Ride a Pale Horse (31 page)

“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.

First, Bristow retrieved Menlo’s envelope and tapes from the deposit vault. It was too early for Miriam to be there herself, but an assistant on night duty handed them over with a glance at Bristow’s identification. Next, he reached his office and prepared to read the notes and listen to the tapes. Without them, he would have been blind and deaf. He knew only two facts about these last three days—the Vienna cassettes had been stolen and Menlo was dead.

With his door securely locked, and no one in the offices around him—he’d have two good hours before they started drifting in to their desks—he set to work. There were four closely written pages in Menlo’s small neat hand, with abbreviations and jotted phrases to make everything compact, but the dates and times and sequence of events were all in good order. Menlo had gathered an incredible amount of detail, enough for circumstantial evidence. His report was almost ready to be typed and presented.

And yet—he hadn’t named the mole. As if he still had some doubts in spite of the facts he had gathered. What had prevented him? Some instinct—or some need to double-check? His brief memorandum on Waterman and Coulton—who was the control?—had only queries on the incentives of the unnamed mole. Possibly, he had wanted more investigation into the past histories of either Shaw or Fairbairn. They were certainly Menlo’s candidates for the enemy agent who had infiltrated his section. And Fairbairn held the definite edge on that, Bristow had to admit against his will. He liked Fairbairn, had always trusted him.

His depression deepened as he played the two tapes and listened first to Shaw’s words and then to Fairbairn’s words as they answered Menlo’s questions. It was obvious that Menlo was tending towards Fairbairn—why else talk at the end of Fairbairn’s interview about the four choices a traitor faced when he was discovered? As if Menlo had been giving him a chance to admit his guilt. Menlo was right about suicide as no choice at all, but he had forgotten—or ignored—the real fifth choice. Murder. To save your mission. To save your own miserable hide.

But Fairbairn is no murderer, Bristow told himself angrily. That, I can’t believe. Or is it prejudice that is prompting me to find him innocent? Yes, I’m prejudiced when it comes to judging a friend. So let’s go over the evidence again, let’s see if I am trying to ignore facts, let’s discover any small gaps in Menlo’s findings that should be explored.