Operation Nassau Read Free Page A

through the door: a voice I had recently heard. ‘I do beg your pardon if you were asleep, but this is Wallace Brady, remember? I’ve just been to the hospital and seen Sir Bartholomew Edgecombe. I’ve got something to tell you.’
    ‘I know,’ I said. I finished filling the syringe, wiped it, repacked my bag and reached across for my dressing-gown. ‘I’ve just had a call from Dr Radinski. I hear he has made a good recovery. Thank you for coming to tell me.’
    ‘He has, but it isn’t that. Dr MacRannoch’ - it was an educated voice, in so far as such a thing may be said of a transatlantic inflection: and socially fluent - ‘Dr MacRannoch, I know it’s late and our acquaintanceship is of very short standing, but I have a message for you from Sir Bartholomew which I promised to give you tonight. I’ll tell you through the door if you wish, or I’ll telephone you, but I’d appreciate it if you felt able to see me?’
    ‘Just now?’ I said. I tied the dressing-gown, put the syringe in one pocket, and rang the bell for room service.
    ‘Two minutes?’ he said, instilling appeal into his voice. All the same, it was not quite sufficiently flexible, I judged, to be the murmuring voice on the telephone.
    ‘Very well,’ I said, and unhooking the chain, drew open the door. ‘I’ve just rung for some coffee. Perhaps you will join me.’
    Mr Wallace Brady entered, fully dressed I was happy to see, crossed the room and sat in a distant armchair. He made no attempt whatever to molest me. In fact he seemed, if anything, to find the situation amusing. I put my hands in my dressing-gown pockets and remained standing. ‘Yes?’
    ‘Do sit down,’ he said. ‘You must be tired, and I’ve interrupted your sleep. And the coffee’s on me. Unless you’d prefer something stronger?’
    ‘The refreshment, so far as I know,’ I said, ‘is on British Overseas Airways; but please order whatever you wish. I do not take alcohol.’
    ‘Now that,’ he said regretfully, ‘I should have guessed.’
    ‘And the message?’ I said. The floor waiter appeared at the open door: I gave him the order and he disappeared.
    ‘It’s an appeal, really, from patient to doctor,’ Wallace Brady said. He had light brown hair and the type of thick skin which browns without burning: his eyes were light grey, almost white, the lids well opened. He was in my view too thin, but not otherwise ill formed. When I refrained from speaking his hand moved for the first time to his jacket pocket and then he removed it. ‘You don’t like smoke in your bedroom, I guess.’
    ‘The air conditioning will remove it,’ I said, ‘if you cannot endure a conversation without it.’
    He looked at me thoughtfully, then smiling, leaned to one side and took a cigarette-case from his pocket. ‘You’re a woman who knows her own mind,’ he said. ‘Bart Edgecombe was right.’
    I waited.
    ‘The problem is,’ said Brady, ‘that Bart wants to get back to Nassau. His wife’s there, Denise. I gather he doesn’t like to leave her for long. But the hospital aren’t keen.’
    ‘I should think not,’ I said. I could see what was coming. I said. ‘I thought he lived in one of the out-islands.’
    ‘He does. Great Harbour Cay. I’m working there myself at the moment - that’s how I know him. He came to New York for a couple of days and Denise took off for some shopping in Nassau and expected him back there tonight. The point is, he wants to get the 11.30 flight tomorrow morning, and if he does, would you look after him? He’ll go straight into the United Commonwealth if need be the moment he arrives.’
    The coffee came. I allowed Mr Brady to tip the waiter, since its presence was entirely his responsibility, and poured. Since I had hopes of being allowed to sleep at least part of the night, I made my own mostly hot milk. I said, ‘The hospital is perfectly right in not wishing Sir Bartholomew to travel. My advice would be to send for Lady Edgecombe