Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

“Whiteleys,” she finally managed to say, and the cab glided forward into the storm. Some deep instinct-and a hundred old spy movies-told her not to give the cab driver the exact address where she was going. He looked like a classic London cabbie-Caucasian, sixtyish, florid, and graying, in a navy coat and tweed cap-and his medallion displayed his photo and the name CARSTAIRS, PATRICK S., but she wasn’t taking chances. Whiteleys shopping center was in the vicinity of Craig’s building on Queensway, and she could find her way from there. She’d shopped at Whiteleys a few times with Vivian.

Vivian. Oh God, Vivian was dead ! Sweet, silly Vivian, who’d never harmed anyone in her life. Vivian had been her friend, a good friend. Bill had always been nice to her too, but Bill had worked in a dangerous profession-Jeff’s profession-and he’d known the constant risks. Now, for the first time, those risks were also Nora’s.

The world outside the taxi windows rushed by in a rainy blur, just like the streets she’d run through in her escape from the murder house. Murder house -God, what a melodramatic phrase! And yet, that was precisely what it was. Bill Howard slumped in the chair, Vivian in the foyer, and Claudia on the kitchen floor, the tendrils of spaghetti mingling with the tendrils of gray hair around her ruined face…

Before Nora was aware of it, a low, keening moan had escaped her. The cabbie glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She shook the image from her mind and smiled weakly at the eyes in the mirror, then looked out at the lights and the hurrying umbrellas on the sidewalks. She felt damp, and not merely from the rain. The cold clamminess on her face and hands had nothing to do with precipitation. It was fear, plain and simple.

This French traitor, Maurice Dolin, was playing for very high stakes. What had Bill said? I don’t think a hundred million pounds would be out of the question. For that sort of payoff, Dolin clearly had no qualms about eliminating the families of his perceived enemies-or anyone else who happened to be nearby. His henchmen, Yussuf and Andy Gilbert, were scouring London, looking for her, and she had no illusions about what they’d do to her when they found her. She’d just seen their handiwork.

She tried to remember Maurice Dolin’s face from the television, but it was difficult. He’d looked so bland, so perfectly ordinary: a heavyset, balding, middle-aged businessman with a thick mustache and thick glasses. Nora passed a hundred such people on the street every day, graying men in gray suits. But the actor in her knew that the most outrageous personalities could lurk behind the most unassuming façades. That paunchy, jowly Frenchman had just murdered his British equivalent, and he was holding Nora’s husband.

The car slowed as it turned into the bustling thoroughfare in Bayswater, and the enormous indoor shopping mall gleamed cheerfully in the rain before them.

“Right here is fine,” Nora said to the driver, and he pulled over to the curb. She fumbled with the British money in her wallet, adding a tip that was nearly as much as the fare, which garnered her a heartfelt “Cheers!” from the front seat. By the time she emerged from the cab, three laughing young women in sparkling minidresses under their raincoats were politely pushing past her and tumbling into it.

Nora smiled perfunctorily at the women, thinking, Normal life. The real world. They’d just had a girls-only dinner, no doubt, and now they were off to a party or a dance club, whereas she must make contact with a secret agent, tell him about the stiffs in St. John’s Wood, then figure out how to find someone named Laura so the fuzz could close in for the collar. If it weren’t so macabre, it would be funny.

She checked the addresses on the nearest buildings to see which way the numbers ran, then walked along the busy sidewalk, bent forward under her umbrella, acutely aware of the wet, huddled bodies barging past her. Everyone was hurrying to get out of the downpour, everyone but her; she was hurrying for another reason. His building wouldn’t be much farther now-

She halted at the corner near the entrance to the Queensway Underground station, peering through the rain at the scene before her, halfway down the next block: flashing blue lights and a gathering crowd in front of a seven-story apartment building. She stared, waiting impatiently for the light at the crosswalk, feeling the first thrill of anxiety. Was that Craig’s building? It might be. The light changed, and she ran across the street, wincing as a loud siren wail approached from behind her.

An ambulance sped past her and skidded to a stop near the clutch of police cars. A lone bobby stood in the intersection she’d just crossed, stopping all vehicular traffic with sharp blasts of his whistle and rerouting it away down a side street. As Nora neared the building, three blue-clad paramedics burst out of the ambulance and ran inside, wheeling a gurney between them. She arrived at the back edge of the crowd that stood, gaping and chattering excitedly, on the sidewalk.

Two women were beside her in the throng, huddled together under their umbrellas, staring with the others. One of them pointed at the activity and turned to her companion.

“I asked the officer why we couldn’t go inside, and he said they had to remove the body first. Body! Dear Lord, Tim and I have lived here eight years now and never anything like this in the building! They say it’s flat three on the first floor-you know him, Beryl, that nice young man, Mr. Elder, the dishy chap what’s always pleasant and saying ‘Good day.’ Oh dear, what a shame if it’s him!”

“Calm yourself, Flo,” her companion said. “We don’t know what’s happened yet. They’ll let us in directly, and then we can find out what’s really-”

Nora took a step back from the clutch of people. She stared at the entrance to the building another moment, then turned and retraced her steps to the intersection. So, they’d found Craig Elder, and in the thirty minutes or so since she’d spoken to him on the phone. They’d lain in wait for him, caught him at home as he returned with his takeout dinner. Craig Elder, that kind young man, her last hope.

Her first, overwhelming instinct was to get out of here, and the Underground entrance across the street was her best bet. But where could she go? Not her husband’s place, and not the Byron Hotel. Yussuf had people watching it.

She paused at the corner, thinking. The Byron Hotel. Lonny Tindall. If she could get in touch with him, perhaps he could help her. Yes, Lonny would think of something, somewhere for her to go; he was so clever and resourceful. She crossed the street and hurried toward the subway entrance.

She didn’t make it. She was a few yards from the doorway when her arm was seized from behind in a powerful grip. She gasped and whirled around. When she saw who had grabbed her, she nearly fainted, first in surprise and then in relief.

It was Craig Elder, back from the dead. And he didn’t look happy about it.

“Craig!” Nora cried. She dropped her umbrella on the sidewalk and threw her arms around his neck. “I thought you were-”

“No,” he said, gently extricating himself from her embrace and bending down to pick up her umbrella. “It wasn’t me. Come on, we have to get out of here. Someone could see us.”

He grasped her hand and pulled her away from the bright lights at the Underground entrance, around the corner, and down a side street. She hurried along beside him, straining to keep up, the rain stinging her skin as they moved. He was wearing a dark raincoat with the collar up and a black watchman’s cap pulled low over his brow. She could barely see his face, only his stricken eyes and scowling lips.