“See you in the morning,” Helen told her.
As the door closed behind her, Gallagher said, “She doesn’t suspect anything, does she?”
“No, and I want it to stay that way, for her own good, as much as anyone else’s.”
“IVe just had Savaiy on the phone. They got through to London. Someone will be with us by Thursday.”
She turned quickly. “Are you certain?”
“As much as I can be. How is the good colonel?”
“Still feverish. George saw him this afternoon. He seems satisfied. He’s trying him on this penicillin stuff.”
“I’m surprised Savaiy was in so early. Thy must have made the run this afternoon.”
“They did,” she said. “Taking advantage of the fog again. Most of the officers have turned up here within the past hour.”
“Most?”
“Two dead. Bohlen and Wendel. Two of the ships were attacked by Hurricanes.”
At that moment, the green baize door leading to the dining room opened and Guido Orsini came in. He was wearing his best uniform, his hair still damp from the shower, and looked rather dashing. He wore the Italian Medal for Military Valor in gold, a medal equivalent to the British Victoria Cross and very rarely awarded. On his left breast he also wore an Iron Cross First Class.
Gallagher said in English, “Still in one piece are you? Hear you had a bad time.”
“It could have been worse,” Guido told him. “They’re all sitting in there doing their conspicuous mourning bit.” He put a bag he was carrying on the table. “Dozen bottles of Sancerre there from Granville.”
“You’re a good boy,” she said.
“So I believe. Don’t you think I also look rattier beautiful tonight?”
“Very possibly.” He was mocking her as usual, she knew that. “Now move to one side while I dish up the food.”
Guido inched open the serving hatch to the dining room and whispered to Gallagher. “Sean, come and look at this.”
The hall was paneled in oak, darkly magnificent, and the long oaken table down the center could accommodate twenty-five. There were only eight in there now, all naval officers, seated at various places. In each gap, where someone was missing, a lighted candle stood at the plate. There were six such candles, each representing a member of the mess who had died in action. The atmosphere was funereal to say the least.
“They have to make everything into a Shakespearean tragedy,” Orsini said. “It’s really very boring. If it wasn’t for Helen’s cooking I’d go elsewhere. I discovered a remarkably good black-market restaurant in St. Aubin’s Bay the other night. Amazing what one got and without coupons.”
“Now that is interesting,” Gallagher said. “Tell me more.”
As Mrs. Moon and her two assistants worked on Sarah, the fat woman talked incessantly. “We been everywhere. Den-ham, Elstree, Pinewood. I do all Miss Margaret Lockwood’s makeup and Mr. James Mason. Oh, and I’ve worked with Mr. Coward. Now he was a gentleman.”
When Sarah came out from under the dryer, she couldn’t believe what she saw. Her dark hair was now a golden blond, and they’d marcelled it tight against her face. Now, Mrs. Moon started with the makeup, plucking hairs from the eyebrows painfully then lining them into two thin streaks.
“Plenty of rouge, dear. A little too much, if you know what I mean, and lots of lipstick. Everything just a little overdone, that’s what we want. Now, what do you think?”
Sarah sat looking into the mirror. It was the face of a stranger. Who am I? she thought. Did Sarah Drayton ever exist at all?
“Well try one of the dresses. Of course, the underwear and every individual item will be of French origin, but you only need the dress at the moment, just for the effect.”
It was black satin, very tight and rather short. She helped Sarah into it and zipped it at the back. “It certainly helps your breasts along, dear. They look very good.”
“I don’t know about that, I can’t breathe.” Sarah pulled on a pair of high-heeled shoes and looked at herself in the mirror. She giggled. “I look the most awful tart.”
“Well, that is the idea, love. Now go and see what the brigadier thinks.”