"That is exceedingly generous of you!"
"I am most grateful to you for coming here, Mr. Jones,” Alice said somberly. “You must tell me how you tracked me down. What is your normal procedure for organizing jailbreaks?"
5
WEDNESDAY BROUGHT SMEDLEY DISASTER. THREE DISASTERS.
Whatever the war had done, it had not seriously damaged the Royal Mail, which delivered the first two disasters by the morning post. Miss Alice Prescott was “not known” at the Chelsea address. Whether or not Jonathan Oldcastle, Esq. still resided at The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent, the Post Office was not about to admit being aware of the address.
With one hand and a foot, Smedley tore both letters into fragments. Then he had a quiet weep.
The third disaster was even worse. He was told to pack his bags.
He begged. He pleaded. He groveled. Damned tears wouldn't come when they might be useful. The thought of being buried alive in Chichester was the living end. Since his mother had died the house was a tomb. With no servants available now, he would be completely alone with his father. Worse, next Sunday was his twenty-first birthday, so every aunt and cousin and uncle from Land's End to John o’ Groats would descend on the returning hero. He would gibber and weep buckets and shock the whole brood of them out of their wits.
"Those are orders, Captain,” the medic said coldly. “Besides, we need the beds, old man."
His discharge would take effect as soon as he had been up to the palace to get his medal. Meanwhile he was on sick leave. There was a bus at 12:10. Ta-ta!
Then he remembered Exeter, who would wait and wait and never know why his savior did not return. Ginger Jones was coming back on Friday with whatever plans he had been able to concoct, but Smedley could do nothing by himself. The willies came then. His face did its octopus dance. Tears streamed in torrents. He shook so hard he expected the dressing to fall off his wrist. He gabbled.
"Well...” the doctor said unwillingly. “We've got a new lot coming in on Friday. Can put you up till then, I suppose."
Smedley could not even get his thanks out. Two more days! He wanted to kiss the man's hand like a dago.
It felt like midnight, and it was still not lunchtime. He wandered out into the entrance hall, which was almost the only public space in the building. On a rainy day, like this one, it was crammed with uniformed men, those mobile enough to leave their beds. Amid all the bandages and crutches and wheelchairs there were dominoes and draughts, bridge and newspapers, and much desultory, bored conversation.
Dr. Stringer came marching in the main door.
Smedley made an about-turn. He headed back to his room and changed into civvies. He would get away with that for about twenty minutes, if he was lucky. He asked a red-haired nurse to tie his Old Fallovian tie for him, so it would look nice.
"Mr. Stringer is extremely busy!” the secretary snapped.
Surgeons were never called “doctor,” but fortunately Smedley had remembered that. He should have guessed that surgeons, like golden fleeces, would be guarded by monsters. This particular monster had fortified a stronghold of her own; her rolltop desk was probably armor plated, the wall of filing cabinets behind her cut off half the hallway. Her outer defenses of chairs and tables could not have been bettered by the German high command. It would need at least a full division to advance to that decidedly closed door.
If she could not actually breathe fire, she could certainly look it. “You are not one of his patients, Captain—er..."
"Oh, I shan't keep him more than a jiffy! It's a family matter."
The old hussy pouted disbelievingly. “Family?” A surgeon as eminent as Mr. Stringer could not possibly be related to anything lower than a colonel.
"Sort of.” Wilting under the glare, Smedley fingered his tie. “Just wanted to pay my respects, don't you know."
Perhaps she had been a schoolmistress in her youth. She wore her hair in a bun and must be at least thirty. Her features had been chipped from granite, but the basilisk eyes narrowed as she appraised the tie. “I'll see if he can spare you a moment, Captain Smedley. Pray take a seat."
He sat on a hard wooden chair and sweated it out. Stringer was another Old Fallovian, but he could not have known Exeter, who had been long after his time. Even by talking to the man, Smedley was breaking trust. But what choice did he have? In less than two days he would be evicted from Staffles and lose all hope of helping Exeter. This was the only lead he had. He need not give John Three's real name. Just make a few inquiries. Find out what the score was. Face seems familiar, maybe? Dare he go that far?
And if the surgeon called his bluff, the provost sergeant would break Smedley into pieces in seconds.
He studied the Illustrated London News and saw not a line of it. Oddly enough, though, his hand was so steady that the paper wasn't even shaking. Funny, that. No accounting for the willies.
"Mr. Stringer will see you now, Captain."
The office was a cramped oblong with a small, high window and green-painted walls. It had probably been a butler's pantry originally, because scars on the wall showed where built-in cupboards had been ripped out when the Army took over. There was barely room for a desk, two filing cabinets, and a couple of chairs. The chair behind the desk looked comfortable. The one in front was not.
Stringer rose and extended his left hand. Smedley had not yet decided whether he appreciated that courtesy or regarded it as patronizing. In this case it had been offered to show that the surgeon had fast reactions.
He was short, fortyish, starting to grow plump, and his fair hair was parted in the middle. His suit had cost fifty guineas on Savile Row. His manner was brusque and arrogant, which was to be expected of surgeons. He had an unhealthy hospital pallor, as if he rarely went outdoors. His eyes were fishily prominent, and they had registered the tie.
"Do take a seat, Captain. Smoke?” He offered a carved mahogany box, English and Egyptian.
Smedley accepted a chair and a Dunhill. Stringer took the same and lit both fags with a vesta. He leaned back to put his visitor at ease. He smiled politely.
"I was not aware that we were related."
"Adopted family, sir."
"Esse non sapere?"
"That certainly applied in Flanders!” To be, not to know.
Stringer nodded approvingly. “Fallow has more than done its share in this war, Captain. Forty-four old boys have made the Supreme Sacrifice, last I heard. I feel sorry for the youngsters there now. Grim lookout, what?"
"Bloody awful."
The lookout for a sixth former now was a great deal worse than the lookout for a successful surgeon with a prosperous Harley Street practice, who probably regarded his weekly consultation at Staffles as all the Empire could legitimately expect from him in the way of war effort. Field hospitals would be beneath a man of his eminence.
He was smiling the sort of smile that medical professors taught their best students. “You are assured of an honored place in the school annals yourself, Captain. Sorry I hadn't registered you were here. Jolly good show. We can all be proud of you."
Willies gibbered in the rafters. Smedley shuddered and fought them back.
Stringer's eyebrows rose fractionally. “And what can I do for you today?"
What Smedley wanted to say was, Don't let them send me away from here!
What he did say was, “Er..."
"Yes?"
"Er...” He was choking, he could not breathe. “Er ... er..."
Stringer patiently trimmed the ash on his cigarette in the ashtray, looking at that and nothing else.
"Er..."