‘How come you have such muscles here and there?’ Stella had said once.
‘Inherited,’ Coffin had answered. ‘Runs in the family.’ Though he had hardly had a family. Orphaned, he had only discovered in later life that he had a disappearing, much married mother, who had provided him with two siblings, one half-brother, a stiff Edinburgh lawyer, and the other, from another alliance, his darling half-sister. Mother herself remained an absentee, except for leaving some extraordinary memoirs.
Silence.
From behind a curtain on the window where the stair curved, he saw a tail, then a cautious beady gaze.
‘Oh, hello, boy,’ Coffin said. ‘You still here? Better not let Stella see you. You and I are going to have to stop meeting like this.’ Augustus bustled up the stairs behind him, ready to take part in the game, but the mouse was gone.
The quiet of the tower was telling its own story; it spoke of emptiness. Stella was not here.
The place did not feel like home without Stella in it. He knew why; marriage with Stella had given him the stable home life which a first disastrous marriage had failed to do.
Coffin had been in Edinburgh where, amongst other things, he had visited his half-brother in the large, handsome, frigid house he inhabited. William matched the house; so much so that Coffin found it difficult to relate to him as a brother, even half a brother. Their meeting had been stiff and formal as they talked over the research Coffin was trying to do on the life of their eccentric parent. Sometimes, he thought his mother might still be alive and building up yet another family; though she would be near her century now, he did not put it past her. He wished he had known her, but disappearing was her game.
He was back home now and miserable. In Scotland he had been at a conference of top policemen held in a remote house. It had been one of those conferences which had appeared to be on one subject but which had had a covert purpose.
Coffin had learnt a few things at Melly House that would concern him and his district, and had been, tactfully, informed of certain others. He, in his turn, had passed on certain information.
Knowledge, he reflected, as he read Stella’s note, is a painful thing. She will ring, probably from New York. I will know from the tone of her voice if I ought to raise what I learnt at Melly House.’ He was desperately anxious but he kept calm; he knew he must.
The time passed quietly, with no call from Stella. He had ahead of him several busy days, a meeting in central London, two committees, one about finance. The bombs in his district, the need for increased security all round, had meant extra spending.
He knew that Stella usually stayed at the Algonquin, so he rang there first. Miss Pinero was not a guest, he was told politely. She was well known there and a welcome visitor, but, regretfully, she was not staying at the hotel just now.
If she could afford it, or if someone else, like the film company, was paying, Stella liked the St Regis.
But Stella was not there, either.
Finally, he did what he should have done at first, but disliked doing: he telephoned her London agent. He knew that Doria Jones thought he was bad for Stella’s career, that he kept her cooped up in the Second City when she ought to be adorning the London or New York stage. In short, she thought Coffin was a chauvinistic, oppressive spouse.
Doria’s secretary answered his call, saying in her polite but chirpy voice that Doria was out of town and would not be back until the late evening.
In the evening, he worked on papers and prepared a speech he had to give at an official dinner. That done he had a meal, then a drink, and fell asleep. Then, late as it was, he telephoned Doria at home.
She replied in person, sounding surprised to hear him. She had a soft, sweet voice and always said that Stella was her favourite client – which may have been true.
‘No, darling, I don’t know where Stella is. I did not send her an urgent message. Definitely not.’
She was willing to go on talking about this, but Coffin was not. ‘Thanks, Doria, I got it wrong. My fault. Sorry I bothered you.’
He put the telephone down. ‘Stella, damn you, where are you?’ Coffin’s life had ruled out trusting people. Stella was an exception. He still loved and trusted her, but he wanted to know where she was.
Coffin did not sleep much that night. ‘If I have lost Stella, either physically or emotionally, because she wasn’t what I thought she was, I would not die. I would go on, because I have learnt how to survive, but I would be shrunken.’
In the dawn he went down to the kitchen and made some coffee, which he sat at the table drinking. The sky outside was pink with light. He couldn’t see the mouse but he heard a rustle by the window.
‘Could she be dead?’ he asked himself. ‘If what I heard in Melly House was true, then the company she is mixing with might easily kill her if they scented danger.’ He felt a groan rising inside him. ‘I am part of the danger, although God knows I don’t want to be.’
It was not all his fault though, and he knew that, too. Stella had to bear her share.
‘When she gets in touch, comes back, we will work this through somehow,’ he told himself. He finished the coffee, made toast, put some cheese down for the mouse, then ate the toast standing by the window watching the sun slowly rise into view.
He felt better. At intervals he told himself that he would certainly know if anything had happened to Stella. He would sense it. Would he, though? Wasn’t that precisely the sort of fallacy he would discourage in other people?
On the other hand, he would be told, someone would tell him, he was the person who was told things, he was in a position to know what was happening.
Anyway, Stella would telephone soon. Or walk in the door, then they could talk things over. ‘I don’t blame you for anything, Stella,’ he would say, ‘but I must know.’
Didn’t that sound pompous, precisely the sort of comment that would make Stella stamp out of the room in a rage? Phrase it better, Coffin. You will when you see her, it will happen.
‘You may never see her again,’ a voice whispered in his ear.
The information appertaining to Stella – lovely professional phrase that, if a little pompous – was nothing much, merely her name on a list, but it had been fed to him so discreetly, almost anonymously and without comment. He had been observed, though; notice taken, as you might say.
He was surprised to find that during all this inner conversation he had driven himself to work and had arrived, safely, too, in his office.
He sped through the outer office where two uniformed officers manned the defences, then with a brisk good morning to them he entered the inner office where three people worked – his assistant Paul Masters, and the two secretaries: Gillian, and the new girl, Sheila, who had replaced the elegant Sylvia – before hurrying into his own room which was empty and quiet, and smelt of furniture polish with a touch of disinfectant. Pine, he thought.
‘Got back early,’ he announced, as he passed through to his work-laden desk. The usual files to read and initial, a larger than customary folder of letters to sign (and there would be more when his secretary came in, but she was tactfully leaving him for a few minutes), and the notes of telephone calls received and to be returned.
A call from Archie Young, but no message. Coffin frowned. This was