The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [81]
“Of course. Daily reports?”
“Yes, except that if Wolff is seen I want to know immediately. You can reach Captain Jakes or me at GHQ during the day. Give him our home phone numbers, Jakes.”
“I know these houseboats,” the detective said. “The towpath is a popular evening walk, I think, especially for sweethearts.”
Jakes said: “That’s right.”
Vandam raised an eyebrow at Jakes.
The detective went on: “A good place, perhaps, for a beggar to sit. Nobody ever sees a beggar. At night ... well, there are bushes. Also popular with sweethearts.”
Vandam said: “Is that right, Jakes?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.” He realized he was being ribbed, and he smiled. He gave the detective a piece of paper with the phone numbers written on it.
A little boy in pajamas walked into the room, rubbing his eyes. He was about five or six years old. He looked around the room sleepily, then went to the detective.
“My son,” the detective said proudly.
“I think we can leave you now,” Vandam said. “Unless you want us to drop you in the city?”
“No, thank you, I have a car, and I should like to put on my jacket and tie and comb my hair.”
“Very well, but make it fast.” Vandam stood up. Suddenly he could not see straight. It was as if his eyelids were closing involuntarily, yet he knew he had his eyes wide open. He felt himself losing his balance. Then Jakes was beside him, holding his arm.
“All right, sir?”
His vision returned slowly. “All right now,” he said.
“You’ve had a nasty injury,” the detective said sympathetically.
They went to the door. The detective said: “Gentlemen, be assured that I will handle this surveillance personally. They won’t get a mouse aboard that houseboat without your knowing it.” He was still holding the little boy, and now he shifted him onto his left hip and held out his right hand.
“Good-bye,” Vandam said. He shook hands. “By the way, I’m Major Vandam.”
The detective gave a little bow. “Superintendent Kernel, at your service, sir.”
14
SONJA BROODED. SHE HAD HALF EXPECTED WOLFF TO BE AT THE HOUSEBOAT when she returned toward dawn, but she had found the place cold and empty. She was not sure how she felt about that. At first, when they had arrested her, she had felt nothing but rage toward Wolff for running away and leaving her at the mercy of the British thugs. Being alone, being a woman and being an accomplice of sorts in Wolff’s spying, she was terrified of what they might do to her. She thought Wolff should have stayed to look after her. Then she had realized that that would not have been smart. By abandoning her he had diverted suspicion away from her. It was hard to take, but it was for the best. Sitting alone in the bare little room at GHQ, she had turned her anger away from Wolff and toward the British.
She had defied them, and they had backed down.
At the time she had not been sure that the man who interrogated her had been Major Vandam, but later, when she was being released, the clerk had let the name slip. The confirmation had delighted her. She smiled again when she thought of the grotesque bandage on Vandam’s face. Wolff must have cut him with the knife. He should have killed him. But all the same, what a night, what a glorious night!
She wondered where Wolff was now. He would have gone to ground somewhere in the city. He would emerge when he thought the coast was clear. There was nothing she could do. She would have liked him here, though, to share the triumph.
She put on her nightdress. She knew she ought to go to bed, but she did not feel sleepy. Perhaps a drink would help. She found a bottle of Scotch whiskey, poured some into a glass, and added water. As she was tasting it she heard footsteps on the gangplank. Without thinking she called: “Achmed ... ?” Then she realized the step was not his, it was too light and quick. She stood at the foot of the ladder in her nightdress, with the drink in her hand. The hatch was lifted and an Arab face looked in.
“Sonja?”
“Yes—”
“You were expecting someone