Mrs. John Doe

Chapter 32

It was the young woman Nora had seen emerging from the Jenner apartment downstairs and leaving the building. She bustled into the room, heavy plastic grocery bags dangling from each hand. She was turning toward the alarm panel when she saw Nora standing by the desk.

“Oh!” she cried. “Oh dear, I beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t know anyone was home.”

Nora inhaled, getting over the shock. Then she managed a smile. “My husband isn’t here. He’s-away.”

The young woman nodded. “Yes, I know. Mrs. Noone, isn’t it? I recognize you from the snap next to his bed.”

Nora frowned, wondering when this pretty woman had seen the photo next to her husband’s bed. “And you’re Ms. Jenner?”

“Missus. Mrs. Jenner. Polly.”

“Nora,” Nora said, relieved. “Nora-um-Nora Noone.” She winced at the sound of that and then masked it with another smile. “And what are you doing here, Polly?”

Polly Jenner held up the grocery bags. “I do for him, don’t I? Weekly shopping, cleaning, and laundering. I’m the char for everyone else in the building-they’re all men, you know-and today it’s Mr. Noone.”

“Oh, I see,” Nora said, and now she was very relieved. Looking at the bags, she said, “Let me guess: frozen fried chicken dinners, canned-I mean, tinned-soup, microwave popcorn, Diet Coke, oatmeal, and strawberry yogurt.”

Polly burst into a grin. “You forgot the chocky chip biscuits.”

Nora nodded. “Of course. He dips them in the yogurt.”

“That he does! There’s also fresh fruit and veg for salad, and salad dressing.”

Nora widened her eyes, impressed. “Those must be your idea, not his.”

“Yup! I told him to eat salad and fruit every day, and he minds me. My Danny is the same-what is it with men and fresh veg? You’d think we were trying to poison them! Danny works for Vauxhall, you know, autos. Well, let me put all this away, then I’ll see to the cleaning.” She headed for the kitchen.

Nora followed her. “I just made a pot of coffee. Have some. Let’s sit down for a bit before you start working.”

“Ta.” Polly quickly emptied the bags and stowed everything in the refrigerator and cabinets. Then she found a cup and poured. They sat at the kitchen table.

“So, when did you last see, um, my husband?” Nora asked. She wondered if he’d told this woman his first name or if he’d invented one. Better not to chance it, she thought; I’ll just call him Mr. Noone.

“Hmm, that would be three days ago-no, four. Four days ago. I met him on the stairs as he was going out, around teatime. He had a bag with him, you know, a big valise. He said he’d be away for a few days. A computer convention in Nottingham.”

Nora nodded. So, he’d given Polly Jenner the usual cover story. Mr. Noone was in electronics.

“Oh, and he came back that night,” Polly went on. “Very late it was too-midnight, by my bedside clock. Danny and me was wakened by a loud thump from the ceiling, and then we heard footsteps walkin’ round up here. A few minutes later the door opened and closed, and he came away down the stairs. I figured he must’ve forgot somethin’ he needed for his trip.”

Nora smiled at the girl and glanced around the kitchen, thinking of her timeline. That had been the day after the “accident” in Kensington, the day Bill had called her in New York. By midnight that night, Jeff had been in Bill Howard’s country house on the other side of England, and the next evening he’d vanished. She didn’t doubt that Polly and her husband had heard someone moving around up here, but she was certain it had not been Jeff. She suppressed a shudder.

“Funny, him going away-with you coming all the way over from America,” Polly mused.

“Oh, I knew about the convention,” Nora said quickly. “I’m-I’m joining him there tomorrow.”

Polly nodded. “How’s your daughter?”

Nora blinked. “Um, fine. Dana’s fine. She’s a college student-”

“I know,” Polly said. “She’s beautiful, and her middle name is Lee, and she’s studying to be an actress, just like you. He told me about her when he gave me the code for the alarm.” She jabbed a thumb toward the living room, where the panel was. D-A-N-A-L-E-E.

“Of course,” Nora said. “Where are those biscuits?” She stood up and went over to the cabinets. She found the pack of cookies and put several of them on a plate. “Here.”

“Ta.” Polly picked one up and dunked it in her coffee.

“You just go about your business when you want, Polly. I have to find a telephone. My cell-I mean, my mobile is, um, dead, and I must make some calls-”

“Here.” Polly pulled a cellphone from her pocket and handed it to her. “Help yourself.”

“Oh, thank you!” Nora said. “You’ve saved me a lot of bother.” To emphasize her gratitude, she added, “Has Mr. Noone paid you for this week? Because I can do that, and for the groceries.”

Polly’s eyes brightened. “That would be terrif! The receipt from the market is here, and he pays me thirty quid.”

Nora glanced at the receipt and went to get her purse. Polly cleaned, shopped, and laundered for three male neighbors, so that was ninety pounds a week without leaving home, added to her husband’s automotive paycheck. Clever girl. And she was so friendly, so personable, that she’d made Nora temporarily forget the gravity of her situation. But now she remembered.

The wig was lying on the desk beside the bag, and Nora was glad she’d decided to remove it and wash her face before Polly’s unexpected arrival. She’d never have been able to explain the old-lady drag to a neighbor who thought “Mr. Noone” was in “electronics.” She stuffed the wig into the bag, paid Polly, and took the phone into the living room.

She tried Craig’s number three times, but there was no answer and no recording for messages. She thought of texting him, but she stopped when she realized that he’d have no way of replying. She couldn’t give him Polly’s number, and her own iPhone was back in the hotel safe at the Byron. He hadn’t given her an email address. And what could she tell him at this point, anyway? I think your boss/friend/father figure might be the arms dealer, so please come rescue me tonight. He’d think she was insane. No, she needed to speak with him on a phone-or, preferably, face-to-face-so she could explain. She finally gave up.

Polly went downstairs and came back with a bucket of cleaning supplies and a vacuum cleaner. Nora sat in the living room, listening to the activity in the bathroom, bedrooms, and kitchen as the time passed. She went into Jeff’s bedroom and lay down while Polly worked in the living room. She dozed fitfully, but she couldn’t sleep. When Polly finally went home at six o’clock, Nora washed her face again, put on makeup, and fixed her hair. She was no longer an elderly lady from France; she was Nora Baron once more.

Mrs. Jeffrey Baron.

She was reaching for her coat when she stopped short, remembering. Her husband had left three keys on his key ring for her. The big one opened the main door downstairs, and the medium one opened this apartment. She fished in her pocket for the key ring and held it up, frowning at the tiny third key. That would open…what?

She stood in the center of the living room, gazing slowly around. A safe? If so, where? Behind a painting? No, all the walls in the apartment were bare. She remembered their hiding place back home, and she went into the bathroom. Jeff had provided her with a hollowed-out compartment behind the medicine cabinet in their master bathroom, a small space that could hold valuables. The cabinet was hinged on one side; it unlatched on the other side and swung outward. Perhaps he’d installed one here…No, this cabinet was firmly attached to the wall.

Back in the living room, she looked around again, and her attention quickly focused on his desk. It was the most logical place, after all, and now she noticed the desk drawer. There was a tiny keyhole at the top, just above the handle. The wood around the lock was damaged; someone had been here, and she had a fair guess who. She slid the drawer open.

A gun. Nora stared down at the small, sleek object. Then she looked at the red box beside it:.38 caliber bullets-no, rounds. She picked up the weapon and peered at the inscription: Smith & Wesson LadySmith. Stainless steel, with a black rubber coating on the tiny handle, a two-inch barrel with a sight near the tip, and a chamber for five rounds. She aimed across the room; it was very light in her hand. And that short barrel-was this what they called a snubnose? Whatever it was, it was fully loaded, and so small that she could conceal it anywhere. She wrapped it in the gray woolen shawl and placed it in the bottom of her bag, then piled the wig and everything else on top of it. She decided against taking the box of rounds. She shut the drawer and locked it.

What was the penalty for carrying a weapon in England? And what if she actually had to use it? She’d only imagined shooting someone when she’d played the murderous bank robber on television years ago, and the thought hadn’t been pleasant, even when she was in character. She’d shot and killed a policeman, then one of her own gang, and in the final scene she’d injured one of the stars of the series before she herself was killed. But the blood had been a mix of corn syrup and food coloring, and all those victims had stood up and walked away when the director yelled Cut!

Could she, Nora Baron, actually aim a weapon at someone and squeeze the trigger? She doubted it. She remembered holding Jacques Lanier’s heavy SIG Sauer, the feel of it in her hands, the panic and nausea induced by merely looking at it. But this morning, in the Byron dining room, she’d wished for it before going off to tail Yussuf. Now, for better or worse, she was glad to have the revolver. She wondered why Andy Gilbert and/or Bill Howard hadn’t taken it when they searched here the other night. They’d probably dismissed it as unimportant; they’d been looking for something else.

The sun was setting when Nora left the building. She stopped at a big red phone box and tried Craig’s number once more. Still no answer. Her only ally, the only person she trusted in this whole scenario, was out of reach for the time being. She didn’t have a clear theory of what was happening here, and she didn’t have a plan. She didn’t have anything at all except an illegal gun and an overwhelming need to find her husband.

She hailed a cab near Soho Square, gave the driver Vivian’s address, and rode northwest through the darkening streets, to face the enemy alone.