15

The Home of Mrs. Parmitter

Number 11, Greek Square, Westminster, was an anachronism. The other houses in the select little square were all of Victorian design: tall, greyfaced, and—by modern standards—ugly. A small grass plot in the centre, its iron railings long since gone to aid ‘the war effort’, was these days part children’s playground, part vegetable-patch.

Number 11, situated half-way along the south side of the square, was Elizabethan.

It was surrounded by a perfectly-trimmed yew hedge, nearly five feet high. The pathway meandered towards it from the gate: natural enough in the quiet of rural England, but strikingly eccentric in the administrative heart of modern London. The reddish tiles of its roof were moss-covered and uneven, its chimney stacks had a decided list to westward. The charm of its gabled windows with their leaded panes, was all the greater for their contrast with its neighbours.

In Greek Square, Mrs. Parmitter was what might be called ‘an institution’.

Parmitters had lived in that house for three centuries and it was Mrs. Parmitter’s one—and very deep—regret that she was the last of her line.

Despite her snow-white hair—and at the age, now, of nearly seventy—her trim, erect figure was the envy of many women twenty years her junior.

To either side of Mrs. Parmitter’s house there were empty shells of others which had been blasted to pieces during the London blitz. No one was really surprised that Number 11 was barely affected: a few panes of glass had gone and a few tiles been broken, but if the replacements were a far cry from the perfect match she would have liked, at least they did not offend the eye.

Mrs. Parmitter had been a widow for twenty-one years before the war. Her husband had been killed in 1918 when the destroyer he commanded was sunk on convoy duty. She had lost her two elder sons in that same war and her two younger in this. She had mourned them, but had never doubted that they had died that others might live, and that certainty had made her grief bearable. She had found great solace, too, in the love and companionship of her only daughter and her son-in-law, whose name was Oundle.

Ned Oundle was one of Craigie’s men and a close friend of Loftus. He had many surprising characteristics, and as many unexpected accomplishments. Amongst them, a knowledge of Chinese.

Not long after the war had started, Ned Oundle had been sent by Craigie to Chungking. Just before going, he had met Fay Parmitter. He had known Mrs. Parmitter but somehow always missed meeting Fay. Then on one of the worst nights of the blitz, they had met while both were helping to put out incendiaries. Three weeks later, they had been married. Two weeks after that, Ned had been on his way to China.

Fay did not know a word of Chinese so she had not gone with him. They had had no choice: Department Z obeyed Craigie without questions and Craigie had not seen how a wife would be helpful to Oundle in the circumstances: rather the contrary, in fact. It had been a general practice that Department agents resigned on marriage, but the war had brought the suspension of that rule—and there were signs that it would eventually be abolished altogether.

At all events, Fay had remained at home with her mother. Craigie, too, was an old acquaintance of Mrs. Parmitter, for whom he had a very real admiration. He had been greatly interested to learn what a regular rendezvous her home had become for Ned’s friends, who—calling at his request to cheer Fay up or take her out, had one and all forthwith ‘adopted’ her mother and become her devoted slaves.

Craigie had not been slow in suggesting that the house might be an excellent meeting-place for men whom he did not want to meet in his office or his own flat. Mrs. Parmitter had been more than willing, and indeed very proud and deeply grateful: she felt that it kept her, somehow, in closer contact with Ned. And so ‘Mrs. Parmitter’s’ had become a byword in Department Z.

An old manservant opened the door to David Garth, took his hat and gloves and card, then announced him. Mrs. Parmitter was seated with an air of almost regal dignity on a high-backed chair near the window of a long, low-ceilinged room which—as he recalled it afterwards—was full of age-darkened panelling, period funiture, and charm. The charm was the first and so the most lasting impression—and was to no small degree occasioned by the sweetness and friendliness of Mrs. Parmitter herself.

She was not alone.

Fay was sitting at a table, a pen in her hand. Garth had an impression of a tall, dark-eyed girl with shining, jet-black hair and a pale, almost translucent complexion. She was wearing black, with a single strand of pearls at her neck.

Comfortably ensconced among the cushions on a low-built sofa, with two small dogs—Cairns—nestling against her ample bosom, was a third woman. She was wearing casual but beautifully-cut tweeds and somehow contrived to look untidy while giving an impression of innate breeding and dignity.

Fay stood up as Garth entered, but the two other women just smiled at him. Mrs. Parmitter greeted him quietly and declared herself delighted to see him. Then before she could make introductions, the untidy woman seized his hand and declared in deep, throaty voice:

‘I’m your Aunt Mabel!’

Garth smiled, his eyes twinkling.

‘How have you been, Aunty?’ he asked amiably.

A roar of approving laughter greeted him; and echoed as Mrs. Parmitter introduced her daughter. Garth found himself instinctively liking all three; which made polite small-talk easier than it might have been, as he hid his disappointment at seeing three women where he had hoped to see the Errols or Hammond. He was in no mood for social visiting however pleasant the company.

The Cairns after sniffing at his trousers, yapped their way back to the sofa to coil themselves up again, while keeping watchful eyes on him the whole time.

‘Little dears, aren’t they?’ boomed Aunt Mabel.

‘Friendly little chaps,’ murmured Garth.

‘Your friends will be here soon,’ Mrs. Parmitter told him.

She batted a chair beside her as Fay asked to be excused and returned to her writing and Aunt Mabel rustled paper on a bar of chocolate, bringing yaps of delight from the dogs.

Garth took the indicated chair at Mrs. Parmitter’s side—and promptly came under the spell of her china-blue eyes. Her complexion, he noted, was unbelievably fine: it rivalled her daughter’s.

‘You haven’t worked for Mr. Craigie long, have you, Mr. Garth?’ She smiled gently, her eyes searching his for a brief moment: ‘He told me a little about it. I’m so sorry.’

Garth smiled back, oddly affected.

‘At least I’m being kept busy.’

‘You always will be, while you’re associated with Mr. Craigie. It’s been very distressing for you … but you’re feeling more on top of yourself now, are you not?’

‘I am,’ smiled Garth.

‘I’m so glad,’ she said, and glanced absently for a moment at the window. ‘I wish …’

She broke off, and he followed her gaze. A man was coming up the path.

Hammond! Garth’s heart leapt, and Mrs. Parmitter’s smile suggested that she understood exactly how he felt. Then Hammond came in and she made it equally clear that she expected them to waste no time in getting down to business. And with brief but warm greetings all round, Hammond led Garth up the stairs to a book-lined room in which the last rays of the evening sun were shining with surprising warmth through the open windows.

Hammond’s smile was friendly and reassuring.

‘Well, old chap, how are things going?’

‘I don’t quite know,’ Garth said, cautiously.

‘What did Ryall want this afternoon?’

Garth stared. ‘So you knew he’d seen me?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Hammond smiled again. ‘We have to know these things.’

Nothing else was said about that but it increased Garth’s feeling of confidence. Indeed, the house itself gave him an odd sense of timelessness and peace. He remembered his peevish reaction to the telegram: and could hardly believe it of himself, now. His normal attitude would have been—as it was now—a feeling of pleasure, perhaps even of pride, that Hammond had taken it for granted that he would have no difficulty in following whatever clue they could safely give him. He was particularly pleased that it plainly did not strike Hammond as worthy of comment that he had done so.

‘What was he after?’ Hammond said, now, and Garth grimaced wryly.

‘Looking back, it’s hard to believe that he actually talked as he did,’ he began. ‘But here goes! I’ll start with the main thing: he wants a copy of a report which George Kent is vetting for the M.O.P.—Livesey’s agricultural report.’

Hammond nodded slowly.

‘H’mm … Nothing else?’

‘Not yet,’ said Garth, ironically. Then plunged into his story.

He told it graphically and in accurate detail and Hammond sat in absolute silence until he had finished. Then nodding again, he said:

‘Good. Very good, so far! What do you make of it all?’

‘I don’t quite follow you?’ Garth countered.

‘What ideas have you got, about what they’re up to?’

‘Well …’ Garth contemplated him steadily: ‘It’s somehow connected with last night’s attacks. Ryall is interested in the Liveseys and I don’t see why he shouldn’t be interested in the other victims as well. Or am I jumping to conclusions?’

‘You’re not far out,’ Hammond assured him. ‘Did he say anything else at all?’

‘No.’

‘Did he mention any other names? Any old name, it doesn’t matter which! No? Did he give you the impression, say, that he had anything else up his sleeve?’

Garth said slowly:

‘I don’t think he mentioned anyone but Russi, the Liveseys, and George Kent.… I did get the impression that he’s very sure of himself. I mean … I don’t think he was particularly worried that anything went wrong last night.’

‘Indeed!’

‘But wait a minute!’ Garth recalled suddenly. ‘Something that happened at Wimbledon: I forgot to tell you. He was going into further details after dinner, and then he had a telephone call. The maid said that a “Mr. Brown” wanted to speak to him. He went out to take the call—and then suddenly drove off, without even coming to make his excuses.’

‘Brown.…’ Hammond mused. ‘H’mm … It might lead us somewhere, but it sounds suspiciously like an alias.’ He paused then went on: ‘The Errols were to have been here tonight but they’ve gone off on another job. But you’ll want that report for Ryall.…’

‘What!’

Hammond looked amused.

‘Well, won’t you? It wouldn’t do to disappoint Ryall the first time. I think …’ He sat back and looked at the ceiling, then spoke quietly: ‘I think you’d better go to Kent’s flat at ten o’clock. Then, or thereabouts, I’ll arrange that Kent’s not there, and that you can get in. I’ll make sure the report will be at hand. Grab it and get away, as fast as you can.’

Garth protested, bewilderedly:

‘But you can’t mean … you can’t give him the real thing!’

‘Don’t worry so much.’ Hammond leaned forward. ‘We’ve decided on a policy for this business … and we’ll stick to it while there seems the remotest chance of success. You needn’t worry about anything … except Ryall. We want to know whom Ryall contacts. It might be this Mr. Brown, or someone else. Ryall is an agent, not a principal. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good! Then we want that, from you. And we also want to know how Russi works. He has a number of agents in this country and it would be useful to find out who they are and where they live. Any kind of a clue that will help … you get the idea? Don’t worry too much about it … just use your own judgement, and remember you’re most use to us in one piece!’

He grinned drily, then rose with a brisk: ‘Right! You’re having dinner here, but I’m going off. Oh, by the way: just in case.’ He took out a card and scribbled a telephone number on it: ‘There—for use in emergency, or if you’ve anything to pass on that’s really vital.’

Garth rising too, grimaced wryly: ‘How do I know what is or isn’t?’

‘Oh, just use your own discretion, old son—marvellous how the instinct tends to develop, as one trusts it! Well, then: Kent’s flat at ten or just after. All right?’

‘All right,’ promised Garth. ‘But…’

Hammond eyed him keenly:

‘Well?’

‘I wish I knew more about this,’ Garth said quietly. ‘It’s a bit breath-taking, you know. I mean, sudden orders from both sides and no attempt at explanation.…’

Hammond nodded.

‘I know. And we’ll explain all we can when we can—don’t worry about that. The less you know the better—we made clear why, earlier, didn’t we? Once you’ve passed that report over to Ryall, he’ll probably be even more domineering than he is now. He thinks he has you cornered over the murder—but when you’ve “stolen” that report, he’ll know he can get you for treason. The small beginnings—the way they all start! He’ll be able to threaten disclosure on two counts, and I hope he’ll then feel he can use you for bigger things.’

He gave a dry smile: ‘Your angle is fear—honest-to-god fear—and not enough guts to break away from it, although you know you should. All right?’

Garth stared at him, then gave a bark of a laugh.

‘All right!’ he promised.

‘Good man!’ said Hammond warmly, and went to take his farewell of the ladies.

Garth expected the next two hours to drag: instead, they flew. He was the only man at the little dinner-party, but talk flowed quickly and easily. The more Garth saw of Fay Oundle, the more he appreciated her quick intelligence. He was amused, too, by the hearty eccentricity of his newly-acquired ‘aunt’. But it was Mrs. Parmitter’s words, when she accompanied him to the door just after nine-thirty, which lingered in his mind :

‘The more you think of others,’ she told him, ‘the less you’ll be troubled for yourself. Good luck, Mr. Garth!’

‘Thank you,’ said Garth, warmly. ‘Good night!’

The words might have seemed banal, from anyone else. From her, somehow, they gave him heart.

He went straight to Kent’s flat, catching a cruising taxi to take him as far as Berkeley Square, then walking the rest.

He had a queer feeling of repugnance, as he finally arrived at that familiar door. He turned the handle, wondering drily what he would do if it were locked; then found that it was locked, and he was faced with his first emergency.

He could not believe it. Hammond had been so confident—and he had come to rely on everything the man promised. But the door was locked; he shook it, thumped it with his shoulder, tried the handle several times; all unavailingly. He stood back for a moment, surveying it angrily.

A soft blue light shone from the single lamp above the landing. And something was jutting out a little, above the lintel of the door.

He stretched up—and found a key.

His fingers trembled as he tried it in the lock. It turned and he opened the door an inch. No light shone through. He closed the door behind him and took out a torch, shining it in the direction of George’s small study. The door was closed—but he switched off at once as he saw that the next, to the dining room, was standing ajar.

And a light was on.

It was a dim light and he saw it only through the crack at the door-hinge. A moment later, it went out: he thought he heard a faint click, just preceding it.

His heart was pumping as he tried to decide his best move. If he went to the dining room, he might meet serious trouble—be overpowered. But he could hardly go to the study to look for the report with someone else there in the flat with him.

He thought swiftly.

He could hear no breathing and detect no movement. But for that light, he would not have dreamed that anyone was there. As a momentary near-panic subsided, he stood staring at the door …

Then his lips curved. George Kent always left his keys in the locks—on the hall side of the doors, so that he would remember to secure them against cat-burglars, whenever he was out of town.

He moved forward on tip-toe, soundless on the carpet. Near the door he flicked on the torch. There was no key in the lock! So whoever was in there, it was hardly likely to be George Kent himself.

Still no sound came from the room. He reached a hand round, felt the key sticking out on the inside, and took it out quickly.

He heard an exclamation, muffled but distinct, in the split second before he slammed the door and locked it.

His heart was pounding again as the significance struck him: the other had no more right there than he. He moved quickly, half-expecting to hear the prisoner trying to break out. But there was no sound as he entered the study.

It was tidier than it had been that morning, he noted, as he made straight for the small wall-safe he knew to be behind George’s favourite Wimparis water-colour. Removing the picture, he pulled at the handle of the safe; it opened without trouble.

Almost the first thing he saw was a heavily-sealed envelope inscribed with George’s name and marked ‘PRIVATE’. It had been opened: the end was slit across. He pulled out the contents and glanced at the first typewritten sheet. It was headed: ‘Agricultural—3. Confidential’.

He stuffed the lot in his pocket and turned thankfully to the door. Then felt himself go hot with the shock of realising that in those few brief seconds, he had actually forgotten there was anyone else in the flat.

Steady! he told himself. What mattered now was to get safely out of the flat and away. He had what Ryall wanted, and Hammond had assured him he need worry about nothing but carrying out his orders.

He had reached the front door but not opened it when the light was switched on from behind him. He swung round—then stood dead still. A man was pointing an automatic pistol straight at him. But the shock of that was not so great as the shock of recognition—which was obviously mutual.

It was Olivia’s friend, Dick Catesby.