aloud, very much aloud. The typist, who by some wonderful stroke of luck had happened to be on the same train as Shaw, and had pushed up against him in the crush, and was now devotedly dogging his homeward footsteps, heard it. It distressed her. She hadn’t seen the interesting-looking man for seventeen days, and now he looked thinner and more lonely than ever. And his face! It had given her quite a turn, it had really, quite grey and so worried-looking. Starved. It was dreadful. In the tube she’d wanted to stroke his cares away. The typist was inclined to think Mum had been right about him being a musician — he’s been away, probably, for part of the season, at the seaside. Her mind ran on and on… Clacton, Blackpool, Ramsgate… some dance-hall, or perhaps the pier. They must have worked him very hard, perhaps he hadn’t been able to stand the hours and he’d been given the sack…
She reached home and saw the vague shape of Mum looking out through the net. She stood a moment looking after Shaw until he turned the corner and vanished into Gliddon Road. Then she ran up the steps. To-morrow, perhaps, she’d see him again.