casually sauntered across the pavement to the hotel. What he had seen, realized Mrs. Pollifax, was the back of Henry Miles disappearing into the lobby.
He was following Henry!
thought Mrs. Pollifax in astonishment. It was no more than an impression but it was a vivid one: the haste, the panic, the fear of having lost sight of the subject, followed by the abrupt halt and even more abrupt change to casualness.
Only a few yards from here—somewhere beyond the front entrance, Carstairs had said—that other agent had been killed on Sunday night.
I can’t let that happen to Henry—there must be some way to warn him
, she thought in horror. Carstairs had said,
There may be a leak somewhere, or with so damn many agents in Istanbul they may be keeping one another under surveillance
; but what if Henry didn’t know he had acquired a shadow?
She thanked her driver and walked into the hotel. There was no sign of Henry in the empty lobby. To the man at the desk she said, “There is an Englishman staying here, I saw him drop this earlier.” She held up her small travel guide to Turkey and smiled at the man. “If you tell me his room number I should like to return it to him.”
The translations took a few minutes and drew in the manager’s son, who was fourteen and “took the English” in school, but had apparently not ventured beyond nouns and pronouns, and very few of those. A dictionary was produced and each word spelled out before it was understood what she wanted, and the boy offered to take the book himself to room 214.
“No, no—thank you,” said Mrs. Pollifax, and then with another look at the dictionary added, “
Tesekkur edehim
, no.”
She walked up the stairs, ignored her own door and continued down the hall. The door to room 214 stood ajar and the lights were on. She tapped lightly. When there was neither reply nor movement she tapped again and then swung the door wide and peered inside. “Henry?” she called in a low voice. She recognized his green suitcase on the bed, its contents scattered all over the coverlet as if it had been unpacked by the simple expedient of turning it upside down. Then she saw that every drawer in the tall chest along the wall had been left open, and his trenchcoat lay on the floor in shreds. She realized that while Henry had waited patiently for her outside the police station someone had been searching his room. But who? And where was Henry?
The curtains opening to the balcony trembled slightly, catching Mrs. Pollifax’s eye, and her glance moved from the curtains to the open window and then to the darkness beyond. She shivered suddenly.
I’m not supposed to be here
, she thought.
I’m not even supposed to know Henry, and certainly I musn’t be found here calling out his name
. His absence was alarming. Had he unlocked his door, switched onthe light and retreated when he saw the state of his room? Was he even now down in the lobby complaining to the manager she had just left? Or had he stopped first in the public lavatory at the end of the hall?
She backed out of the room, touching nothing, and walked down the hall to the bathroom, but the door stood open and the room was empty. Mrs. Pollifax unlocked the door of her own room and flicked on the lights. Everything was in order, nothing had changed here except that a slip of white paper had been inserted under her door and glimmered white on the rug. “Henry!” she whispered in relief and picked it up, went to her window to check the lock, pulled the curtains and then unfolded the slip of paper.
But it was not from Henry, it was a message from the desk clerk on lined paper with the name of the hotel printed at the top. She read:
“9:02 Mr. Remsee fone. You lost pkge in his ownership. He bid you stop before—”
The clerk had written
before tiring
but she judged the word was meant to be
retiring
. She read it a second time, frowning. What on earth did it mean? It seemed hours since she had seen Colin Ramsey, and with
He was following Henry!
thought Mrs. Pollifax in astonishment. It was no more than an impression but it was a vivid one: the haste, the panic, the fear of having lost sight of the subject, followed by the abrupt halt and even more abrupt change to casualness.
Only a few yards from here—somewhere beyond the front entrance, Carstairs had said—that other agent had been killed on Sunday night.
I can’t let that happen to Henry—there must be some way to warn him
, she thought in horror. Carstairs had said,
There may be a leak somewhere, or with so damn many agents in Istanbul they may be keeping one another under surveillance
; but what if Henry didn’t know he had acquired a shadow?
She thanked her driver and walked into the hotel. There was no sign of Henry in the empty lobby. To the man at the desk she said, “There is an Englishman staying here, I saw him drop this earlier.” She held up her small travel guide to Turkey and smiled at the man. “If you tell me his room number I should like to return it to him.”
The translations took a few minutes and drew in the manager’s son, who was fourteen and “took the English” in school, but had apparently not ventured beyond nouns and pronouns, and very few of those. A dictionary was produced and each word spelled out before it was understood what she wanted, and the boy offered to take the book himself to room 214.
“No, no—thank you,” said Mrs. Pollifax, and then with another look at the dictionary added, “
Tesekkur edehim
, no.”
She walked up the stairs, ignored her own door and continued down the hall. The door to room 214 stood ajar and the lights were on. She tapped lightly. When there was neither reply nor movement she tapped again and then swung the door wide and peered inside. “Henry?” she called in a low voice. She recognized his green suitcase on the bed, its contents scattered all over the coverlet as if it had been unpacked by the simple expedient of turning it upside down. Then she saw that every drawer in the tall chest along the wall had been left open, and his trenchcoat lay on the floor in shreds. She realized that while Henry had waited patiently for her outside the police station someone had been searching his room. But who? And where was Henry?
The curtains opening to the balcony trembled slightly, catching Mrs. Pollifax’s eye, and her glance moved from the curtains to the open window and then to the darkness beyond. She shivered suddenly.
I’m not supposed to be here
, she thought.
I’m not even supposed to know Henry, and certainly I musn’t be found here calling out his name
. His absence was alarming. Had he unlocked his door, switched onthe light and retreated when he saw the state of his room? Was he even now down in the lobby complaining to the manager she had just left? Or had he stopped first in the public lavatory at the end of the hall?
She backed out of the room, touching nothing, and walked down the hall to the bathroom, but the door stood open and the room was empty. Mrs. Pollifax unlocked the door of her own room and flicked on the lights. Everything was in order, nothing had changed here except that a slip of white paper had been inserted under her door and glimmered white on the rug. “Henry!” she whispered in relief and picked it up, went to her window to check the lock, pulled the curtains and then unfolded the slip of paper.
But it was not from Henry, it was a message from the desk clerk on lined paper with the name of the hotel printed at the top. She read:
“9:02 Mr. Remsee fone. You lost pkge in his ownership. He bid you stop before—”
The clerk had written
before tiring
but she judged the word was meant to be
retiring
. She read it a second time, frowning. What on earth did it mean? It seemed hours since she had seen Colin Ramsey, and with
Similar Books
