Skytip by Eric Ambler

Author:Eric Ambler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Skytip
ISBN: 9780755124077
Publisher: House of Stratus
Published: 2013-01-03T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

The offices of the National League of Patriots were not impressive. You went along Floral Street, turned to the left, marked the painted shingle above the tarnished brass plate of Kitts and Botten Sons, Fruit Importers, and ascended a narrow, much worn stairway to what might once have been the loft floor of a banana warehouse. The conversion into rooms and cubicles had been accomplished by the use of quite a lot of plaster-board and plywood, and the whole lay-out suggested the bleak utility of a polling booth at a by-election.

When he pushed open the door at the head of the stairs, Peter Ackland thought for a moment that he had blundered upon the premises of Kitts and Botten Sons, but a framed camera study of Arthur Lamorak-Britt reassured him. It was handsome, it was noble, a pledge of devotion to the chivalrous ideal; but it got no help from the antique round table in the middle of the boarded floor. The table was antique only in the sense that it had been made some time ago. It looked cheap and decrepit, but it had enough strength left to bear some pamphlets and printed leaflets and a sign in Old English that said: Please Take One.

The reception cubicle was small. If Galahad, say, had sought an interview with the new leader, he would have had to leave his lance and shield downstairs. There was just room for the table, a couple of chairs, and a bell-button.

Peter pushed the bell-button. He heard the subdued snarl of a buzzer through a fluttering of typewriter keys and the whirring of typewriter carriages. Patriotism was evidently a brisk business, calling for a formidable amount of correspondence.

A panel in the plaster-board partition slid open to disclose a well-groomed blonde.

This, thought Peter without enthusiasm, was more like it. This broke the bleakness with a golden gleam.

She looked like something by Burne-Jones, except that she was alive. She might have been a resurrected Elaine reduced by modern conditions to earning her keep as a receptionist, the lily maid of Astolat on a pay-as-you-earn basis.

Experimenting with a French pronunciation, Peter asked for Miss Dubetat.

The blonde corrected him. “Miss Dubetat? Have you an appointment?”

“No. Just give her my name, please. Mr. Ackland.”

“Will you take a seat for a moment?”

From the manner of the girl it was to be inferred that Miss Dubetat was definitely on the premises. Of course, he had never really believed in his fantasy of abduction. Nevertheless, he had a deep feeling of relief, so deep that he became alarmed. It was ridiculous, he told himself. Why should he have the least concern about the dark girl, especially after the way she had deceived him over the imaginary Forbes and his Bosveor Cottage? She was obviously the sort who would get herself into serious trouble sooner or later, but it had nothing to do with him. He could not go about acting as guardian to every stupid, self-willed, dishonest and reckless hussy he happened to encounter through no fault of his own.

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