Heathersleigh Homecoming (36 page)

 69 
Rising Determination

Fatigue at last overpowered Amanda's distraught emotional condition, and she managed to sleep tolerably well under the circumstances.

When she awoke, her anger of the previous evening, while by no means gone, had been replaced by a growing determination to turn the tables on Ramsay rather than cower in fear of him. Whatever was going on, she would get to the bottom of it. Let Ramsay try to take her back to Vienna with him—she wouldn't go without a fight! And now
he
was behind enemy lines, not her.
He
was the spy now, and she would start shouting blue murder if he tried anything.

And just maybe she could make up for some of her earlier stupidity by helping to foil whatever it was they were up to. If they got hold of her and killed her in the end . . . well, what did she have to live for anyway? But she had no intention of making that easy for them!

Amanda lay in bed a few minutes revolving these things in her mind. Suddenly she realized she was famished. She got up, bathed and dressed, and went downstairs to the hotel dining room, where the buffet breakfast was laid for the hotel guests. Keeping an eye out, she loaded her plate higher than she would have thought possible, then found a table at the edge of the dining area from which the door would be clearly visible. She proceeded to enjoy three cups of tea and eat her fill, more than she had eaten since leaving the chalet. Her appetite was finally back, and with a vengeance! And she felt a little of her feisty childhood vigor returning along with it.

Thankfully there was no sign of the Grünsfeld woman anywhere. Amanda may have been feeling a little more spunky than before, but she wasn't ready for a face-to-face confrontation just yet. Although what was she worried about? The good
Miss Sadie
would probably never recognize her from their brief encounter in her dressing room anyway. So why not walk right up to her and slap her across the face!

Amanda returned to her room and sat down to think. She didn't have a lot of money. But the sisters had been generous to her, and between the French francs they had given her and what was left of her Austrian schillings, she had plenty to spare above what would be necessary for passage to England and a train to London from Portsmouth. She would go out and see if she could exchange the schillings for francs, if not at a bank perhaps back at the train station, and then buy some clothes to help her disguise herself.

Returning to l'Atelier des Prés after a successful outing a little after noon, Amanda walked into the hotel lobby with three packages in her arms.

Suddenly her heart leapt into her throat.

There stood Ramsay at the counter!

Her first thought was not,
There is my husband
, but
There is a spy and a louse and an enemy of all that is right and good and true . . . and of England as well!

The shorter version came soon enough on the heels of the latter, however, and with it a return of the nausea she always felt in her stomach at the reminder. To have described her feelings with the word hatred might have been too strong, but anger and revulsion and contempt would all have fit the bill.

She felt like walking up and slapping him in the face too! But instead she slowed her step and drew in a deep breath, trying to keep hold of the cargo, which had nearly dropped to the floor at the sight, and slunk behind a wide column in the lobby.

So, Ramsay Halifax
, she thought to herself,
we meet again. Well, this time we shall see who
outsmarts whom!

How different he now looked from her first sight of him when he had swept her off her feet. He didn't look the least bit handsome now. The duplicity she finally saw so clearly was written all over him. Why had she not been able to see it before? How could she
ever
have thought she loved him!

“Yes, Mr. Halifax,” the clerk was saying, “I believe she is expecting you. I shall have your bags delivered to Miss Greenfield's suite.”

“Thank you,” replied Ramsay, then turned and headed for the staircase.

Casting reason to the wind, after a few seconds Amanda followed. Keeping her head down so that her face would not be visible from
above, and sneaking a cautious upward glance every few seconds at the pair of legs half a flight ahead of her, she managed to keep loose contact with his retreating form. Her onetime pursuer had unwittingly now become Amanda's prey.

Ramsay left the stairs on the third floor and walked along the corridor.

Amanda hurried the rest of the way up to the landing, slowed and tiptoed the final few steps, then cautiously sneaked a peek, first to the right, then the left.

There he was, his back disappearing down the hallway!

Quickly she turned her head away, retreated a few steps behind a corner, then inched an eye back out around it. Ramsay continued to the end of the hall and turned left.

Amanda walked out into the corridor as fast as she dared and after him, her packages beginning to make lead of her arms and rustling as she went. She reached the end of the hall, slowed again, and peeked once more around the edge of the wall.

“Hello, darling,” she heard the slimy voice of the actress say, now stepping out from an open door about halfway down the corridor. “I have been counting the minutes.”

A kiss followed. The sight did not sting Amanda as it might have had she been in love with Ramsay. It only infuriated her yet more.

“When do you have to leave for England?”

“Not for a day or two. I'm meeting—”

The door closed behind them.

Heart pounding, Amanda remained where she was a moment longer, then hurried out from behind the wall and ran down the hall to see what room she had been watching. The number on the door read 369.

She turned and quickly ran back the way she had come, slowing to a walk the moment she was around the first corner and out of sight. She continued up to her own room on the fifth floor, finally depositing the three packages on the bed with a weary sigh.

 70 
Number 42

The arrival at Nr. 42 Ebendorfer Strasse in Vienna was the last thing Ramsay's mother expected. Suddenly standing in the parlor, where the real Gertrut Oswald had admitted them and to which she had been summoned, were four men who obviously had nothing resembling a social visit on their minds.

She vaguely recognized one but had never met him, so she couldn't be altogether sure. Two wore high-ranking uniforms of the Austro-Hungarian army. They were accompanied by a German officer of like importance. The long black leather overcoat and wide-bill hat of the fourth might have been sufficient indicators in themselves, but it was the eyes which said most clearly of all that here was a spy if ever there was one. It was this latter who spoke the moment the matron of the house entered the room.

“Mrs. Halifax,” he said, “I am Rald Wolfrik, with Prussian Intelligence. We have a situation. I need to speak with Hartwell Barclay.”

“He is not here.”

“I gathered that. I am asking you where he is.”

“On his way to Paris,” answered Mrs. Halifax.

“Paris—why?”

“We had a certain breach of security. He and my son are attempting to put an end to the problem.”

“Yes, I am aware of the—”

A light clearing of the throat was added briefly for effect.

“—the, uh . . . activities of your son,” said Wolfrik. “We have had him under scrutiny for some time.”

“You have been watching my son?”

“We watch those whom we judge useful,” replied Wolfrik.

Mrs. Halifax thought it best to say nothing further. She held her ground stoically.

“In any event,” the man went on, “we must contact your colleague, Mr. Barclay—immediately. There has been a major defection from the very ranks of the high command itself. You are, I believe, acquainted with Generaloberst von Bülow.”

Mrs. Halifax nodded. “He has been here several times.”

“Yes, so he informed me. His assistant, one Colonel Spengler, has recently disappeared near the Balkans. Our intelligence sources indicate the worst. Generaloberst von Bülow personally sent me here.”

“What is it you want us to do?” asked Mrs. Halifax.

“Steps are being taken to locate Colonel Spengler. Transport, we believe, is by sea. I may need to get to England as soon as possible. These orders from the generaloberst,” he said, indicating a folded paper in his hand, “instruct Hartwell Barclay to get me there.”

“You are the assassin?” said Mrs. Halifax.

“I carry out my orders,” replied Wolfrik. “I will only add that we have a very resourceful individual already on his way north should his services be required. We may also recruit your son's assistance. Where can we notify Barclay?”

Feeling suddenly short of breath, but realizing she had no alternative, Mrs. Halifax gave them the name of the hotel in Paris.

 71 
Mademoiselle Très Chic

Amanda sat in front of the mirror in her hotel room with a pair of scissors in her hand.

With a grimace she took hold of a small strand of brown, then clipped it to a length of three or four inches.

That first snip was the hardest
, she thought. She followed with another . . . then another.

Twenty minutes later she stood up and took a few steps back, turning her head first one direction, then the other.

Not the best job
, she thought. But the short-clipped hairdo had a distinctively French look. She had seen several girls wearing similar cuts in the shops. Amanda now set the red beret she had bought atop her newly coifed head, tilted it to one side, first to the right, then the left.

Hmm . . . it might work
, she thought.

Now for a little makeup around the eyes, and some red lipstick . . .

Of course Ramsay would know her if they met at point-blank range and stared at each other. But she didn't intend to let that happen. As long as she could blend in among a crowd, she ought to be safe. He wouldn't be expecting her in a million years.

Another thirty minutes later, Amanda took stock of herself in the mirror—red beret, pale chartreuse scarf, draped over a loose-fitting blouse of somewhat darker green, fashionably slinky black French skirt with black stockings and boots. Along with the lipstick and dark eyes, it was bold and brash, like nothing Ramsay had ever seen on her before. And so very French! She could have stepped out of a fashion show!

“Ah, mademoiselle,”
she said aloud,
“vous êtes
très chic!”

Amanda squinted slightly. “I admit,” she added, “the colors are a little loud and clashy . . . but even I don't recognize you!”

She turned away and started for the door.

“I think it's time I found out if this is going to do any good.”

Amanda left her room and descended to the lobby, where, with magazine in hand, she took up a seat in one of several chairs scattered about a spacious sitting area to await the appearance of the man who, a few short months earlier, she had considered her husband. What she considered him now . . . she couldn't say. She hadn't figured that out yet.

A long and uneventful hour passed. She began to think the whole thing ridiculous. For months she had been doing her best to get
away
from Ramsay. What did she now hope to accomplish by trying to
find
him?

Amanda grew sleepy. Actually . . . this was a stupid idea. Spies and plots and lighthouses . . . she had probably been making the whole thing up. What was she thinking—that
she
was single-handedly going to help England win the war?

And this silly outfit!

Why didn't she just get on a train to Cherbourg before any more time went by and get away from Ramsay once and for all?

She started to stand up, glancing around absently as she did, when all of a sudden, not more than ten feet in front of her, the tall form of Hartwell Barclay walked past.

Amanda's eyes widened to saucers and she froze halfway out of her chair. She could almost feel the hair standing up on her arms and head. Her whole body chilled at sight of the white hair, the tall thin form, the eyes that had exercised such a magnetic, mesmerizing power over her. All her confidence of an hour earlier when alone in front of the mirror in her room instantly vanished. Her knees quivered and her stomach lurched slightly in the direction of her throat.

Barclay was striding across the lobby toward the stairs, looking about casually. She saw his eyes roving in her direction. They lit momentarily upon her . . . then continued on.

Her paralysis lasted but a second or two. Then he was gone. She eased back down into her chair, heart pounding.

What was this, she thought, a convention of the Fountain of Light!

Next thing she knew, Ramsay's mother would show up! A little makeup and haircut would not deceive
her
. She would see through it in an instant. She had better watch herself, thought Amanda, gradually getting her breath back. For all she knew, Mrs. Halifax might be here already.

But Mr. Barclay had seen her and had looked right through her. Seeing his eyes again had terrified her. Amanda knew he would never be able to exercise the same mind-control over her as before. But he was still a forceful presence whom she would just as soon avoid.

After a few minutes she rose and returned to her room. With Hartwell Barclay now on the scene, she had to rethink her strategy.

If she even had one!