‘You do whatever you have to do,’ Trave said defiantly, and then regretted his words. Seaforth was toying with him, testing his reactions, and he had reacted like an angry bull at the first provocation. Still, it was hardly surprising that his nerves were frayed, Trave reflected. Seaforth held all the cards. All he had to do was pick up the telephone and call Quaid and Trave would find himself on the next train north, and this time without a return ticket.
But Seaforth had not finished with him yet. He reacted to Trave’s outburst with a return to his initial friendliness. ‘I expect that Alec has just gone home to wash up and get changed,’ he said. ‘It sounds like he’s been through quite an ordeal.’
‘Yes. I expect you’re right,’ Trave said guardedly.
‘I’m sure he’ll be here before too long if you’d like to wait.’
‘No, I’ll come back later,’ said Trave, backing away. He knew what Seaforth had in mind — a call to Quaid while Trave sat in the poky waiting room where he’d talked to Thorn on the day after the murder, and the inspector would be round in an instant to remove his rogue assistant from 59 Broadway once and for all.
‘As you wish,’ said Seaforth, watching the retreating policeman with the same look of scornful amusement he’d bestowed on Trave from the departing Underground train five days before.
Trave walked aimlessly through the streets, trying to get his thoughts under control and work out what to do next. He cursed himself for having gone to 59 Broadway, yet he knew he’d had no choice. He didn’t know Thorn’s home address and he had no way of finding it out, so the spy headquarters had been the only place he could go to look for him. He’d had to take a chance, and it was just bad luck that he’d run into Seaforth instead. But there was a price to pay for bad luck. Trave felt sure that Seaforth had already put in his call to Quaid and that the inspector would soon have people out looking for him. The net was tightening around him, not Seaforth, and he needed to get out of the area.
But where to? He was on his own now, he had to face that. He had a warrant card and a revolver with six rounds of ammunition, but otherwise he was a policeman without resources. He’d burnt his boats with Scotland Yard by going to 59 Broadway, and the only way back was if he could find out what Seaforth was plotting and foil his plan before it was too late.
Seaforth — he was the key, Trave suddenly realized, not Thorn. Trave had no idea where Thorn was, he had no way of finding out, and he couldn’t wait around for him to show up. But perhaps none of that mattered. Because he did know where Seaforth was. If Seaforth was at 59 Broadway, then he couldn’t be at home in his apartment, and maybe there would be something there that would provide a breakthrough or at least a lead that might take the investigation forward.
And in the same instant that Trave thought of Seaforth’s apartment, he realized that he was wrong about being on his own. He’d forgotten about Ava. In a flash he remembered her parting words to him at Bow Street the day before: ‘You can count on me.’ Ava knew where Seaforth lived — she could tell him where to go.
Trave remembered Seaforth’s mocking smile from a few minutes before, the way he’d looked as though he had the game already won. Perhaps he was too arrogant to imagine a policeman turning to crime and breaking into his apartment without a warrant. Perhaps his confidence was his Achilles’ heel.
There was a sandbagged police box at the end of Victoria Street, and it didn’t take long for Trave to get Ava’s phone number. He rang it again and again, but there was no reply, and, as with Thorn, there was no available listing for Seaforth’s apartment. Trave wasn’t surprised. Privacy was apparently one of the perquisites of spying.
The mood of black despair that Trave had felt after seeing Seaforth seized him again and he fought to keep control of his emotions. Up and down like a yo-yo, his mood swings were getting more extreme as he crisscrossed London, getting nowhere fast. But he knew he couldn’t give up. Perhaps Ava was home but not picking up the telephone, or perhaps she was out shopping or walking around aimlessly just like him. Whatever the case, sooner or later she would have to go home, and Trave intended to make sure she found him waiting for her. Ava was his last lead, and he could not let it go. Wearily, he made his way through the backstreets to Victoria station and caught an overland train to Battersea.
Thorn missed Trave by less than ten minutes. Jarvis reported the deputy chief’s arrival to Seaforth as soon as Thorn had gone upstairs and shut the door of his office.
‘’E looks like ’e’s been in the wars, I can tell you that,’ said the caretaker, looking pleased.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Oh, and by the way, I don’t think there’s any need to tell Mr Thorn about that policeman’s visit. It sounds like he’s got quite enough on his plate already,’ said Seaforth, looking hard at Jarvis.
‘Mum’s the word,’ said Jarvis with a knowing nod. Something told him that his Boer War Veterans Fund collection box would be receiving a significant contribution before the end of the day, and he had no objections to that.
Trave’s visit had alarmed Seaforth, even though he didn’t like to admit it. The connection between his arch-enemy and the dogged young detective spelt trouble. Seaforth guessed that Trave must have found out something or he wouldn’t be looking for Thorn. He cursed the terrier-like persistence of the detective and wished that he’d renewed his complaints to Quaid about Trave’s attentions instead of staying quiet after Bertram’s arrest in the hope that Trave would just go away. Now he felt he needed to act before Trave and Thorn dug any deeper, but he consoled himself with the thought that if all went according to plan, he would have nothing more to worry about by the end of the day.
Seaforth thought it was a good sign that Trave and Thorn had missed each other. He recalled how he’d had the same slice of luck when Albert Morrison had arrived at HQ after Thorn had gone home. His priority now must be to keep Thorn quiet and on the premises while he sent the intelligence briefing to Churchill and awaited the Prime Minister’s summons. As Seaforth was well aware, the possibility that Thorn would leave HQ for some reason before the summons arrived had always been an essential weakness in his assassination plan, and in the last few days he had given considerable thought to how he could keep Thorn in position without arousing his suspicions. Telling Thorn the truth — that he’d sent an intelligence briefing to the Prime Minister and that they had to wait around in case Churchill wanted to see them — was not an option. Thorn would smell a rat. He’d made no secret for a while of his belief that Seaforth was supplying Whitehall with false intelligence. No, Seaforth knew that his best chance of success was for Thorn to know nothing about the reason for the summons until he actually got to Downing Street. And it was with this in mind that Seaforth had come up with the stratagem he was about to put into effect.
He paused for a moment in front of Thorn’s door, composing his features into a friendly smile, and then knocked.
‘Come,’ said a familiar irritable voice, and Seaforth went in.
Jarvis had been right — Thorn did look a mess. The right side of his head was swollen and he had heavy bandaging around his eye.
‘Sorry to hear about what happened,’ said Seaforth, feigning sympathy.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Thorn, looking up angrily as he rapidly put away the file he had been reading, although not quickly enough to stop Seaforth from seeing that it was his own personnel file. ‘What do you want?’ he asked suspiciously. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Seaforth had sought him out in his office, and he suspected an ulterior motive for this visit.
‘Just to let you know that C called,’ said Seaforth. ‘He’s on his way back to London and he wants to see us when he comes in.’
‘What about?’ Thorn asked, fixing his eyes on Seaforth as if trying to see behind the younger man’s smooth, opaque exterior.