Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

“Ta.” Polly picked one up and dunked it in her coffee.

“You just go about your business when you want, Polly. I have to find a telephone. My cell-I mean, my mobile is, um, dead, and I must make some calls-”

“Here.” Polly pulled a cellphone from her pocket and handed it to her. “Help yourself.”

“Oh, thank you!” Nora said. “You’ve saved me a lot of bother.” To emphasize her gratitude, she added, “Has Mr. Noone paid you for this week? Because I can do that, and for the groceries.”

Polly’s eyes brightened. “That would be terrif ! The receipt from the market is here, and he pays me thirty quid.”

Nora glanced at the receipt and went to get her purse. Polly cleaned, shopped, and laundered for three male neighbors, so that was ninety pounds a week without leaving home, added to her husband’s automotive paycheck. Clever girl. And she was so friendly, so personable, that she’d made Nora temporarily forget the gravity of her situation. But now she remembered.

The wig was lying on the desk beside the bag, and Nora was glad she’d decided to remove it and wash her face before Polly’s unexpected arrival. She’d never have been able to explain the old-lady drag to a neighbor who thought “Mr. Noone” was in “electronics.” She stuffed the wig into the bag, paid Polly, and took the phone into the living room.

She tried Craig’s number three times, but there was no answer and no recording for messages. She thought of texting him, but she stopped when she realized that he’d have no way of replying. She couldn’t give him Polly’s number, and her own iPhone was back in the hotel safe at the Byron. He hadn’t given her an email address. And what could she tell him at this point, anyway? I think your boss/friend/father figure might be the arms dealer, so please come rescue me tonight. He’d think she was insane. No, she needed to speak with him on a phone-or, preferably, face-to-face-so she could explain. She finally gave up.

Polly went downstairs and came back with a bucket of cleaning supplies and a vacuum cleaner. Nora sat in the living room, listening to the activity in the bathroom, bedrooms, and kitchen as the time passed. She went into Jeff’s bedroom and lay down while Polly worked in the living room. She dozed fitfully, but she couldn’t sleep. When Polly finally went home at six o’clock, Nora washed her face again, put on makeup, and fixed her hair. She was no longer an elderly lady from France; she was Nora Baron once more.

Mrs. Jeffrey Baron.

She was reaching for her coat when she stopped short, remembering. Her husband had left three keys on his key ring for her. The big one opened the main door downstairs, and the medium one opened this apartment. She fished in her pocket for the key ring and held it up, frowning at the tiny third key. That would open…what?

She stood in the center of the living room, gazing slowly around. A safe? If so, where? Behind a painting? No, all the walls in the apartment were bare. She remembered their hiding place back home, and she went into the bathroom. Jeff had provided her with a hollowed-out compartment behind the medicine cabinet in their master bathroom, a small space that could hold valuables. The cabinet was hinged on one side; it unlatched on the other side and swung outward. Perhaps he’d installed one here…No, this cabinet was firmly attached to the wall.

Back in the living room, she looked around again, and her attention quickly focused on his desk. It was the most logical place, after all, and now she noticed the desk drawer. There was a tiny keyhole at the top, just above the handle. The wood around the lock was damaged; someone had been here, and she had a fair guess who. She slid the drawer open.

A gun. Nora stared down at the small, sleek object. Then she looked at the red box beside it:.38 caliber bullets-no, rounds . She picked up the weapon and peered at the inscription: Smith & Wesson LadySmith. Stainless steel, with a black rubber coating on the tiny handle, a two-inch barrel with a sight near the tip, and a chamber for five rounds. She aimed across the room; it was very light in her hand. And that short barrel-was this what they called a snubnose ? Whatever it was, it was fully loaded, and so small that she could conceal it anywhere. She wrapped it in the gray woolen shawl and placed it in the bottom of her bag, then piled the wig and everything else on top of it. She decided against taking the box of rounds. She shut the drawer and locked it.

What was the penalty for carrying a weapon in England? And what if she actually had to use it? She’d only imagined shooting someone when she’d played the murderous bank robber on television years ago, and the thought hadn’t been pleasant, even when she was in character. She’d shot and killed a policeman, then one of her own gang, and in the final scene she’d injured one of the stars of the series before she herself was killed. But the blood had been a mix of corn syrup and food coloring, and all those victims had stood up and walked away when the director yelled Cut!

Could she, Nora Baron, actually aim a weapon at someone and squeeze the trigger? She doubted it. She remembered holding Jacques Lanier’s heavy SIG Sauer, the feel of it in her hands, the panic and nausea induced by merely looking at it. But this morning, in the Byron dining room, she’d wished for it before going off to tail Yussuf. Now, for better or worse, she was glad to have the revolver. She wondered why Andy Gilbert and/or Bill Howard hadn’t taken it when they searched here the other night. They’d probably dismissed it as unimportant; they’d been looking for something else.

The sun was setting when Nora left the building. She stopped at a big red phone box and tried Craig’s number once more. Still no answer. Her only ally, the only person she trusted in this whole scenario, was out of reach for the time being. She didn’t have a clear theory of what was happening here, and she didn’t have a plan. She didn’t have anything at all except an illegal gun and an overwhelming need to find her husband.

She hailed a cab near Soho Square, gave the driver Vivian’s address, and rode northwest through the darkening streets, to face the enemy alone.

Few neighborhoods in London have detached, stand-alone houses with front and back gardens and garages, mainly because few people can afford them. Bill Howard and his wife were among the exceptions. They weren’t part of what Americans would refer to as the one percent, but they were well-off by any standard. Bill was highly paid for his services to the Crown, and Vivian was the only child of Maxfield Gordon, a prominent real estate developer in the postwar years. He’d left his widow more than enough, and she’d left Vivian an impressive dowry and this house on a quiet, tree-lined street in the northwest sector of St. John’s Wood, well removed from the bustle and noise downtown. This area was so isolated and exclusive as to be practically a suburb, London’s equivalent of Larchmont, Chevy Chase, or Beverly Hills.

When Vivian and Bill split up, there was no question of her leaving her own home. Bill had a flat in another part of the city now, not to mention his new country house in Sedgeford, and Vivian was still here, aided by her longtime housekeeper, the estimable Claudia Bellini, and Claudia’s husband, who tended the grounds. Nora had dined here many times over the years but always when the couple had been together, and Jeff had been with her. Coming here alone felt distinctly odd-and tonight, under the circumstances, it felt considerably more than odd.

It was the third house in from the corner, an attractive, two-story residence with a driveway beside the front garden leading to the garage. Nora stood at the corner, but she wasn’t looking at the house. She was studying the entire scene: the other houses, the sidewalks, and the parked cars that lined the street on both sides. All the cars she could see from here were empty, as far as she could tell, and there were no pedestrians in sight. It was nearly dark now, and the streetlamps had just come on. Everything was quiet, and no stranger lurked anywhere, watching Vivian’s house. When Nora was certain of this, she hurried down the street and up the walk to the front door. She rang the bell at exactly seven o’clock by her watch. The door opened almost immediately.