The Victim in Victoria Station Page 8

  He couldn’t, of course. In the end he could only come up with one, and that involved a minor detail, not a change in the basic plan.

  “Temp-Assist will have to know. They check on the employees from time to time; it’s part of their service. And if someone were to call Multilinks, and the girl wasn’t there, she’d be in big trouble and you might be, too. If you’re absolutely determined to do this—”

  “And I am.”

  “—then you and the girl make up some story. She has a sick relative she has to go take care of, or whatever, and she wants you to take her place for a little while because she likes the job and doesn’t want to lose it. You’re probably her aunt.”

  “Great-aunt, I suspect. Clerk-typists come younger and younger these days.”

  “I leave you to work out the details. I’ll still have to pull some strings, because they don’t like to place anyone they haven’t tested and trained, but I think it can be done. And it’ll be safer that way, because Temp-Assist will know you’re there and won’t blow your cover.”

  “I can’t use my real name, of course.”

  “No, that’s right, somebody at Multilinks knows your name. But wait a minute, D.! They know your face, too, or one of them may. You can’t possibly—”

  “I thought of that, too. I’ll wear a wig and leave my hats at home. There isn’t a man in a thousand who can recognize a woman he’s seen in a hat when she isn’t wearing it, or vice versa.”

  I passed a satisfied hand over the current hat, and Tom smiled in spite of himself. It’s really a very bright red, with a rakish little feather. Frank always loved it.

  “All right, all right! I admit I almost didn’t recognize you without a hat myself, the other day at our house when you’d just gotten up. I thought a strange woman was sitting across the breakfast table from me.”

  “See? Anyway, big important executives don’t notice a lowly temp.”

  “Aha! And what makes you think your man is a big important executive?”

  Oops! “Uh—he acted like one. On the train. When he was pretending to be a doctor.”

  “You never were a good liar, D. What are you not telling me?”

  “A few unimportant things, Tom Anderson, that I have no intention of telling you. You’re better off not knowing. Now, I want to start work as soon as possible.”

  He sighed heavily. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do what I can. By the way, do you by any chance actually possess any office skills?”

  “Everyone in my generation learned typing in high school, and I’ve kept up with it a little. And anyone who’s run a household for forty-odd years is an expert in organization. I’m polite and reasonably bright and can talk on the telephone. What more do I need?”

  “Computer skills.”

  “Oh. Oh, dear, I suppose you’re right. Especially in a computer company. Well, I’ll see what Nigel can teach me in a hurry. It can’t be all that hard.”

  It took another twenty minutes, and I had to switch to plain tonic or lose my reasoning edge, but Tom eventually came up with a plan. He had, as luck would have it, played golf with the CEO of Temp-Assist. He, Tom, would explain to his friend that his elderly aunt—I made him change that to middle-aged aunt—had made a bet she could make good in an office job, and he, Tom, needed some information and influence in order to help me out. When he got the information—the name of the employee and her phone number—he’d get in touch with me.

  “How soon?” I said finally.

  “If I can hook up with this guy, and if he can see me right away, and if we can get the information quickly—”

  “A CEO can get anything done quickly.”

  “In theory.”

  “This is important, Tom. A matter, as they say, of life and death.”

  He sighed histrionically. “Yeah. Yours, maybe.”

  “How soon?”

  “Couple of days, maybe.”

  “Tomorrow. And make sure it’s a job that doesn’t really need good computer skills, because I won’t have the time to learn. File clerk or something like that.”

  “You know, the world lost a damn good executive when you took up schoolteaching! I’ll do what I can.”

  “I’m sure you will, Tom. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I smiled as winningly as I could, but Tom just laughed.

  “Come off it, D. You’ve gotten your way. You don’t have to turn on the megawatt charm. Will you beat me up if I tell you to be careful tomorrow, or whenever?”

  “Why, suh, how you do go on! Fiddle-dee-dee!” I slid off the stool, batting my eyelashes for all I was worth as I headed for the door. When I looked back, Tom was shaking his head and looking imploringly heavenward.

  Maybe southern belle wasn’t my best role.

  9

  I spent Wednesday buying a wig and a pair of glasses with gaudy rhinestone frames, and (sans disguise) talking Nigel into teaching me the rudiments of word processing.

  “Why do you want to know?” he had demanded when I walked into the Computer Centre and made my request. “What are you going to do?”

  “Ni-gel!” I split the word into two protracted syllables on a rising note loaded with vague but dire threat. Years of dealing with schoolchildren and cats had perfected the technique. I had actually intended to tell him what I was planning, but if he was going to launch into his protective mode, he could remain in ignorance. He started muttering to himself (it was becoming his standard response to my suggestions, I realized), but he sat me down at a desk and launched me into the secrets of typing at a television set.

  At the end of three concentrated hours I knew how to create and save a document, how to find it again after I’d filed it, and how to edit it and print it out. And I’d fallen in love.

  “But this is wonderful! So much easier than typing! Think of it, no more erasing or whiting over mistakes! I just overtype it, and it’s corrected—amazing! And look at this—I can move a whole sentence around, or put in a word I forgot. It’ll even show me my typos and look up synonyms for me! Why did no one ever tell me computers could do this sort of thing?”

  “Wait till the hard drive crashes,” said Nigel darkly. “Or you forget to save a file and it’s gone forever. Or the computer won’t boot, or any of the thousand things that can go wrong.” He was still annoyed with me.

  “You can’t fool me. You love these machines, or why would you be working with them?”

  “I love them when they work properly. Half the time they don’t.”

  I gave him a very skeptical look.

  “Okay. A quarter of the time. Some of the time. But what you must never forget is that a computer will not do what you want it to do. It will do only what you tell it to do. Exactly what you tell it to do, and only if it understands the command. You have to do the thinking. Never click a mouse button until you’re quite sure you know what you’re doing. Always—”

  “Nigel.” This time I was gentle, but firm. “I think I’ve absorbed as much as my brain will stand for today. Thank you very much. One of these days I may actually consider buying one of these gadgets.”

  I drove home absently, my mind full of strange new terms and my hands a little cramped from hours on a keyboard and mouse. Since Alan made me take driving lessons, I’ve been quite a bit more at ease on English roads, but this afternoon I was so distracted I very nearly turned down the wrong side of my street.

  There were two messages on my answering machine. The blinking light drove every other thought out of my head.

  “You are to report to Temp-Assist at nine tomorrow morning.” Tom gave the address in an extremely dry voice. “I had my secretary set the thing up with Alice Scott, whom you’ll be replacing. I didn’t trust you not to get carried away with the details. She was delighted, incidentally, Alice, I mean. At Temp-Assist they’ll give you some instructions and send you on to Multilinks. Everybody and his Aunt Sally has protested about this, D. You’re supposed to go through all kinds of testing and training and God knows what. The big boss
had to talk, in person, to a lot of flunkies to get you out of all that, and he’s taking a big chunk out of my hide for it. You’d better be good at your job, or I’ll never hear the end of it. And D.—be careful.”

  My heart thumped uncomfortably in my chest. This was what I’d thought I wanted, but now I had it, that old adage about being careful what you pray for hit home with force. It had been many, many years since I’d had a new job. I had completely forgotten what it felt like. Anticipation vied with stage fright, anxiety and fear with hope, all doing a jig somewhere in the region of my stomach.

  I wasn’t young anymore. There was no denying it. I was about to go into a strange office in a country that, no matter how much I loved it, was not my own. And to make matters much worse, I was going in there under completely false pretenses. I’d never worked in an office in my life; my career had been in the classroom. I’d have to pretend to know routine I’d seen only on TV shows and in the movies. I’d have to be professional and competent—not only, I reminded myself, to preserve Tom’s reputation, but to save my own skin. There was a murderer in that office. I swallowed hard.

  A cup of tea and several cookies later, I remembered to listen to the second message. It was Tom again.

  “Almost forgot. Your name is Louise Wren. And you had your purse stolen two days ago and don’t have new identification yet, just in case anyone asks you for some. They probably won’t, but it’s best to be on the safe side. Don’t forget your name, and you’d better take a new purse to preserve the fiction.”

  Heavens, I’d never thought about anyone checking my identification! I broke into a light sweat as I thought of the terrible mistakes I could have made. What a good thing Tom was thorough.

  I had two phone calls after dinner. I was in my bedroom, dithering about what to wear for my first day on the job and wondering just how early a train I’d have to catch, when the first call came in.

  “Dorothy, it’s Lynn. Now, listen. Tom’s told me what you’re doing. He didn’t want to tell, but I made him. He may be able to keep secrets from other people, but they haven’t been married to him for twenty-seven years.”

  “Oh, dear.” I sat down on the bed. “I suppose you don’t approve.”

  “I think it’s thrilling! I’d have done it myself if I’d thought of it. Tom had fit when I told him that. But he said you were going to be taking the train in to London every morning, and that makes no sense at all. Come and stay with us for as long as you need to. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Oh, Lynn, I’d love to, and it’s very kind of you to offer. But there’s the house, and the cats—”

  “You know quite well Jane will look after the house and the cats.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to explain myself to her. I do feel very strongly that the fewer people know about this, the safer we all are.”

  “Yes, I know. Make up something for Jane.”

  “I don’t lie very well. It’s an art I should cultivate, I know.”

  “I’ll teach you. I lie beautifully in a good cause. Let’s see. A friend from America has just arrived in London and wants you to show her around. Or your godchild is getting married a week from Saturday at St. George’s Hanover Square. Her mother is beside herself and asking for you. Or your friends Tom and Lynn Anderson are going away and need a house-sitter. Or the Queen has invited you to a garden party, and you have to do some serious clothes shopping. Or you’ve decided to take up Zen, and someone has told you about a marvelous guru near Hampstead Heath. Need any more? I’m just getting started.” She paused for breath.

  I was laughing by that time. “No, I expect one of those will do. Lynn, you’re wonderful. I’ll see you tomorrow sometime, probably not until I get off work.”

  I settled for the godchild story as the likeliest and presented it, with some embroidery, to Jane. She accepted it with calm acquiescence, though she did not, I was sure, believe a word. Biding her time, that was Jane. Well, I’d tell her the whole story. Someday.

  Alan, calling later, was harder to deal with.

  “Alan! I’m so glad you called. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. I was going to call you, but I was afraid it was too late.”

  “Close on midnight, but we keep late hours here. It’s too hot at midday to do anything productive, so we carry on the siesta tradition. Life takes up again somewhere about four, and goes on quite late. They view midnight as the shank of the evening.”

  “I thought mad dogs and Englishmen went out in the midday sun.”

  “Not this Englishman, not here. You’re sounding a good deal more like yourself, I must say. I thought you were a bit under the weather last time.”

  “I’m feeling better; it finally stopped raining.” We discussed that useful subject for an expensive minute or two. I’ve never gotten the hang of talking long-distance to someone I love. There’s too much to say, so I end up saying nothing in particular.

  “What have you been doing to keep yourself so busy you couldn’t phone your neglected husband?”

  Conversation is especially difficult, of course, when you have something to hide. I’d been making little notes while we talked—things I could safely say. “Oh, this and that. I went to see Tom and Lynn last weekend. Lynn and I have decided to go to Glyndebourne this year. And oh, Alan, I’ve been having Nigel teach me to use a computer. It’s fascinating!”

  “A computer? Whatever for?”

  “Because I was feeling old and didn’t want to turn into a stick-in-the-mud, mostly. But now I’m beginning to think I might want one. I’ve learned a little about the Internet, too, and I’m hooked. Are they terribly expensive?”

  That lasted us a while, too. Alan was beginning to sound sleepy, so I took a deep breath and dived in.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. I’ll be in London for about a week, or maybe longer, starting tomorrow. Have I ever mentioned my godchild Crystal?”

  Where that name came from, I’ll never know. It was the first one that came into my head.

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Well, I’ve been out of touch with her for quite a while. Crystal Redgrave. No, no relation, unfortunately—I’d love to meet that family! Her mother was one of Frank’s students, and when she married and had a baby girl, we were the godparents. Then they all moved to England… .” I went on for some time providing details of a fictional family who were beginning to seem quite real to me. “So, anyway, Crystal is getting married in a few days, and she and her mother want me there to help. They’re sort of frantic, I guess, with a house full of guests. I’ll be staying with Tom and Lynn again if you need me. Do you have their number?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “Alan? Are you still there?”

  “Yes.” Pause. “Dorothy, are you?—is there something?—I have the oddest feeling you’re not telling me everything. You sound—different.”

  Alan’s naturally keen perceptions have been honed by long years as a policeman. His sensitivity is one of the reasons I love him so much.

  Usually.

  “I’m a bit distracted, that’s all, love. This came up rather suddenly, and I’ve been running around trying to decide what to take and getting Jane to look after the cats and all. Really.”

  “Dorothy, I wish—I’m sorry I can’t be at home just now.”

  “Me, too!” And if that came out a little more like a wail than I’d intended, at least it had a positive effect. Alan dropped that speculative tone and became soothing, and I relaxed. He hung up after I promised to call him in a day or two.

  I’d have to keep that promise, too, or he’d get really concerned. I hated lying to him, but I simply couldn’t explain over the telephone. Besides, he’d worry, and he needed to keep his mind on his job. I wished he were here to help, but he wasn’t, and that was that. I’d just have to do my best on my own.

  I WAS UP at dawn on Thursday, having slept, between the rigors of packing and the prickles of worry, only a few hours. I called a minicab, having no wish
to struggle with two large suitcases by myself or leave my car parked at the station for who knew how long. The cats were indignant. They don’t care for disruptions in their routine, and they hate suitcases, whose implications they understand full well. The cabdriver was greeted by anguished Siamese howls and thought, I’m sure, that someone was being murdered. I donned my wig and new glasses in the cab, not wanting Jane to see them, and when an apparently strange woman climbed out of the cab, the cabbie’s demoralization was complete. He deposited my bags and got away as quickly as he could.

  The packed train got to London on time, by some miracle. But miracles don’t often come in bunches, and they ceased when I got to Victoria Station. I had never before witnessed the daily commuter crush, much less tried to negotiate it. It was no place for a lady of mature years and a slightly gimpy leg. I stood helpless as the tide of humanity surged past and around me, running for the station exits, the escalators to the Underground, the taxi stands. I had planned to leave my luggage in the checkroom and take the tube to the Temp-Assist office. I altered my decision in thirty seconds flat. Forget the Underground. Across the station, down two escalators, through several short tunnels, into a sardine-can train, up more escalators, another walk—no, thank you. I would be doing very well to make it to the taxi stand in one piece.

  I hurried through the station, got a cab without too much delay, and took it as far as a traffic jam just around the corner from the Temp-Assist office. It would look more realistic, I felt, to arrive on foot. Louise Wren was not terribly well-to-do. I hoped I was coming from the right direction, as if I’d come from the Underground, but when I got to my destination, I realized that was the least of my worries.

  The office was packed with young women, all dressed in the same uniform of short dark skirt, white blouse, and black high heels. Oh, the pattern of the skirts and blouses varied, as did the height of the heels, from moderate and almost comfortable to Grand Inquisitor. But there wasn’t another soul in the place in a dress. And there wasn’t one over thirty. Three of them were sitting together in a little knot near the door. They stopped talking when I walked in, looked up with mouth agape, and then went back to their conversation.