Jack of Spies by David Downing

Author:David Downing [Downing, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-61695-269-3
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2014-05-12T16:00:00+00:00

They all spent Saturday morning in the showroom, either talking to prospective buyers or, in Jed’s case, passing comment on each New York princess that walked past their window. After lunch McColl left the two of them to handle trial drives and walked back to the hotel, hoping to find a message from Caitlin. There was none. He reminded himself that she would be fully engaged catching up with family and friends, but he couldn’t quite quiet the mean little voice in the back of his mind telling him it was over and that a cold but beautifully written note would soon arrive laying out all the reasons they couldn’t go on.

There was nothing he could do about it, other than turn up unannounced at the family house in Brooklyn, loudly declare his undying love, and insist that she do the same. Something he had no intention of doing. Not yet, anyway.

He found a lunchroom serving meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and two veg for fifteen cents, then took a long walk, heading east into a world of dirty streets and yellow-brick tenement buildings whose only decoration was a latticework of fire escapes. As good as lost, he was accosted by an enterprising urchin who offered to sell him the way back to “safety.” The neighborhood reminded McColl of Glasgow, and he half suspected he was safer here among the tenements than he ever would be on Fifth Avenue, but he handed over his dime in exchange for some very basic directions—“See that tall building? That’s the Woolworth Building. It’s the tallest building in the world. Just walk toward it and you’ll end up on Broadway.”

That evening he went out again with the others, and this time they drank rather more, so much so that they ended up chorusing Al Jolson’s recent hit, “You Made Me Love You,” with sufficient volume to warrant an in situ lecture from one of New York’s finest.

McColl felt distinctly hungover next morning but managed to reach Grand Central Station on time. Kensley seemed in little better shape, and the two of them smoked their cigarettes in silence until a third man arrived. “Jack, Andrew,” was the extent of Kensley’s introduction. Andrew was probably around McColl’s age, as thin as Kensley but with fairer hair and mustache.

At nine forty-five the three of them took up position within sight of the platform egress, and only seconds later the first passengers from the 20th Century Limited were streaming past. Three priests appeared before Father Meagher, who eventually emerged, resplendent in cassock and biretta, trailing a porter and a trolley piled with the familiar suitcases.

“That’s him,” McColl told the others.

They watched the priest lead his porter across the concourse and into the waiting room opposite, then followed as far as the entrance. Kensley turned to McColl. “He knows you, so keep your face turned away. Andrew, what’s he doing?”

“He’s telling the porter where he wants the suitcases. Now he’s paying him. And now he’s sitting down, with his back to the door.

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