The Unlikely Spy

Vicary was listening intently, studying his hands.

 

"The waitress says Rose crossed Oxford Street and queued for a westbound bus. I put a man on as many buses as I could. About a half hour ago we found the ticket collector who was on Rose's bus. He remembered her very well. Said she had a brief conversation with a very tall, very attractive woman who jumped off the bus in quite a hurry. Said that when the bus arrived at Marble Arch, the same very tall, very attractive woman was waiting there. He said he would have called us on his own, but the papers said the police already had their suspects and neither one was a very tall, very attractive woman."

 

A typist poked her head in the door and said, "Sorry to interrupt but you have a call, Harry. A Detective-Sergeant Colin Meadows. Says it's urgent."

 

Harry took the call at his desk.

 

"You the same Harry Dalton that cracked the Spencer Thomas case?"

 

"I'm the man," Harry said. "What can I do for you?"

 

"It's concerning the Hyde Park shooting. I think I have something for you."

 

"Spill it, Detective-Sergeant. We're under a bit of time pressure over here."

 

"I hear the real suspect is a woman," Meadows said. "Tall, attractive, thirty to thirty-five years old."

 

"Could be. What do you know?"

 

"I've been working the Pope murder."

 

"I read about it," Harry said. "I can't believe someone had the balls to slit the throats of Vernon Pope and his girl."

 

"Actually, Pope was stabbed in the eye."

 

"Really!"

 

"Yeah," Meadows said. "And his girlfriend got it in the heart. One stab wound--surgical, almost."

 

Harry remembered what the Home Office pathologist had said about the body of Beatrice Pymm. The last rib on her left side had been nicked. Possible stab wound to the chest.

 

Harry said, "But the papers--"

 

"You can't trust what you read in the papers, can you, Harry? We changed the descriptions of the wounds to weed out the crazies. You'd be surprised how many people want to take credit for killing Vernon Pope."

 

"Not really. He was a right bastard. Keep going."

 

"A woman matching your girl's description was seen entering the Popes' warehouse the night Pope was killed. I have two witnesses."

 

"Jesus Christ!"

 

"It gets better. Immediately after the murder, Robert Pope and one of his muscle boys broke into a boardinghouse in Islington looking for a woman. It seems they had the wrong address. Took off like a pair of jackrabbits. But not before they roughed up the landlady."

 

"Why am I hearing this only now?" Harry snapped. "Pope was killed nearly two weeks ago!"

 

"Because my super thinks I'm on a wild-goose chase. He's convinced Pope was killed by a rival. He doesn't want us to waste time pursuing alternative theories, as he puts it."

 

"Who's the super?"

 

"Kidlington."

 

"Oh, Christ! Saint Andrew?"

 

"One and the same. There's one other thing. I questioned Robert Pope once last week. I want to question him again but he's gone to ground. We haven't been able to locate him."

 

"Is Kidlington there now?"

 

"I can see him sitting in his office doing his bloody paperwork."

 

"Keep watching. I think you'll enjoy this."

 

 

 

 

 

Harry nearly killed himself sprinting from his desk into Vicary's office. He told it very quickly, running over the details so fast that Vicary twice had to ask him to stop and go back to the beginning. When he was finished, Harry dialed the number for him and handed Vicary the receiver.

 

 

 

 

 

"Hello, Detective Chief Superintendent Kidlington? This is Alfred Vicary calling from the War Office. . . . I'm fine, thank you. But I'm afraid I need your rather serious help. It's about the Pope murder. I'm declaring it a security matter as of now. A man from my staff will come to your office right away. His name is Harry Dalton. You may remember him. . . . You do? Good. I'd like a complete copy of the entire case file. . . . Why? I'm afraid I can't say any more, Superintendent. Thank you for your cooperation. Good afternoon."

 

Vicary rang off. He slammed the palm of his hand onto the desk and looked up at Harry, smiling for the first time in weeks.

 

 

 

 

 

Catherine Blake packed her handbag for the evening: her stiletto, her Mauser pistol, her camera. She was meeting Jordan for dinner. She assumed they would go back to his house together afterward to make love; they always did. She made tea and read the afternoon newspapers. The murder of Rose Morely in Hyde Park was the big news of the day. The police believed the murder was a robbery that spun out of control and ended in murder. They even had a pair of suspects. Just as she thought. It was perfect. She undressed and took a long bath. She was toweling her wet hair when the telephone rang. Only one person in all of Britain knew her number--Peter Jordan. Catherine pretended to be surprised when she heard his voice at the other end of the line.

 

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to cancel dinner. I apologize, Catherine. It's just that something very important has come up."

 

"I understand."

 

"I'm still at the office. I need to stay here very late tonight."

 

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