In something of a daze Shaw left the room, went through Miss Larkin’s office into the corridor with its dark panelling, down the broad, thickly-carpeted staircase. Out in Trafalgar Square the day was bright and fresh, everything was peaceful and ordinary. Shaw could scarcely find it in his heart to believe that a threat could possibly exist to the peace mechanism, that any man, any country, could seek to disrupt all this, to stop the world going on as usual about its lawful occasions, its happy occasions, to bring everything to a sudden end.
But he hadn’t liked the look in Latymer’s face when the Old Man had hinted about direct danger to that great new liner, now thrusting through the seas, unsuspectingly, into the Mediterranean blue. And Latymer had seemed to believe implicitly in his hunch. That was bad. Latymer’s hunches weren’t often wrong.
CHAPTER FOUR
A little later Shaw ran quickly up the steps to his flat, turned his key in the lock and went in. He found Thompson sitting in the hall drinking a cup of tea.
Shaw chucked his hat on the stand. “Hullo there, Thompson. All quiet — no visitors?”
“No, sir, quiet as mice.” Thompson stood up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Are the young ladies in the sitting-room?”
“Yes, sir.” The ex-petty officer hesitated. “Miss Delacroix, she did ask me to have my cuppa in there, but the other young lady, she’s a bit upset like, and so I thought, well, she won’t want to be bothered, sir.”
Shaw clapped him on the shoulder, crinkled up his nose in a smile. He said, “Thanks for staying, anyway. Better get along now. Mr Latymer may want you.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Thompson gave him a critical look, screwing up his leathery face in concern. He said warningly, “You look like you need a rest, sir.”
“Probably, but I’ll be all right.” As Thompson picked up his cap and let himself out of the flat, Shaw walked on into his sitting-room. Judith Donovan — as Shaw naturally thought of her — was over by the window, looking out into the bright day and the sunshine, looking unseeingly into space. She seemed so forlorn, Shaw thought anxiously… he felt a rush of pity, of sympathy for her, so young, so defenceless. She was very pale, with big dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t heard him come in; she was far away, probably seeing again that terrible bullet-swept driveway. That would be a scene she couldn’t ever forget, Shaw knew.
Quietly he walked across the room to where Debonnair was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, long nyloned legs drawn up. She had been making a pretence of reading a book, and she’d glanced up as Shaw came into the room, and had put her book aside, given him a warning glance and inclined her head towards Judith.
He asked in a low whisper, “How’s she taking things, Deb?”
She said, “Not too well. She’s been terribly weepy.”
He shook his head. “She ought to see a doctor. Have some kind of a sedative and go to bed.”
She nodded, and her fair hair caught the sunlight. “Yes,” she said, “I know. I told her. She won’t hear of it. I gave her a couple of aspirins and a nip of your whisky, and that’s just as far as she’d listen to me.”
He said quietly, “I’ll see what I can do.”
As he moved away, she caught his sleeve. She said, “No, please, Esmonde. Just leave her. She’s working things out in her own way. It’s best she does that.” She wrinkled up her nose, shook her head in puzzlement. “There’s something brewing in her mind. I don’t know what. But she’ll come through this soon. She’s been brought up to expect her father’s death almost every day, remember. In a while, she’ll see this as a relief that that’s all over.”
“I hope you’re right,” he murmured. He added abruptly, “Deb, I’m sorry, but I may not have much time — can you rustle me up something to eat, quickly?”
She looked up. “Sure. What’s in the kitchen?”
“Oh,” he said vaguely, “enough… I don’t know.”
Her eyes narrowed in sudden anxiety. “You don’t care either, do you. You’re not really hungry, are you?”
“No, but—”
“But you’re obeying orders?”
He gave her a quick glance and nodded. She sighed a little, got up, and put her hands on his shoulders. She’d gone rather pale, because she knew from Shaw’s expression that this was it once again. That leave… dear God, she thought in anguish, we were so dam happy it just couldn’t last. She said quietly, “I’ll get lunch.” She made herself smile as she moved away, looking back over her shoulder. “Don’t blame me if it’s not up to Fouquier’s standard. I’m not a bad cook, but I’ve just a rough idea what your store cupboard’s like, my pet!”
She went along to the small, converted kitchen and delved about in the cupboards, miserably. Latymer could never leave Esmonde Shaw at home for long and this time — after last night — she had good reason to know the dangers of this assignment. It always was dangerous, of course, and she never did know when if ever she would be seeing Esmonde again — it was just the same every time he went away except that it got a bit worse as time went on. But one day — one day sometime, she told herself with determination — Esmonde Shaw wouldn’t belong to the Outfit any longer, and then they would get married and settle down and have lots of children in peace and security and contentment. One day— if God was kind in the meantime. The undercover game was a young man’s game, and Esmonde wouldn’t be young for ever. Sometimes, though, agents were never allowed to grow old…
She put those thoughts out of her mind.
From the other side of the kitchen partition she heard water splashing into the bath. That reminded her that he would want that arm of his dressed again. She tapped on the hardboard, called: “Are you decent, darling?”
His voice came muffled, preoccupied. “Not very. Why?”
“I’m coming in. Put a towel on if you’re bashful.”
There was an indistinct protest, but she took no notice. She went into the bathroom, tap-tapping along on high heels. The place was full of steam that swirled around Shaw’s thin, wiry body.
As she started to deal with his arm, and stripped off the now blood-caked bandage which the Paris doctor had put on, she suddenly risked one of the harmless, almost wifely questions which were all she allowed herself unless Esmonde chose to confide in her, as sometimes he could — and did, for her own former Foreign Office experience made her opinion on things worth having. Her head bent intently, she asked:
“Is it going to be for long?”
He said tenderly, “My dear… I just don’t know.”
She gave him a glance, but he didn’t say any more, and so she guessed that this was one of the things he couldn’t talk to her about. She said quietly, “I see. It’s like that, is it?”
He nodded. She looked up at the strong, sensitive face and a rush of tears blinded her for a moment. She went on with her work, blinking back the tears. Then she asked, “Isn’t there anything I can do? Perhaps look after Judith?”
He said, “I was going to ask you that, Deb. It’d take a load off the Old Man’s mind too, I think, though he hasn’t said anything about it yet. Could she stay with you for a while in Albany Street?”
“Of course. I’ll be glad of the company. What about while I’m at the office, though?”
“That’s all right,” he told her. “It’s just a question of her having somewhere to call home. Latymer’s going to put a man on.”
“Uh-huh. That’ll be like old times, anyway! When do you have to go, darling?”
“I don’t know. There’ll be a phone call, and after that I shan’t have long.”
“Shall I get a bag packed?”
He said gratefully, “Would you?”