“You’ll be met,” Menlo had told Bristow over the telephone. And there was Doyle of Security waiting near two cars at the edge of the airfield. His hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his face blanched and furrowed under the unflattering light at the corner of the hangar. He left it as he saw them, came forward to meet them in a patch of deep shadow. He shook hands, seemed stiff in his manner. “Miss Cornell, please wait in the first car. I’ll escort you after I talk with Mr. Bristow.” He signed to a man who had stepped out of the automobile. “He will take your luggage.”
“Just a moment,” Bristow said. “Who’s in that Ford?”
“Two of my best men. Also two in the second one. Quick, Miss Cornell! Get out of sight.” With relief, Doyle watched her obey. He turned back to Bristow. “Drop your bag here. It will be picked up. Now, let’s walk.” He avoided the lights, kept well in a stretch of darkness.
“Two cars—unnecessary.” Bristow’s voice was sharp. He had guessed the reason: Karen and he were to be separated. Like hell we will be, he thought. “Whose idea?”
“Menlo’s. He planned to be in the second car and talk with you. A lot to discuss, he said.”
Past tense, Bristow noted. “Where is he?” he asked quickly.
“He’s dead.”
Bristow halted his slow pace, stared at Doyle. “Dead?”
“I sent a car with two men to collect him at twelve thirty. They were punctual. Found him in the living-room, stretched on his back, his head on one corner of the hearth. Body still warm, blood still flowing from the back of his head. My men contacted me at home—I was just about to leave for the airfield. I drove around—took me three minutes; my house is on the next road to his.” Doyle paused, remembering that agonising journey.
“Accidental death?” Bristow asked slowly.
“Did he trip and fall, you mean? But you trip forwards, not backwards. And how could he trip? No rugs, just a smooth carpet. He didn’t drink much, either—a glass of bourbon before dinner. And there was no sign that he had poured a beer while he waited for the car.” Another pause. “That injury looked as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer. Someone—” Doyle couldn’t go on.
“Any sign of an intruder?”
“Some books on their shelves—not in their regular neat row. A quick search, I’d guess. A desk drawer had been forced open. The rest of the place was neat. There’re a couple of men at work there now, searching for fingerprints. The garden will be gone over in daylight—the back door was unlocked, and there was a car parked in front of a neighbouring house when my men arrived. They heard it leave, just as they were making an entry into Menlo’s place—rang three times, no answer. They found a flashlight—Menlo’s—on the hall floor near the door. Perhaps he was going to replace a bulb in the lamp on the porch. It was in darkness. Except, there was no bulb in the lamp. We didn’t find any near the flashlight, either.”
“Not much to go on.” Bristow’s face was grim.
“Except for a tie. It was found on the floor under an armchair. Not Menlo’s taste,” Doyle added bitterly.
“Why the search? Why the murder?”
“Could be he had found out too much about the theft of the cassettes. Worked all week-end, gathered the facts—”
“By himself? Didn’t he call in—”
“Not yet. You know the old rule: clean out your own midden. If you can’t, then get help. Menlo had permission to turn in his report and recommendations on Wednesday, so notes on the evidence he had gathered must have been ready. He left them with Miriam yesterday afternoon. And three tapes.”
“In her vault?”
“Yes. Didn’t trust his own safe, apparently. I’m thinking that whoever killed him was searching for those notes and tapes. He authorised you to work over them. So he said—lunchtime yesterday—I saw him and—” Doyle stopped, fought back his last memory of Frank Menlo.
Bristow said quietly, “Anything else he told you?”
“Over the ’phone this evening. Wanted extra precautions for Miss Cornell. Sam Waterman is back.”
“When?”
“Arrived in New York twelve hours ago.”
“Monday afternoon?” Bristow was incredulous.
“Yes. Rome passed the word.”
Bristow turned towards the car where Karen waited, began walking. Doyle caught up with him, said, “Slow down, slow down. Menlo wanted her taken to a safe house, but that’s impossible at this short notice. The only one available has been used a lot. It could be under scrutiny. In fact, we’re about to sell it and find something more secure. And we can’t take her to her Washington address or to Schleeman’s house or to some hotel. Not at this hour in the morning. So, I’ll put her up at my place until tomorrow. By that time—” He shrugged.
“By that time you’ll still have a problem. And what about your family—do they know you’re bringing a guest?”
“I’ll tell them tomorrow. They can keep a secret.”
“How many vital secrets have you ever told them?” None, of course. Bristow’s judgment was confirmed by Doyle’s unhappy face. “Look—no one yet knows we’ve arrived in Washington except you and your agents. Keep it that way. It’s dark for a couple of hours at least. Leave two of your best men with me for the next few days. They’ll sleep in my spare bedroom and guard Karen. We’ll smuggle her into my apartment before dawn breaks. And she’ll stay there, out of sight.”
“Your place could be searched like Menlo’s.”
“And there will be three men to face them by night, two by day.”
“Menlo said—”
“Menlo would want me to finish his report. And that takes concentration. I need peace of mind, no extra worries. Agreed?”
“It’s a risk.”
“We’ve been taking risks for the last three days.”
“It’s your responsibility.”
“It is.” Almost as they reached the car, Bristow halted again. “That possibly unsafe house you mentioned—could you install one of your agents there? She should be approximately Karen’s height and weight, dressed in jeans and white silk shirt—as last seen by the hotel porter in Rome. If she’s blonde, give her a dark wig. Leave two agents with her, and tell her to be only now and again visible. Okay?”
Doyle looked at him. “Okay,” he agreed.
“I’ll be at the office early tomorrow and start on Menlo’s notes. If you’ve anything new on his death, come and see me.”
“We’ll probably pass out the word that it was an accident. Any objection to that?”
“Not if you find the murderer soon.”
“We’ll get him. Could have used that parked car. My men noted its number, thought it was odd that it wasn’t garaged or in a driveway. Cars don’t often stand on that road by night.”
“Could we keep the news of Menlo’s death out of circulation for a couple of days? Until Wednesday at least?”
“That’s tricky.”
“Then you can do it,” Bristow said. “If we’re asked about his absence, we can say he’s in the hospital.” True, in a macabre and horrible way: an autopsy would start there tomorrow.
“You know all the dodges,” Doyle said, and this time a brief glance of approval was forced out of him.
“We’re up against a bunch of artful dodgers,” Bristow reminded him as he opened the Ford’s door. Karen was in the back seat. He spoke to the two men in front. “I need someone to drive my car.”
The younger of the two said, “Sure.”
“Okay. You’ll find a blue Camaro just around that corner, in the parking area.” He handed over the keys as he pointed and gave the plate number. “We’ll wait here for you. Then follow us to Muir Street. Park it fifty yards or so from my door—27A—there’s a bookstore at 27. Got it?”
“Got it.” The man began an astonishing sprint.
To Doyle, both doubtful and impatient, Bristow explained, “I left it there Friday night. It will take him only three extra minutes. See you tomorrow.” He got into the Ford. “As soon as the Camaro swings around the corner, start driving,” he told the man in the front seat. “I’ll direct you.” The door closed.
He certainly will, Doyle thought, and turned towards the other Ford. Wouldn’t leave her while he got his car himself. Wouldn’t risk me making off with her, taking her to my house. And he was right about that. It will be a pleasure to work with him.
Doyle joined his men. “Change in arrangements. Back to Menlo’s place,” he said as he saw a blue car come into sight. The Ford with Bristow and Miss Cornell was already moving. He watched its tail-lights disappear ahead of him, the Camaro following closely, and travelling fast.
Their arrival at Bristow’s apartment was inconspicuous. The tightly packed houses of Muir Street were asleep, the bookstore in darkness. The Ford was parked about twenty yards away from Bristow’s door. The Camaro found space a short distance ahead of it. Too near, thought Bristow, but he hadn’t heard any gears being stripped, and for that he was thankful: no one drove that car but himself. He locked the front door, and even to Taylor’s critical eye—he was the older of the two men—security seemed good. So far.
He and his colleague, Hansen, made a quick tour of the third-floor apartment, noting any drawbacks and weaknesses. Karen, on her own tour, found it comfortable and definitely a bachelor’s pad: outsize bed in the master bedroom; two divans in a room with TV and hosts of paperbacks in the bookcase (“Where my friends stay when they drop in for a week-end in Washington,” Bristow said); a living-room, with stereo and books everywhere, that lay between the two bedrooms. That was the front of the apartment. To the rear, across the long hall, was a very small study with a large desk and a typewriter, a bathroom, a kitchen with a dining section near the front door. Utilitarian, she decided, and was disappointed. Surely the furniture wasn’t Peter’s choice. It was a contrast to the pictures on the walls. They were good.
He caught that fleeting expression. “I’ve leased the place until its owner gets back from Singapore.”
“Everything?”
“Except the books and the records. The pictures are mine, too.” Then to the two men, who had just explored the back stairs, he said encouragingly, “A few days and you’ll be sleeping in your own beds.”
Hansen, a brisk thirty-five, was cheerful about the lack of space in the guest room. “Better than a motel,” he pronounced with his ready smile. “Once spent ten days cooped up with—” He caught Taylor’s eye and ended with a laugh.
Taylor said, “Who occupies the apartment below this?”
“The owner of the bookstore. She’s old and very deaf.”
“Reliable?”
“Mrs. Abel? She’s the widow of a man who once worked in Security.”
Taylor accepted that with a nod of approval. “The back stairs lead down to a yard?”
“Yes. Small. Walled at the rear from another back garden on the next street. But you’ll see it better by daylight. Why don’t you—”
“Any exit from that yard?”
“Through a rear door in the bookstore.”
Taylor frowned.
“I often use it to reach Muir,” Bristow said, and Karen marvelled at his patience. “Now, why don’t you get a few hours’ sleep? One of you be on deck by six o’clock. I’ll be leaving then—no later. And if we need more food, Hansen can take the Ford and drive to some supermarket. No difficulty there,” he added quickly and cut short an objection from Taylor. “I often have an old friend from college visiting me for a couple of days.”
And Taylor, who must be fifty, Karen thought, doesn’t look young enough for a college friend. He had relaxed though, when he heard Peter was leaving by six o’clock—work ahead, not just fun and games. It’s me he disapproves of: he’s been tight-faced ever since he saw the sleeping arrangements.
The two men took Bristow’s advice and left for their room.
“I hope they can cook. I’m strictly short-order,” Karen said. “Peter—how much sleep did you get on the plane?”
“Plenty.”
“Then let’s have breakfast.” She led the way into the kitchen. “And we can talk,” she added. “Or can’t you tell me what has happened?” Before we arrived at the airfield, he was in high spirits. We laughed, we joked, we made plans. Since he spoke with that man who met us, Peter has been depressed, has tried to conceal it, but every now and again I can sense something is wrong. He’s troubled. And sad.
“I’ll tell you as much as I can,” he said. “After breakfast,” he added. “You already know most of the background, darling.”
Not troubled or depressed by something between us, she thought with relief, watching his face, listening to his tone of voice. “I’m starved,” she admitted. “Bacon and eggs and hot buttered toast? I never get these things abroad to taste the way they do here.” She opened the refrigerator.
“There’s enough food for a week, Peter! Hansen won’t need to go shopping.”
“Enough for one man,” he said, breaking into a smile. “Not for three.”
“Do you do your own shopping?”
“Mrs. Roscoe does it on Fridays when she comes in to scour and clean.”
“And you manage all by yourself?” She was horrified.
“I’m out most of the time. Not the way I like to live,” he admitted, “but at least I’m free.” He hesitated, then said frankly, “Free of memories. When a marriage turns sour, it’s pretty bad—for both people.”
But some get more out of it than others, thought Karen: Peter had his books and records and pictures; his ex-wife took everything else, along with emeralds and a millionaire husband. “Two eggs or three?” She began breaking the first shell.
“Make it three. Sandwiches at the Imperial seem a long way off.” And he’d skip lunch. A busy day ahead.
“What would we ever do without sandwiches?” No bitterness in his voice when he had mentioned his marriage. And that was all he might ever tell her about it. Thank heavens, the outsize bed was rented with this apartment, she thought, and lowered the heat under the frying pan. “Do you know how they were invented?”
He had taken charge of the toast and coffee making. “Sandwiches?” He repressed a smile as he watched her absorbed by the sizzling bacon, ready to remove the rashers and drain them of grease. “How?”
“There was an Earl of Sandwich who liked to gamble, never could leave the gaming table when he was playing. So when he got hungry, he called for his servant to slap a hunk of roast beef between two slices of bread, and he ate it while he—oh, damn, I nearly broke that yolk. Sunny-side up, Peter?” She looked at him, saw the amusement on his face. “You knew the story all along, didn’t you? Really—”
“I liked the way you told it. Sunny-side up, if you can manage it.”
“Help! This fork is no good—where’s something flat?” She took the spatula he found for her in a drawer. At least he was smiling—something he hadn’t done very much for the last three hours. Complete the cure, she told herself. “Just remembered a silly saying about sandwiches. Fourth-grade humour. Can you stand it?”
“I’ll brace myself.”
“If you want a sandwich, you go to the beach and pick up the sand which is there.”
He hadn’t heard that one in thirty years. “Do you do this often?” His smile broadened into a laugh.
“Only when trying to cook at five in the morning. Oh, see what I’ve done!” She stared at a broken yolk in dismay. “It will run worse when I dig a knife into it. Come on, darling—”
“I forgot the orange-juice!”
“We’ll have it as dessert.” Then, sitting across from her at the small kitchen table, he said, “Thank you, Karen.”
She could only guess what he meant and hoped she was right. Whatever news he had heard this morning must have shattered him.
They finished eating, sat over their third cup of coffee, and she heard how bad the news was. The Vienna tapes had been stolen on Saturday night. Menlo had been investigating for the last two days. Menlo had met with an accident early this morning. “He died?” Karen asked, watching Peter’s eyes.
“Yes. But few know that yet. We’re keeping quiet about it.”
“Because it was murder? And the murderer has still to be caught?”
“First found, and then caught.”
Suddenly, she was filled with foreboding. “Your job, Peter?”
“No. My job is to finish Menlo’s report. So I won’t be home until late, Karen. Sorry, but—” He shrugged.
“I’ll stay here, won’t show my face even at a window.” The stolen cassettes would make her sure of that. They explained a lot: the bullet; the quick flight from Rome—“Well, we did escape from Waterman,” she said. “I suppose he must have heard about the cassettes.”
“He may even have listened to them. He isn’t in Rome. He’s back here.”
“Here?”
“In New York, certainly.”
And that means here. She set down her coffee cup as she felt her hand tremble.
“Darling—”
“I’m safe, Peter. You’ve given me two good watchdogs. And you did smuggle me in here most expertly. Could I borrow your little study, use the desk? I thought I’d keep out of Taylor’s way. He doesn’t approve of me, you know,” she added with a good attempt at a smile. “I’ll show him I work, too, for a living.”
“You are writing about the terrorists?”
“Schleeman will expect some copy. And soon.”
“Don’t call him,” Bristow said quickly. “I’ll do that later this afternoon.”
“And explain what?”
“Enough. He knows you escaped the bombing.”
“He’ll want to know the details. That call he made to me last night—” and nearly caused us to be late in leaving the Imperial—“well, I was rather brief.”
“He’ll put it down to shock. I’ll talk with him, reassure him that all is well. I like the old boy as much as you do, honey. So stop worrying, darling. Will you?”
“All right. If you’ll stop worrying about me, I’ll stop worrying about you. A bargain?” She rose to throw her arms around him. “And this seals it,” she said, and kissed him.
He kept hold of her, eased her onto his knees. “No telephone. Promise?”
“I won’t even answer it.”
“No calls will come in here. The ’phone is switched on to the answering service.” It had better be left that way meanwhile. The apartment should seem as unoccupied as possible. His arms tightened around her, and they kissed again. And again. “I love you,” he told her softly.
At the kitchen door, Hansen cleared his throat. “Five thirty, Mr. Bristow. Any further instructions?”
“I think you know the routine.”
“Let me cook some breakfast for you,” Karen said, regaining her feet and some composure.
“I’ll cook,” Hansen said cheerfully. “Do it all the time.”
“See you around midnight, Peter?” she asked as he rose to leave. She was half-joking, half-anxious.
“Whenever. I have to finish a report and turn it in tomorrow. If there’s the least suspicion of an emergency here—”
“Call your answering service?”
“No. Not you, Karen. Let Hansen do that.” He gave her one last kiss. To Hansen, he said, “Identify yourself as an old friend staying with me for a couple of days.”
“Won’t even need to do it,” Hansen assured him. “We can reach Mr. Doyle any time.”
“Should have thought of that,” Bristow admitted as he reached the hall. He almost left, remembered additional instructions. “Spare keys for front and back entrances in my middle desk drawer. And—yes, better pull the desk well away from the study window.” This time, he left.
Menlo was right, he told himself as he ran downstairs: love and business don’t mix, make a man forgetful. And, thinking of Menlo, his pace increased. He reached his car. As he unlocked its door, he recalled his last words to Menlo, spoken in anger, something he would always regret. Goaded by that memory, he reached Langley in record time.