Albatross by Evelyn Anthony Page B

ambition of the two men who hoped to succeed him. And then there was Davina Graham. Thinking of her, he gave a little sigh. Capture by the KGB, the death of Sasanov and a miscarriage – in spite of all these blows, her mainspring was unbroken. She had retired once before, and he had manoeuvred her into going back to work. Now she had retired again. Or so she said. She had given up her work to nurse her lover, who was dying. Only he hadn’t died; he’d recovered from a remarkable operation and was very well indeed. And she was acting as personal assistant to a former Polish refugee who had turned himself into a ready-made Englishman at the head of a huge advertising empire.
    Retired. James White didn’t believe it. Somebody was using Davina as he had used her. And he intended to find out who it was. Instinctively he knew it would be connected to Tony Walden. On that final reflection, he fell asleep.
    The night staff went off duty as the day staff came in. The security guard was hanging up his coat and preparing to go home when John Kidson approached him in his cubicle off the hall. He didn’t know Kidson, and he hadn’t been at what was known as the office more than three months, but he recognized what he privately called ‘management’ when he saw one.
    â€˜Good morning – you’re just going off, I see.’
    â€˜Morning, sir. I’m signing out now.’
    â€˜Yes, of course. I’m early this morning. You saw Miss Graham last night?’ The inquiry was made in Kidson’s most beguiling way; he was smiling and casual, asking rather an obvious question.
    The security guard hesitated. ‘No, sir? There isn’t a Miss Graham in the building. I know everybody’s name. Which reminds me – can I see your ID card, sir, please?’
    Kidson laughed. ‘Well done, you. Course you can.’ He produced the little grey card with its photograph and signature. ‘You don’t have to worry. I signed the book when I came in.’ His eyes said kindly, ‘I’m not checking up on you, old chap. I know you’re doing your job.’
    â€˜Thank you, sir. Regarding your inquiry –’
    â€˜Oh, Christ,’ Kidson said to himself, ‘he’ll ask about my vehicle next.’ Aloud he said, ‘Yes, Miss Graham. Didn’t she come in last night? About nine o’clock.’
    â€˜A Miss Burgess came to see the duty officer.’ The reply was stiff and much on the defensive. ‘She had a pass and she signed the book, sir. In and out.’
    â€˜That’s my mistake then,’ Kidson said, and shrugged. ‘I thought Miss Graham was coming. Very blonde young lady.’ He gave almost a wink. ‘Very nice looking indeed. You certainly wouldn’t mistake her.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t mistake anyone who came in while I was on duty, sir.’
    â€˜Oh, Jesus H. Christ,’ Kidson murmured inwardly, using one of the odd American blasphemies he’d picked up in Washington. And then his faith in the stupidity of human nature was restored.
    â€˜Miss Burgess was certainly not blonde; sir. Sort of browny ginger.’
    â€˜Definitely a different girl,’ Kidson said lightly. ‘I’ll bet the duty officer was disappointed.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t know, sir. I’ll be getting off home now. I’m ten minutes late and I’ll miss my bus.’
    The reply was stony and disapproving. Jokes like that were not made by senior officers or bloody management or whatever they were called in his new outfit. He wasn’t familiar and he didn’t like people who were.
    Kidson said pleasantly, ‘Thank you. Good morning.’
    It was easy to flip through the night book. There were the usual signatures. Security. Telephone and telex operator. Duty officer. And one almost illegible scrawl. She’d done a good job of disguising her own rather sharp handwriting. This was little more than a flat pen