“Have you got a Miss Playton here?” I asked.
“I don’t know any of your names,” he said.
“Fair-haired, about five foot six or seven, gray-blue eyes,” I persisted.
“There’s a girl about that size, and blond. But I haven’t looked at her eyes. Got something more important to do,” he said as he left.
I studied the map. I was not greatly taken with the district allotted to me. Some of it was a salubrious enough suburb, indeed, but in the circumstances a location that included docks and warehouses would have more to offer. It was doubtful whether there would be any sizable storage depots in this part. Still, “can’t all ’ave a prize,” as Alf would doubtless express it—and, anyway, I had no intention of staying there any longer than was strictly necessary.
When Alf showed up again I asked him if he would take a note to Josella. He shook his head.
“Sorry, mate. Not allowed.”
I promised him it should be harmless, but he remained firm. I couldn’t altogether blame him. He had no reason to trust me, and would not be able to read the note to know that it was as harmless as I claimed. Anyway, I’d neither pencil nor paper, so I gave that up. After pressing, he did consent to let her know that I was here and to find out the district to which she was being sent. He was not keen on doing that much, but he had to allow that if there were to be any straightening out of the mess it would be a lot easier for me to find her again if I knew where to start looking.
After that I had simply my thoughts for company for a bit. I knew I ought to make my mind up once and for all on the right course, and stick to it. But I could not. I seesawed. Some hours later when I fell asleep I was still seesawing.
There was no means of knowing which way Josella had made up her mind. I’d had no personal message from her. But Alf had put his head in once during the evening. His communication had been brief.
“Westminster,” he said. “Cor! Don’t reckon that lot’s goin’ to find much grub in the ’Ouses o’ Parliament.”
* * *
I was woken by Alf coming in early the following morning. He was accompanied by a bigger, shifty-eyed man who fingered a butcher’s knife with unnecessary ostentation. Alf advanced and dropped an armful of clothes on the bed. His companion shut the door and leaned against it, watching with a crafty eye and toying with the knife.
“Give us yer mitts, mate,” said Alf.
I held my hands out toward him. He felt for the wires on my wrists and snipped them with a cutter.
“Now just you put on that there clobber, chum,” he said, stepping back.
I got myself dressed while the knife fancier followed every movement I made, like a hawk. When I’d finished, Alf produced a pair of handcuffs. “There’s just these,” he mentioned.
I hesitated. The man by the door ceased to lean on it and brought his knife forward a little. For him this was evidently the interesting moment. I decided maybe it was not the time to try anything, and held my wrists out. Alf felt around and clicked on the cuffs. After that he went and fetched me my breakfast.
Nearly two hours later the other man turned up again, his knife well in evidence. He waved it at the door.
With the consciousness of the knife producing an uncomfortable feeling in my back, we went down a number of flights of stairs and across a hall. In the street a couple of loaded trucks were waiting. Coker, with two companions, stood by the tailboard of one. He beckoned me over. Without saying anything, he passed a chain between my arms. At each end of it was a strap. One was fastened already round the left wrist of a burly blind man beside him; the other he attached to the right wrist of a similar tough case, so that I was between them. They weren’t taking any avoidable chances.
“I’d not try any funny business, if I were you,” Coker advised me. “You do right by them, and they’ll do right by you.”