Trave didn’t recognize the voice, but he immediately recognized its owner when he appeared behind Jarvis in the doorway. It was Seaforth, wearing an expensive tailor-made suit that made him look like some kind of Hollywood film star.
‘’E was ’ere before; ’e talked to Thorn. Said ’e was a policeman,’ said Jarvis, taking a step backwards and addressing his remarks to Seaforth as if Trave weren’t there. ‘Now ’e says Thorn’s been discharged. I told you ’e would be.’
‘So you did, Mr Jarvis. So you did,’ said Seaforth, clapping the caretaker lightly on his bony shoulder. ‘And I’m sure we’re very glad to hear that Alec is back in the land of the living,’ he added, which seemed to Trave to be an entirely truthful statement at least as far as Seaforth was concerned, although Jarvis seemed less enthusiastic. Seaforth in fact looked delighted at the news, which puzzled Trave, knowing as he did from Thorn that they were sworn enemies.
Seaforth smiled at Trave over Jarvis’s shoulder as he spoke to the caretaker, as if inviting the visitor to join in a conspiracy of shared amusement about Jarvis’s rudeness and dropped aitches. Yet Trave had also picked up on a warmth, almost a deference, in the way the surly old janitor spoke to Seaforth that had been entirely lacking in his interaction with Thorn when Trave had last been at 59 Broadway.
‘Thank you, Mr Jarvis. I can take this from here,’ said Seaforth. The caretaker gave a last baleful look at Trave and retreated back into the interior of the building.
‘I’m Charles Seaforth. Maybe I can help you?’ said Seaforth as soon as he and Trave were on their own. He held out his hand to Trave in a friendly way, as if meeting him for the first time, even though Trave was sure this was a charade. He would have been willing to bet his meagre savings that Seaforth remembered the face of everyone he’d followed or had been followed by since he’d begun his career as a secret agent — whenever that may have been.
‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s Alec Thorn I need to see,’ said Trave, shaking Seaforth’s hand but avoiding his eyes. He remembered the contemptuous ease with which Seaforth had given him the slip in the Underground station on the day of Bertram’s arrest and sensed instinctively that Seaforth would get the better of him again if he was forced into a conversation.
‘May I ask what about?’ asked Seaforth, refusing to take no for an answer.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. It’s a police matter,’ said Trave, turning to go.
‘Relating to the murder of our late lamented colleague Albert Morrison?’ asked Seaforth.
‘Yes,’ said Trave, caught off guard.
‘I thought so,’ said Seaforth, smiling. ‘So you must be Detective Trave?’
Trave nodded. He had no choice.
‘You may wonder how I know who you are. It was your superior, Inspector …’ Seaforth made a show of trying to remember the name, even though Trave was sure that he knew it already, and then came up with it: ‘Quaid — that’s it — who told me about you when he telephoned us to discuss the case following your visit to Mr Thorn. If you don’t mind me asking, are you here on Inspector Quaid’s instructions?’
‘Like I said, it’s a police matter,’ said Trave. ‘I can’t really discuss it.’
‘So you won’t mind if I call Inspector Quaid and tell him about your visit here?’ asked Seaforth with a smile.
‘You do whatever you have to do,’ Trave said defiantly, and then regretted his words. Seaforth was toying with him, testing his reactions, and he had reacted like an angry bull at the first provocation. Still, it was hardly surprising that his nerves were frayed, Trave reflected. Seaforth held all the cards. All he had to do was pick up the telephone and call Quaid and Trave would find himself on the next train north, and this time without a return ticket.
But Seaforth had not finished with him yet. He reacted to Trave’s outburst with a return to his initial friendliness. ‘I expect that Alec has just gone home to wash up and get changed,’ he said. ‘It sounds like he’s been through quite an ordeal.’
‘Yes. I expect you’re right,’ Trave said guardedly.
‘I’m sure he’ll be here before too long if you’d like to wait.’
‘No, I’ll come back later,’ said Trave, backing away. He knew what Seaforth had in mind — a call to Quaid while Trave sat in the poky waiting room where he’d talked to Thorn on the day after the murder, and the inspector would be round in an instant to remove his rogue assistant from 59 Broadway once and for all.
‘As you wish,’ said Seaforth, watching the retreating policeman with the same look of scornful amusement he’d bestowed on Trave from the departing Underground train five days before.
Trave walked aimlessly through the streets, trying to get his thoughts under control and work out what to do next. He cursed himself for having gone to 59 Broadway, yet he knew he’d had no choice. He didn’t know Thorn’s home address and he had no way of finding it out, so the spy headquarters had been the only place he could go to look for him. He’d had to take a chance, and it was just bad luck that he’d run into Seaforth instead. But there was a price to pay for bad luck. Trave felt sure that Seaforth had already put in his call to Quaid and that the inspector would soon have people out looking for him. The net was tightening around him, not Seaforth, and he needed to get out of the area.
But where to? He was on his own now, he had to face that. He had a warrant card and a revolver with six rounds of ammunition, but otherwise he was a policeman without resources. He’d burnt his boats with Scotland Yard by going to 59 Broadway, and the only way back was if he could find out what Seaforth was plotting and foil his plan before it was too late.
Seaforth — he was the key, Trave suddenly realized, not Thorn. Trave had no idea where Thorn was, he had no way of finding out, and he couldn’t wait around for him to show up. But perhaps none of that mattered. Because he did know where Seaforth was. If Seaforth was at 59 Broadway, then he couldn’t be at home in his apartment, and maybe there would be something there that would provide a breakthrough or at least a lead that might take the investigation forward.
And in the same instant that Trave thought of Seaforth’s apartment, he realized that he was wrong about being on his own. He’d forgotten about Ava. In a flash he remembered her parting words to him at Bow Street the day before: ‘You can count on me.’ Ava knew where Seaforth lived — she could tell him where to go.
Trave remembered Seaforth’s mocking smile from a few minutes before, the way he’d looked as though he had the game already won. Perhaps he was too arrogant to imagine a policeman turning to crime and breaking into his apartment without a warrant. Perhaps his confidence was his Achilles’ heel.
There was a sandbagged police box at the end of Victoria Street, and it didn’t take long for Trave to get Ava’s phone number. He rang it again and again, but there was no reply, and, as with Thorn, there was no available listing for Seaforth’s apartment. Trave wasn’t surprised. Privacy was apparently one of the perquisites of spying.
The mood of black despair that Trave had felt after seeing Seaforth seized him again and he fought to keep control of his emotions. Up and down like a yo-yo, his mood swings were getting more extreme as he crisscrossed London, getting nowhere fast. But he knew he couldn’t give up. Perhaps Ava was home but not picking up the telephone, or perhaps she was out shopping or walking around aimlessly just like him. Whatever the case, sooner or later she would have to go home, and Trave intended to make sure she found him waiting for her. Ava was his last lead, and he could not let it go. Wearily, he made his way through the backstreets to Victoria station and caught an overland train to Battersea.
Thorn missed Trave by less than ten minutes. Jarvis reported the deputy chief’s arrival to Seaforth as soon as Thorn had gone upstairs and shut the door of his office.
‘’E looks like ’e’s been in the wars, I can tell you that,’ said the caretaker, looking pleased.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Oh, and by the way, I don’t think there’s any need to tell Mr Thorn about that policeman’s visit. It sounds like he’s got quite enough on his plate already,’ said Seaforth, looking hard at Jarvis.
‘Mum’s the word,’ said Jarvis with a knowing nod. Something told him that his Boer War Veterans Fund collection box would be receiving a significant contribution before the end of the day, and he had no objections to that.
Trave’s visit had alarmed Seaforth, even though he didn’t like to admit it. The connection between his arch- enemy and the dogged young detective spelt trouble. Seaforth guessed that Trave must have found out something or he wouldn’t be looking for Thorn. He cursed the terrier-like persistence of the detective and wished that he’d
