Walter Quayle slid in. Wilde noted the blue-yellow remnants of bruising on his face and he saw, too, that the shape of his nose had been substantially altered – flattened – by the young fisherman’s punch.
‘Thank you, inspector,’ Quayle said. ‘Perhaps you’d leave us alone for a while. I’ll call you in if you’re needed.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the police officer said with a crisp salute. Without another word he vacated his seat behind the desk, and Quayle took his place.
Once the door was closed behind the departing policeman, Quayle smiled wearily. ‘Well, well, professor, this is a fine mess you’ve got yourself into.’
Wilde wanted to brush the dandruff from Quayle’s shoulders. Was it his imagination, or did the Englishman stink of liquor and stale sweat? ‘You don’t look too good yourself, Quayle. Ribs healing OK, are they?’
‘This isn’t about me, Wilde. This is about murder, assisting a fugitive and various other matters. I have information about your recent movements – disturbing information. God in heaven, man, what are you up to? I thought you were on our side, for pity’s sake.’
Wilde laughed at the man’s temerity. ‘I think you’re the one who owes me some explanations, don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure I do. I treated you with great courtesy in Scotland. Took you everywhere you wished to go. But as it turned out, you had ideas of your own. To be frank, you lied when you said you were up there to pay tribute to the Duke on behalf of the American president and people.’
‘And you lied about everything else, Quayle. Direction of the flight? Number of survivors?’
‘Ah yes, where is the delightful Miss Hartwell? We still wish to talk to her.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ Wilde laughed again. ‘I can tell you with all honesty that right at this moment I haven’t the faintest idea where she is.’
‘Then I have no more use for you.’
‘So I can go?’
‘Of course, Wilde. You’re a free agent.’
‘And the man I caught, Ned Mortimer – what will happen to him?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll get plenty of evidence against him and he’ll be put away for a very long time. Deserves to swing, if you ask me – but the lawyers will probably try to save his scrawny neck.’
‘He must have been working for someone, surely?’
Quayle smiled. ‘Of course – and we’ll get it out of him. I’ll keep you in the loop, Wilde, never fear. By the way, I thought you might like an update on our half-witted shepherd boy in Caithness.’
‘You mean Gregor McGregor?’
‘Indeed. Well, it seems he’s had a bit of good news. I’m told he’s been offered a job as apprentice stalker on a neighbouring estate, complete with accommodation. Who knows, it might be the making of the boy.’
‘I’m glad.’ Anything that got the poor lad away from his mother had to be a good thing. ‘Thank you, Quayle. And before I go, I’ll make a statement to the police about what I witnessed at Clade, to help the prosecution on its way.’
‘That would be perfectly admirable.’
‘There was another matter from Scotland, Quayle . . . why didn’t you mention your friendship with Peter Cazerove?’
Quayle looked puzzled. ‘Why would I have?’
*
Wilde thought she might have run back to the OSS bureau, but she wasn’t there. Phillips was, however, and he wasn’t happy. ‘Had the bloody British burning up the phone wires again, Tom. What in God’s name have you been doing now? And what have you done with your lady friend?’
Wilde told the full story, then glanced up at the wall clock. He had been stuck at the police headquarters for four hours. ‘You still haven’t told me about communication with Churchill. Has he agreed to meet Coburg?’
‘He’s really not that keen, Tom. I’m sorry.’
‘But he can be persuaded, yes? The combined skills of you, John Winant and FDR should see to that.’
Phillips looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t think it’s going to happen. His office has made it clear he doesn’t want to meet any Germans. They asked us to send him one sheet outlining Coburg’s testimony, typed and double-spaced, not more than 300 words.’
‘That’s preposterous!’
‘But that’s the way it’s going to be. So finish your interrogation, write up your 300 words, keeping every detail possible, and we’ll take it from there.’
‘What about the suggestion that Hitler was there, at the murder camp?’
‘You need something solid to back it up. The problem is the Hitler thing makes it all less believable, not more. It sounds like the ravings of a desperate man – which does seem to sum up Coburg, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, I believed him.’
‘I know you did, Tom. I know – and history might prove you right. But it’s a risk we can’t take on such slender evidence.’
‘OK, I’ll push him.’
‘I’m sure you’re aware that Coburg can’t stay here indefinitely. We have to find a better place for the bastard.’
‘I’ll put my mind to it. And by the way, I take it you managed to get me removed from the wanted list of the British police. Thank you.’
‘It wasn’t easy.’
For the rest of the afternoon, he continued his grilling of Coburg, particularly his assertion that he had seen Hitler at the death camp, but he got no further and turned his mind to writing his allotted 300 words, adding details of the accompanying documents to back up the German’s statement.
For a lot of the time, Wilde’s mind was elsewhere. He needed to find Harriet. Would she be with Dolby up at Clade? Somehow he doubted it, now that she had been traced there once already. Where then? Perhaps Mimi Lalique would know.
He handed the Churchill memo over to Phillips, then said, ‘I’m heading out for the rest of the day.’
‘Going home to Lydia.’
‘Not just yet.’
His Rudge was parked in the embassy compound. Fuel supplies were freely available for diplomatic staff and he filled it to the lip, then rode out towards the hospital. Mimi wasn’t there.
‘She was released this afternoon,’ the receptionist said.
‘Did she say where she was going? Surely she couldn’t go home alone?’
‘She was with a young lady in a taxi. I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than that.’
Wilde gave the receptionist one of his most engaging smiles. ‘What was her name, this young lady?’
The woman consulted the register. ‘Curtis, sir. Miss T. Curtis.’
‘Can you remember what she looked like?’
‘Why yes, sir, she was extremely tall.’ She hesitated as though about to add something, but not certain whether it was the correct thing to do.
‘And? Can you tell me any more?’ Wilde was already sure they were not talking about Harriet; no one would describe her as tall.
‘Well, it’s not really for me to say, but if you really want my opinion I thought she was rather overdressed . . .’
‘Tarty?’
The receptionist looked shocked. ‘That’s not a word I would use, Mr Wilde.’ But then she smiled sheepishly. ‘But yes.’
‘Was there any clue as to their destination?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve told you all I know.’
‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’
He rode to Westminster, to Mimi’s home, but he wasn’t surprised to discover that she wasn’t there. The door was still hanging open, the lock broken. He wandered through the building and saw that it hadn’t been touched since the raid. The smell of dog turds was less intense than it had been. The two Pekingese had gone, hopefully removed to a dog pound somewhere. God, what a damned mess. One way or another, he would have to get someone to come and clear the place up before Mimi came home.
For the present, he had another idea. It was dark and his watch told him it was eight in the evening. Wilde wanted a drink and he knew just the place to get it.
*
‘Well, well, it’s the professor!’
Tallulah held the Dada Club door wide for Wilde and let him into the lobby. It seemed there was even more rubble outside than the last time he was here.
‘We’ve been bombed again,’ the tall hat-check girl said, as if reading his mind. ‘Nothing too serious, thank the Lord. Now then, you look in need of alcohol. You can see yourself down to the bar. Hardly anyone in yet, but you’ll probably find a friendly face to help you pass the time. Someone for every taste in the Dada, darling.’
‘Actually, I was looking for you. No, that’s not quite true – I’m looking for Mimi.’
‘Dear, darling Mimi. What an awful time she’s had lately.’
‘Is she here?’
Tallulah shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, professor.’
‘But you know where she is, don’t you? You picked her up at the hospital.’
‘Did I?’
He held up a five-pound note.
Tallulah laughed. ‘Do you think I’d betray Mimi Lalique for a fiver? Or any other sum for that matter . . .’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you know I’m her friend. Harriet’s, too. Are they together somewhere, by any chance?’
‘Gosh, you are the detective today, aren’t you? I’m sorry, professor, I’m teasing you.’ She cupped her hand and lowered her voice, speaking directly into his ear. ‘Yes, of course I know where they are – and I’ll take you to them. But not yet. Go and get yourself a drink. And you can put your money away. You saved Mimi’s life and it’s on the house. Chef will rustle you up some supper if you want.’
‘I can’t really hang about.’
‘You’ll have to because I’m in charge here tonight. Anyway, we’re not going until whoever is following you is safely tucked up in bed. Have you got transport?’
‘My motorbike.’
‘Oh, good. I love a motorbike.’
*
Wilde realised he had no option but to wait. He was hungry, not having eaten since breakfast, and happily accepted the chef’s offer of veal and mushroom in a cream sauce, with peas and rice on the side. Wilde wolfed it down gratefully, but sipped his Scotch slowly. Tallulah wouldn’t tell him where she was taking him, but he had the feeling it would be a long night. Important to keep his wits about him.
He didn’t try to engage anyone in conversation, but he watched the other customers with fascination. This was another world, where lavishly attired homosexuals, both male and female, consorted in open defiance of the laws of the land. In his experience, Cambridge was already quite progressive and easy-going in such matters, but rarely so flamboyant as some of the Dada’s clientele.
There were others, too, army and navy officers looking for a warm female body for the night, using the persuasive – and frequently successful – plea that they were about to be posted and might be dead before the week’s end, so the least a girl could do was give them a decent send-off. If the man was expected to lay down his body for England, why not the woman?
Some of the revellers were semi-famous film actors. Wilde had seen them in the movies, but he couldn’t name them. The hours passed in a haze of people-watching.
‘Come on, professor. Time to go.’
He turned to see Tallulah beckoning him. She had changed into a pair of corduroy trousers and had a man’s leather jacket pulled tight about her long, bony frame. Clearly not the clothes she had worn when she collected Mimi from the hospital.
‘Are you finished?’
‘Terry behind the bar will see the stragglers out and lock up.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Not far. Just do a few loops to make sure we’re not followed, then I’ll direct you.’
*
They knew there was every chance the club was being watched, but Wilde was confident he could lose anyone on the Rudge. He rode around Soho, Mayfair, Covent Garden and the City, through into Whitechapel. It was slow going in the unlit streets, windows all blacked out, but at least the sky was clear and there was a gibbous moon. When he saw narrow passageways or back alleys that cars could not possibly get through, he took them. Sometimes he waited at the far end of short lanes to see if any motorbikes came after them.
‘Now then,’ Tallulah shouted into his ear from the pillion seat, ‘I think we’re in the clear. Head south across Tower Bridge into Bermondsey, then Elephant and Castle.’
Wilde stopped and turned around. ‘I’ve heard of these places, but I don’t know them. Just shout left, right or straight ahead into my ear.’
‘OK, darling. I suppose this is all a bit rough and slummy for a toff like you.’
Wilde couldn’t help laughing and rode on, following her instructions as they wound their way through the poorer quarters of south London, past many bombed-out houses, piles of shrapnel and rubble, all the time going westward. They passed a large area of open common with yet more anti-aircraft guns and a barrage balloon base. The roads were largely deserted, and the whole area was hauntingly quiet, as though the world was waiting for something.
A tap on the shoulder. ‘Here we are, professor.’
He pulled into the kerb and allowed the engine to keep running. They were outside a semi-detached Victorian house in a long, straight row of terraced and semi-detached properties that seemed to have escaped the bombing. They looked as though they had been built for middle-class city workers at the end of the last century, but now they had an air of poverty, neglect and decay, even without the war.
‘Is this a good place to park? My registration number will be known. Any beat bobby will have it listed.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about the police around here. They have far more to do catching looters, black-marketeers and would-be gangsters than fugitive professors. But you’ll probably have your wheels nicked by the local lads – so why not park her out of sight down the side of the house?’
‘Who lives here?’ he asked as he switched off the engine and wheeled the bike across the pavement.
‘I do. Come on in, darling.’
*
The house was no less tatty inside than out. Drab wallpaper, stained by tobacco smoke and areas of damp, welcomed them to the hallway. The staircase directly ahead had bare boards, no runner.
‘Pretty, isn’t it, prof?’
‘I’m sure it has its charms.’
‘I was bombed out of my flat in Soho. This was my nan’s place. She left it to me in her will, God bless her. One day, when the bloody war’s over, I’ll do it up. Doesn’t seem worth it until Hitler’s gone the way of all flesh.’
‘Of course.’
‘Anyway, come into the kitchen. It’s the only cosy room there is, I’m afraid.’
Wilde followed her to the back of the house.
She opened the kitchen door with a grin. ‘Hey presto!’
Harriet was sitting at the kitchen table with a tumbler in front of her and brandy decanter at the side. ‘Well, well,’ she said.
‘Harriet Hartwell, I presume.’
‘Can’t get rid of you, can I?’
‘And Mimi?’
‘In the front room,’ Tallulah said. ‘We brought a couple of mattresses down and made up a bed for her. Didn’t think it was wise to make the poor darling struggle upstairs in her condition.’
‘How is she?’
‘Not well,’ Tallulah continued. ‘Not well at all, but there was nothing more the quacks could do for her, so I thought I’d rather look after her myself. She’s desperate to get her Pekingese back. The poor dear howls for the horrid little things. I suppose someone must be looking after them, perhaps a neighbour.’
Wilde turned to Harriet. ‘I thought you’d phone me.’
‘Oh, I knew you’d find me.’
‘She insisted you’d show up at the Dada,’ Tallulah said. ‘Didn’t trust your phone line.’
‘Anyway, we can talk about all that later,’ Harriet said, brisk as ever as she reached for the brandy and poured herself another shot. ‘First I want to know what’s happened. Has Phillips contacted Churchill?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s no go.’ Wilde shrugged his disappointment. ‘Not yet anyway. He says he won’t meet a German.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I say. He said he’ll read a 300-word testimony and that’s it. And so that’s what I’ve done. Ambassador Winant is getting it to him and we should have an answer tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Or later today, of course. Anyway, I wouldn’t get your hopes up because I have grave doubts that it will be taken any further.’
‘He’ll look at the Nazi documents, though?’
Wilde shrugged. ‘I can’t say.’
‘Tom, this is a disgrace. Has he even been told what Rudi saw? Does he know that Hitler was there?’
Wilde reached for the decanter himself. He hadn’t drunk much at the Dada but suddenly he needed a livener.
‘Tom? Answer me, for pity’s sake.’
Wilde took a swig from the decanter. The Cognac burnt his throat and he gasped. ‘OK, now don’t fly off the handle, but Bill and I had a disagreement. He thinks that mention of Hitler being there wouldn’t help our cause in the first instance. He says it makes the story less believable, more like the ravings of a desperate man. Those were his very words, I think.’
‘That’s outrageous.’
‘Go easy on him. He’s a diplomat. He knows the best way to frame reports, how to get things done.’
‘Bullshit. We have to do something.’
‘We have done something. We’ve brought Coburg to England. One way or another his testimony will come out. We just need a little patience.’
‘Patience be damned. We’re being blocked by someone close to Churchill.’