JOHN DICKSON CARR
THE SLEEPING SPHINX
CHAPTER I
The road, so long that it looked narrow, had on its left the thick greenery of Regent's Park and on its right the tall iron railings around St. Katharine's Precinct of St. Katharine's Church. Just beyond, next to St Katharine's, you could see the line of trees which screened from the road a terrace of tall, stately houses looming white through the dusk.
Number 1, Gloucester Gate. He could see it now.
It was the turn of the evening: faintly blue and white, with birds bickering from the direction of the park. The heat of the day still lingered in this avenue which seemed no less rural for being in the middle of London. Donald Holden stopped in his slow walk, and gripped his hand around one of the bars of the fence. Panic? Something very like it, at least
Of all the ways in which he had pictured his home coming —and there had been many of them—he had never pictured it as anything like this.
Things were much too altered in seven years. You might have hoped they were not ruined; but at least they were altered.
He thought he had appreciated the full force of it that afternoon. He had been wrong. He was only beginning to appreciate it now. Major Sir Donald Holden, late (theoretically) of the Fourth Glebeshires, seemed to have gone through eternity since the afternoon. What he saw now was not the white house, with its Regency pillars, where Celia might be waiting. What he saw was room 307 at the War Office, and Warrender sitting behind the desk.
"Do you mean," Holden heard himself saying again, "that for over a year I'm supposed to have been dead?"
Warrender did not shrug his shoulders. That would have been too elaborate a gesture. But a twitch of his underlip conveyed the same effect
"Fraid so, old boy," Warrender admitted. Holden stared at him. "But—Celia ... !"
"Good God," Warrender said flatly. "Don't tell me you're married?"
During a silence, while they looked at each other, War-render displayed emphasis by unscrewing the cap of a fountain pen and holding the pen as though he were going to sign something.
"You know as well as I do," said Warrender, "that if anybody gets a job like yours, where we've got to pretend he's still with his regiment and kill him in the line of duty, he's allowed to tell his wife. And we inform his solicitor. The other thing only happens in books and films. We may be a peculiar lot here," his khaki-covered arm indicated the War Office, "but that’s understood."
"I'm not married," said Holden.
"Engaged, then?"
"No. Not even engaged. I never asked her."
"Oh!" murmured Warrender. With an air of finality, with a curt breath of relief, he screwed the cap back on the fountain pen. "That's different. I was afraid I'd been remiss."
"You haven't been remiss. When am I supposed to have died?"
"As far as I remember, you were killed with the Glebes during the attack on ... well, I forget the name of the place; I can look it up in the file in half a tick . . . but it was in April just before the war ended. A year and three months and something today. Didn't Kappelman ever tell you?"
"No."
"Damn careless of him. You were supposed to have got a decoration. It was in all the newspapers. Quite a to-do." "Thanks."
"Look here," Warrender began abruptly, and checked himself. Warrender rose to his feet: very lean, very tired looking, hardly half a dozen years older than Holden himself. He stood with his knuckles pressed against the top of the desk, supporting his weight.
"When Jerry started cracking up," he added, "it was the signal for the big boys to hare for cover. Von Steuben bolted to Italy; we had to get Steuben; and you were the man to get him. But they had an intelligence service too. So you had to 'die,' like several other people, to give you a better chance. Well, you got Steuben. The old man's very pleased about that. Look here: you wouldn't really like a decoration of some kind, would you?"
"Great Scott, no!"
Warrender's tone grew bitter.
"It doesn't matter now," he said, and nodded toward the windows overlooking Whitehall. "The war's been over for a year and three months. You're out of the army; out of MI 5; out of everything. But can't you get it through your head that there was a time, not very long ago, when it did matter a devil of a lot?"
Holden shook his head.
"I wasn't complaining," he answered, with his eyes fixed on his companion. "I was only ... trying to get used to it"
"You'll get used to it," said Warrender. He broke off. "Look here, what are you staring at?"
"You," said Holden. "Your hair's gray. I never noticed it until this minute."
Both of them were silent for a moment, while the noise of traffic rose up from Whitehall. Warrender instinctively put up a bony hand to his hair; his mouth seemed twisted.
"Neither did I," said Warrender, "until the war was over."
"Well, good-by," Holden said awkwardly. He stretched out his hand, and the other took it
"Good-by, old son. All the best. Ring me up one day, and we'll—er—have lunch or something."
"Thanks. I will."
Remembering not to salute, since he was now in civilian clothes, Holden turned toward the door. He had his hand on the knob when Warrender, hesitating, abruptly spoke in a different voice.
"I say. Don."
"Yes?"
"Damn it all," exploded Warrender, "I'm not your superior officer any longer. Can't you tell an old pal anything?" "There isn't anything to tell."
"The hell there isn't Come back here. Sit down. Have a cigarette."
Holden slowly returned, with an inner breath of relief he would never have allowed even Warrender to hear. He sank down in a bartered chair beside Warrender's desk. Warrender, glowering, pushed forward a cigarette box as he himself sat down; the smoke of two cigarettes rose in heavy, office-stagnant air.
"Your hair's not gray," Warrender said accusingly. "You're perfectly fit, except maybe your nerves. You've got a brain like . . . like . . . well, I've often envied you. What's more, wait a minute!" Again Warrender broke off, his eyes narrowing. "By George, I've got so much on my mind"—his cigarette indicated the filing-cabinets—"I forgot that tool Two years ago! Or thereabouts! Didn't you come into a title or something?"
"Yes. Baronetcy."
Warrender whistled.
"Any money attached to it?"
"Quite a lot, I believe. Which reminds me," said Holden blowing out smoke, "that I'm supposed to be dead. I suppose somebody else has got it now."
"How many times have I got to tell you," groaned War-render, in a sort of official agony, "that this idea you've got —about the War Office not telling solicitors, when an Intelligence bloke is supposed to be dead—only happens in plays and films? You're all right. Your solicitor knows."
"Ah!" said Holden.
"Then that’s off your mind," Warrender said soothingly. He eyed Holden with refreshed interest. "So you're Sir Donald now, eh? Congratulations. How does it feel?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's all right"
Warrender stared at him.
"My dear chap, you're crackers," he said with real concern. "This last job in Italy has turned your brain. Why aren't you dancing the fandango? Eh? Why aren't—" He paused. "Is it this Celia?"
"Yes."
"What's her other name?" "Devereux. Celia Devereux."
By twisting sideways at Warrender's desk, Holden could see the little desk calendar with the staring red figure 10. Wednesday, July tenth. It was a reminder so sharp pointed that for a moment he closed his eyes. Then, suddenly, he got to his feet and went to one window, where he stood staring down.
Despite the comparative coolness of the office, heat danced in shimmers down stolid Whitehall. After the rainiest June in a quarter of a century, July had come in with a blaze of sun which heated the blood and dazzled the eye. A red bus rumbled past, its new paint glaring after wartime shabbiness. Sandbags, barbed wire in Whitehall, had all been swept away as traffic thickened and thundered. Seven years.