The Spy (22 page)

Bouncing along, she took a few pictures, mostly nature studies: gulls gathering, clouds flying, thatched roofs. Birds were moving, the way they did in early motion-pictures, sweeping across the platforms in a tide.
A feather found is like Cupid's compass
, Emily Blackstone had confided hopefully to Hamilton,
pointing ever to love
. So, the cameras had come out of their cases; parts in good working order. Cutting fast on a curve, she snapped one of a huge billboard, rearing above a trestle. An advert for the R.A.F., the chap in the sign was pointing to heaven, and asking the world:

“
Is there an Aeroplane in your future?
”

With things nearly normal then, and having escaped, as it were, on the first day of July and late on Saturday morning, Valerie Sinclair stepped down from her train at Waterloo Station. Giving up her ticket at the barrier, she immediately ran smack into half a dozen American servicemen wearing Special Forces insignia, who had also disembarked, and who were lining up in front of a Red Cross jitney. A panel had been opened on the side of the van, forming a counter, behind which stood a proper English matron, handing out hot coffee and sandwiches.

Valerie got in line.

The wonderful smell of ham and cheese and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee—Maxwell House?—drifted back to her. The woman in the van was effusive, personally thanking each of the soldiers in turn and dispensing food from home as though from a bottomless pit, eager to express her gratitude for all the help America was giving. One of the soldiers told the matron he thought the war would be over any day now; and the woman repeated this to the man sitting at the wheel, who was anxious to leave. The matron, who was patting her enormous bosom, was shedding a tear in her heart, as she put it, for all the brave young men. Sinclair, knowing the war could easily turn the other way, sniffed and moved up. When the soldier in front of her got his, she would be next. She peered around him; the woman was loading him with sandwiches.

Sinclair licked her lips.

Balancing his food, he joined his companions. Valerie stepped forward. As she did so, the panel slammed shut and the jitney drove away, revealing Commander Hamilton standing on the other side and looking about. Spotting her, he walked up.

“Ah! There you are! Had a good trip, did we?”

“Yes, sir,” She was watching the soldiers. One of them was flicking his tongue rapidly over the top of his coffee cup, inviting her to look.

Sinclair gulped.

“Wonderful show, the Red Cross, what? There when you need them. Nothing too good for our boys, as they say.”

“Yes, sir.” The one she was staring at was really in need! Hamilton turned. The Americans smiled, the sex fiend saluted. Hamilton felt gratified. Respect, that's what made the services tick. “Special Branch...they entertain the troops, you know. Probably heading out to the studios, where we're going, to make one of their marvelous films. Ready, are we?”

“Yes, sir.” She hoisted her purse.

“Charming chaps,” Hamilton purred, “absolutely top of the line.”

Valerie looked back. The soldier had emptied his cup, and was jerking it back and forth in front of himself. She paused, to read his lips. “
You're the cream in my coffee
,” he was singing. His tongue was going sideways, making love to her. He was sliding into a dance routine, and pointing to the cup. Valerie turned her own head sideways.
Click
! A tough shot, but she got him! From out of nowhere, an iron hand clamped on her shoulder.

Sinclair jumped!

It was Hamilton. “Come, come, my dear. You mustn't take what I say so literally.” He'd had to come back, to get her.

“I'm sorry, sir, I thought it was someone I knew.”

“Ay?” His eyes watched the departing soldiers. “Feeling all right, are we?”

“Yes, sir. It's just that I didn't sleep very well last night, sir.” The voices of Brittany had spun away, into the air. She had slept like a rock.

He hoped it wasn't anything he'd said. “Have to keep a stiff upper lip, Sinclair. Nothing but the
best
, you know.”

“The best? Yes, sir! I see what you mean, sir.”

Outside the station, the Rolls Royce was waiting.

They walked over. It had been freshly washed and waxed. De Beck, taking the credit, also took the wheel. Once again, Valerie found herself in the back seat with Hamilton. Patting her on her hand and expressing a vague apology for having frightened her, he was thinking of last night's admonitions. Underneath, she was still a young girl from the country, and he had probably kept her up too late. Sinclair closed her eyes, imagining him the soldier:

Special Forces, Hamilton
.

Her chin dropped to her blouse. In the bedroom of the car, time flew like a dream. Eyelids fluttering, they were floating...floating away, on a China sea of coffee cups. The limousine slowed. Pierre hit a pothole, and her dream popped! Sinclair opened her eyes. Hamilton threw her a glance, he nodded. She looked about and yawned.

“I think we had best have a good lunch here at the studios,” announced Hamilton. They had arrived at Elstree. The blazing green Rolls, their car of state, breezed through the front gates, and parked. “After, we'll fix you up in your French clothes.”

For a Saturday, the lunch hour was scattered, the lot being mostly empty. Hamilton ate quickly, and excused himself. Ignoring her, Pierre moved over and chatted with one of the actors. Valerie looked. She had seen him in the movies, playing German villains.

Sinclair ate like a star.

A buffet, they had lots of ices, and she went back twice for dessert. She turned in her tray and walked out into the hall lined with publicity stills and posters.

It was Orson Welles!

Holding a cigar, he peered down at her, like God.

She moved along: Boris Karloff, ladies man, was sporting a purple tie. Bela Lugosi, in gleaming tuxedo, was set to bite. To her left, a frightening sight! Lightning, crackling from the coils of some evil laboratory, was making the lady's hair stand up: it was Elsa Lanchester. Across the hall, a new one: Stewart Granger, who looked like Lord Louis Mountbatten.

Even in wartime, with most of the performers in uniform, movies were still being made. A number of the stars had enlisted early; many of them had given up their lives. She paused before a poster, and studied it. It was Leslie Howard, who had been shot down on his last mission for British Intelligence. She would never forget him as Ashley Wilkes in
Gone with the Wind
. Now, he was simply gone. Valerie knew Hamilton would consider it an honor. She considered Hamilton. Where was he, by the way? From the other hallway, she could hear footsteps. Was he coming? She glanced over her shoulder, and checked the light. Lining it up, she blinked her eyes, photographing the poster in its entirety....

A souvenir, she would take it with her.

A large portrait, in shadow, caught her attention. She went up to it. Set in a gold frame, it was a painting of Gale Sondergaard, dressed in black. A monster moon was over her shoulder, threatening the ivy-brick wall of a London mansion, lighted gable window high above the fog-drenched grounds. The air looked colder; she thought of trench coats. Turned sideways to stare, and next to it, a poster of Simone Simone:

The Cat Woman
.

The girl returned to Sondergaard. The portrait stirred in her heart, like worship. Inside, of course, there would be stairs, and wouldn't The Spy himself live in a house like this? Sinclair was peering into the window, when Hamilton walked up. Seeing no magic, he invisioned no dreams. A couple of quick blinks, and she joined him. “By the way,” the Commander remarked casually, “Charles Laughton, the husband of that actress over there, Elsa Lanchester, is a friend of a friend of our Lieutenant Seymour—chap named James Bridley.” Sinclair recognized the name.

Seymour had dropped it, trying to get a date.

Baker Street Irregular, wasn't he?

Having made all arrangements, the Commander now led her down empty corridors, across silent stages, and into an undisclosed area in the back. He knocked three times on the door, waited, then knocked twice. Someone opened it. It looked to be a large fitting room, reeking of paints and body smells, and attended by screens.

The door closed behind them.

A pleasant, mannish-looking Frenchwoman came forward, taking Sinclair under her wing. Valerie noted her hair was rubbish-red—or was it strawberry? Hamilton introduced her to Madame Roc. She spelled it for them: “ayr-r-r, oh, si—Roak! We mak' you look lak' leetle baby, no?” Her voice was deep, nearly guttural. Her body was as thick as her accent. Without taking her eyes from the girl, the woman shouted instructions to her English assistant, “You there! Get clos' from boxes closest me! Hurry up bras, n' underwears. Stockin' too, ask Frieda where.” Her mind, quick and sharp as a sewing needle, drank in Valerie's figure and personality. “Yes...is special girl, this. Hey! Bring eberzing uh?” She turned to Hamilton. “How
ol'
you wan', Comman-dair?”

“Try a teenager,” Hamilton said, inspired, “a very
young
teenager.”

“Ah! We call
gosse
, you call ‘keed'.
Ecole
, eh?”

“A kid, yes.” That sounded about right. Hire an expert, he had told Seymour, and pay her what she's worth. In the matching of perceived ages to current modes, Roc was the best in her field. If you
had
to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse, you would leave it with Madame Roc.

“Is too young for college, no, Marie?”

The assistant nodded vigorously, throwing a quick glance at Hamilton. Expecting a call from Seymour, he was headed out the door.

The Frenchwoman knew her job. Her hands were fast, her mouth was full of pins. Between selections and fittings, she and Sinclair began to converse in French. In telling her about the posters, Valerie discovered Elsa Lanchester was Madame Roc's closest friend; and that her assistant, Marie, was hoping to get a job as an actress. In English, “Eef play cards right,” Roc confided darkly, “who knows?”

Typically, Valerie was less concerned with how the clothes looked than with how she looked in the clothes. Each bit of apparel bore a French label. She stepped behind the screen and tried on several brassieres, left over from a previous fitting. They were too flimsy. A week ago, she would have loved them. Still, as Hamilton had reminded her, a brassiere was much too obvious a place of concealment. Besides, it was her boobs, not the brassieres, that were causing her this problem. One did not fit two silk purses, of this caliber, into a single sow's ear.

The door burst open.

“Something a bit more sturdy?” Valerie asked, her words lost in the flurry of activity on the other side of the screen.

“Give her this one,” she heard Hamilton say. He had reentered the room with a package. Something flew over the top and she put it on. “Fits!” she said.

Immediately, she took it off and looked.

The bra was constructed around a two-way, contoured elastic board. The inside pushed her in, and strapped her flat, without a doubt. The outer, stitched with cheap lace and concealing false shells, appeared to pull her out—but not very much. It was exactly what a French Catholic schoolgirl would wear under her blouse: a brassiere, for appearance's sake, concealing breasts not yet mature enough to fill it.

Hamilton grinned. He could hear the awe.

Designed by Helena Rubinstein, close friend to Emily Blackstone, the brassiere had arrived by morning courier from Bletchley Park.

“Compliments of the Royal Navy!”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” sang her voice, from the other side. “Dammit!” She had it on backwards, stuck on a clasp.

“How's that?” Hamilton perked.

“Nothing, sir!” In the steamed room, her voice rang like a bell. “Ready when you are, sir!”

Hamilton looked to Madame Roc, and nodded.

Clothes landed! She prepared them fast, dressing quickly. She stepped out.

“No, no,” objected Hamilton, whose experience in fashion was limited to black neckties, “dress her down again—younger!”

Madame Roc raked a thick hand through Sinclair's hair.

“ ‘Youn-gurh,' m'sieur? If she is any youn-gurh, she will be an egg!”

“Do it,” Hamilton said. He studied Valerie's face. “And when you come to the makeup, make that face no less than twelve.” He would settle for fifteen. “I shall be back.” He spun on his heel and walked out of the fitting room. Madame Roc strode over, slamming the door behind him and sticking out her tongue.

“
Que fait-il? Rien!
”

Marie raised an eyebrow.

The Frenchwoman sighed heavily, and set to work again. When she was satisfied, she took Valerie over to makeup, which also served as the operating room. There, the French woman and her helper put on white frocks and masks. Valerie got up into a barber's chair. They tucked a sheet around her, cranking her back. From above, Madame Roc leaned down.

“
N'est-ce pas que c'est beau?
”

Someone was taping her arm.

“Well, she's certainly different,” the voice of Marie said.

Flat, with eye pads, the thrust of a needle: three sharp punctures, painful as a hook, tiny drops of blood...her eyes were watering. Her lip felt crooked. The anesthesia had come, cloying in her throat, like sweet chocolate.

“
Elle est sortie, eh?
”

The world blacked out.

“
Bon!
”

The surgery was subtle: the young girl's face stung terribly in the darkness—occasionally, the snipping of an instrument. An hour passed. Voices faded, and there was very little talking...distant, salve and wet-packed gauze, cool on her raw skin. The pads came off. They raised her up and she felt dizzy. Hamilton had not told her about the surgery. A little nip and tuck, he'd said.

Sheets were flapped.