Part 7 (2/2)

”We can all stay then.”

”No, at least the children should go home.”

”And me?” He took off his suitcoat and carefully put it on a hanger.

”Do as you wish. Mrs. Kelly is quite able to care for the boys without your help.”

”I will remain in London then.” He unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt.

”To keep an eye on me?”

”Nonsense. You are a lady. I have every confidence you'll behave like one. I have certain matters of business to take care of in the metropolis, and this is an excellent opportunity to see to them, that's all. Yes, Mrs. Kelly can take the children back to Norwich, and you and I will stay here. I only hope this Blade chap recovers quickly. Hotel rooms aren't cheap, you know.”

”J has a.s.sured me our room and board will be paid by the government.”

”That settles it! We'll be able to get back at least a small part of all that money we've paid in taxes. Where are my pajamas, old girl?”

”In the black suitcase,” she answered listlessly.

Once in bed, with the lights out, Reginald dozed off almost immediately. Zoe however, in spite of her weariness and the lateness of the hour, lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the murmur of the city.

She thought, Will morning never come?

Then, little by little, she became aware of an unpleasant sensation, as if she were being watched, as if someone were in the room. She tried to ignore it, but the sensation grew steadily stronger until she could localize it in the s.p.a.ce at the foot of her bed. She looked in that direction but could see nothing, at least in the dim light that filtered in through the drawn curtains at the window. There was a redness in the light that blinked on and off rhythmically, suggesting a neon sign outside somewhere.

She thought, There's no one there. I'm imagining things.

Reginald rolled onto his back and began to snore. His snoring, which ordinarily annoyed her, was now curiously rea.s.suring. She was tempted to awaken him in order to have someone to talk to, someone to drive away the phantoms of her imagination, but she didn't have the heart. Poor Reginald needed his sleep.

She thought, I'm upset over what's happened to Richard, that's all. Thinking of Richard brought a sudden rush of tenderness and concern that surprised her. Why did she feel this way about a man she had known so briefly, had never known well, so long ago? Futile feelings! Even if Richard recovered, nothing would be changed. Richard would have his work-his secret, secret work she could never share or even know about-and she would have Reginald and the children.

She remembered a line from Fitzgerald's ”Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.”

”The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on.”

Suddenly, from the foot of her bed, a voice whispered her name.

”Zoe?”

She sat bolt upright, peering into the gloom, startled yet not frightened. The bodiless voice had sounded friendly, familiar. She had heard that voice somewhere before.

After a long pause, the voice spoke again, softly. ”The tide is full, the moon lies fair upon the straits.”

She recognized the quote from ”Dover Beach.” More important, she recognized the voice.

”Richard?” she called gently.

There was no answer.

She waited a long time, but there was nothing more to hear but the ordinary drone of London's night sounds.

Being careful not to wake Reginald, she slipped out of bed and silently dressed, thinking, I'll go for a walk in the streets. Then the voice will be able to speak to me without disturbing Reginald.

Still she felt no fear. The voice had been Richard's. She was not afraid of Richard. This must have something to do with Richard's secret work. A new kind of radio, perhaps.

She took the room key and let herself out, then walked briskly down the harshly lit hallway to the elevator.

She had seen the Tower Bridge and the Thames and the rumbling lorries full of produce for London's markets. She had seen the drunken ragged derelicts shuffling somnambulistically from doorway to doorway; one had roused himself from his stupor to stare at her, amazed to see a ”lady of quality” out alone at night. She had seen the sky grow brighter as dawn approached.

She had not seen Richard Blade, or heard his voice again, nor had she felt his unseen presence as before. The world, to her bitter disappointment, had returned to normal.

The only excitement in her wanderings had been a moment when police cars and fire engines had rushed past her, traveling in the opposite direction and making a dreadful din. She had paid no attention to them.

As she made her way back to her hotel by a circuitous route, she smelled smoke and heard the distant clamor of excited voices, but these things too she ignored.

Until she rounded a corner and saw, two blocks away, her own hotel besieged by firemen, great gouts of oily black smoke belching from its windows.

”My G.o.d,” she whispered, and broke into a run.

Panting, wild-haired, she collided with the crowd that had gathered, even at this early hour, to watch the disaster. ”Let me through!” she shouted. ”My children are in that building!” She fought her way into the mob, pus.h.i.+ng aside people who pushed back angrily, cursing and swearing at her. She had almost reached the line of grim-faced policemen who blocked the bystanders' advance when a man appeared ahead of her and called, ”Mrs. Smythe-Evans?”

”Yes! Yes! I'm Mrs. Smythe-Evans!”

”You probably don't recognize me but . . . ”

She did recognize him. He was the tall plainclothesman who had been guarding the entrance to the secret project in the Tower of London. She shoved through to him and grabbed him by the arm. ”What is it? Tell me!” she cried.

He was pale in the predawn light. ”We had your room under routine surveillance, you know. J's orders. And there was a man following you on your walk, though you probably didn't notice.” He was obviously stalling, putting off telling her something. ”Well, you see, the fire broke out in your rooms. It was an explosion, like an incendiary bomb. I was in the room across the hall. Barely got out in time myself.”

”What are you saying?” she demanded. ”My family? Were they . . . ?”

”I'm sorry, Mrs. Smythe-Evans,” he said miserably. ”Your children, your husband, your maid . . . I don't see how any of them could have escaped alive.”

The wind s.h.i.+fted and a cloud of black smoke engulfed her, acrid, stinging, foul, choking her, blinding her, throwing her into a fit of uncontrollable coughing. She fell against the man, clutched his overcoat sleeves to keep from falling as the tears streamed down her cheeks. He was coughing too, but he managed to keep his balance and hold her up. Policemen were shouting to get back, get back.

The wind s.h.i.+fted again.

She still could not see, but she could speak after a fas.h.i.+on. ”d.i.c.kie!” she croaked in a hoa.r.s.e rasping whisper. ”d.i.c.kie! d.i.c.kie!”

Chapter 7.

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