himself as he moved the cartons. Conger had expected to encounter the lovely dark girl again before now. “She always turned up before. In Portugal, in Brazil. Damn.”
There was a trapdoor here in the floor. Taking an amplifier-bug out of his kit, Conger listened to the floor. Some distance off he heard conversation, but there was no one down there in the vicinity of the trapdoor. And there was no evidence of an alarm system.
With careful invisible fingers Conger lifted the door. Below it dropped a ten foot flight of noryl plastic steps. The steps led to a palely illuminated tan corridor. Conger went down, closing the lid after him.
The musk and flowers scent was stronger in the twisting corridor.
From off to his right, a good two hundred feet away and around a bend, a girl said, “Ho hum.”
“Stop your bloody nagging, Rose,” complained a thin British voice, slightly nasal.
“How can I stop yawning?” asked Rose. “Yawning is a side effect of boredom.”
“I told you to remain home in Barchester, did I not, Rose?”
“Ho hum,” said Rose.
The corridor led to a doorless underground apartment. The room Conger entered was big, a living room, and decorated in the late Victorian style of a century and a half ago. Thick brown draperies, heavy claw-footed furniture, a gleaming grand piano, many thick-set flower vases, bell jars and a dozen sad-faced ancestral paintings in intricate gold frames.
Rose was a plump, pale white woman in her late twenties. She sat, wearing a floor-length lounging robe, at the grand piano. Up on the piano top rested a plate containing a slice of reconstituted cheesecake. She was poking at the cheesecake with a fork while noodling at the bass keys with her other hand.
“Stop that bloody doodling,” suggested the tall thin man seated on a tufted loveseat.
“You mean noodling,” corrected Rose. “Doodling is what I do afternoons in my studio instead of painting.”
The tall thin man was Sir Thomas Anstey-Guthrie. He wore a suit of candy stripe pajamas. “You wouldn’t be bored if you made some sort of an effort not to be, Rose.”
“I don’t like the view here at all, Tommy,” said the chubby Rose. “I mean, I throw open my boudoir windows of a morning and am confronted with a vista of solid earth. It’s unsettling.”
“I’m not all that keen on underground living myself, Rose,” admitted the scientist. “The pay is so awfully good, though. $300,000 a year plus a travel allowance. A good deal better than what I was pulling down with the Limehouse Center and I don’t have to make any bloody trips to Livermore and Cleveland.”
“Livermore would be a relief after a year underground.” Rose brushed cheesecake crumbs off the white keys. “How much is $300,000 in pounds?”
“About 120,000 at the current rate of exchange.”
“For what you have to do, Tommy, I should think he’d pay you better. A lousy 120,000 pounds isn’t all that terrific.”
Conger walked quietly closer to the loveseat.
“The job itself is a breeze,” said Guthrie. “It’s your continuous bloody nagging which makes it unpleasant, Rose.”
“I have the feeling,” said Rose, touching the tines of the fork to her large left breast, “that Sandman is going to leave you holding the bag one fine day.”
Conger stopped still.
“No, he won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Sandman gave me his word.”
Conger’s unseen eyebrows lifted. Lt. Klaus Krist had told them Sir Thomas Anstey-Guthrie was Sandman.
Rose said, “He didn’t put it in writing I’ll wager.”
“Obviously not. You don’t have written documents in a business like ours.”
“You don’t even know who he is, Tommy.”
“No, not specifically,” said Guthrie. “However, I’ve had many conversations with Sandman via the phone and …”
“He blacks out his side of the conversation.”
“To protect his identity, yes.”
“He has you running this clandestine resurrection way station, makes you do well
There was a trapdoor here in the floor. Taking an amplifier-bug out of his kit, Conger listened to the floor. Some distance off he heard conversation, but there was no one down there in the vicinity of the trapdoor. And there was no evidence of an alarm system.
With careful invisible fingers Conger lifted the door. Below it dropped a ten foot flight of noryl plastic steps. The steps led to a palely illuminated tan corridor. Conger went down, closing the lid after him.
The musk and flowers scent was stronger in the twisting corridor.
From off to his right, a good two hundred feet away and around a bend, a girl said, “Ho hum.”
“Stop your bloody nagging, Rose,” complained a thin British voice, slightly nasal.
“How can I stop yawning?” asked Rose. “Yawning is a side effect of boredom.”
“I told you to remain home in Barchester, did I not, Rose?”
“Ho hum,” said Rose.
The corridor led to a doorless underground apartment. The room Conger entered was big, a living room, and decorated in the late Victorian style of a century and a half ago. Thick brown draperies, heavy claw-footed furniture, a gleaming grand piano, many thick-set flower vases, bell jars and a dozen sad-faced ancestral paintings in intricate gold frames.
Rose was a plump, pale white woman in her late twenties. She sat, wearing a floor-length lounging robe, at the grand piano. Up on the piano top rested a plate containing a slice of reconstituted cheesecake. She was poking at the cheesecake with a fork while noodling at the bass keys with her other hand.
“Stop that bloody doodling,” suggested the tall thin man seated on a tufted loveseat.
“You mean noodling,” corrected Rose. “Doodling is what I do afternoons in my studio instead of painting.”
The tall thin man was Sir Thomas Anstey-Guthrie. He wore a suit of candy stripe pajamas. “You wouldn’t be bored if you made some sort of an effort not to be, Rose.”
“I don’t like the view here at all, Tommy,” said the chubby Rose. “I mean, I throw open my boudoir windows of a morning and am confronted with a vista of solid earth. It’s unsettling.”
“I’m not all that keen on underground living myself, Rose,” admitted the scientist. “The pay is so awfully good, though. $300,000 a year plus a travel allowance. A good deal better than what I was pulling down with the Limehouse Center and I don’t have to make any bloody trips to Livermore and Cleveland.”
“Livermore would be a relief after a year underground.” Rose brushed cheesecake crumbs off the white keys. “How much is $300,000 in pounds?”
“About 120,000 at the current rate of exchange.”
“For what you have to do, Tommy, I should think he’d pay you better. A lousy 120,000 pounds isn’t all that terrific.”
Conger walked quietly closer to the loveseat.
“The job itself is a breeze,” said Guthrie. “It’s your continuous bloody nagging which makes it unpleasant, Rose.”
“I have the feeling,” said Rose, touching the tines of the fork to her large left breast, “that Sandman is going to leave you holding the bag one fine day.”
Conger stopped still.
“No, he won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Sandman gave me his word.”
Conger’s unseen eyebrows lifted. Lt. Klaus Krist had told them Sir Thomas Anstey-Guthrie was Sandman.
Rose said, “He didn’t put it in writing I’ll wager.”
“Obviously not. You don’t have written documents in a business like ours.”
“You don’t even know who he is, Tommy.”
“No, not specifically,” said Guthrie. “However, I’ve had many conversations with Sandman via the phone and …”
“He blacks out his side of the conversation.”
“To protect his identity, yes.”
“He has you running this clandestine resurrection way station, makes you do well
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