Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,2

else he could do. Cavanaugh’s eyes had the vacant look of a man on the verge of death. It was a miracle he was still alive.

The cold hand moved feebly in Anthony’s. ‘I’ve led them to you. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll—’

‘Listen!’ Cavanaugh gasped for breath once more. ‘There’s a spy in England. Gentleman. He must be a gentleman. Seems to know everything. Got to stop him, Brooke.’ The words were slow and hard to catch. ‘Knew about me. Frankie’s letter. Read Frankie’s letter.’ His eyes flickered shut and he coughed, bringing up blood. ‘I loved her . . .’

The end was very near.

‘Have you got the letter?’ Anthony asked, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.

Cavanaugh moved with feeble impatience. ‘Not that sort of letter,’ he answered, then mumbled something Anthony couldn’t catch. It sounded like ‘star’ but there was more. Anger? Star’s Anger? Cavanaugh gave a convulsive shudder. ‘Big ship. Passengers. Americans. Stop them, Brooke. Going to kill the passengers . . .’ His voice trailed off.

There was a knocking at the front door downstairs. In the silence it sounded like a clap of thunder.

Anthony laid Cavanaugh’s head gently on the crumpled bedspread. In the hall below he heard Frau Kappelhoff, shrill with indignation, arguing with the deep, official voices of men. He crossed to the window, drawing back as he looked down on four soldiers in field grey. There was no escape that way. Anthony glanced at the door, then dropped down beside Cavanaugh once more. He couldn’t desert him. The poor devil didn’t have long, but that time was going to be spent with a friend.

There was the hurried sound of feet on the stairs and a knock at the door. ‘Doktor? Herr Doktor?’ It was Frau Kappelhoff.

Various schemes ran though Anthony’s mind. He could hide Cavanaugh under the bed and bluff it out. Cavanaugh coughed once more. Anthony reached out and in the fraction of a second it took his hand to get to Cavanaugh’s, Anthony knew that he was dead. From outside the room, Frau Kappelhoff was still calling his name.

Anthony stood up, straightened his tie, adjusted his waistcoat and squared his shoulders. There was nothing for it, he’d have to face the woman.

A freakish memory of years ago came to mind. He had gone through the same ritual of facing up to things as a frightened schoolboy standing outside the headmaster’s study. Even with soldiers around the house and Cavanaugh’s body on the floor, the ridiculous comparison made him smile. He realized how relaxed he must have looked when he opened the door.

Frau Kappelhoff let out her breath in a rush of relief. ‘Herr Doktor, there are men downstairs. Stupid men, soldiers, who should know better than troubling decent people. They say there’s an English spy in your room. I said this is a respectable house and the good doctor, who is so clever, he is quietly upstairs, and then they said . . .’ She broke off, her bosom heaving with indignation.

‘What did they say?’ asked Anthony with as much supposedly casual interest as he could summon.

Her breast swelled and she spat the words out. ‘They said you were a spy.’

‘Ah.’ Anthony took her arm and quietly drew her into the room, closing the door behind them. There was, he thought, nothing else for it.

‘Frau Kappelhoff, mein liebe Frau, I’m awfully sorry but it’s true.’ She gazed at him in blank incomprehension. He was going to have to spell this out. ‘I am a spy. An English spy.’

‘You’re German.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Oh yes, you are.’ She shook her head, bewildered. ‘I know you are. Don’t pretend, Doktor.’

In all the possible scenarios Anthony had ever conjured up for what were probably his last moments of freedom, arguing the toss with a German landlady as to his nationality hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Frau Kappelhoff, I am an Englishman,’ he said sternly. That did get through.

She shrank back against the door in terror. She tried to scream but, thankfully, no sound came.

Anthony had to get her on his side and quickly. ‘Frau Kappelhoff! Listen to me!’ She tried to scream again and managed a little gulping hiccup. ‘I am still the man you know.’ The panic-stricken gaze didn’t alter. ‘Remember when Lottie was ill?’ The terror faded with the mention of her daughter. ‘She had pneumonia, yes?’

Frau Kappelhoff licked her lips nervously. ‘Lottie. Little Lottie. You saved her, Herr Doktor.’

‘That’s right.’ Anthony could hear the men below. He was desperate to get her to act but