I and My True Love (29 page)

Amy said, “Look, where did Weisler get all these lies?”

Sylvia turned to her quietly, “But they aren’t lies, Amy.” She dropped the paper and began to pour some coffee for Martin.

“I’ll do it,” he said quickly, marvelling at her calmness, yet thankful for it, too. He spilled the cream in his own attempt to seem nonchalant.

Sylvia pushed the paper aside with her foot as she walked over to a chair.

“This is the kind of thing that I had to expect,” she said. “It’s strange: when you worry about trouble, half expect it, it isn’t such a shock when it does come. It’s the unexpected attack, the unbelievable that—” She bit her lip and frowned for a moment, her hand travelling nervously to the scarf she had twisted around her throat to disguise the marks of violence. “That is so hard to take,” she finished. Then she forced her thoughts back to the newspaper report. “I think I’d better leave here today. I’ll take that train, Martin.”

“I’ll get you to the station,” he said. He had lost all interest in the coffee, but he went on drinking it.

“I don’t think you should,” Sylvia said. “After all, that newspaper paragraph wasn’t only interested in a love story. It was interested in the political angle, wasn’t it? If Jan hadn’t been attached to a Czechoslovakian mission, Mr. Weisler probably wouldn’t have bothered writing about us.”

“Darling, you’re adding complications,” Amy burst out. “It’s unfortunate, yes, that Jan’s—”

“I’ll get you to the station,” Martin Clark cut in. He placed his coffee cup on the table. He felt as if every muscle in his stomach had twisted into one hard knot.

“You shouldn’t be seen with me,” Sylvia objected.

“Is it wise?” Amy asked, suddenly seeing Sylvia’s point of view. She looked at her husband anxiously.

“We’ll leave in a few minutes,” he told Sylvia.

There was a pause.

“There’s one thing I’d like to know,” Kate said. “Who gave the columnist this information?”

“Does that matter?” Sylvia asked. “The damage is done.”

“Someone he trusts a good deal, I’d imagine,” Amy said.

“But who?” Kate insisted. “It wasn’t Bob Turner. And I didn’t do it. Was it Stewart Hallis?”

Sylvia was silent.

“Hallis?” Amy’s grey eyes were startled. “Oh now, Kate,” she said, “you can’t go around slinging suspicions at people. Not that I like Stewart Hallis—he talks so nobly about politics and he makes too much money at the same time. I’m always leary of that type. But to try and hurt Sylvia—why, he’s always liked Sylvia.”

“Does Hallis know this columnist?” Kate asked, unpersuaded. She was thinking of this morning: Hallis’s apology had been too exaggerated. What had troubled his conscience so much, so unexpectedly?

Amy looked blankly at her husband.

“Yes,” he said, “but so do a thousand other people.”

“Is Weisler small and thin, with hunched shoulders, bald head, and horn-rimmed glasses?” Kate asked.

Clark turned to stare at her.

“Last night, at Miriam’s party,” Kate said to Sylvia, “he went up to speak to Hallis. It was just as you and I came back into the room from the terrace.”

“Weisler talks to everyone,” Amy said. She looked again at her husband. “Kate,” she added unbelievingly, “how can you think that even Hallis would spread such a story?”

Kate flushed. “He had been hurt. He wanted to claw right back. And Weisler caught him at that moment when he couldn’t resist a scathing remark. Afterwards—this morning—when he had calmed down—he regretted it.” With masses of flowers and a glib excuse, she thought angrily.

“Well, the damage is done,” Clark said quietly, “whoever caused it.” If Kate really started probing into Mr. Hallis’s subconscious, she’d be still more horrified: Hallis was the probable successor to Payton Pleydell’s job. Yes, there were more deeply hidden urges to Hallis’s action than Kate had ever dreamed of, urges that Hallis himself might not even recognise consciously. Joseph Conrad had phrased it neatly: an island is but the top of a mountain. And, in that respect, a man wasn’t so different from an island.

Clark glanced at his watch. “Time, Sylvia.”

Sylvia nodded and took Kate’s hand. “Don’t worry about a gossip paragraph,” she said gently. “There will be scandal, but it doesn’t matter.” She drew Kate with her towards the bedroom. “Kate,” she said, her voice tense, “will you do one thing for me? Please? Tell Jan where I’ve gone. Give him the Santa Rosita address.”

“But how?”

“He will telephone you. He may have a message to give you for me. Oh, Kate, please help us.”

“But—” Kate began uncertainly.

“Jan doesn’t deserve your contempt,” Sylvia said quickly. “Believe me, Kate. Please. He isn’t what you think.” She paused, her blue eyes pleading, her face expectant. “I can’t tell you any more now, Kate. You’ll have to take us on trust. Will you help us?”

Kate nodded.

“And before I forget.” Sylvia opened her handbag and took out a cheque-book and fountain pen. Quickly she wrote out a cheque and then handed it to Kate. “Will you cash this on Monday and give it to Amy? That will cover all the Clarks have lent me, won’t it?”

“Yes,” Kate said. “But—”

“I didn’t want to use any more of Payton’s money; but I can’t use Martin’s either. He and Amy can’t afford all that they’ve done for me.”

“But will they take this cheque? They know you’ll need—”

“They won’t take it directly,” Sylvia said quickly. “But if you cash it, then there’s no more to argue about, is there?”

There was nothing left to argue about: Kate realised that from Sylvia’s voice. She folded the cheque and placed it carefully in the pocket of her skirt.

“The trouble about grand gestures,” Sylvia was saying half-bitterly, “is that someone else is always left to pay for them.” She gave a little sigh.

“When shall I see you again?” Kate asked quickly.

Sylvia stood for a moment, her brows drawn together in a slight frown. She shook her head slowly, shrugged her shoulders helplessly. Then she lifted her hat and faced the mirror while she pulled it on. “Strange,” she said, watching her own calm face, “strange how indefinite it all is and yet—irrevocable.” Then she turned quickly to face the girl who was watching her anxiously. “Dear Kate,” she said gently and kissed her.

“I’m coming to the station.”

“No. Stay here with Amy. Let me just slip out of Washington. That’s best, isn’t it?”

* * *

In the living-room, as they waited, the Clarks talked in low voices.

“Martin, something’s wrong.”

“It isn’t a pleasant day, honey.”

“But more wrong than this.” She pointed to the paper.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I can’t talk about it. I’m hoping the whole story can be kept quiet and doesn’t get into the newspapers. Especially now, with this bit of gossip on its travels.”

“Martin,” she said, “is Jan Brovic really working for the Communists?”

He stared at her, amazed as he often was by Amy’s native shrewdness. Or was it just sheer chance that so often she’d take his thoughts and hand them back to him in words?

Amy said, “Would it solve your problem if you knew that? Ask Sylvia. She’ll tell you.” She looked so delighted with her solution that he leaned over and kissed her. She caught his head and held his cheek against hers.

“I thought of giving Sylvia a blank cheque,” he said. “She’ll need it.”

“Yes.” The smile faded. The drugstore cheque, the cheque for the fare that Martin had already cashed. She tried not to add them together.

“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll see the bank manager on Monday and get a loan if necessary.”

“And on Monday I’ll go round to Joppa Lane and make Walter count out all that jewellery and wrap it in front of my eyes and I’ll give him a receipt and I’ll register it to Sylvia— imagine leaving everything behind her, it’s hers, isn’t it?”

“Well, don’t make yourself breathless over it. What will Pleydell say to all that, anyway?”

“He will never even
look
at her jewellery. He’s quite above that!” Her mouth twisted with distaste.

Martin kissed her again to watch the smile come back. “How are you feeling, old girl?” he asked quietly.

“Storm-tossed. They’re practically upsetting the boat. See for yourself.” She pressed his hand to her waist. “Lusty types, I’m afraid. Like their father.” She was laughing, now. And even Sylvia, coming into the room with Kate, was almost smiling.

“We’ll be late,” he said, not quite truthfully, waiting with Sylvia’s suitcase at the open doorway. A quick goodbye could be kept a quiet one.

“Good luck, darling,” Amy called after them. Martin Clark glanced at Sylvia as he took her arm. She’ll need it, he thought grimly, she’ll need all the luck she can get.

21

It was eleven o’clock that evening. Amy had been persuaded to go to sleep; Martin Clark was struggling with the problem of a couch that refused to be converted into a bed, or, indeed, into anything recognisable; Kate was watching the battle, tactfully silent. And then the doorbell rang. “Who the hell’s that?” Clark asked.

He looked startled when he opened the door and found Whiteshaw outside. But, “Come in,” he said, and tried to smooth his ruffled hair and temper. He pointed to the half-yawning couch. “Do you happen to know how this damned thing works?”

Whiteshaw seemed equally relieved that the recalcitrant couch made such an easy opening for conversation. “Isn’t there a button you push or a lever you pull? Or have you tried electronics?”

“I was thinking of a well-placed kick. Persuasion failing.”

“It’s being temperamental,” Kate said. “Let’s put it back the way it was and ignore it, meanwhile.”

“Kate’s staying here overnight,” Clark explained.

“Oh,” Whiteshaw said. He seemed hesitant, as if he had come to the end of his conversation. He glanced warily at Kate.

Now, which one of Pleydell’s friends was this? Kate wondered. Fair hair: Whiteshaw, probably. But was Whiteshaw the one in the Foreign Service, the one with a wife and two children? Or was he the one who had resigned from the State Department as a high-minded protest? He was certainly older than she had imagined. Tonight, he had lost the youthfulness that had accompanied him on his visits to Pleydell’s house. Tonight, his face looked thin, austere, worried. He was restless, perhaps nervous, for he pulled at his waistcoat, fingered the knot of his tie, and then passed his hand over the short bristling cut of his light fair hair.

“I shan’t stay long,” Whiteshaw was saying, almost apologetically. He glanced again at Kate.

“That’s all right,” Clark said. “Delighted to have you drop in. How’s the family?”

“Just fine, thanks.” He looked around him. “This is a pleasant room you have here.”

“Liveable,” Clark admitted. “At present,” he added, thinking of the twins to come. “Of course, this is the first time you’ve been here, isn’t it?”

“I’ll make some coffee,” Kate suggested. She picked up a novel from the nearest bookshelf and went into the kitchen. If eleven o’clock was the hour chosen for a first visit, then Whiteshaw must have something to say.

That was Clark’s thought, too. “Sit down,” he said to Whiteshaw. Had he come here to find out where Sylvia had gone? Was he one of the search party that Pleydell might have sent out?

Whiteshaw sat on the edge of the couch.

“Have you seen the
Echo?”
Clark asked, following up his guesses.

“Yes,” Whiteshaw said gloomily. “It’s a bad deal. Not that I believe it. The implication, I mean.”

“I don’t suppose any readers will notice the implication except those who know Pleydell’s job,” Clark said. Odd, he thought, that he should be talking so encouragingly, when he knew—more than Whiteshaw could know—just how bad the deal actually was.

“I suppose so.” But Whiteshaw was still discouraged. “Pretty rough on Pleydell. It isn’t exactly pleasant, is it, to have your career blow up in your face through a small thing like this?”

“You mean, a small thing like a paragraph in a gossip column?” Clark was watching the younger man carefully.

“No.” Whiteshaw raised his eyes and looked frankly at Clark. “I mean the leak of information to the Czechs.”

There was a slight pause.

“Where did you hear about that?” Clark asked.

“At the office. There was some talk flying around yesterday.”

“Was there, indeed?” Clark’s lips tightened. “Thanks for the warning. We’d better stop the inside gossip before it seeps outside.” And then he noticed that Whiteshaw’s worry seemed to deepen. “You called it a ‘small thing’. What makes you think it is so small?” And just how much had Whiteshaw heard?

“It seemed small to me in comparison with other information the Czechs could get. But then,” Whiteshaw admitted frankly, “I’m not qualified to judge its significance, I suppose. Just how serious is it?”

“What did you hear?”

“The rumour was vague. Something about a trade treaty renewal which the Czechs weren’t yet supposed to know about.” He shook his head. “That doesn’t seem too serious. After all, the treaty is with Czechoslovakia, isn’t it? The Czechs are bound to be told about it some day.”

“Which isn’t now.”

“But they’d know eventually,” Whiteshaw insisted.

“So that excuses everything?”

“No.” Whiteshaw added after an awkward pause, “There shouldn’t have been any break in security. I grant you that.” I’m hearing two men talking, Clark thought: the one who persuaded Whiteshaw that a trade treaty renewal isn’t too big a secret anyway, the other who is Whiteshaw himself with his own honest misgivings. He said, “I know as little as you do about the actual terms of this trade treaty. That isn’t our job. But a trade expert could be worried about several things: for instance, why were we willing to renew a treaty at this moment when our relations with the Czechs have deteriorated? Possibly there are certain materials that we need, and the Russians will now know just how badly we need them.”

Whiteshaw looked up at Clark quickly.

Clark repeated, “Yes, the Russians. You weren’t leaving them out, were you?”

“Well, of course,” Whiteshaw said uncomfortably, “we’re only making a rough guess. We aren’t trade experts.”