The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [223]
“Possibly,” said Donald. “If we could find out who the director is, we might be a step nearer to Jeremy Alexander.”
I remember Jenny’s last words before I left for my room. “I wonder how many directors there are in Britain, Chief.”
Over breakfast in Donald’s room the following morning, he reviewed all the intelligence that had been gathered to date, but none of us felt we were any nearer to a solution.
“What about Mrs. Balcescu?” I said. “She may be the person taking the call every Friday at midday, because that’s the one time she knows exactly where her husband is.”
“I agree. But is she simply Rosemary’s messenger, or is she a friend of Jeremy’s?” asked Donald.
“Perhaps we’ll have to tap her phone to find out,” said Jenny.
Donald ignored her comment, and checked his watch. “It’s time to go to Balcescu’s lecture.”
“Why are we bothering?” I asked. “Surely we ought to be concentrating on Mrs. Balcescu.”
“You’re probably right,” said Donald. “But we can’t afford to leave any stone unturned, and since his next lecture won’t be for another week, we may as well get it over with. In any case, we’ll be out by eleven, and if we find Mrs. Balcescu’s phone is engaged between twelve and twelve thirty …”
After Donald had asked Jenny to bring the car around to the front of the hotel, I slipped back into my room to pick up something that had been hidden in the bottom of my suitcase for several weeks. A few minutes later I joined them, and Jenny drove us out of the hotel parking lot, turning right into the main road. Donald glanced at me suspiciously in the rearview mirror as I sat silently in the back. Did I look guilty? I wondered.
Jenny spotted a parking meter a couple of hundred yards away from the Department of European Studies, and pulled in. We got out of the car and followed the flow of students along the sidewalk and up the steps. No one gave us a second look. Once we had entered the building, Donald whipped off his tie and slipped it in his jacket pocket. He looked more like a Marxist revolutionary than most of the people heading toward the lecture.
The lecture hall was clearly signposted, and we entered it by a door on the ground floor, which turned out to be the only way in or out. Donald immediately walked up the raked auditorium to the back row of seats. Jenny and I followed, and Donald instructed me to sit behind a student who looked as if he spent his Saturday afternoons playing lock forward for his college rugby team.
While we waited for Balcescu to enter the room, I began to look around. The lecture hall was a large semicircle, not unlike a miniature Greek amphitheater, and I estimated that it could hold around three hundred students. By the time the clock on the front wall read 9:55 there was hardly a seat to be found. No further proof was needed of the professor’s reputation.
I felt a light sweat forming on my forehead as I waited for Balcescu to make his entrance. As the clock struck ten the door of the lecture hall opened. I was so disappointed at the sight that greeted me that I groaned aloud. He couldn’t have been less like Jeremy. I leaned across to Donald. “Wrong-colored hair, wrong-colored eyes, about thirty pounds too light.” The Don showed no reaction.
“So the connection has to be with Mrs. Balcescu,” whispered Jenny.
“Agreed,” said Donald under his breath. “But we’re stuck here for the next hour, because we certainly can’t risk drawing attention to ourselves by walking out. We’ll just have to make a dash for it as soon as the lecture is over. We’ll still have time to see if she’s at home to take the twelve o’clock call.” He paused. “I should have checked the layout of the building earlier.” Jenny reddened slightly, because she knew I meant you.
And then I suddenly remembered where I had seen Mrs. Balcescu. I was about to tell Donald, but the room fell silent as the professor began delivering his opening words.
“This is the sixth of eight lectures,” he began,