"Your key, sir."
I turned and took the room key from the clerk behind the desk. I looked at the key with its heavy tag, which was supposed to keep you from forgetfully running off with it. The last time I'd seen it-assuming it was the same key, and I thought it was-it had been lying on the dresser upstairs beside Winnie's cigarettes, when I'd picked them up to give them to her.. The man behind the desk cleared his throat discreetly.
"Madame left a note for you, sir," he said. "She asked me to be sure to give it to you when you returned."
He held out a sealed envelope of hotel stationery. I took it. My name was written on it in a funny, sloppy scrawl I'd seen before. Specimens of handwriting are, of course, part of every agent's file, and I'd studied up on Winnie's before leaving Washington.
I said slowly, "Madame went out?"
She wasn't supposed to go out. I'd asked her not to. And she was a trained operative, not a flighty kid. Having said she'd stay, she'd stay-unless she couldn't help herself.
The clerk corrected me. "Madame checked out, sir."
His face betrayed a struggle between diplomacy and curiosity. There's something about newlyweds and their problems that intrigues even hardened hotel men who've seen them come and go by the thousands.
"What do you mean, checked out?" I demanded. "You mean she took her luggage and-" I stopped abruptly, as if startling possibilities had suddenly occurred to me, which wasn't far wrong. "Did she leave alone?" I asked.
"No, a lady and a gentleman called for her, sir." "What did they look like?"
The man hesitated. "The lady was, er, Oriental, sir."
The damn case seemed to be lousy with Fu Manchus, both male and female, or somebody was trying hard to give that impression. 1 wasn't really sold on the idea, not yet anyway; nor was I taking Basil's official disgrace at face value, no matter what my British colleagues might think about it. Basil had been on the same team as Vadya once, and while it isn't safe to take for granted that all Communists are going to be forever buddies, neither can you safely assume that they hate each other just because they say so.
I muttered a word of thanks to the clerk and swung away and plunged toward the stairs like a deeply troubled and preoccupied man. Under the circumstances, it didn't require a great deal of acting talent. I didn't glance toward the smart, slightly overweight lady sipping a martini in the lounge, seemingly without a care in the world. If she was waiting there for me, as seemed likely, she could wait a little longer.
chapter SEVEN
There was nothing in the room, of course. I mean, there were no signs of violence. There were no clues, or if there were I didn't spot them as such-I'm not much of a clue man. There were no cute little last-minute oh-help-me messages scrawled in lipstick on the bathroom mirror. Well, there wouldn't be. We weren't dealing with amateurs.
That was the catch. The only amateur involved, by decree, was Winnie herself. I realized belatedly that I might as well have skipped the precaution of making her stay in the hotel. She was no safer there than elsewhere, with the instructions she carried. She was my sweet, harmless, gutless little bride, and she was under orders to remain so no matter what happened, to me or to her, until she got herself next to a gent named McRow or got herself killed. The latter possibility was one we hadn't considered as fully as we might have, since I was the one who was supposed to be running the big risks. On the other hand, I was allowed to fight back. Winnie wasn't.
If strangers called from downstairs, perhaps claiming to be old friends of mine, she had to invite them up politely. When they knocked on the door, she had to open unsuspectingly, just like the innocent honeymoon kid she was supposed to be. If she was grabbed, she had to forget everything she'd ever learned about defending herself. And if, with a couple of preliminary slaps for emphasis, she was ordered to write something at the point of a gun, she had to write, with convincing big tears of pain and fright trickling down her cheeks.
I didn't look around too hard. I didn't even want to know if they'd planted a few hearing aids on me while they were in here. It seemed unlikely they'd pass up the chance. I just sat down on the bed and tore open the envelope. The note inside was very good. Without going into details, it hinted at all kinds of fascinating secrets and relationships.
Dear Matt:
I have just learned something that hurts me very much. I'm sure you know what I mean. I've been a blind little fool. Please don't try to find me.
Winnie
I frowned at this thoughtfully. It was really a very fine note. It said all the right things to everybody who might read it, from me to the hotel maid who might find it in the wastebasket later.
To me, of course, it was a warning in double-talk. It said quite clearly that if I tried to find Winnie, she'd be hurt very much. Presumably I was supposed to wait for contact to be made, meanwhile playing the part of the older husband whose young wife had learned his dreadful secret and left him. I was supposed to keep things quiet with this story, disturbing neither the hotel management nor the authorities. The implication, not necessarily reliable, was that if I did all this, Winnie would be okay and might even be released eventually, perhaps in return for further cooperation on my part.
I stared at the note grimly. I'm sure you know, it said, presumably meaning that I surely knew with whom I was dealing, but I didn't really. I only knew that Vadya bad moved into the hotel here at just about the same time that Basil was getting ready to receive me at Wilmot Square, but I couldn't be absolutely certain they were working together. These could have been independent actions triggered by my phone call to Walling. The first thing I had to do was determine, maybe by a process of elimination, just who did have Winnie. Of course, I'd been warned not to try to find her, but that was routine. As a desperate husband who was also a trained and ruthless agent, I wouldn't really be expected to do nothing at all.
I reached for the phone. It took me a while to learn Les's current office number, and a while longer to reach him. Then I had him on the line.
"Crowe-Barham here."
"Helm," I said. "Did you get everything taken care of at that place, amigo?"
"I did," he said, "but there is a feeling in the higher echelons that a certain amount of reciprocity would be very nice, old chap. If you ask for our assistance, it has been suggested, you might at least take us into your confidence."
"Who asked?" I said. "Check your tapes of the conversation, old pal. I asked nothing. You called and made the offer, unsolicited. Not that I'm not grateful, and all that jazz." Before he could speak, I went on quickly, "But I'm asking now. Are Her Majesty's troops still at my disposal? My wife is missing."
There was a brief silence; then he said quietly, "I say, I am sorry to hear it. What can we do to help?"
"I need a quiet room. A very quiet room-soundproof perhaps and a car with a deaf-and-dumb chauffeur." After a moment I added without expression, "The car and driver you lent me this afternoon would do fine."
There was another little pause. "Are you planning to leave anything in the quiet room, old boy? I mean, who cleans up afterwards, you or we?" I didn't say anything. There was yet another silence. I could visualize him frowning, perhaps chewing or tugging at his moustache, while he made up his mind. Then his voice came again:
"Ah, well, accidents sometimes happen in this work, don't you know? If one should occur, just leave the debris, slip the latch, and let the door lock behind you. We'll take care of things again. Incidentally, it would seem as if somebody wanted you both alive. We found a hypodermic on the stairs at Wilmot Square. The contents would have put you under for quite a while, but they would not have killed you."