Agent in Place by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online Page A

“Enough,” he said as he checked the box of carbons. “But there’s no extra ribbon.”
    “Now you’re starting to fuss over details.” Any old excuse, thought Rick, to postpone the call to Tom. Has there been some brotherly quarrel?
    But Chuck was pulling off the typewriter cover and inserting a sheet of paper into the roller. “Just testing the ribbon. If it’s weak, you’ll have to borrow a spare from Katie. No type-writer-supply shop is open at this hour on a Saturday night.”
    “Tom will be waiting—”
    “Time enough yet.” Chuck began typing, and stopped. He tried again. “Damnation.”
    “Something wrong?”
    “Two keys stuck. They’re out of kilter.” He tried to straighten their type-bars, and then looked up at Rick in complete dismay. “No go,” he said. “What the hell do I do now? And who—”
    “Mattie? She has a strong dusting arm.”
    “She wouldn’t touch the type-bars.”
    “She could have dropped something on them by accident.”
    “A load of bricks?” Chuck asked bitterly.
    “Or she backed her two hundred pounds into the table and sent the machine flying.”
    “What the hell do I do?” Chuck said again. “Try Katie, will you? She’ll lend us her typewriter.” Katie had an old and hefty machine, a period piece that amused her, along with her stand-up telephones and big-horn phonograph.
    “It’s on the blink. It would chew up every ribbon you had.”
    Chuck stood very still. Then his face cleared, and he reached for the telephone book. “Algonquin, Algonquin...” His finger ran down the A section. “Here we are.” He put through the call. “Tom? I just got in and found Dorothea’s message. Look—I’m sorry: I have a load of work to do here. Can’t manage dinner. But could I drop down to the Algonquin right now? Have a quick drink with you?... And say, could I borrow your portable?... I’ll return it tomorrow without fail... Yes, I know you need it. I’ll have it back long before you take off for Paris. Okay? See you in twenty minutes or so.”
    Chuck dropped the receiver, and was off to the bedroom for jacket and tie. He made a whirlwind exit, calling over his shoulder, “Back in an hour.”
    So I lost that round, Rick thought: he will have his typewriter, and a completed script by ten or eleven tonight. But I’ve been given the time and opportunity I need. Better than I planned. So take it. He began clearing the desk, moving the section of the memorandum he had been reading out of his way. One hour, probably more. He would aim at forty minutes, and be on the safe side.
    He produced a small bunch of keys and selected the skeleton one—that was all he needed for this simple lock. Deftly he manipulated it, pulled the desk drawer open, and lifted out the two top-security parts of the NATO Memorandum. He only glanced at the number of pages, wasted no time in reading them, although he had a strong temptation to examine Part III. He adjusted the strong desk-lamp to the correct angle. Then he took out a small matchbox-size camera from his inside pocket, and placed the first page in position under the circle of light. He began photographing.
    The whole job was completed—the sheets all back in order and replaced in the drawer exactly as he had found them—within thirty-five minutes. The precious film was left in the camera: he would extract it when there was less chance of any mishap—his hands felt tired, his eyes strained. The inside pocket of his jacket, fastened with a small zipper, would be safe enough.
    Now he could put the desk back in shape again. The pages of Part I were neatly placed, ready for Chuck’s use. He would make some sandwiches, get coffee percolating, and show some signs of a well-spent hour.
    Lose one round, win another, he told himself, as he searched for his glass—he had laid it quietly aside on one of the small tables, unwilling to risk Chuck’s potent mix while he still had problems to work out. The Martini wasn’t worth drinking