12

George Kent Recovers

The man’s glance darted from Olivia to Errol. His right hand flashed to his pocket as if for a gun—and as they both ducked instinctively, he turned and fled. Errol pounded after him, while Olivia stood cursing her own helplessness. The man ran into the road and a car pulled up with a squeal of brakes; another swerved on to the pavement.

He reached the far corner, turned, and fired through his pocket at Mike Errol.

Mike had expected it—had seen that furtive hand dive again to the pocket: knew the man was relying on his ‘flight’ to convince his pursuer he was unarmed. Mike ran on as the bullet whistled past his ear—with the familiar zutt! that came with using a silencer. Only Mike and the gunman knew the shot had been fired.

As the gunman raced round the corner, Mike drew closer to the houses and sought his own gun, half-expecting an ambush.

Behind him, unknown to him, the bullet struck the handlebars of a cycle which an unsuspecting errand-boy was pedalling furiously towards the scene, then ricocheted off past Olivia’s face. The shocked errand-boy felt the handle-bars knocked from his grip—and quite out of control crashed over the kerb into Olivia, cycle and all.

David Garth reached the street-door in time to see her fall. He had raced down intending to go to Errol’s assistance—was instinctively certain that this was all part of the same business, and was on edge to be active against the man who had killed Anne Duval.

But as the girl hit the pavement, he knew what his particular job was, just then. And as Mike Errol raced on towards Piccadilly, in the wake of the gunman, David Garth bent over Olivia Livesey and helped her to her feet.

She was dazed, and the fall had re-opened the small cut on her cheek. Her stockings were torn and one of her knees was bleeding. Her hand, too, was grazed, and she was thoroughly shaken—nor did the stares of the small crowd that quickly gathered help her to regain her poise.

A policeman elbowed his way forward as Garth held her steady, while the scared errand-boy, still thoroughly shaken himself, apologised nervously.

Garth looked into the policeman’s face.

‘I’ll take my friend up to my flat,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t know if you saw what happened? Two men started to run wildly along the street towards Piccadilly.…’

He had not anticipated the success of the red herring. Two motorists, the cyclist and half a dozen passers-by all began talking at once. From their descriptions, there might have been a pitched battle in the middle of Brook Street, and the policeman grew hoarse in his pleas to be told one thing at a time.

Garth claimed that he had been coming out of the flats and had seen Miss Livesey fall. No one appeared to have noticed her part in the affair and he was allowed to help her into the flat without further questions.

As they reached George Kent’s door, she smiled wanly up at him.

‘That was smart of you, Mr. Garth—thank you.’

‘Smart?’ He looked surprised. ‘It seemed the only thing to do. You didn’t want to be mixed up in that, did you?’

‘I did not!’ said Olivia, fervently.

They went in, and he led her to the bathroom. Olivia caught a glimpse of her face in a mirror as she sank on to a cork-topped stool.

‘Heavens—it gets worse every time!’ She glanced down at her knee. ‘Oh, my stockings!’

‘You’re clearly feeling better,’ Garth said drily. ‘Would you rather get cleaned up first, or shall I make some tea?’

‘I would like some tea,’ she admitted.

Neither of them even noticed when George Kent suddenly appeared in the doorway. Garth was searching in a first-aid cabinet. Olivia was watching him with a faintly puzzled air, aware of a feeling of vast contentment: not even remotely aware, yet, of what was occasioning it.

‘What’s happened?’ demanded Kent, heavily.

They glanced round, startled.

He still looked dishevelled, but his voice suggested he had taken a firmer grip on himself. He had brushed and combed his hair, too, and his face was not so haggard.

Garth explained briefly.

‘Damned cyclists,’ muttered Kent. ‘Do you want some iodine? It’s in my bedroom—I’ll get the box.’ He did so and added, returning: ‘Did I hear you say something about tea?’

‘Yes,’ said Garth.

‘I’ll make some,’ he offered, awkwardly. ‘Simms won’t be back for an hour.’ He forced a ghost of a smile and went out.

Garth and Olivia exchanged glances: and as the kitchen door swung to, behind him, they both spoke at the same time:

‘He’s better,’ commented Garth.

‘Much improved,’ said Olivia.

She gave a little laugh as he grimaced wryly, and with mock-severity he told her that she had to be patched up: that this was no time for frivolity. Olivia allowed him to sponge the abrasions on her face, hand and knee, surprised by and very much aware of the gentleness of his touch, yet in no way embarrassed by it.

His hands were unusually slender and very pale by comparison with her father’s, or Dick Catesby’s—it did not occur to her, then, to wonder why she should compare them with Dick Catesby’s. But the long, tapering fingers were quick and capable, and she could still feel the reassuring warmth and strength of their grip as he had stood there in the street, supporting her.

Garth himself was surprised by the confusion of his own emotions. There was something about this girl which attracted him in a way different from anything he had experienced before.

There was a warmth there: an easy, comfortable, companionship. As if he had known her for years—could communicate without speech. He smiled to himself; that obviously came from the sight of her earlier—as clearly perturbed and embarrassed by the manifestation of the ‘new’ George Kent as he was.

But the attraction, whatever it was, certainly existed. And that oddly warming feeling. He had a strange certainty that he could talk with this girl—that, indeed he could voice all his confusion and uncertainty, even his thoughts at this moment, and be quite sure of real understanding and sympathy. Simpatico—that was the word he was searching for: simpatico.

Warmth, sympathy, instinctive mutual liking and understanding; that was it. There was nothing of romantic interest about it: nothing of sex-attraction, he told himself, yet wondered why he suddenly felt more confused and uncertain than ever.

Deliberately, as he tidied away the first-aid paraphernalia, he concentrated on the surprising sight of Olivia and Mike Errol together. Did she know Mike, he wondered? And if so, did she know what sort of ‘job’ he did? He wanted to question her about the incident itself, too. But if she didn’t know Mike—didn’t know his job—he would certainly have to be very careful he himself did not say too much.

Then George called out that the tea was ready, and the chance was gone.

George had done more than make tea. He had obviously washed and shaved at the kitchen sink, and had changed the crumpled suit for casual but immaculately-pressed slacks and cashmere cardigan, and the grubby collar and tie for a green open-necked shirt with a pink silk scarf.

Garth suspected that this transformation had been partly inspired by his realisation that he had been seen at his worst by Olivia Livesey—and partly by the obvious fact that in forgetting his appointment, he had openly shown himself to have lost his grip. George was a man to whom ‘face’ meant much; he would certainly be at pains to retrieve any he might have lost with people of the Liveseys’ calibre.

Olivia was surprised, but pleasantly so, when she learned that Garth would be seeing her home. She protested, not very firmly, that it was not necessary. But Kent, too, insisted she should be escorted and apologised for not taking her himself. She already conveyed his apologies—and assurances of a fresh appointment in the very near future—to her father, whom she had suddenly remembered to telephone.

Garth had taken the opportunity for a quiet word with their host.

‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ he had urged, and Kent had managed a strained smile.

‘Yes—thanks. You’ve been very good, Garth … Felt I had to have a word with you. I mean …’ He mumbled the words: ‘Anne was fond of you.… I suppose we’ll find the swine who did it.’ He spoke without much feeling or hope.

Garth felt sure that the man had recovered from the worst, but equally sure that he would never be quite the same again. He could not rid himself of a feeling that the man was afraid. And he had also been struck by the thought that Kent’s behaviour almost suggested that he blamed himself, in some measure, for Anne’s death. He seemed anxious, now, however, to be left alone at the flat.

Garth was lucky enough to find a taxi almost at once. Olivia told him the address and he relayed it to the driver:

‘And go through the park, will you?’ he added.

‘Yessir.’ The cab started off and Garth sank back in his corner. That last-minute instruction had been quite unpremeditated: had almost surprised himself. The park drive would take longer than by the main roads, in the thin traffic of war-time London. But as he glanced at Olivia, beside him, he realised that it had been an instinctive reaction: he had no desire to part company with this girl, in fact he had subconsciously wanted to make the journey last as long as possible.

She met his gaze gravely.

‘Do you think Mr. Kent will be all right now?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Garth nodded. ‘It was just the shock—he’ll be much more himself in a day or two. Do you know him well?’

‘We met him in New York,’ Olivia said. ‘I don’t know that I’d say we knew him well.’ She gave a quick little smile: ‘The funny thing is—I seem to remember you! We haven’t met, have we? I can’t imagine that I’d forget …’ She broke off in confusion and Garth laughed aloud.

‘Bless you! I take that as a real compliment—and no, I don’t think we’ve met. But I was in America for a few weeks—recently.’

‘Were you?’ She eyed him again for a moment, puzzling. Then suddenly her face cleared: ‘Of course! That David Garth! I remember I kept seeing pictures of you in the papers, after you’d shaken everyone up at Ligham Hall. That Garth!’ she repeated, and now her eyes were shining.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Garth said, drily.

‘Afraid? Why?’

‘I wasn’t exactly popular.’

‘Oh, hooey!’ Her spontaneity was too real to be insincere. ‘You didn’t make many enemies in the States, through plain speaking—except those who were your enemies, anyhow. My father liked all you said—he was there! He came back and talked about it for an hour. Would you mind coming in and meeting him? He’d be tickled pink. He’s always impressed by people who can express themselves really cleverly, in public.’

Garth smiled, in no way self-conscious:

‘I’d be delighted to meet him.’

No one was in the hall at Number 27. But as they reached the landing, a door opened along the passage and Dick Catesby came striding out. His face was flushed and his eyes looked angry.

‘And if you argue with me again, my lad, I’ll have you recalled!’ Livesey’s voice boomed after him.

‘Damned old idiot!’ muttered Catesby and then saw them both. He pulled up short, seemed about to speak, scowled, and strode on without another word.

Olivia glanced sideways at Garth, wondering what impression her father’s outburst would have on him—or indeed, Dick’s ungracious behaviour. Garth gave no sign that he felt he had heard or seen anything untoward.

Livesey was sitting back in a vast, inclining swivel-chair, behind a desk littered with papers. He was reading some typewritten material with obvious absorption: his argument with Catesby seemed to have gone completely from his mind.

‘Dad.…’ Olivia greeted him, and he looked up.

He caught a glimpse of a man’s figure on the landing behind her, and said: ‘So you’ve brought him, have you? Good. We can …’ He broke off as Garth came further into the room. ‘Now what?’ he demanded, aggressively. ‘I haven’t a lot of time, Livvy.’

‘Dad!’ Olivia protested, colouring. ‘This is Mr. David Garth—you remember? The speaker at Ligham Hall you talked so much about.’

‘Never had much time for speechifying.’ growled Livesey. ‘Actions speak louder than words—always did. Every time a sheep bleats, it misses a bite!’ He grinned; partly at his own joke; partly, Garth suspected, in tacit admission that his daughter had won that particular round.

‘But I remember you, young man! You talked straight—I’ll say that for you. Where’d you pick him up, Livvy?’

‘Really, Dad!’ Olivia remonstrated. ‘Mr. Garth was with Mr. Kent at the flat.’

‘Oh, I…’ He stared at her, suddenly. ‘Say … what have you done to your face? And …’ His sharp eyes flicked over her; reached her torn stockings; ‘Say, what is this? Isn’t once enough for you?’

‘You mean …?’ Garth darted a glance at Olivia.

‘I’ll tell you what I mean, son!’ said Livesey. And in a few graphic sentences he described what had happened the previous night.

Perched on a chair-arm, Olivia sat silently approving the innately elegant young man who was so completely untroubled—and, she was sure, completely undeceived—by her father’s outward show of brusque aggressiveness.

Garth, for his part, found himself warming to the blunt American. The man said what he thought, ignoring the niceties: it occurred to Garth that a discussion between Livesey and George Kent must be a highly diverting affair.…

His attention was suddenly caught by Livesey’s description of one of the men who had interviewed him. The big American was amused:

‘I guess he had a mighty poor opinion of me, the time he left. Didn’t trouble to hide it, either!’ He chuckled. ‘Reckon that fellow’s gonna find out who came here, if anyone does. Even if it’s only to show me!’ He chuckled again.

‘What was his name?’ asked Garth, as casually as he could.

‘Yeah. What was it, now?’ Livesey scowled. ‘Ham … Hampton? No. Ham … Hammer … Hammond! That’s it.’ He shot a quick, shrewd glance at Garth: ‘You know him?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Garth lied.

He was quite sure. The Hammond who had charged him with the task which even now seemed fantastic and unreal was the Hammond who had been at Queen’s Gate—had sent Mike Errol to keep an eye on Olivia. That last disturbed him: it suggested there was real danger for the girl. He had a sudden urge to talk to Hammond, find out more of what was happening. But he contrived to maintain an easy flow of talk on Anglo-American problems, finding Livesey’s forcibly-expressed views very similar to his own.

And now, when his thoughts wandered, Russi and Ryall kept coming into his mind.

Chiefly on that account, he regretfully declined an invitation to stay to lunch and returned to Jermyn Street.

He felt surprisingly fit, for the night hours had been trying. After Hammond and Errol had gone, he had stayed for a long time slumped in his chair. Thoughts of Anne had alternated with thoughts of what the two secret service agents had told him—and the fact that at any time, now, he might be called upon for much more than had yet been required of him. He had faced that with equanimity: at least he would be doing something towards avenging Anne’s death, he had reflected, as he fell into a troubled sleep.

The telephone had wakened him. He had lifted the receiver, drowsily—to hear George Kent say, tense-voiced:

‘Garth, I must see you! About Anne. I must!’

There had been only one thing to do but Garth had gone reluctantly. Kent had poured out the story. Anne’s body had been discovered, and the police had called to break the news to him. He had clearly been in a dreadful state of nerves—and thus had begun Garth’s feeling that he was afraid: that something more than the shock of the murder had affected him.…

The one advantage of having so many things on his mind, Garth thought wryly, pouring himself a drink back at the flat, was that he could forget a great deal. The danger, he warned himself almost in the same breath, was that he could forget too much.

He was still shaken by the realisation that Livesey and his daughter were implicated in the same labyrinthine business.

He took his drink over to his favourite chair and sinking into it, looked at a paper for the first time that day; and for the first time read of the attack on Kearnley.…

He lunched at his club, and was returning to the flat when a newsboy’s cries caught his ear. He bought a paper and scanned the front page—and stopped in his tracks. Two or three people knocked into him and made surly comments, but he hardly heard them.

He was reading a story which was not in heavy black type, and which the Ministry must obviously have insisted was to be played down. But even the bare facts were shocking enough:

A number of attacks were made during the night on prominent Americans currently resident in this country. Many men were arrested and the police are interrogating them this morning. Among the victims of the assaults were…

He read the list quickly and then turned to the back page. In the stop press column was the bare statement:

Attacks on Americans—see Front Page

Three of the victims of last night’s attacks have since succumbed to their injuries.

He raised his eyes at last, but still hardly able to believe what he had read. He stared blankly at men who were casually scanning the same front page as they bought their newspapers and waited for change. None of them seemed even to have noticed that starkly-worded little paragraph. Or perhaps they simply had no way of knowing those names—and so the implicit dangers of this suddenly and delicately contrived assault on the unity of two great nations.

Sick at heart, Garth knew all too well what it could mean; saw all too clearly the vast possibilities for Anglo-American estrangement and for unthinkable delays in vital agreements. It was desperate—and must not be allowed to go on.

He made his way back to the flat in a daze.

At the door, he glanced again at the paper, then pushed the key in the lock and went in.

The lounge door was standing open—just as it had been when he had found Anne. In his dazed state, he had reached it before he realised that—as then—it should have been locked. Then before the fact had fully registered on his mind, a suave voice spoke.

‘Come in, Garth—come in!’

He went in. There, sitting in one of the big armchairs, was Ryall; the white cylinder of a cigarette vivid against his dark beard and moustache.