he went out that morning. Sir Denis drew Brian’s attention, to a portable phone in the living room. It was connected with the penthouse above.
“By arrangement with the management, Merrick, the elevator goes no higher than this floor. Visitors to the penthouse must use the stairs. But the door is locked from the inside. You’ll see a typed notice on it: ‘Apply Apartment Twenty-six-ten.’ That’s this apartment. If anyone applies, take particulars and call Dr. Hessian. His secretary will answer. She’s a young lady supplied by the FBI.”
And so Brian realized that whenever Nayland Smith was out, he had to stay in. He was on a kind of sentry duty.
Many hours had passed since then, but no one had applied for permission to visit Dr. Hessian. He had ordered his lunch sent up and written a long letter to Senator Merrick, walked along the corridor, and dropped it in the letter chute.
As he returned, he had an odd impression that the door to-the penthouse stairs had been slightly opened, that someone had looked out and then quickly drawn back. Before going in to the suite, he stood for a moment looking at the mysterious door. He could see a sheet of paper pinned to it, and beyond doubt the door was closed. He concluded that he had been mistaken.
And now he had nothing to do but stare out of a window.
He was watching smoke from a ship steaming up the river when the penthouse phone buzzed. He picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Nayland Smith here,” came the snappy voice. “Any visitors?”
“No.”
“Callers?”
“No one called.”
“Boring for you, Merrick. Relax for a couple of hours. I’ll take over. Cut downstairs and try a champagne cocktail in the Paris Bar. They used to be good when I was here before. Then dine in the Silver Grill. I shall know where to find you if you’re wanted.”
‘Thanks, Sir Denis. I’ll take your advice.”
He looked at his watch, surprised to find how late it was. He spruced up and went downstairs. Although he wasn’t familiar with the Babylon-Lido, he had no difficulty in finding the Paris Bar. It was decorated in Montmartre style, with colored advertisements for French drinks on the walls, and framed Lautrec reproductions. There were red-and-white checked cloths on the little tables, French waiters, and a French bartender.
The bar was already well patronized, but he saw no one he knew. He sat down at a vacant table and ordered a Martini, smiling to himself at Nayland Smith’s recommendation of a champagne cocktail. He supposed he should be grateful to find himself back in his native land, but all the same a voice within kept asking: why New York? Why couldn’t it be London? When his drink came and he had sampled it and lighted a cigarette he began to feel better. He recalled what someone had told him once, that Secret Service routine can be as dull as banking.
This thought consoled him, and he had just ordered a second cocktail when soft hands were pressed over his eyes from behind and a soft voice said, “Guess, Brian! Who is it?”
He grasped the slender hands, twisted in his chair, and found himself looking up into eyes that smiled while they seemed to mock him.
“Lola!” He almost failed to recognize his own voice. “But—but you ought to be in London!”
Lola freed her hands, stepped around, and sat down in the chair facing him. “You mean I shouldn’t be in New York?”
“My dear!” Brian partly recovered from the happy shock. “Your being here is the answer to a prayer. It’s impossible but true.”
“Did you get my radiogram?”
“I did. But did you get my reply?”
Lola shook her head. A waiter was standing beside her. Brian ordered two Martinis. As the waiter moved away Lola said, “How could I? I had to leave London an hour after I sent my message to you in Cairo. Madame had booked me for a flight leaving the same afternoon. I told you, Brian, we’d meet again before long.”
Brian’s eyes devoured her. As always, Lola was perfectly
“By arrangement with the management, Merrick, the elevator goes no higher than this floor. Visitors to the penthouse must use the stairs. But the door is locked from the inside. You’ll see a typed notice on it: ‘Apply Apartment Twenty-six-ten.’ That’s this apartment. If anyone applies, take particulars and call Dr. Hessian. His secretary will answer. She’s a young lady supplied by the FBI.”
And so Brian realized that whenever Nayland Smith was out, he had to stay in. He was on a kind of sentry duty.
Many hours had passed since then, but no one had applied for permission to visit Dr. Hessian. He had ordered his lunch sent up and written a long letter to Senator Merrick, walked along the corridor, and dropped it in the letter chute.
As he returned, he had an odd impression that the door to-the penthouse stairs had been slightly opened, that someone had looked out and then quickly drawn back. Before going in to the suite, he stood for a moment looking at the mysterious door. He could see a sheet of paper pinned to it, and beyond doubt the door was closed. He concluded that he had been mistaken.
And now he had nothing to do but stare out of a window.
He was watching smoke from a ship steaming up the river when the penthouse phone buzzed. He picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Nayland Smith here,” came the snappy voice. “Any visitors?”
“No.”
“Callers?”
“No one called.”
“Boring for you, Merrick. Relax for a couple of hours. I’ll take over. Cut downstairs and try a champagne cocktail in the Paris Bar. They used to be good when I was here before. Then dine in the Silver Grill. I shall know where to find you if you’re wanted.”
‘Thanks, Sir Denis. I’ll take your advice.”
He looked at his watch, surprised to find how late it was. He spruced up and went downstairs. Although he wasn’t familiar with the Babylon-Lido, he had no difficulty in finding the Paris Bar. It was decorated in Montmartre style, with colored advertisements for French drinks on the walls, and framed Lautrec reproductions. There were red-and-white checked cloths on the little tables, French waiters, and a French bartender.
The bar was already well patronized, but he saw no one he knew. He sat down at a vacant table and ordered a Martini, smiling to himself at Nayland Smith’s recommendation of a champagne cocktail. He supposed he should be grateful to find himself back in his native land, but all the same a voice within kept asking: why New York? Why couldn’t it be London? When his drink came and he had sampled it and lighted a cigarette he began to feel better. He recalled what someone had told him once, that Secret Service routine can be as dull as banking.
This thought consoled him, and he had just ordered a second cocktail when soft hands were pressed over his eyes from behind and a soft voice said, “Guess, Brian! Who is it?”
He grasped the slender hands, twisted in his chair, and found himself looking up into eyes that smiled while they seemed to mock him.
“Lola!” He almost failed to recognize his own voice. “But—but you ought to be in London!”
Lola freed her hands, stepped around, and sat down in the chair facing him. “You mean I shouldn’t be in New York?”
“My dear!” Brian partly recovered from the happy shock. “Your being here is the answer to a prayer. It’s impossible but true.”
“Did you get my radiogram?”
“I did. But did you get my reply?”
Lola shook her head. A waiter was standing beside her. Brian ordered two Martinis. As the waiter moved away Lola said, “How could I? I had to leave London an hour after I sent my message to you in Cairo. Madame had booked me for a flight leaving the same afternoon. I told you, Brian, we’d meet again before long.”
Brian’s eyes devoured her. As always, Lola was perfectly
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