“That’s it exactly,” he said cheerfully. “May we go inside now?”
She frowned; the frown, wrinkling her brows, made her even more desirable. Shaw could see now that she was beautiful — really beautiful, as few women are. She was fair — exceptionally fair, with very fine hair twisting around and below her ears… small ears, caressable ears— sensitive ears, perhaps, in more ways than one? Her body was slim — she was tall, and long-legged, with shapely breasts thrusting against a vivid blue dress. The eyes were large and direct, and innocent despite the efficient handling of the gun. She was obviously Scandinavian, and the accent struck him as Swedish. The name, of course, might or might not be her real one.
Meanwhile she was observing him as critically as he was observing her. Her eyes were narrowed now as she came to a decision. After a few more moments she said crisply, “Very well, Smith. We will go inside and talk, as you say, in comfort. Please walk past me, and sit in the chair by the window.”
He did as he was told. She kept the gun pointing at him all the way and remained standing when he sat. She said, “Now, please, tell me what is going on?”
“That,” he said, “is what I was about to ask you. I’d say you were an observant kind of person, Miss Lange, and—”
“I am,” she said, “and I would say you are not called Smith, for one thing. That does not make me trust you… though there is something in your face that I would call, I think, honesty.”
He grinned. “Thanks! Maybe I'm not Smith, but I’m afraid it’ll have to do for now.” His own eyes narrowed suddenly. “Miss Lange, what were you going to talk about with P. J. Fetters?”
She answered coolly, “Is that your business… Smith who isn’t?”
“I believe it could be.”
Her eyes had taken on a steely look now and she was puzzled — but also interested. In him. Very. She said abruptly, “Tell me in what way, Smith.”
He said, “Two men have died — Fetters and one other. Do you know who the other is, Miss Lange?”
“I do not.”
“He was a Pole, and his name was Stefan Aleksander Spalinski, once a colonel of the Polish Army in Britain.” Her eyes were perfectly steady. “I do not know this man,” she Said. “I have never heard of him. You will have to do better than that.”
She was speaking the truth; the Fetters and Spalinski wires failed to cross with this girl. Shaw changed his line of attack. “What are you doing in London?” he asked. “I’d assume you don’t live permanently at the Savoy — so when did you arrive, and where did you come from?”
She shrugged. “I do not mind telling you this. I arrived only last night, from Switzerland, and—”
“Switzerland?” he asked with sudden interest.
She nodded. “Zurich. You ask what I am doing. I will tell you that too. I am a kind of literary agent.”
“With a gun? You deal with publishers at gun-point, Miss Lange?”
“Oh, no, not always, that is!” There was amusement in her face again. “What is this Spalinski who died? What has he to do with P. J. Fetters?”
Shaw said, “Spalinski had a message for me. He was killed before he could pass it on. He was killed in precisely the same manner as was Fetters not so long ago today. That seems to me a kind of link, for a start.”
“And you went to Fetters to find out what the message was?”
“That,” he said, “is more or less correct.”
“And now you come to me, also to find this out.”
“You’re doing pretty well!”
She said flatly, “Then I am so sorry. I have no knowledge of any message.”
“But you were in contact with Fetters.” He shifted in the chair, crossing his legs and leaning back comfortably. “And there’s one more link between Spalinski and Fetters.”
“And this is?”
He said with deliberation, watching her face closely, “Both of them were members of the NTS and I believe you are as well, Miss Lange.”
A shadow crossed her face and her mouth tightened; that had gone home. Shaw smiled and said, “It’s all right, we’re all on the same side. Spalinski, Fetters, you — and me. I’m going to trust you. I’m an agent of British Defence Intelligence.” He reached into his pocket and brought out his special pass, showing the cover only. “Do you believe me?”
After a pause she said, “Yes, I think I do, Smith.”
“Then put the toy pistol away. I’ve a much better one in my shoulder-holster, and if I’d wanted to, I could have had it out long before you could have got me with the peashooter.”
She gave a sudden laugh. “Very well, Smith, I shall do as you say.” She picked up a handbag from a small table and slid the miniature revolver into it. Then she sat down opposite Shaw, and he looked with appreciation at nyloned thighs as her dress slipped above her knees. She went on, “I was telling you the simple truth when I said I did not know of this Spalinski. Therefore it follows that I cannot help you over the message of which you spoke. My business with Fetters was not in any way concerned with that, I assure you, Smith.”
“What was your business?”
She said slowly, “I had better explain, perhaps. I have already told you I am a literary agent, but one with a difference. I act, you see, as a link with writers of the Communist countries — writers who are not Communists, writers who have a message for the non-Communist peoples, writers who in fact are largely members of the NTS and who wish their works to be published outside their own countries — in the West, that is. Sometimes, if they are brave men, they wish to publish under their own names. More often, however, they publish under pseudonyms. I build up for them contacts with Western publishers, secret contacts, and act as their agent in all non-Communist countries. I have, you understand, very wide contacts of my own, built up over the last few years.”
“And Fetters?”
She took the end of a lock of hair and twisted it around below her nose, holding it there for a moment between nose and pouting upper lip. “Fetters was to be my contact in this country insofar as my activities for the NTS are concerned—”
“I thought you said—”
“Wait, Smith. Let me explain. What I said was the truth. On this occasion I am in London very strictly on literary business, and I had arranged with Fetters by an exchange of correspondence for him to translate a book by a Russian author, an old friend of his from very many years ago. This, and the contracting for the book with a London publisher, whose name I shall give you if you wish, is the sole reason for my visit. This I must stress. It is perfectly true, Smith.” She added, “It is also true that I have never met Fetters. It happens that so far I have never undertaken any commission for the NTS in this country.”
Shaw was disappointed. He said, “I see. Well — if you’re only here on literary business I doubt if you can be much help, Miss Lange. That is unless — since you come from Switzerland — you happen to know a man called… Rudolf Rencke?”
“Rencke?” The girl reacted instantly. Her body jerked and her eyes hardened. “Rudolf Rencke… why do you mention the name of that man?”
“Before Spalinski died, he told me that a man of that name might try to get him. I don’t know if the killer was in fact Rencke, or not — but he could have been. Even if he wasn’t, if I could get hold of him, he might be persuaded to tell me what Spalinski’s message was.” He paused, looking at her searchingly. “What do you know of Rencke, Miss Lange?”
Her tone was clipped now, and tense. “I know too much of him, Smith! He is a killer, as you suggest. He is a man whom the police of many countries would like to bring in and charge, but he is too clever for them all. Nothing has ever been made to stick. He has very many interests and all of them are — dirty. He is a brute, Smith, a fiendishly cruel man, a man who is unhealthy in mind and in appearance. He is out for his own ends entirely. I have heard it said that he has worked for the Communists. What his politics really are I do not know, but evidently he is willing to take Red money when the chance offers. Does that help?”