Stafford Nye asked no direct questions but presently, without the lady being even aware or the means by which he had guided the subject of conversation, he was hearing a few remarks about the Countess Renata Zerkowski.
'Still very good-looking, isn't she? She doesn't come over here very often nowadays. Mostly New York, you know, or that wonderful island place. You know the one I mean. Not Minorca. One of the other ones in the Mediterranean. Her sister's married to that soap king, at least I think it's a soap king. Not the Greek one. He's Swedish, I think. Rolling in money. And then of course, she spends a lot of time in some castle place in the Dolomites — or near Munich — very musical, she always has been. She said you'd met before, didn't she?'
'Yes. A year or two years ago, I think.'
'Oh yes, I suppose when she was over in England before. They say she was mixed up in the Czechoslovakian business. Or do I mean the Polish trouble? Oh dear, it's so difficult, isn't it. All the names, I mean. They have so many z's and k's. Most peculiar, and so hard to spell. She's very literary. You know, gets up petitions for people to sign. To give writers asylum here, or whatever it is. Not that anyone really pays much attention. I mean, what else can one think of nowadays except how one can possibly pay one's own taxes. The travel allowance makes things a little better but not much. I mean, you've got to get the money, haven't you, before you can take it abroad. I don't know how anyone manages to have money now, but there's a lot of it about. Oh yes, there's a lot of it about.'
She looked down in a complacent fashion at her left hand, on which were two solitaire rings, one a diamond and one an emerald, which seemed to prove conclusively that a considerable amount of money had been spent upon her at least.
The evening drew on to its close. He knew very little more about his passenger from Frankfurt than he had known before. He knew that she had a faзade, a faзade it seemed to him, very highly faceted, if you could use those two alliterative words together. She was interested in music. Well, he had met her at the Festival Hall, had he not? Fond of outdoor sports. Rich relations who owned Mediterranean islands. Given to supporting literary charities. Somebody in fact who had good connections, was well related, had entries to the social field. Not apparently highly political and yet, quietly perhaps, affiliated to some group. Someone who moved about from place to place and country to country. Moving among the rich, amongst the talented, about the literary world. He thought of espionage for a moment or two. That seemed the most likely answer. And yet he was not wholly satisfied with it.
The evening drew on. It came at last to be his turn to be collected by his hostess. Milly Jean was very good at her job.
'I've been longing to talk to you for ages. I wanted to hear about Malaya. I'm so stupid about all these places in Asia, you know, I mix them up. Tell me, what happened out there? Anything interesting or was everything terribly boring?'
'I'm sure you can guess the answer to that one.'
'Well, I should guess it was very boring. But perhaps you're not allowed to say so.'
'Oh yes, I can think it, and I can say it. It wasn't really my cup of tea, you know.'
'Why did you go then?'
'Oh well, I'm always fond of travelling, I like seeing countries.'
'You're such an intriguing person in many ways. Really, of course, all diplomatic life is very boring, isn't it? I oughtn't to say so. I only say it to you.'
Very blue eyes. Blue like bluebells in a wood. They opened a little wider and the black brows above them came down gently at the outside corners while the inside corner went up a little. It made her face look like a rather beautiful Persian cat. He wondered what Milly Jean was really like Her soft voice was that of a southerner. The beautifully shaped little head, her profile with the perfection of a coin — what was she really like? No fool, he thought. One who could use social weapons when needed, who could charm when she wished to, who could withdraw into being enigmatic.
If she wanted anything from anyone she would be adroit in getting it. He noticed the intensity of the glance she was giving him now. Did she want something of him? He didn't know. He didn't think it could be likely. She said, 'Have you met Mr Staggenham?'
'Ah yes. I was talking to him at the dinner table. I hadn't met him before.'
'He is said to be very important,' said Milly Jean. 'He is the President of PBF as you know.'
'One should know all those things,' said Sir Stafford Nye. 'PBF and DCV. LYH. And all the world of initials.'
'Hateful,' said Milly Jean. 'Hateful. All these initials, no personalities, no people any more. Just initials. What a hateful world! That's what I sometimes think. What a hateful world. I want it to be different, quite, quite different –'
Did she mean that? He thought for one moment that perhaps she did. Interesting…
Grosvenor Square was quietness itself. There were traces of broken glass still on the pavements. There were even eggs, squashed tomatoes and fragments of gleaming metal.
But above, the stars were peaceful. Car after car drove up to the Embassy door to collect the home-going guests. The police were there in the corners of the square but without ostentation. Everything was under control. One of the political guests leaving spoke to one of the police officers. He came back and murmured, 'Not too many arrests. Eight. They'll be up at Bow Street in the morning. More or less the usual lot. Petronella was here, of course, and Stephen and his crowd. Ah well. One would think they'd get tired of it one of these days.'
'You live not very far from here, don't you?' said a voice in Sir Stafford Nye's ear. A deep contralto voice. 'I can drop you on my way.'
'No, no. I can walk perfectly. It's only ten minutes or so.'
'It will be no trouble to me, I assure you,' said the Countess Zerkowski. She added, 'I'm staying at the St James's Tower.'
The St James's Tower was one of the newer hotels.
'You are very kind.'
It was a big, expensive-looking hire car that waited. The chauffeur opened the door, the Countess Renata got in and Sir Stafford Nye followed her. It was she who gave Sir Stafford Nye's address to the chauffeur. The car drove off.
'So you know where I live?' he said.
'Why not?'
He wondered just what that answer meant: Why not?
'Why not indeed,' he said. 'You know so much, don't you?' He added, 'It was kind of you to return my passport.'
'I thought it might save certain inconveniences. It might be simpler if you burnt it. You've been issued with a new one, I presume –'
'You presume correctly.'
'Your bandit's cloak you will find in the bottom drawer of your tallboy. It was put there tonight. I believed that perhaps to purchase another one would not satisfy you, and indeed that to find one similar might not be possible.'
'It will mean more to me now that it has been through certain — adventures,' said Stafford Nye. He added, 'It has served its purpose.'
The car purred through the night
The Countess Zerkowski said:
'Yes. It has served its purpose since I am here — alive…'
Sir Stafford Nye said nothing. He was assuming, rightly or not, that she wanted him to ask questions, to press her, to know more of what she had been doing, of what fate she had escaped. She wanted him to display curiosity, but Sir Stafford Nye was not going to display curiosity. He rather enjoyed not doing so. He heard her laugh very gently. Yet he fancied, rather surprisingly, that it was a pleased laugh, a laugh of satisfaction, not of stalemate.
'Did you enjoy your evening?' she said.
'A good party, I think, but Milly Jean always gives good parties.'
'You know her well then?'
'I knew her when she was a girl in New York before she married. A pocket Venus.'
She looked at him in faint surprise.
