The Wayward Wife (6 page)

Her first thought was that the Germans had invaded Shadwell in dead of night and that she was about to be raped. That was how they would do it, her father-in-law had told her. They'd come dropping down out of the skies on their parachutes when nobody expected it to round up all the men and rape all the women before they took over the country.

Breda peered, dazzled, into the light, and listened for sounds of other men, other Germans, crashing about in the kitchen or, worse, gleefully scrambling upstairs to pin her down and take her one after …

‘Is he here?' said a voice, in English.

‘Uh?' said Breda.

‘Leo Romano, is he here?'

‘Don't know what you're talkin' about.'

The beam slithered away, picking out objects in the room one by one then climbing up the far wall to illuminate the ceiling as if her daddy might be hanging there like a bat.

‘Don't gimme that,' the voice said.

She peered at the figure at the foot of the bed: no webbing, no buckles, no swastikas, no gun. The intruder, she realised, wasn't a German invader but a plainclothes copper in the belted trench-coat and soft hat that was practically a uniform for the sneaky pigs from the Yard.

‘Leo Romano, your father,' the copper said.

‘Oh, that Leo Romano,' said Breda. ‘Ha'n't seen 'im in years. What you want with 'im anyhow?'

‘Never you mind what we want with 'im. Is he here?'

‘Does it look like 'e's 'ere,' said Breda. ‘Nobody in this 'ouse but me an' my kid. What you doin' breakin' in after dark without a warrant when my hubby ain't 'ome?'

‘Don't need no warrant,' the copper said. ‘Don't you read the papers, girly? No use you yowling about illegal entry. We've got a free 'and now. Where is he?'

‘I told you, I ha'n't seen—'

‘Your husband, I mean.'

‘What you wanna know that for?'

‘My report,' the copper said. But there was something in the way he said it, a slight patronising edge, that made Breda wonder if he really was a copper after all.

‘My 'usband's a fireman. He's on watch up at the Oxmoor Road station, you must know.' She sat forward. ‘You ain't no copper, are yah?'

‘'Course, I am. Special Branch.'

‘What's special about it?'

‘Special powers. Now, who else is here?'

Doubt increased her caution. ‘Only my kid.'

‘I've searched 'is room already. He didn't even stir. I found all that stuff you got stashed away downstairs, though.'

‘Bought an' paid for, all bought an' paid for.'

‘Hoarding's illegal, case you didn't know,' the man said. ‘I could have you up for that.'

He came closer to the bed and Breda saw his face above the torch beam for the first time: a youthful face, younger than the voice suggested, with an ugly scar meandering down from the corner of one eye to the point of the jaw.

‘Look,' he said, ‘I ain't got time to frig around. If you know where Romano's hiding, you'd better come clean.'

‘I
don't
know,' Breda said. ‘Honest to God, I don't.'

To Breda's relief he pulled back and, swinging the big torch like a drumstick, tapped the bed-end. ‘Say nothing about my little visit, not to no one, not even your hubby. If Romano does turn up you let me know pronto.'

‘How do I let you know?'

Her question brought him up short. It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest that if her old man did happen to appear on her doorstep she might telephone Scotland Yard but she was too scared to push the point.

At length, he said, ‘You see your daddy, you tell him he better turn himself in. He don't, we'll make it hot for his nearest and dearest, you included. Got that?'

‘He won't come 'ere, but if 'e does, I'll tell 'im.'

‘And not one word to no one, girly.'

‘No,' Breda promised. ‘Me lips is sealed,' and when the man left the bedroom, swinging his torch, sank back against the pillows, sobbing with relief.

In the past few months CBS's European coverage had gathered steam. Even Mr Willets cast an envious eye at the American network's
European Roundup
which featured live conversations between a newscaster in New York and correspondents from London, Washington, Rome and Bucharest, linked by a complex intercontinental network of short-wave transmitters and land lines.

The BBC's new twice-weekly programme, tentatively and rather obviously called
Speaking Up for Britain
, would, of necessity, be less ambitious in scope and require the close cooperation of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation who had studios in New York, Washington and Boston.

One could safely leave the technical aspects to the BBC's engineers, Mr Willets said. His concern was with content and tone and where to find an intelligent presenter who would bring more to the mike than a pleasant speaking voice; a problem his assistant, Susan Hooper, was doing her level best to solve.

‘Bob, Bob Gaines?' Peter Slocum said. ‘Where did he find a pretty little thing like you? Come in, come in, and welcome.'

Susan was not impressed by the Lansdowne's resident Lothario. He was tall, exceptionally so, with haggard, hawk-like features, though his voice was soft, almost beguiling, and his hands, which he waved about a lot, were hypnotically expressive.

‘Is Robert here?' Susan said. ‘May I speak to him?'

‘Oh, so it's Robert, is it? Are you an intimate of my esteemed colleague and, if so, why haven't we met before?'

With a touch of hauteur that she instantly regretted, Susan said, ‘I'm from the BBC.'

‘That's what they all say,' Pete Slocum said. ‘Step inside and tell me more.'

‘No,' Susan said. ‘I mean it: I am from the BBC.'

‘Well, we won't hold that against you, Miss …'

‘Hooper, Susan Hooper.'

There was quite a ruckus going on at the far end of the corridor. A stocky young woman burst from the door of one of the Lansdowne's suites and catapulted herself towards the elevator pursued by a skinny young man who seemed to have forgotten that he wasn't wearing trousers.

‘It's only a month,' he shouted. ‘It's not the end of the goddamned world, Phyllis.'

‘He's now going to tell her he'll come back for her,' Mr Slocum predicted,
sotto voce
.

‘I will come back, you know. I swear I will,' the young man cried as the woman hurled herself into the elevator, closed the gates and disappeared.

‘And will he?' Susan said.

‘Probably not,' Mr Slocum said. ‘Bob's in Paris.'

‘For how long?'

‘It's not my habit to impart information to persons in passageways.' He extended a large hand and, without touching any part of her, ushered her into the apartment. ‘And whatever you may have heard to the contrary, I don't bite strangers.'

Several doors opened off the hall, bedrooms and a bathroom, Susan guessed, and a small kitchen in which a very dignified man in a canvas apron was ironing shirts at a fold-down board.

‘Our valet,' Peter Slocum told her. ‘He comes with the apartment, whether we like it or not.' He shepherded her before him into a well-lighted, fully furnished living room at the end of the hall. ‘Is it too early for martinis? No, it's never too early for martinis.' He moved to a Jacobean dresser that served as a bar. ‘We have fresh lemons and the vermouth is guaranteed dry.'

‘No, thank you,' Susan said politely.

‘Something else then. Tea, maybe?'

‘I'm fine, thank you.'

‘Sure you are; very fine.' Cocktail shaker in hand, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘But all business, I guess.'

‘Yes, all business.'

‘And what sort of business do you have with our Bob?'

‘I prefer to discuss it with Mr Gaines personally.'

‘Now, are you being coy or are you constrained by the BBC's policy of telling nobody nuttin'?' Pete Slocum opened the cocktail shaker and poured the mixture into a glass. ‘You're not from the censor's department, are you?'

‘Certainly not.' She yielded. ‘News and Talks.'

‘Then you must be Basil Willets's right-hand girl.'

‘Robert told you, I suppose.'

‘Bob didn't have to tell me. There are no secrets in the grill room of the Savoy. Old Baz is heading up an expansion of the North American service – what's it called? yeah:
Speaking Out for Britain
. Am I right?'

‘Up,' Susan said. ‘It's
Speaking Up for Britain
.'

‘Time someone round here did,' Pete Slocum said. ‘You can't leave it to Ed Murrow to make all the running for you.' He sipped from the cocktail glass like a horse from a trough. ‘If you want to influence American opinion you must fight your corner. Radio is one damned good way to do it.'

‘Why is Bob in Paris?'

‘He's covering the latest Allied War Council meeting in case the French decide to show Chamberlain the finger and sign a peace treaty with Germany.'

‘Is that liable to happen?'

‘No, no. The French have more grit than we give them credit for. If Hitler does invade France they won't surrender, at least not without a fight.'

‘When will Robert be back?'

‘Who knows? He can post from the Paris office and might hang on for a week or two if there's enough going on to make it worth his while.'

‘Does Robert have a girl in Paris?'

‘Hey, you don't beat around the bush, do you?'

‘No,' said Susan. ‘I don't.'

‘Bob had a girl – but not in Paris. Back home.'

‘Where is that?'

‘Paterson, New Jersey.'

‘What happened to her?'

‘She ditched him for another guy.' Pete Slocum finished his martini, went to the bar and poured another from the shaker. ‘Didn't he tell you?'

‘We weren't – I mean, aren't close friends.'

‘In that case,' Pete Slocum said, ‘what harm in the whole truth? Pearl wasn't just any old girl. She was Bob's wife. Some sneaky Johnny-on-the-spot stole her while Bob was covering the Berlin Olympics back in '
36
. How come you know Bob, anyway?'

‘We met through a mutual friend.'

‘Vivian Proudfoot?'

‘Yes.'

Susan had an uncomfortable feeling that Peter Slocum knew a lot more about her than he let on.

She glanced ostentatiously at her watch.

‘Leaving so soon?' Pete Slocum said. ‘I thought we were just warming up. Drag up a chair and have a drink.'

‘Another time,' said Susan.

She didn't wait for him to put down his glass. He followed her into the hall with it in his hand.

The valet popped his head from the door of the little kitchen and said enquiringly, ‘Mr Slocum?'

‘Thank you, George,' Peter Slocum said. ‘I have it.'

He came up behind her, so close that she could smell gin on his breath. She swung round to face him.

‘When Robert returns from Paris …' she began.

‘Ask him to call you.'

‘Yes. Please.'

‘At the BBC?'

‘Yes.'

He juggled the glass and offered his hand. She hesitated, then took it. His fingers closed around her wrist.

‘Maybe we'll meet at the Lagoon some time,' he said. ‘If we don't – well, just make sure you don't break Bob's heart.'

‘I don't know what you mean?' Susan said.

‘Sure, you do, honey,' Pete Slocum said, and ushered her out of the apartment without another word.

Breda had been in the Brooklyn Club
only once before. One afternoon, some three years ago, she'd brought Billy here to meet his grandfather. The club then had been empty of customers and, in the cold light of day, had seemed seedy and down-at-heel. How things had changed. Even at four in the afternoon the lane in which the club was situated was buzzing with young servicemen.

There was nothing furtive in the behaviour of the lads in the queue who, Breda guessed, were either on leave or, more likely, passing through London on their way to a posting. They were simply in search of a good time which, Steve Millar had indicated, meant a few beers and the chance to get off with a girl for a half-hour or so, no questions asked.

Breda had left Billy with her mother, had filched a half-crown from the till and, to save time, had taken a cab to the club. The cabby had given her a queer look when she'd told him where she was going but only after he'd dropped her at the head of the lane did she realise that her wide-skirted camel coat and turban hat – her ‘going out' rig – made her look more like a tart than a wife and mother.

She was not displeased, however, when the blokes in the queue whistled and exchanged suggestive remarks and when she gave them a wink and a wiggle they parted to allow her access to the big wooden door that was the Brooklyn's only entrance.

The door was already open. Two men in cheap lounge suits and gaudy ties were taking cash at a table on the landing at the top of the stairs; large men, much older than Steve Millar but just as well muscled.

‘What you after?' one of the doormen asked. ‘You lookin' for work, you come back later, talk to Terry.'

‘I'm not lookin' for work,' Breda said. ‘I'm lookin' for Mr Romano, Leo Romano. I'm his daughter.'

The doormen exchanged a glance.

One said to the other, ‘Fetch Vince.'

‘I don't want Vince,' Breda said. ‘I want Mr Romano.'

For big men they moved with astonishing alacrity.

One grabbed Breda by the arm, yanked her over the threshold and, to howls of protest from the lads outside, slammed the door. The other man had already vanished downstairs. It dawned on Breda that she'd made a horrible mistake in coming here.

Snatching her arm from the doorman's grasp, she snapped, ‘If you don't take your dirty paws off me, you'll be sorry when my daddy—'