Our Woman in Moscow(34)

Sumner Fox doesn’t show the slightest reaction to this information, not so much as an eyebrow raised in faint disapproval. “Go on.”

“We were both a little off our heads, after what happened, and needed to let off steam. Never occurred to me that Iris had any kind of crush on him, nor he on her. He came by the next night, and the next, and that’s when he told me he was spying for the Soviets.”

“He told you that?”

“Just like that.” I snap my fingers. “I think he was trying to impress me. You know, to show off that he wasn’t just some stuffy diplomat. Also, he was drunk. He spent a lot of time drunk. I think that’s how he dealt with everything, you know? Because men of his class, loyalty’s just bred into them. I’ve always thought that in his head, he was able to justify spying on his own country because it would bring forward the revolution and make the world just and peaceful under worldwide communism, et cetera, but down below he was all torn apart because he’s betraying not just the United States of America, but his own friends. The people he works with and drinks with.”

Fox says nothing to all that. Just stands there at the window until I can’t bear it any longer. I stub out my cigarette and announce that since the sun’s officially up, I’m going to mix myself a Bloody Mary.

When I return, he’s still standing where I left him, hands shoved into his pockets. He says he’s underestimated me.

I plop myself back down on the sofa and light another cigarette. “Of course you did. You’re a man.”

“It won’t happen again,” he says grimly.

“Oh, don’t kick yourself. It’s perfectly natural.” My pocketbook lies on the sofa table, next to the cigarettes. I reach for it—open it wide—draw out the postcard and the letter. “Perhaps I should have given these to you sooner, but I needed to know you were a man I could trust.”

Fox looks greedily at my hand. I hold it out, and he plucks the papers free and frames his fingers delicately around the edges while he examines each one, first the postcard and then the letter in its envelope. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the expression on his face—such as it is—suggests something like relief.

“It’s been opened already.”

“No kidding, Sherlock.”

He ignores me, of course—just lifts the flap of the envelope with so delicate a touch, you simply can’t imagine those fingers gripping an object so vulgar as a pigskin. Holding the extreme corner of one side of the letter, he eases it from its wrapper like a whisper and spreads it out on the sofa table. He bends over the paper and reads Iris’s words. Then he picks up the envelope and examines that, too, every letter and especially the postmark, before at last he looks up at me.

“Do you mind if I take this with me?”

“I certainly do mind.”

“We’ll return it once we’ve had a chance to examine it in the lab.”

“In the lab? What kind of lab? Where is it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“Now just wait a moment. I think you owe me a little more than that. I did as you asked—I gave you the postcard and the letter. I’ve got a right to know what this is all about. She’s my sister!”

“With whom you share so close and affectionate a relationship you haven’t communicated with her in a dozen years.”

“That’s neither here nor there.” The cigarette’s nearly burned out against my fingertips; I stab it into the ashtray on the lamp table. “She’s written to me now, hasn’t she? Which means I have a moral responsibility to help.”

“Which does you credit, Miss Macallister, but I’m afraid I must ask you to be patient.” He turns back to the letter and replaces the paper inside the envelope—all with the exact featherweight delicacy of touch with which he took them out in the first place. From his briefcase he extracts a rectangular sleeve. He puts the envelope and the postcard in the sleeve and the sleeve in the briefcase and snaps the case shut. When he’s finished, he turns back to my amazed face.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“That’s all for now. Of course we’ll return your sister’s letter when we’re done examining it.”

“And then what? My sister says she needs my help. She’s living in Moscow, for God’s sake, in the heart of the Soviet Union, and something’s gone terribly wrong. I know it has, and you know it has, or she wouldn’t have sent me those messages.”

“I suspect you’re right, but before we can take any action, we’ve got to determine the nature of the trouble. Whether these are genuine.” Fox lifts the briefcase. “We may need to call you in for further questions, Miss Macallister.”

“Questions? I want answers!”

“In the meantime, if you receive any additional letters or other communication—telephone calls, parcels, messages delivered in person—I urge you to reach me.”

His face, as he says all this, hardly moves at all. You would think his nerves have been somehow disconnected from the muscles of his cheeks and forehead. I become fascinated with his mouth, the only thing that moves.

“Of course,” I say meekly.

“Thank you. I’ll walk myself out.”

“Oh, no you don’t.”