“So he could discuss history although it wasn’t his subject?”
“Anybody can discuss history whether it’s their subject or not. But try talking about mathematics with an expert when you’ve never got beyond quadratic equations.”
“All right…. Did you ever discuss America?”
“Sometimes he spoke of his boyhood on a farm. Dakota, I think. Early struggles…all that.”
“Politics?”
“Not much. Just news in the paper. The Wally Simpson business, if you call that politics. We didn’t agree about it—I was against the marriage, he was all for it.”
“Did he like living in London?”
“I think so. Most Americans do.”
“You mean you did yourself?”
“Oh yes.”
“Did he ever say whether he preferred England or America…or perhaps some other country?”
“Goodness, no. It wasn’t what he preferred, it was where he could work. London University gave him a research fellowship.”
“And American universities wouldn’t?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they hadn’t any—of the kind he wanted.”
“So he might have had a grudge against them—or perhaps against American life in general?”
“A grudge? That man never had a grudge even when he ought to have had.”
As soon as I said it I regretted the emphasis; I knew it would lead to questions I wouldn’t answer at all. They came.
“What makes you say that?”
“Just that he wasn’t the type for harboring grudges. He lived for his work and nothing else mattered.”
“You don’t think he could ever be actuated by a motive to get even with somebody?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“You can’t recall any incident of such a kind?”
“No. Never.”
“In fact you never saw anything wrong with him at all, did you, Miss Waring?”
I caught a faint smile on his face and answered it with a big one of my own. “Of course I did—he was far too tied to his work for any girl to think him faultless.”
“So he didn’t take you out enough?”
I laughed. “No, not nearly enough.” I felt we were establishing the right mood and it would all be plain sailing if I stuck to it.
“Did he have other girl-friends?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about his love life. I never asked him questions about it. And incidentally, Mr. Small, why are you asking all this about him now? How did you find out I ever knew him?”
“Just let me put the questions, Miss Waring.” There was nothing brusque or unkindly in that, just a carefully measured firmness.
“But I don’t see why you shouldn’t tell me. If he’s in any trouble I’d want to help him.”
“Why?” The question shot out at me like the fang of a non-poisonous snake.
“Because—well, because I like him.”
“Still?”
“In a sense. I don’t forget people I’ve once liked, and I did like him. Is that extraordinary of me? Well, as I said, I’d want to help him if…if I could, that is. Maybe I couldn’t. I suppose it depends on the kind of trouble he’s in….”
I stopped, realizing he was just letting me talk. When he could see I didn’t intend to go on, he said: “Why should you expect him to be in any trouble?”
“I didn’t say I expected it. I said if he is.”
“What put such a possibility in your mind?”
“Because you’re questioning me about him as if he’d done something wrong. Or aren’t you? Isn’t this a branch of the F.B.I. or something?”
He took out a cigarette case and pushed it across the table towards me. “Smoke?”
I said no thanks, because I thought my hand might tremble while I held a cigarette for him to light.
He went on: “How long since you had any communication with Bradley?”
“Oh years. Not since before the war. The English war—1939.”
“Nineteen thirty-six being the year you knew him in London?”
“That’s right.” I thought: Now it’s coming; and was inspired to add quickly: “My parents and I returned to America the following year.”
“Did he return to America?”
“Not that I know of.”
“At any rate you didn’t see him in America?”
“No, never.”
“Didn’t he write you any letters?”
“Only a few—for a while. Then we lost touch. I wish you’d give me his present address if you have it.”
“So that you could renew your friendship?”
“Perhaps not that, but I’d write to him—for old time’s sake.”
“And offer your help?”
“Yes—if he needed any.”
He nodded slowly. Then he lit a cigarette for himself and leaned back in the swivel chair. “Tell me, Miss Waring—and please remember I’m not trying to trap you into anything you don’t want to say—all I’d like is a personal opinion, just between ourselves…” He made a finger gesture to the girl taking shorthand. “Miss Sutton, don’t put this down—it’s off the record….”
My father always said that when anyone ever tells you something is off the record you should be doubly on your guard; so I was, instantly, and concentrated on trying not to show it. I smiled, pretending to relax. He went on: “You’re a very loyal person—I can see that. Loyal to friends, just as you’d be loyal to your country. When you first got to know Bradley and found yourself beginning to like him, naturally you’d hope to find in him the same kind of loyalties. Did you?… Or were you ever a little disappointed in some ways?”
“No, I don’t think so. I liked him. When you like people you don’t weigh them up like that. At least I don’t.”
“You never felt there might be things he was keeping from you?”
“We weren’t close enough friends for me even to think about it. He wasn’t a very talkative person, anyway.”
“You mean that if he’d had any secrets he’d probably not have shared them with you?”
“Maybe not. And I might not have shared mine with him. We were neither of us the tell-everything type.”
He looked at me till I thought I was going to blush, so of course I did blush. As if satisfied, he pressed down the clasp of his briefcase and stood up. I saw then that he wore black shoes.
“Well, Miss Waring, I guess that’s about all. Thank you for coming over…. And if by any chance we should need to bother you again…”
“It’s no bother at all to me, but I have an idea something must be bothering you. Can’t you let me in on it?”
“No,” he said, smiling completely for the first time. He had good strong teeth and the smile made rather babyish dimples. I took off ten years from my first guess