Agent in Place by Helen MacInnes Page B

police-station—that could be too easily checked. “I saw a police car and asked them for help.” The young nurse, he noticed, was enthralled by his story. She had finished her listing of Mischa’s clothes, and was now listening wide-eyed. Encouraged, he went on, “They called in their precinct—”
    “Which one was that?”
    Oleg shook his head. “It’s all very confusing to a stranger. Their precinct called some other police-station—one that had a record of—well,” he demanded suddenly, “what record would it have? You know the procedure better than I do. Anyway, the patrol car directed me to this hospital—as a possibility.” By now, he had memorised all the doors and exits that lay within sight. He might not need them. He would have another try at persuading the nurse. She couldn’t stop him if he insisted on hiring an ambulance and taking his friend to a hospital in Patchogue. Ex-wife or not, she was the only family he had in this country. And so on and so forth.
    The officer had listened patiently. “Yes, sir. Now I’d like to have some names.”
    “I am John Browning,” Oleg volunteered, giving himself a moment to think up a name for Mischa. “I’m at the Hotel Toronto.”
    The senior nurse returned, frowned a little when she found them still talking at the desk.
    The officer persisted, dropping his voice even more. “Your friend’s name?”
    “Robert Johnstone.”
    “Johnson?”
    “No.” Oleg spelled out the name, watched the slow pencil record it in the officer’s book, and was ready for the next question when it came.
    “His address?”
    “Somewhere on East Seventy-second Street. He’s been living there since he separated from his wife. That’s all I know.”
    “You had his telephone number,” the officer reminded him.
    “Oh yes, he gave me it when he called, and I jotted it right down. I’ve got it right here—” He began searching his pockets, became frustrated. “Must have left it on the telephone-table in my room.”
    “We can get that later.” The officer seemed amused by something else. “Johnstone,” he said with a grin, looking at the young nurse. “A good old Russian name.”
    She reacted at once, large brown eyes widening with indignation. “But that man is Russian.” Her tone was definite, her accent tinged with Spanish. “I know Russian when I hear it. I was in Havana in 1963.” She flashed a glance at Oleg’s startled face. The senior nurse shook her head over this display of Cuban temperament. The officer enjoyed it quite obviously.
    Oleg had to be sure. “The man spoke Russian? My friend can speak French, of course. But Russian?” He looked at her in disbelief.
    “Ask Dr. Bronsky,” she told him sharply, quick to defend herself. “Dr. Bronsky knows Russian well. He was there when the man was fighting the anaesthesia. We both heard him.”
    “That’s right, we’ve got it all down in Dr. Bronsky’s statement,” the officer said, trying now to calm the little storm he had helped to raise.
    “Some patients do curse and swear when they are under an anaesthetic,” the older nurse said. “I have heard some surprising things myself.” Nothing to worry about, her crisp manner implied.
    But Oleg had to know. “Perhaps my friend did learn some Russian in New York—enough for a cuss-word or two. That isn’t so bad, is it?” he asked the girl.
    “There was more than that. He cried out, began struggling and calling for his friend to help—”
    “If we must talk here,” the older nurse broke in, “then let us keep our voices as low as possible. Haven’t you finished yet?” she demanded of the officer. I’m willing to co-operate, she thought, but really! This is a hospital, not a police-station.
    “Almost,” the officer told her. He had been watching Oleg. “Alexis,” he said very quietly.
    Oleg stared at him.
    “Alexis,” he repeated. “Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Browning?”
    Oleg shook his head.
    “His wife’s name,