Letters for a Spy by Stephen Benatar Read Free Book Online

Eric Andrews and I’m wondering if Sybella is there.”
    “Good evening, Mr Andrews. No, you’re not interrupting us one bit.” (I wished I could have known her name. I only knew its first letter … assuming, of course, that she hadn’t remarried. The engraving on Sybella’s engagement ring, work which—according to the jeweller’s bill—had cost the major ten-and-six, had provided me with that. ‘S.S. from W.M. 14.4.43.’) “But I’m afraid,” she said, “that my daughter isn’t here right now. In fact, she’s not been home for several weeks. As I’m sure you must know, she works for Ensa. Are you a friend of hers?”
    “No, actually we’ve never met. I happen to be a friend of a friend.” Clearly, it worried me I should have no idea what Ensa was (surely it couldn’t be a who ?) or more probably, I thought, ENSA; obviously I couldn’t ask. “But is she on the phone,” I went on quickly, “or could you give me her address? I’d really like to get in touch.”
    “Yes, of course. She lives in London—shares a flat with two other girls—although I don’t think she’ll be there at present. But I imagine either of them could easily tell you where she is.” She added, “Or failing that, the head office of ENSA is in Drury Lane. At the Theatre Royal, naturally. But hold on. I’ll get you the girls’ number.”
    When she returned she gave me the ENSA number as well.
    This was more than I deserved. During her absence I had grown furious at my own stupidity. In Sybella’s second letter there had been a plain reference to things theatrical, but for some reason we’d assumed, both Mannheim and myself, that she’d been speaking only about amateur theatricals. Yet how crazy—how totally inexplicable! I saw now that her mention of spending just one night in Wolverhampton should instantly have set us right. Damn! What sort of a detective was I?
    An overhasty one, plainly. And possibly more akin to Captain Hastings than to Hercule Poirot.
    But as soon as I had jotted down the two numbers— and on a sheet of Black Lion stationery, to boot—Sybella’s mother enquired:
    “Do you mind my being inquisitive? Who is this friend you have in common? I’m curious to know whether it’s somebody I might have met.”
    Her question was by no means unexpected. I answered conversationally:
    “Well, I very much doubt that you would have met him, because as a matter of fact…”
    And then I broke the connection.
    I was sorry to be discourteous; but I thought—and hoped—that she would only blame the vagaries of the wartime telephone system.
    Indeed, my plan had been a simple one. If Sybella had answered, or her mother had asked me to hang on while she went to fetch her, I should merely have placed my finger on that bar a lot sooner—and then taken a train first thing in the morning to Ogbourne St George and spoken to Sybella in person.
    Or, anyway, as first thing in the morning as possible, allowing for probable complications—although there was a railway station at both places and the distance in fact wasn’t that great.
    But at least such complications would have given me enough time to think up a good story.
    Sybella’s mother had sounded animated. I didn’t believe she could have heard about the major’s death. Which meant that in all likelihood Sybella herself hadn’t. But, whether or not this proved to be the case, that story would obviously have needed to be good.
    Wrong tense, though. Made it sound as if, the way things were, the story was no longer going to be required.
    And before I went down to dinner I spent several minutes standing by the window and gazing out—somewhat blindly after a while—at the pleasant view before me. At the mountains in the distance.
    But I had known beforehand that my mind wouldn’t be dwelling solely upon features of the landscape.
    Thy will be done was what I finally came up with. I did my level best to mean it.

8
    After I had eaten I went back to my room and