“I can’t imagine why,” she said coolly. Finally she looked at me, but not as if not seeing me for a week had left an emptiness in her life. “Well?”
“It’s going to take a little time,” I said.
She sat down slowly. I sat down on the other davenport. Spencer was frowning. He took his glasses off and polished them. That gave him a chance to frown more naturally, Then he sat on the other end of the davenport from me.
“I was sure you would come in time for lunch,” she told him, smiling.
“Not today, thanks.”
“No? Well, of course if you are too busy. Then you just want to see that script.”
“If I may.”
“Of course. Candy! Oh, he’s gone. It’s on the desk in Roger’s study. I’ll get it.”
Spencer stood up. “May I get it?”
Without waiting for an answer he started across the room. Ten feet behind her he stopped and gave me a strained look. Then he went on. I just sat there and waited until her head came around and her eyes gave me a cool impersonal stare.
“What was it you wanted to see me about?” she asked curtly.
“This and that. I see you are wearing that pendant again.
“I often wear it. It was given to me by a very dear friend a long time ago.”
“Yeah. You told me. It’s a British military badge of some sort, isn’t it?”
She held it out at the end of the thin chain. “It’s a jeweler’s reproduction of one. Smaller than the original and in gold and enamel”
Spencer came back across the room and sat down again and put a thick pile of yellow paper on the corner of the cocktail table in front of him. He glanced at it idly, then his eyes were watching Eileen.
“Could I look at it a little closer?” I asked her.
She pulled the chain around until she could unfasten the clasp. She handed the pendant to me, or rather she dropped it in my hand. Then she folded her hands in her lap and just looked curious. “Why are you so interested? It’s the badge of a regiment called the Artists Rifles, a Territorial regiment. The man who gave it to me was lost soon afterwards. At Andalsnes in Norway, in the spring of that terrible year—1940.” She smiled and made a brief gesture with one hand. “He was in love with me.”
“Eileen was in London all through the Blitz,” Spencer said in an empty voice. “She couldn’t get away.”
We both ignored Spencer. “And you were in love with him,” I said.
She looked down and then raised her head and our glances locked. “It was a long time ago,” she said. “And there was a war. Strange things happen.”
“There was a little more to it than that, Mrs. Wade. I guess you forget how much you opened up about him. ‘The wild mysterious improbable kind of love that never comes but once.’ I’m quoting you. In a way you’re still in love with him. It’s darn nice of me to have the same initials. I suppose that had something to do with your picking me out.”
“His name was nothing like yours,” she said coldly. “And he is dead, dead, dead.”
I held the gold and enamel pendant out to Spencer. He took it reluctantly. “I’ve seen it before,” he muttered.
“Check me on the design,” I said. “It consists of a broad dagger in white enamel with a gold edge. The dagger points downwards and the flat of the blade crosses in front of a pair of upward-curling pale blue enamel wings. Then it crosses in back of a scroll. On the scroll are the words: WHO DARES WINS.”
“That seems to be correct,” he said. “What makes it important?”
“She says it’s a badge of the Artists Rifles, a Territorial outfit. She says it was given to her by a man who was in that outfit and was lost in the Norwegian campaign with the British Army in the spring of 1940 at Andalsnes.”
I had their attention. Spencer watched me steadily. I wasn’t talking to the birds and he knew it. Eileen knew it too. Her tawny eyebrows were crimped in a puzzled frown which could have been genuine. It was also unfriendly.
“This is a sleeve badge,” I said. “It came into existence because the Artists Rifles were made over or attached or seconded or whatever the correct term is into a Special Air Service Outfit. They had originally been a Territorial Regiment of infantry. This badge didn’t even exist until 1947. Therefore nobody gave it to Mrs. Wade in 1940. Also, no Artists Rifles were landed at Andalsnes in Norway in 1940. Sherwood Foresters and Leicestershires, yes. Both Territorial. Artists Rifles, no. Am I being nasty?”
Spencer put the pendant down on the coffee table and pushed it slowly across until it was in front of Eileen. He said nothing.
“Do you think I wouldn’t know?” Eileen asked me contemptuously.
“Do you think the British War Office wouldn’t know?” I asked her right back.
“Obviously there must be some mistake,” Spencer said mildly.
I swung around and gave him a hard stare. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Another way of putting it is that I am a liar,” Eileen said icily. “I never knew anyone named Paul Marston, never loved him or he me. He never gave me a reproduction of his regimental badge, he was never missing in action, he never existed. I bought this badge myself in a shop in New York where they specialize in imported British
