Cloak of Darkness by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online

Pierre has just arrived. We’re all having coffee and brandy right now. Have you eaten yet? No? Oh, Bob! I’ll put one of Gemma’s casseroles in the oven right away. She brought lashings of food in a picnic basket. You know Gemma.” Nina’s laugh was a happy one, infectious.
    He found he was actually relaxed, worry and strain banished for these moments. “No casserole. Can’t face it. Make a sandwich—heat up some soup, will you? I love you, darling. Be with you soon.”
    Outside, the rain had stopped. Wet streets and pools of water reflected the shimmer of lights from never-ending traffic in Tottenham Court Road. Moore might be taking that obvious direction, so Renwick headed into Bloomsbury. There were hotels a short distance away, and his best chance to find a cab would be near one of their doorways. With regret, he had had to ignore a taxi at the Coronet entrance; just a minimal precaution. His luck was good. First, a taxi to Euston Station, where he could easily find another cab after a few minutes’ delay. Then, sure that no one had been interested in him, he decided to cut down the time spent in this dodging game—it was tedious, and comic, too—and head for home. His heart lifted at the thought. Nina’s voice on the phone had brought him back into normal life, blotted out the obscenity of Brimmer’s world.
    He paid off the cab at Kensington High Street and chose one of the three streets that would lead to Essex Gardens. Once it had been a stretch of Edwardian houses; now there was a block of flats. He looked up at the third floor, saw the lights of his living-room, and quickened his pace.

4
    Inside Renwick’s small flat—it had seemed so much bigger when they had viewed it empty in March—the living-room was full of light and warmth. Still better was Nina’s welcome, arms around him as they stood in the almost-privacy of the entrance hall, a six-foot-square breathing space inside the front door. He kissed her so vehemently that the breath went out of her body, and her eyes, blue and large, widened in surprise. Then they turned serious as she helped him pull off his raincoat and saw it had been drenched, now only half dry and the hat still sodden. He answered her unspoken question with another kiss and drew her into the room.
    “Sandwich and soup,” she told him. Very hot soup: his hands had been cold. “Are you sure that’s enough?”
    “Plenty.” They sounded perfect compared to a casserole, his least favourite dish. Thank heaven that Nina hadn’t adopted Gemma’s art of cooking, a little bit of everything in a heavy sauce with a touch of whatever herbs were in favour at the moment.
    Gemma’s pretty but indefinite face showed obvious relief. “Now we can all stop pretending not to worry,” she told him in a whisper as she dropped a light kiss on his cheek. “I’ll help Nina,” she said to her husband, and as Gilman gave a thankful nod, she hurried toward the kitchen. Renwick watched her— tall and thin, elegant as usual, her dark hair now showing unabashed grey—until she closed the door behind her. Then he turned to the two men. Gilman, he noticed, had been sitting close to the telephone. Pierre Claudel was pretending unconcern, lounging in the most comfortable chair, but his brown eyes— bright and clever, alive in typically French manner—held a decided question; several questions, in fact.
    “I’m sorry,” Renwick said. “He fooled me with that Paddington dodge. Sorry.”
    Gilman deserted the phone to pour a Scotch. “You look as if you needed this.”
    “I do.”
    “Well?” asked Claudel, rising to help himself to another brandy, a neat compact figure of medium height, quick in movement.
    Renwick glanced at the kitchen door. “Later.”
    “You got something?” Claudel’s English, schooled at Downside, was perfect, with the addition nowadays of American phrases thanks to his years of close friendship with Renwick.
    “Plenty. What happened at Paddington?”
    “I