Night Without End by Alistair MacLean Read Free Book Online Page B

painfully shy, and I was sure she'd prefer to have one of her own sex around. "Would you like to give me a hand?" 
         
         She stared at me, a cold surprised stare that would have been normal enough had I made some outrageous or improper request, but before she could answer the elderly lady broke in again. 
         
         Til stay behind. I'd love to help." 
         
         "Well-" I began doubtfully, but she interrupted immediately. 
         
         "Well yourself. What's the matter? Think I'm too old, hey?" 
         
         "No, no, of course not," I protested. 
         
         "A fluent liar, but a gallant one." She grinned. "Come on, we're wasting this valuable time you're always so concerned about." We brought the girl into the first of the rear seats, where there was plenty of space between that and the first of the rearward facing front seats, and had just worked her coat off when Joss called me. 
         
         "We're off now, sir. Back in twenty minutes." 
         
         As the door closed behind the last of them and I broke open a roll of bandage, the old lady looked quizzically at me. 
         
         "Know what you're doing, young man?" 
         
         "More or less. I'm a doctor." 
         
         "Doctor, hey?" She looked at me with open suspicion, and what with my bulky, oil-streaked and smelly furs, not to mention the fact that I hadn't shaved for three days, I suppose there was justification enough for it. "You sure?" 
         
         "Sure I'm sure," I said irritably. "What do you expect me to do - whip my medical degree out from under this parka or just wear round my neck a brass plate giving my consulting hours?" 
         
         "We'll get along, young man," she chuckled. She patted my arm, then turned to the young girl. "What's your name, my dear?" 
         
         "Helene." We could hardly catch it, the voice was so low: her embarrassment was positively painful. 
         
         "Helene? A lovely name." And indeed, the way she said it made it sound so. "You're not British, are you? Or American?" 
         
         "I'm from Germany, madam." 
         
         "Don't call me 'madam'. You know, you speak English beautifully. Germany, hey? Bavaria, for a guess?" 
         
         "Yes." The rather plain face was transfigured in a smile, and I mentally saluted the old lady for the ease with which she was distracting the young girl's thoughts from the pain. "Munich. Perhaps you know it?" 
         
         "Like the back of my hand," she said complacently. "And not just the Hofbrauhaus either. You're still very young, aren't you?" 
         
         "I'm seventeen." 
         
         "Seventeen." A nostalgic sigh. "Ah, my dear, I remember when I was seventeen. A different world. There was no trans-Atlantic airliner in those days, I can tell you." 
         
         "In fact," I murmured, "the Wright brothers were hardly airborne." The face had been more than familiar to me, and I was annoyed that I should have taken so long in placing it: I suppose it was because her normal setting was so utterly different from this bleak and frozen world. 
         
         "Being insulting, young man?" she queried. But there was no offence in her face. 
         
         "I can't imagine anyone ever insulting you. The world was at your feet even in the Edwardian days, Miss LeGarde." 
         
         "You know me, then?" She seemed genuinely pleased. 
         
         "It would be difficult to find anyone who doesn't know the name of Marie LeGarde." I nodded at the young girl. "See, Helene knows it too." And it was clear from the awe-struck expression on the young German girl's face that the name meant as much to her as to me. Twenty years queen of the music-hall, thirty years queen of the musical comedy stage, beloved wherever she was known less for