Catch the Saint Read Free Page A

and
the taxi that had brought her was pulling away,
leaving her outside the building in Whitehall, where
she was supposed to learn more about her brother’s fate.
    She entered as if the
very size of the place made her feel that she
should make herself smaller, and approached a desk that promised information.
She cleared her throat and said:
    “I have an
appointment with Mr Fawkes, in room 405.”
    The commissionaire on
duty was rather small and stout, and very businesslike.
    “What time is your
appointment?”
    “At one
o’clock.”
    “Most of ‘em are out
to lunch at this hour, but if he’s expecting you…”
    He dialled a number on the
telephone beside him, and tapped his fingers while he
waited for an answer.
    “Hullo,” he
said. “Is Mr Fawkes in? A young lady to see him.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and leaned forward. “What name, please?”
    “Julie
Norcombe.”
    She half expected his face
to cloud over at the very mention of what now must be a
notorious last name, but he went ahead as briskly as ever: “Miss Norcombe.
It is ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” she
admitted a little unhappily.
    “Jolly good.” He
stood up after depositing the telephone in its cradle.
“Take the lift to the fourth floor. Mr Fawkes’s office is immediately to
your right as you get out.”
    A few minutes later she
was standing outside a door labelled “J.
FAWKES” and “405.” She knocked. The door opened, and a red-haired girl looked out at her.
    “Miss Norcombe?”
    “Yes. I have an
appointment with—”
    “Mr Fawkes is
expecting you. Come in, please.”
    It was a large, impressive
office, with solid heavy furnishings. Mr Fawkes’s
red-headed secretary was also impressive, though for her shape and
proportions rather than any heaviness. Mr Fawkes
himself was most impressive of all. He rose from behind his desk to a height of
about six feet, and spoke to her with an ac cent that she associated almost exclusively with the BBC Third Programme.
    “Miss Norcombe, do
have a seat. It’s good of you to come.”
    She was overawed not only
by the silky smooth uncoiling of his phrases, but also by the grey at his
temples, his majestic straight nose, the
poise with which he held himself and gestured her to a chair, a little as if he were flicking a speck of dust from the air with the backs of his fingertips.
    “Thank you,” was
all Julie could say.
    She found herself wanting
to make a good impression, wanting to equal Mr Fawkes
in poise. He was a facet of London that she had
imagined admiringly in advance, and now found completely up to her ideal. For a
moment she forgot why she was there … but
only for a moment.
    “I’m sorry about
your brother, Miss Norcombe,” Fawkes said, sinking easily back into his
chair. “I’m particularly sorry that the news
had to be broken to you as it was, in the wee small hours of the morning. But that’s the way we have to operate
sometimes.”
    Julie glanced towards the
secretary, who was now at her own desk on the other
side of the room, absorbed in writing some thing
down. Was she making a record of the conversation?
    “It’s all
right,” Julie said. “I just couldn’t believe it. Adrian is …He just isn’t …”
    Fawkes looked coolly
sympathetic.
    “Appearances can be
deceiving, as the cliche has it. In any case,
we don’t want to rush to conclusions about your brother’s character. A man can
be motivated by a great many things.”
    “I’m not sure what
you mean.”
    Fawkes shrugged.
    “Well, blackmail for
example. Or financial problems. An artist may,
for example, believe that he has such a great mission in life that he can rationalise almost any means of keeping himself going.”
    Julie broke in: “I
beg your pardon, but please tell me, exactly what
did my brother do?”
    “Your brother has
been detained under Section 48C of the Defence
Regulations. What that means is that he is allegedly in volved in activities aiding potential enemies of His