which could indicate some kind of opposition. Have you any agents working the case?” he asked Carter.
“Certainly not. I’d have told you.”
“Interesting. When we were at the inquest on Baker this morning Dillon noticed two men who gave him pause for thought. He noticed one of them again later when we were at the crematorium.”
Carter frowned. “But who could it be?”
“God knows, but it’s another reason for having Dillon on the job. The girl still insists she doesn’t know the site of the submarine.”
“Do you believe her?” Pamer put in.
“I do,” Dillon said. “She’s not the sort to lie.”
“And you would know, of course,” Carter said acidly.
Dillon shrugged. “Why should she lie about it? What would be the point?”
“But she must know something,” Pamer said. “At the very least she must have some sort of a clue.”
“Who knows?” Ferguson said. “But at this stage of the game we must proceed on the assumption that she doesn’t.”
“So what happens next?” Carter demanded.
“Dillon will proceed to St. John and take it from there. The girl mentioned a diver, a man named Carney, Bob Carney, who was a close friend of Baker. Apparently he knows the area like the back of his hand. The girl can make a suitable introduction, persuade him to help.”
“But there’s no guarantee he can find the damned thing,” Pamer said.
“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Ferguson looked at his watch. “We’ll have to go.”
He stood and led the way outside. They paused by the wall on the edge of the Terrace. Carter said, “So that’s it then?”
“Yes,” Ferguson told him. “Dillon and the girl will probably leave for St. John tomorrow or the day after.”
“Well I can’t say I like it.”
“No one is asking you to.” Ferguson nodded to Dillon. “Let’s get moving.”
He moved away and Dillon smiled at the two of them with all his considerable charm. “It’s been a sincere sensation, but one thing, Mr. Carter.” He leaned over the parapet and looked down at the brown water of the Thames. “Only fifteen feet, I’d say, maybe less when the tide’s up. All that security at the front door and nothing here. I’d think about that if I were you.”
“Two-knot current out there,” Pamer said. “Not that I can swim myself. Never could. Should be enough to keep the wolves at bay.”
Dillon walked away and Carter said, “It makes my skin crawl to think of that little swine walking around here, a free man. Ferguson must be crazy.”
Pamer said, “Yes, I see your point, but what do you think about the girl? Do you believe her?”
“I’m not sure,” Carter said. “And Dillon has a point. Why would she lie?”
“So we’re no further forward?”
“I wouldn’t say that. She knows the area, she knew Baker intimately, the kind of places he went to and so on. Even if she doesn’t know the actual location she may be able to work it out with this Carney fellow to help her, the diver.”
“And Dillon, of course.”
“Yes, well, I prefer to forget about him and under the circumstances, what I could do with is another drink,” and Carter turned and led the way into the bar.
At his suite in Paris Max Santiago listened patiently while Pamer gave him details of the meeting on the Terrace.
“Astonishing,” he said when Pamer had finished. “If this Dillon is the kind of man you describe, he would be a formidable opponent.”
“But what about the girl?”
“I don’t know, Francis, we’ll have to see. I’ll be in touch.”
He put the phone down momentarily, picked it up again and rang Smith in London and when he answered, told him exactly what he wanted him to do.
It was just after six and Dillon was in the study reading the evening paper by the fire when the doorbell sounded. He went and opened it and found old Mr. Cox standing there, a hearse parked at the curb. He was holding a cardboard box in his hands.
“Is Miss Grant at home?”
“Yes, I’ll get her for you,” Dillon told him.
“No need.” Cox handed him the box. “The ashes. They’re in a traveling urn inside. Give her my best respects.”
He went down to the hearse and Dillon closed the door. The Admiral had gone out to an early evening function at his club, but Jenny was in the kitchen. Dillon called to her and she came out.
“What is it?”
He held up the box. “Mr. Cox just left this for you,” and turned and went into the study and put it on the table. She stood beside him, looking at it, then gently opened the lid and took out what was inside. It wasn’t really an urn, just a square box in dark, patterned metal with a clasp holding the lid in place. The brass plate said: Henry Baker 1929-1992.
She put it down on the table and slumped into a chair. “That’s what it all comes down to at the final end of things, five pounds of gray ash in a metal box.”
She broke then and started to cry in total anguish. Dillon put his hands on her shoulders for a moment only. “Just let it come, it’ll do you good. I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” and he turned and went along to the kitchen.
She sat there for a moment and it was as if she couldn’t breathe. She had to get out, needed air. She got up, went into the hall, took the Admiral’s old trenchcoat down from the stand and pulled it on. When she opened the door it had started to rain. She belted the coat and hurried along the pavement and Smith, sitting in the van with Johnson, saw her pass the entrance to the alley.
“Perfect,” he said. “Let’s get on with it,” and he got out and went after her, Johnson at his heels.
Dillon went along the hall to the study, the cup of coffee in his hand, and was aware first of the silence. He went into the study, put down the cup and went back to the hall.
“Jenny?” he called and then noticed that the door was slightly ajar.
“For God’s sake,” he said, took down his flying jacket and went out, putting it on. There was no sign of her, the street deserted. He’d have to take a chance, turned left and ran along the pavement toward Great Peter Street.
It was raining very hard now and he paused on the corner for a moment, looking left and then right, and saw her at the far end where the street met Millbank. She was waiting for a gap in the traffic, saw her chance and darted across to Victoria Tower Gardens by the river, and Dillon also saw something else, Smith and Johnson crossing the road behind her. At that distance, he didn’t actually recognize them, but it was enough. He swore savagely and started to run.
It was almost dark as Jenny crossed to the wall overlooking the Thames. There was a lamp about every twenty feet, rain slanting in a silver spray through a yellow light, and a seagoing freighter moved downstream, its red and green navigation lights plain. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself and felt better. It was at that moment she heard a movement behind her, turned and found Smith and Johnson standing there.
She knew she was in trouble at once. “What do you want?” she demanded and started to edge away.
“No need to panic, darling,” Smith said. “A little conversation is all we need, a few answers.”
She turned to run and Johnson was on her like a flash, pinning her arms and forcing her back against the wall. “Jenny, isn’t it?” he asked and as she struggled desperately, he smiled. “I like that, do it some more.”
“Leave off,” Smith told him. “Can’t you ever think of anything except what’s in your pants?” Johnson eased away, but moved round to hold her from the rear and Smith said, “Now about this U-boat in the Virgin Islands. You don’t really expect us to believe you don’t know where it is?”
