Forty-five
The first glimmer of dawn awoke him and Field lay still, every muscle in his body screaming at the discomfort of the night. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was. He lifted his cheek from the cold marble floor and rubbed his eyes. His shoulder was cramped against her door.
Natasha had not been home.
He turned and paced from one side of the hall to the other.
Field took the notepad from his pocket and his father’s fountain pen. For a moment, as he tried to think what to say, he wondered if this is what his father had felt for his mother. Was it love that ruined you?
Field wrote:
Slowly, he opened the door to the stairwell and began to descend to the street. It was still early, a hint of color on the rooftops, the air heavy and close. He felt the stubble on his chin. He thought he could still taste Penelope in his mouth and it disgusted him. His clothes were a mess.
Field passed a line of bodies huddled against the wall of the race club and then stopped by its entrance and turned back one last time. As he swung around, a short Chinese in a pinstripe suit and black trilby stopped about twenty yards behind him.
Field looked at him, but the man made no attempt to hide, or to pretend that he was doing anything other than following him.
Field began walking again, listening to his own footsteps and the echo behind him. He felt for his revolver.
He kept a steady pace, skirting the race club and waiting for a solitary tram to pass before crossing the road. His pursuer maintained his distance.
In Carter Road, Field had thought to try and lose him, but as he walked past the church, the graveyard of which he would have used to shake off his pursuer, he saw another man reading a newspaper on the far side, and a third standing at the intersection ahead.
He slipped his hand inside his jacket and took hold of his revolver, then stopped. The footsteps halted behind him, but neither of the men ahead moved. He was ten yards beyond the church. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest.
His brain was clear. They would have shot him by now if that had been their intention.
He started walking again. The man on the far side of the road continued to read his newspaper; the one at the intersection ambled away down the street.
Field kept going until he reached his quarters, standing silently in the hallway beyond the porter. He took out his revolver and checked that all the chambers were full before turning into the common room and forcing himself to breathe more normally.
He poured himself a cup of coffee from the jug on the sideboard, took the copy of the
One of the boys came through the white swinging doors, but Field shook his head. “No cook.”
“Bacon?”
Field shook his head.
“Eggs? Very good. Build you up.”
“No thanks.”
The boy wiped a corner of the table that had not looked dirty with his tea towel and withdrew. Field sipped his coffee, then picked the mug up and went and sat in one of the leather chairs at the far end of the room. Pulling open his newspaper, fighting to concentrate, his eyes strayed to a picture of Bebe Daniels advertising her latest picture,
He put the newspaper down and went upstairs to change. In the corridor Prokopieff was pulling up his suspenders.
“Good morning, Field,” he said, his accent thick and sarcastic.
“Good morning.”
“Getting up early.”
“Yes.”
“And getting out of bed on the wrong side.”
Field stopped. He looked at the Russian’s bald head and sallow eyes. “Been busy, Prokopieff?”
He shrugged.
“What are you working on?”
“Working hard, my friend.”
“Granger’s orders?”
Prokopieff looked at him intently. “Not everything is Granger’s orders.”
Field held the Russian’s stare, then unlocked his own room and slammed the door shut. He took his revolver out of its holster, placed it on the bed, within easy reach, then took some fresh clothes from the closet and put them on. His shirt had been neatly ironed by the hall steward, but was still musty and slightly damp.
