been watching from the outside, Verago thought with distaste. Somebody must have stood in the street below and, seeing through the window the outline of their bodies as they kissed, reached for his notebook.
23:46 Lights out in the apartment.
06:15 Capt. Tower departed.
And so on, after every tryst, noting the exact minute when they held hands, when the curtains were drawn, when the light was switched off, when they were seen to kiss.
And that wasn’t all.
The OSI had produced a detailed record of their trips together. A weekend on the English channel coast at Brighton, with exact times of arrival and departure, hotel room number, the names under which they registered (Captain and Mrs. Harry Brown). Who did they expect to fool, poor idiotsl thought Verago.
There was sworn testimony by OSI agents about the
73
later visits, a trip to Stratford on Avon. They had noted when Tower went into a florist on Berkeley Square and ordered flowers for her.
They had been there when the girl and Tower met in Cambridge, and the pub outside Ipswich where they spent a Saturday night.
There were copies of prosecution exhibits attached to the file.
Photostats of the hotel bills where they had stayed together, and of the hotel registry entries. There were copies of statements by chambermaids, waiters, cab drivers, identifying the couple as being together.
Christ, the OSI had worked hard on it. Verago was almost impressed by the thoroughness. There was even a photostat of Tower’s pocket diary, with the pages on which he’d noted a date with Serena.
And then there were the photographs. Pictures of Tower and the girl laughing together, swimming in a lido, leaving a hotel carrying suitcases; enlarged photographs, taken from a distance, of them kissing, even shopping in Selfridges.
Verago contemplated Serena’s photo. This particular one showed the sun on her face, it was in her eyes, and she was making a grimace, but it caught her freshness, her good looks.
Poor kid, thought Verago.
He stretched out his legs and rested his socked feet on the bed. The maid who wafted garlic and had the makings of a moustache on her upper lip had turned back the covers, but Verago wasn’t tired yet.
The only thing they needed to hammer the final nail in was an admission from Serena herself that she had indeed slept with Tower. They had everything else they needed, all the circumstantial evidence, witness statements, documentary proof. But to lock the door finally she’d be useful to them.
Well, baby, said Verago to himself, I hope they don’t get you. But whether they got hold of the girl or not the evidence was absolute. He would hardly be able to argue that on all those nights alone together in hotels and her flat, all they did was play chess.
Almost irresistibly, he was drawn back to the file. The Article 32 officers, whom they had so conveniently shifted elsewhere, had, of course, recommended courtmartial proceedings, Brigadier General Croxford con
74
firmed and approved, and Third Air Force ratified. It had all been done very quickly, very neatly.
He rubbed his chin. It had been a long day and his face felt bristly. He wasn’t even aware of it at that moment though, because the obvious suddenly struck him.
God damn it, it was all too neat. Why go to all the trouble? Why mobilise an army of air force spooks to do nothing but keep on the tail of a cheating husband? What the hell did it matter that Captain Tower was screwing somebody?
The file gave Mrs. Tower’s address as New York City; she wasn’t even in Europe with her husband. She wasn’t even living with him there. So she wasn’t running around raising hell.
They were all so damn keen to hang Captain Tower it seemed a shame to cheat the hangman. Verago grinned savagely. But cheat the son of a bitch he was going to.
London
All weekend he’d wondered whether he should tell A1exandra. Perhaps he ought to keep it to himself, but then again, the mere fact that he wondered about
23:46 Lights out in the apartment.
06:15 Capt. Tower departed.
And so on, after every tryst, noting the exact minute when they held hands, when the curtains were drawn, when the light was switched off, when they were seen to kiss.
And that wasn’t all.
The OSI had produced a detailed record of their trips together. A weekend on the English channel coast at Brighton, with exact times of arrival and departure, hotel room number, the names under which they registered (Captain and Mrs. Harry Brown). Who did they expect to fool, poor idiotsl thought Verago.
There was sworn testimony by OSI agents about the
73
later visits, a trip to Stratford on Avon. They had noted when Tower went into a florist on Berkeley Square and ordered flowers for her.
They had been there when the girl and Tower met in Cambridge, and the pub outside Ipswich where they spent a Saturday night.
There were copies of prosecution exhibits attached to the file.
Photostats of the hotel bills where they had stayed together, and of the hotel registry entries. There were copies of statements by chambermaids, waiters, cab drivers, identifying the couple as being together.
Christ, the OSI had worked hard on it. Verago was almost impressed by the thoroughness. There was even a photostat of Tower’s pocket diary, with the pages on which he’d noted a date with Serena.
And then there were the photographs. Pictures of Tower and the girl laughing together, swimming in a lido, leaving a hotel carrying suitcases; enlarged photographs, taken from a distance, of them kissing, even shopping in Selfridges.
Verago contemplated Serena’s photo. This particular one showed the sun on her face, it was in her eyes, and she was making a grimace, but it caught her freshness, her good looks.
Poor kid, thought Verago.
He stretched out his legs and rested his socked feet on the bed. The maid who wafted garlic and had the makings of a moustache on her upper lip had turned back the covers, but Verago wasn’t tired yet.
The only thing they needed to hammer the final nail in was an admission from Serena herself that she had indeed slept with Tower. They had everything else they needed, all the circumstantial evidence, witness statements, documentary proof. But to lock the door finally she’d be useful to them.
Well, baby, said Verago to himself, I hope they don’t get you. But whether they got hold of the girl or not the evidence was absolute. He would hardly be able to argue that on all those nights alone together in hotels and her flat, all they did was play chess.
Almost irresistibly, he was drawn back to the file. The Article 32 officers, whom they had so conveniently shifted elsewhere, had, of course, recommended courtmartial proceedings, Brigadier General Croxford con
74
firmed and approved, and Third Air Force ratified. It had all been done very quickly, very neatly.
He rubbed his chin. It had been a long day and his face felt bristly. He wasn’t even aware of it at that moment though, because the obvious suddenly struck him.
God damn it, it was all too neat. Why go to all the trouble? Why mobilise an army of air force spooks to do nothing but keep on the tail of a cheating husband? What the hell did it matter that Captain Tower was screwing somebody?
The file gave Mrs. Tower’s address as New York City; she wasn’t even in Europe with her husband. She wasn’t even living with him there. So she wasn’t running around raising hell.
They were all so damn keen to hang Captain Tower it seemed a shame to cheat the hangman. Verago grinned savagely. But cheat the son of a bitch he was going to.
London
All weekend he’d wondered whether he should tell A1exandra. Perhaps he ought to keep it to himself, but then again, the mere fact that he wondered about
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