Page 37 of Beloved Beast

“When you return, bring my secretary with you.”

When Billings exited the room, Fred headed to the cabinet, unlocked it, and brought out a reel-to-reel wire recorder, placing it on the desk. Then he sat a notepad and fountain pen in front of him. As he busied himself with his tasks, he tried not to think of the implications of his secretary involved in pillow talk with a possible German spy. Surely she would not be careless enough to reveal anything. Perhaps this was entirely innocent. Yet Fred’s inner alarm still jangled in warning.

Eight minutes later, Billings entered the room with a clearly puzzled Travers.

“Stanton is waiting outside until we need him,” Billings stated.

“Take a seat, Mrs. Travers.” Fred kept his voice cool and professional—more than usual—and his secretary noticed, as her look of confusion changed to one of trepidation. He turned on the recorder, stating the date, time, and who was in the room. “It is standard procedure for MI-6 to conduct periodic checks on all personnel, including support staff. You agreed to this as a condition of your employment, did you not?”

“Yes, I did.” At least the woman met his gaze; he’d give her that.

“Then we won’t beat about the bush. Who is Braddock Caldwell?” Fred asked.

All the color drained from her face and her lower lip trembled. “A man I am seeing socially.”

“For how long?”

“For about a month, maybe a little more,” she whispered.

“And before that?”

“There were…other men. Nothing serious. Brief affairs that meant nothing.”

Fred scribbled furiously on his notepad. “And did any of these affairs last a month?”

She frowned. “No.”

“When did you last see Mr. Caldwell?”

“About six nights ago, at the Savoy Hotel. He made the arrangements. He always did.”

“Have you had any contact with him since that night? Or any contact between your various rendezvous?” Fred stated, his tone growing angrier.

Tiny beads of perspiration broke out on his secretary’s upper lip. “What’s he done? What’s going on?”

“Answer the questions,” Fred demanded.

“All our interactions were at hotels of his choosing. He would contact me with the name and room number and we would meet and…and…have sex. We did not socialize in public. I’ve never been to his place, didn’t even have a telephone number for him. I know nothing about him, except he is a businessman. Importing and exporting I think he said once.” Helen shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I didn’t go there for conversation. I’ve been lonely since Terrance passed and I…oh, God.” She rubbed her forehead, moisture gathering in her eyes.

“I want you to recall all your conversations, no matter how brief or trivial. Did he ask about your place of employment? Did he know where you worked? What does he know?” Fred’s voice grew louder with each question.

“You have to understand,” she whispered, “I was starting to fall in love with him.”

Blast it to hell, she did tell him something. Guilt was written all over her face. Fred could cheerfully throttle Mrs. Travers at this moment.

“I know it’s no excuse,” she rambled as she nervously wrung her hands together. “He knew I worked for SIS. I told him last week. Before that, I said nothing at all about work.”

“And since then?”

“I may have mentioned about one day Mr. Newman was in your office.” She looked away, biting her lower lip.

A potent fury traveled through Fred like a flash forest fire. “What day? Tell it all. Now. Do not leave out anything,” he barked.

Stumbling over her words, Mrs. Travers relayed she mentioned Luke by name, physically described him, and even told she overheard Fred refer to him as “Uncle.” Damn it all to hell. This could be a coincidence, but in war and especially in espionage, nothing could be left to chance. The fact this playboy slept around with other women desperate for a young man’s attentions, women who had ties to important people and governments, could not be ignored.

“Listen to me. I am bringing in a sketch artist and you will describe this man down to the moles on his face and the part in his hair. Do you understand?”

Mrs. Travers nodded. “Am I fired?” she squeaked.