“Are you sure there is nothing more you can add for me?” asked Maisie.
Thomas shook her head. “Scotland Yard will have as much luck finding the killer of Albert Durant as they have Frederick Addens. I am depending upon you, Maisie. I realize my patience might be tested, but I trust you will find the killer. And my interest in this case is purely on behalf of the Belgian government.” She came to her feet, took up her document case and her gas mask, and turned to leave. “Could you spare me one of those russets?” she added.
Maisie smiled. “Of course.” She went into the kitchen, wrapped two russet apples in newspaper, and brought them to Francesca Thomas, who thanked her again, said she would be in touch, and then left by the side gate.
Instead of clearing the plates, Maisie picked up her glass of wine, and sat back in the wicker chair. Dusk was beginning to close in, and as she looked up, she thought the barrage balloon overhead resembled a giant sea creature beached on the sky above. Britain had been at war for one day. She wondered when it would start. When would the invasion begin? After all, that’s what they said would happen: that German troops would come ashore from Dover to Penzance, that they would sail along the Thames, and they would land their aircraft on the fields of England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland; that everyone would be heiling Hitler in Britain’s very own streets. But for now everything was quiet. Quiet except for the voice in her mind, the nagging tone suggesting she pay very close attention. And the message was clear, so very clear: that Francesca Thomas—brave, fearless Francesca Thomas, who had only the year before given Maisie the tools she needed to save her own life while on assignment for the British Secret Service in Munich—was lying to her. During her initial briefing, Thomas had stated that she wanted to stop it—murder—happening again, yet only minutes ago, she said she didn’t expect there to be another murder. Of course, she could have confronted Thomas on that point, could have maneuvered her into a corner—but for now, she wanted to see how things played out.
She watched as her neighbor pulled dark blackout curtains across a lamp-lit window, hiding any sign of light and life from an enemy that might wheel down from the sky. Her own lights were off and she thought, then, what a strange life she was living, when her list for the morrow included visiting a detective, then a woman whose husband had been murdered—and afterwards coming home to draw her own blackout curtains, so the enemy could not see her.
“So, this new bloke, Albert Durant, he lived alone in Maida Vale—nice mansion flat, all very leafy around there, but still in London and easy for him to get to work. His wife died a couple of years ago, and they had no children. Was she English, or one of them, you know, a refugee?”
“As far as I know, Durant married an English girl too. In any case, I’ll find out more when I see Caldwell.” Maisie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Speaking of whom—I should be off. Billy, I’ll see you back here around twelve.”
“With a bit of luck that newspaper boy will have noticed something.”
“Yes, ask around again. There’s also Addens’ friend Mike—and do you still have that contact in Fleet Street?”
Billy nodded. “Not seen him for a bit, but I know where he drinks. And they all drink, those boys—as soon as the afternoon edition is put to bed, they’re down the Old Bell; your compositors, your delivery boys, your reporters. I bet you could hear a pin drop over at the Express come twelve o’clock, except for the typists, holding the fort.”
“Just try to get him before he’s had a few too many. Find out what he knows about the Addens case.”
“As good as done, miss.”
Just as Maisie and Billy were about to leave, the telephone rang.
“Do you want to leave, so I can say you’re out and not have to tell a white lie?” said Billy.
“I should answer this one. You go on, and I’ll see you at noon or thereabouts. I’ll lock up before I go.”
Billy nodded, touched the two fingers of his right hand to his forehead, and smiled. “See you then, miss.”
Once alone, Maisie answered the call. It was her stepmother, Brenda.
“Maisie, dear, I don’t like to bother you at work, but I thought I should give you a ring.”
“Brenda—is everything all right? Is Dad ill?”
“No, I should have said straightaway, knowing how you worry. Your father is in fine fettle—in fact, I think having to take those boys under his wing has put a spring in his step. They love Jook, and it’s perked her up too, chasing a ball for them—she’s not a young pup anymore.”
“What about the little girl? Is she all right?”