The Tightrope Men / The Enemy by Desmond Bagley Page B

wallet fitted with acetate envelopes which contained credit cards and photographs. He had no time to examine these in detail because he thought she might come out of the bathroom at any moment.
    He thrust back the wallet and zipped open a small interior pocket in the bag. It contained the key for a rented car and a bunch of smaller keys. As he zipped it closed he heard all sound cease in the bathroom and, when she emerged, he was standing by the armchair taking off his jacket.
    ‘That’s much better,’ she said. She had taken off the motoring coat and, in lime green sweater and stretch pants,she looked very trim. ‘When is the earliest I can order breakfast?’
    He checked his watch. ‘Not much before half past six, I think. Perhaps the night porter can rustle up sandwiches and coffee.’
    She frowned and sat on the bed. ‘No, I’ll wait and have a proper breakfast.’ Blinking her eyes, she said, ‘I still feel as though I’m driving.’
    ‘You shouldn’t push so hard.’
    ‘That isn’t what you told me the last time we met.’
    Denison did not know what to make of that, so he said neutrally. ‘No.’ The silence lengthened. ‘How’s your mother?’ he asked.
    ‘She’s all right,’ said Lyn indifferently. ‘But, my God, he’s such a bore.’
    ‘In what way?’
    ‘Well, he just sits in an office and makes money. Oh, I know you’re rich, but you made money by making things. He just makes money.’
    Denison presumed that ‘he’ was John Howard Metford who was ‘something in the City’. ‘Metford isn’t such a bad chap,’ he said.
    ‘He’s a bore,’ she said definitely. ‘And it isn’t what you said about him last time.’
    Denison decided against making gratuitous judgements. ‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked.
    ‘I got it out of Andrews,’ she said. ‘When he told me you were in Scandinavia I knew you’d be here or in Helsinki.’ She seemed suddenly nervous. ‘Now I’m not sure I should have come.’
    Denison realized he was standing over her. He sat in the armchair and, perhaps in response, she stretched out on the bed. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
    ‘You can’t be serious when you ask that.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘I still remember the flaming row we had two yearsago—and when you didn’t remember my twenty-first birthday I knew you hadn’t forgotten. But, of course, you didn’t forget my birthday—you never forget anything.’
    He was getting into deep water. ‘Two years is a long time,’ he said platitudinously. He would have to learn how to speak like a politician—saying a lot and meaning nothing.
    ‘You’ve changed,’ she said. ‘You’re…you’re milder.’
    That would never do. ‘I can still be acid when I want to be.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps I’m just becoming older and, maybe, wiser.’
    ‘You always were wise,’ said Lyn. ‘If only you weren’t so bloody right all the time. Anyway, I wanted to tell you something to your face. I was disappointed when I found you weren’t in England, so I rushed over here.’ She hesitated. ‘Give me a cigarette.’
    ‘I’ve stopped smoking.’
    She stared at him. ‘You have changed.’
    ‘Temporarily,’ he said, and stretched out his hand to open a drawer in the dressing-table. He took out the gold cigarette case and the lighter and offered her a cigarette. ‘I’ve had a bad head cold.’
    She took a cigarette and he lit it. ‘That never stopped you before.’ She drew on the cigarette nervously and blew a plume of smoke. ‘I suppose you’re surprised I’m not smoking a joint.’
    Denison suspected that he was encountering something of which hitherto he had only heard—the generation gap. He said, ‘Stop talking nonsense, Lyn. What’s on your mind?’
    ‘Direct and to the point as usual. All right—I’ve taken my degree.’
    She looked at him expectantly and he was aware that she had dropped a bombshell. How he was supposed to react to it he did not know, but the damned thing had better be