Part Three
“The wrong names perhaps but the right man. I think. Eh, Mr. Harland?” The name was a whisper so low that even Sally did not hear. To James it sounded like a shout that would rouse the hotel. He turned to Sally.
“You go up, darling, I'll follow you shortly.” Sally didn't wait to find out why. It crossed her mind that the first one into the bedroom could claim the bed, and she hurried gleefully up the stairs.
“Don't look so alarmed, Mr. Harland. I have no wish to broadcast your identity,” the man reassured James. “On the contrary, I have as much need for your liberty as you undoubtedly have.”
“And why should it worry you if I'm caught or not?” James asked skeptically.
“Because I have a job for you, Mr. Harland.” The man looked up and James could see a spark of excitement in what he would assume to be normally mild and gentle eyes.
“I don't need a job,” James told him flatly.
“But you have no choice,” the man said mildly. “I take it that you don't wish me to inform the police of you presence here? Of course you don't. And I will not. And after you've done a small Service for me, why, I shan't be able to tell anyone anything. So you see, your safety is guaranteed, if you co-operate, that is.”
“But what is....” James started, puzzled.
“Dear me, where are my manners? I haven't introduced myself yet. Stewart is the name, Cyril Stewart.” He inclined his head courteously. “I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Harland. Now, you are probably wondering what it is that I have in store for you, yes? But this is no hour to be discussing matters of gravity. Morning is the best time, when one is rested and eager for the day's happenings. The hotel does an excellent breakfast, incidentally. I shall see you at nine.”
Stewart turned to leave, checked and turned back again.
“By the way, the last train has left. I know you haven't any transport of your own and I shouldn't advise you to try to obtain a lift. Alone you would be conspicuous, with the young lady you wouldn't travel five miles without discovery.”
“Don't look so worried, Mr. Harland, I shan't ask you to do anything you have not already done before. The last attempt quite recently, if the papers are to be believed. Good night, Sir.”
This time Stewart did not turn back but continued briskly to the door and out into the night.
James watched with trepidation as the slight figure disappear from view. This was an unexpected and entirely unwelcome twist to affairs. A job? Assassination was the real name of Mr. Stewart’s game, James thought grimly. Whom was he expected to kill? He shook his head impatiently. The name didn't matter because he wasn't going to do any little job, Cyril Stewart had picked the wrong man to play his game.
But Stewart was right about one thing: It would be wrong to try to leave the hotel tonight, much better to wait until morning: Whatever the problems the next day brought, they couldn't possibly be as bad as today's, he thought wearily as he climbed the stairs to his room.
Sally was asleep. In the bed, of course. The room was partially lit by one small bedside lamp. James crossed the room quietly and stared down at the peacefully sleeping girl, her hair disarranged, her face expressionless and childlike. Some of the fears and worries that clouded his mind diminished as he watched her, as though the restfulness that she had found in sleep was transmitted to him, easing his tensions with her peace.
He switched off the light and fumbled across to the sofa.
'Tomorrow, my girl, is my turn for the bed. And we'll see how 'lovely' you think this thing is then,' he thought sadistically as he attempted to make himself comfortable.
James awoke before Sally next morning. He was cramped, his left foot half frozen and the leg aching from hanging over the edge of the sofa half the night.
He struggled his weary bones upright and staggered towards the bathroom muttering dire threats against the still sleeping and intensely comfortable looking Sally, who raised her head, opened one eye sleepily and made a face at James' back, then snuggled down and promptly fell asleep again.
A hot shower and a clean shave helped to restore a little life into James' emptiness. After dressing, he went down to the telephone feeling, if not quite a part of the human race, then close enough to avoid detection.
He made four telephone calls and arranged a meeting for that afternoon. When he had finished it was eight-forty-five and the hotel guests were beginning to gather for breakfast. He was halfway up the stairs to rouse Sally when she appeared above him.
“good morning,” he called cheerfully, halting and waiting for her to join him. A teenage girl with her parents giggled as she passed them, her mother smiled understandingly at Sally, and her father winked knowingly at James.
“Oh dear,” Sally groaned. “I thought all those awful jokes about honeymooners were just awful jokes. Don't tell me that they are really true?”
“'Fraid so,” James said sympathetically. “How insensitive!”
“And thoughtless?” James suggested.
“Certainly not that! Their thoughts are quite obvious.” “Unfeeling, then,” James ventured.
“Unfeeling,” Sally echoed.
“But we won't let them spoil our honeymoon, will we, Darling?”
“We certainly will not. Why I think that this is....” She stopped and stared coldly. “You are a beast, James....”
“Donald Weston,” James hissed, noticing Mrs. Beaten bearing down upon them and not wishing to be called James within her hearing.
“Where?” Sally asked, looking around her. “Nowhere. Me, you silly goose.”
“Good morning,” Mrs, Beaton hailed them.
“I trust you had a comfortable night? Of course you did.” She chuckled happily as Sally blushed scarlet. “Now, if you'll follow me, we will find a nice, quiet table where you can be alone.” She set off and they fol