“What is all this, kid?” he said, turning his head to look at her. “Are you worried about something?”
“Not really. But I worry about you.”
“I can look after myself, Katie. They don’t send us like lambs to the slaughter.”
“It isn’t just that. I read things sometimes in the paper and I wonder if they’re to do with you. Or if you do such things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Men who are dragged out of rivers or found dead in back-alleys, and hints that they were spies. I can’t somehow imagine you in those scenarios.”
“They don’t often happen.”
“Maybe not, but you seem too honest and … something or other … to be mixed up in things like that.”
“It’s only being a kind of policeman.”
“Policemen don’t kill the criminals.” She paused. “Have you killed people, Jimmy?”
He sat up rubbing his eyelids. “God, this sun-oil really stings.”
She reached out her hand to his leg. “I’m sorry, love. I’ll shut up. I shouldn’t have gone on like that.”
He shrugged. “It’s not like you, Katie. But I understand. I’d be the same if our roles were reversed. I’d be much worse, I’m sure. Let’s go round to Itchenor and have a drink. They’ll be open by the time we get there.”
As they sat in the pub an hour later in the hubbub of chatter about dinghies and stabilizers, radar and gin-palaces, he smiled as he saw her normal animation return, and was vaguely annoyed that his mind went back so frequently to the ex-soldier who had nightmares.
14
Back in London Debbie Shaw started her own management agency in a small suite of offices in Wardour Street. She soon found that her pretty face and attractive personality combined successfully with her tough business sense to give her a virtual monopoly over supplying dancers, singers and “personality” girls for overseas tours. Her girls went all over the world, and she quickly built a reputation for obtaining good terms and good bookings for her clients. Debbie Shaw’s girls were never stranded in Teheran by absconding operators, nor did they have to hustle drinks in German nightclubs after the act. If they wanted to earn more money by obliging men it was up to them.
She had several men-friends. None of the relationships was too serious. One was a radio announcer working for the BBC’s World Services at Bush House. One was a crime reporter on one of the London evening papers; and the other was an older man who had a show-biz act and performed in clubs and provincial variety theatres. She slept with all three of them from time to time but none of them could take the privilege for granted.
It was seven-thirty on a summer evening as she locked her office door when she noticed the man at the far end of the corridor. He was knocking on the insurance agent’s door. The insurance agent always left promptly at five-fifteen. As the man heard her footsteps he turned and as she got to him she said, “Mr. Nugent went some time ago.”
“Is he here every day, miss?”
“He seems to be. Try him tomorrow.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her face.
“Say, don’t I know you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You ever been to the States, honey?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact I have.”
He looked over her shoulder at the gold lettering on the glass panel of her office door.
“Debbie Shaw. My God. Where was it now?” He screwed up his eyes. “Texas. Fort Bliss, El Paso, Texas. Way, way back and you sang.” He smiled. “Yes?”
She smiled too. “I’m afraid you’re right. You’ve got a good memory.”
He grinned. “I have for pretty girls. Say, is that really your outfit there? Debbie Shaw Management?”
“Yes.”
“Well, well. How’re you making out? I bet you’re real good at your job.”
She smiled. “I get by. How about you?”
He laughed softly. “Me? I’m still in the army. Still the same old routine. Say, how about I take you for a drink or a meal some place. You tell me what’s the real best place in this town.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got a business meeting at eight. I’m going to be late as it is.”
“Too bad. I’ll walk you downstairs.”
At the street door he said, “Can I contact you some other time, honey?”
“Of course you can.”
She waved to a cruising taxi and as she sat back in the seat she wondered if the big American remembered that he’d slept with her after she’d sung in the officer’s mess that night in El Paso. At least he had remembered her face and her name. She hadn’t recognized him at first, and she still had no idea of his name.
It was exactly a week later when he called at her office just after lunch and he’d brought her a bottle of expensive perfume.
“Any chance of that date tonight, Debbie?”
She shook her head. “You’ll have to give me notice. By the way, I can’t remember your name.”
“Bill. Bill Mortensen. Full colonel US army, at your service. And rarin’ to go.”
“Next time phone me in advance and we’ll make a proper date.”
“I’ll sure do that, honey.” He paused, looking at her face. “Could I ask you a favour?”
She smiled. “Try me.”
“Can I leave a letter here to be picked up? It’s kinda special. Security stuff.”
“OK.”
He handed it over and she looked at the envelope. There was no name or address on it. She stood up as the light flashed on her internal telephone.
“I’ll have to throw you out. I’ve got a client waiting outside.”
“And I really can call you, honey?”
“Of course you can.”
A man called for the letter the next day and the colonel phoned her two days later to make a date.
She had never been to the Connaught before. Show-biz people preferred somewhere more lively. She liked the food but found the place dreary. No laughing and chatting at other people’s tables.
They were sipping coffee in the far corner of the residents’ lounge when he put the question.
“That letter you held for
