The Wayward Wife by Jessica Stirling Read Free Book Online Page B

know pronto.’
    â€˜How do I let you know?’
    Her question brought him up short. It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest that if her old man did happen to appear on her doorstep she might telephone Scotland Yard but she was too scared to push the point.
    At length, he said, ‘You see your daddy, you tell him he better turn himself in. He don’t, we’ll make it hot for his nearest and dearest, you included. Got that?’
    â€˜He won’t come ’ere, but if ’e does, I’ll tell ’im.’
    â€˜And not one word to no one, girly.’
    â€˜No,’ Breda promised. ‘Me lips is sealed,’ and when the man left the bedroom, swinging his torch, sank back against the pillows, sobbing with relief.
    In the past few months CBS’s European coverage had gathered steam. Even Mr Willets cast an envious eye at the American network’s
European Roundup
which featured live conversations between a newscaster in New York and correspondents from London, Washington, Rome and Bucharest, linked by a complex intercontinental network of short-wave transmitters and land lines.
    The BBC’s new twice-weekly programme, tentatively and rather obviously called
Speaking Up for Britain
, would, of necessity, be less ambitious in scope and require the close cooperation of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation who had studios in New York, Washington and Boston.
    One could safely leave the technical aspects to the BBC’s engineers, Mr Willets said. His concern was with content and tone and where to find an intelligent presenter who would bring more to the mike than a pleasant speaking voice; a problem his assistant, Susan Hooper, was doing her level best to solve.
    â€˜Bob, Bob Gaines?’ Peter Slocum said. ‘Where did he find a pretty little thing like you? Come in, come in, and welcome.’
    Susan was not impressed by the Lansdowne’s resident Lothario. He was tall, exceptionally so, with haggard, hawk-like features, though his voice was soft, almost beguiling, and his hands, which he waved about a lot, were hypnotically expressive.
    â€˜Is Robert here?’ Susan said. ‘May I speak to him?’
    â€˜Oh, so it’s Robert, is it? Are you an intimate of my esteemed colleague and, if so, why haven’t we met before?’
    With a touch of hauteur that she instantly regretted, Susan said, ‘I’m from the BBC.’
    â€˜That’s what they all say,’ Pete Slocum said. ‘Step inside and tell me more.’
    â€˜No,’ Susan said. ‘I mean it: I am from the BBC.’
    â€˜Well, we won’t hold that against you, Miss …’
    â€˜Hooper, Susan Hooper.’
    There was quite a ruckus going on at the far end of the corridor. A stocky young woman burst from the door of one of the Lansdowne’s suites and catapulted herself towards the elevator pursued by a skinny young man who seemed to have forgotten that he wasn’t wearing trousers.
    â€˜It’s only a month,’ he shouted. ‘It’s not the end of the goddamned world, Phyllis.’
    â€˜He’s now going to tell her he’ll come back for her,’ Mr Slocum predicted,
sotto voce
.
    â€˜I will come back, you know. I swear I will,’ the young man cried as the woman hurled herself into the elevator, closed the gates and disappeared.
    â€˜And will he?’ Susan said.
    â€˜Probably not,’ Mr Slocum said. ‘Bob’s in Paris.’
    â€˜For how long?’
    â€˜It’s not my habit to impart information to persons in passageways.’ He extended a large hand and, without touching any part of her, ushered her into the apartment. ‘And whatever you may have heard to the contrary, I don’t bite strangers.’
    Several doors opened off the hall, bedrooms and a bathroom, Susan guessed, and a small kitchen in which a very dignified man in a canvas apron was ironing shirts at a fold-down board.
    â€˜Our