care to see it?’
Miss Scheele expressed her willingness to see it, duly admired it and promised to mention it to Mr Morganthal.
She went out again into Bond Street, and the young woman who had been looking at clip earrings expressed herself as unable to make up her mind and emerged also.
The grey Standard car having turned to the left in Grafton Street and gone down to Piccadilly was just coming up Bond Street again. The young woman showed no signs of recognition.
Anna Scheele had turned into the Arcade. She entered a florist’s. She ordered three dozen long-stemmed roses, a bowl full of sweet big purple violets, a dozen sprays of white lilac, and a jar of mimosa. She gave an address for them to be sent.
‘That will be twelve pounds, eighteen shillings, madam.’
Anna Scheele paid and went out. The young woman who had just come in asked the price of a bunch of primroses but did not buy them.
Anna Scheele crossed Bond Street and went along Burlington Street and turned into Savile Row. Here she entered the establishment of one of those tailors who, whilst catering essentially for men, occasionally condescend to cut a suit for certain favoured members of the feminine sex.
Mr Bolford received Miss Scheele with the greeting accorded to a valued client, and the materials for a suit were considered.
‘Fortunately, I can give you our own export quality. When will you be returning to New York, Miss Scheele?’
‘On the twenty-third.’
‘We can manage that nicely. By the clipper, I presume?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how are things in America? They are very sadly here – very sadly indeed.’ Mr Bolford shook his head like a doctor describing a patient. ‘No
Mr Bolford’s plump hands waved them away.
‘Quality,’ he said. ‘That’s what this country used to be renowned for. Quality! Nothing cheap, nothing flashy. When we try mass production we’re no good at it, and that’s a fact. That’s
Making her way through the archaic gloom round bales of material, Anna Scheele emerged into daylight again. She hailed a taxi and returned to the Savoy. A taxi that was drawn up on the opposite side of the street and which contained a little dark man, took the same route but did not turn into the Savoy. It drove round to the Embankment and there picked up a short plump woman who had recently emerged from the service entrance of the Savoy.
‘What about it, Louisa? Been through her room?’
‘Yes. Nothing.’
Anna Scheele had lunch in the restaurant. A table had been kept for her by the window. The Maоtre d’Hфtel inquired affectionately after the health of Otto Morganthal.
After lunch Anna Scheele took her key and went up to her suite. The bed had been made, fresh towels were in the bathroom and everything was spick and span. Anna crossed to the two light air-cases that constituted her luggage, one was open, the other locked. She cast an eye over the contents of the unlocked one, then taking her keys from her purse she unlocked the other. All was neat, folded, as she had folded things, nothing had apparently been touched or disturbed. A brief-case of leather lay on top. A small Leica camera and two rolls of films were in one corner. The films were still sealed and unopened. Anna ran her nail across the flap and pulled it up. Then she smiled, very gently. The single almost invisible blonde hair that had been there was there no longer. Deftly she scattered a little powder over the shiny leather of the brief-case and blew it off. The brief-case remained clear and shiny. There were no fingerprints. But that morning after patting a little brilliantine on to the smooth flaxen cap of her hair, she had handled the brief-case. There
She smiled again.
‘Good work,’ she said to herself. ‘But not quite good enough…’
Deftly, she packed a small overnight-case and went downstairs again. A taxi was called and she directed the driver to 17 Elmsleigh Gardens.
Elmsleigh Gardens was a quiet, rather dingy Kensington Square. Anna paid off the taxi and ran up the steps to the peeling front door. She pressed the bell. After a few minutes an elderly woman opened the door with a suspicious face which immediately changed to a beam of welcome.
‘Won’t Miss Elsie be pleased to see you! She’s in the study at the back. It’s only the thought of your coming that’s been keeping her spirits up.’
Anna went quickly along the dark hallway and opened the door at the far end. It was a small shabby, comfortable room with large worn leather arm-chairs. The woman sitting in one of them jumped up.
‘Anna, darling.’
‘Elsie.’
The two women kissed each other affectionately.
‘It’s all arranged,’ said Elsie. ‘I go in tonight. I do hope –’
‘Cheer up,’ said Anna. ‘Everything is going to be quite all right.’
II
The small dark man in the raincoat entered a public callbox at High Street Kensington Station, and dialled a number.
‘Valhalla Gramophone Company?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sanders here.’
‘Sanders of the River? What river?’
‘River Tigris. Reporting on A. S. Arrived this morning from New York. Went to Cartier’s. Bought sapphire and diamond ring costing one hundred and twenty pounds. Went to florist’s, Jane Kent – twelve pounds eighteen shillings’ worth of flowers to be delivered at a nursing home in Portland Place. Ordered coat and skirt at Bolford and Avory’s. None of these firms known to have any suspicious contacts, but particular attention will be paid to them in future. A. S.’s room at Savoy gone through. Nothing suspicious found. Brief-case in suitcase containing papers relating to Paper Merger with Wolfensteins. All above board. Camera and two rolls of apparently unexposed films. Possibility of films being photostatic records, substituted other films for them, but original films reported upon as being straightforward unexposed films. A.S. took small overnight-case and went to sister at 17 Elmsleigh Gardens. Sister entering nursing home in Portland Place this evening for internal operation. This confirmed from nursing home and also appointment book of surgeon. Visit of A. S. seems perfectly above board. Showed no uneasiness or consciousness of being followed. Understand she is spending tonight at nursing home. Has kept on her room at the Savoy. Return passage to New York by clipper booked for twenty-third.’
The man who called himself Sanders of the River paused and added a postscript off the record as it were.
‘And if you ask what I think it’s all a mare’s nest! Throwing money about, that’s all
