‘Room’s not looking very smart for a party,’ he said.
A minute or two later Norah Tolland arrived. Her companion — ‘girl-friend’, as Jeavons had termed her — turned out to be Pamela Flitton. Norah was in uniform, which suited her. She was, in general, more settled, more sure of herself than when younger, though on this particular occasion the presence of Pamela seemed to make her both elated and nervous.
‘Ted, I felt sure you wouldn’t mind my bringing Pam,’ she said. ‘She’s having dinner with me tonight. It seemed so much easier than meeting at the restaurant.’
‘Most welcome,’ said Jeavons.
He looked Pamela over. Jeavons examining a woman’s points was always in itself worth observing. If good-looking, he stared at her as if he had never before seen anything of the kind, though at the same time determined not to be carried away by his own astonishment. Pamela justified this attention. She was wearing a neat black frock, an improvement on her battledress blouse. It was clear she had established over Norah an absolute, even if only temporary, domination. Norah’s conciliatory manner showed that
‘Have a drink?’ said Jeavons.
‘What have you got?’
Pamela glanced aggressively round the room, catching my eye, but making no sign of recognition.
‘Gin-and-orange.’
‘No whisky?’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’ll have gin-and-water — no, neat gin.’
I went across to her.
‘Escaped from the ATS?*
‘Got invalided.’
‘A lady of leisure?’
‘My job’s a secret one.’
Jeavons took her lightly by the arm and began to introduce her to the other guests. She shook his hand away with her elbow, but allowed him to tell her the names of two or three persons who worked with him. When introductions were over, she picked up a paper from the table — apparently some not very well printed periodical — and took it, with her glass of gin, to the furthest corner of the room. There she sat on a stool, listlessly turning the pages. Norah, talking to Isobel, gave an anxious glance, but did not take any immediate steps to join Pamela, or try to persuade her to be more sociable. A talkative elderly man with a red face, one of the ARP guests, engaged me in conversation. He said he was a retired indigo planter. Jeavons himself went across the room and spoke to Pamela, but he must have received a rebuff, because he returned a second or two later to the main body of the guests.
‘She’s reading our ARP bulletin,’ he said.
He spoke with more surprise than disapproval; in fact almost with admiration.
‘Read the poem in this number?’ asked the indigo planter. ‘Rather good. It begins “What do you carry, Warden dear?” Gives a schedule of the equipment — you know, helmet, gas-mask, First Aid, all that — but leaves out one item. You have to guess. Quite clever.’
‘Jolly good.’
Norah, evidently not happy about Pamela, separated herself from Isobel soon after this, and went across to where her friend was sitting. They talked for a moment, but, if Norah too hoped to make her circulate with the rest, she was defeated. When she returned I asked her what her own life was like.
‘I was with Gwen McReith’s lot for a time. Quite fun, because Gwen herself is amusing. I first met Pam with her, as a matter of fact.’
‘Pam seems quite a famous figure.’
Norah sighed.
‘I suppose she is now,’ she said.
‘Is she all right over there in the corner?’
‘No good arguing with her.’
‘I mean we both of us might go over and talk to her.’
‘For God’s sake not’
Nothing of any note took place during the rest of the party, until Norah and Pamela were leaving. Throughout that time, Pamela had continued to sit in the corner. She accepted another drink from Jeavons, but ceased to read the ARP bulletin, simply looking straight in front of her. However, before she and Norah went off together, an unexpected thing happened. She came across the room and spoke in her accustomed low, almost inaudible tone.
‘Are you still working with the Poles?’
‘No — I’ve switched to the Belgians and Czechs.’
‘When you were with the Poles, did you ever hear the name Szymanski?’
‘It’s a very common Polish name, but i£ you mean the man who used to be with the Free French, and caused endless trouble, then transferred to the Poles, and caused endless trouble there, I know quite a lot about him.’
She laughed.
‘I just wondered,’ she said.
‘What about him?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Was he the character you were talking to outside that Polish hide-out in Bayswater?’
She shook her head, laughing softly again. Then they went away. The ARP people left too.
‘There’s enough for one more drink for the three of us,’ said Jeavons. ‘I hid the last few drops.’
‘What do you think of Pamela Flitton?’
‘That’s the wench that gave Peter Templer such a time,’ said Jeavons. ‘Couldn’t remember the name. It’s come back. He said it all started as a joke. Then he got mad about her. That was the way Templer put it. What he didn’t like — when she wasn’t having any, as I understand it — was the feeling he was no good any more. How I feel all the time. Nothing much you can do about it. Mind you, he was browned off with the job too.’
‘Do men really try to get dangerous jobs because they’ve been disappointed about a woman?’
‘Well, I don’t,’ Jeavons admitted.
The enquiry about Szymanski was odd, even if he were not the Pole outside the Ufford. Neither Pennistone nor I bad ever set eyes on this man, though we had been involved in troubles about him, including a question asked in Parliament There was some uncertainty as to his nationality, even whether the territory where he was stated to have been born was now Polish or Czechoslovak, assuming he had in truth been born there. Most of his life he had lived on his wits as a professional gambler — like Cosmo Flitton — so it appeared, familiar as a dubious character in France, Belgium and the Balkans; in fact all over the place. He had a row of aliases: Kubitsa: Brod: Groza: Dupont: to mention only a few of them. No one — even MI5 was vague — seemed to know when and how he had first appeared in this country, but at an early stage he was known to have volunteered for the Belgian forces. This offer was prudently declined. Szymanski then tried the Free French, who, with the self-confidence of their race, took him on the strength; later ceding him with relief to the Poles, who may have wanted to make use of him in some special capacity. The general opinion was that he had a reasonable claim to Polish citizenship. The Czechs raised no objection. There were those who insisted his origins were really Balkan.
‘It seems fairly clear he’s not Norwegian,’ said Pennistone, ‘but I’ve learnt to take nothing on trust about Szymanski. You may have him on your hands before we’ve finished, Dempster.’
Szymanski was one of those professional scourges of authority that appear sporadically in all armies, a type to which the Allied contingents were peculiarly subject owing to the nature of their composition and recruitment Like Sayce of my former Battalion, Szymanski was always making trouble, but Sayce magnified to a phantasmagoric degree, a kind of super-Sayce of infinitely greater intelligence and disruptive potential. The abiding fear of the Home Office was that individuals of this sort might, after being found stateless, be discharged from the armed forces and have to be coped with as alien civilians.
As it happened, Szymanski’s name cropped up again a day or two later in our room. Masham, who was with the British Mission in liaison with the Free French, was waiting to be summoned by Finn, to whom he was to communicate certain points arising out of Giraud taking over from Darlan in North Africa. Masham asked Pennistone how the Poles were getting on with Szymanski, who had caused a lot of trouble to himself in his Free French days.