Silly, silly. He was so tired and ill that he could not possibly threaten anyone. Even on the mainland, who could have refused to take him in, bedraggled and unconscious? When he felt better they could question him, and if his story of how he got here was less than plausible, they could radio the mainland from Tom's cottage.

When she had washed up she crept upstairs to look at him. He slept facing the door, and when she looked in, his eyes opened instantly. Again there was that initial, split-second flash of fear.

"It's all right," Lucy whispered. "Just making sure you're okay."

He closed his eyes without speaking.

She went downstairs again. She dressed herself and Jo in oilskins and Wellington boots and they went out. The rain was still coming down in torrents, and the wind was terrific. She glanced up at the roof: they had had lost some slates. Leaning into the wind, she headed for the cliff top. lost some slates. Leaning into the wind, she headed for the cliff top.

She held Jo's hand tightly-he might quite easily be blown away. Two minutes later she was wishing she had stayed indoors. Rain came in under her raincoat collar and over the tops of her boots. Jo must be soaked too but now that they were wet they might as well stay wet for a few minutes more. Lucy wanted to go to the beach.

However, when they reached the top of the ramp she realized it was impossible. The narrow wooden walkway was slippery with rain, and in this wind she might lose her balance and fall off, to plunge sixty feet to the beach below. She had to content herself with looking.

It was quite a sight.

Vast waves, each the size of a small house, were rolling in rapidly, close on each other's heels. Crossing the beach the wave would rise even higher, its crest curling in a question mark, then throw itself against the foot of the cliff in a rage. Spray rose over the cliff top in sheets, causing Lucy to step back hurriedly and Jo to squeal with delight. Lucy could hear her son's laughter only because he had climbed into her arms, and his mouth was now close to her ear; the noise of the wind and the sea drowned more distant sounds.

There was something terribly thrilling in watching the elements spit and sway and roar in fury, in standing fractionally too close to the cliff edge, feeling threatened and safe at the same time, shivering with cold and perspiring in fear. It was thrilling, and there were few thrills in her life.

She was about to go back, mindful of Jo's health, when she saw the boat.

It was not a boat any more, of course; that was what was so shocking about it. All that was left were the large timbers of the deck and the keel. They were scattered on the rocks below the cliffs like a dropped handful of matches. It had been a big boat, Lucy realized. One man might have piloted it alone, but not easily. And the damage the sea had wrought on it was awesome. It was hard to detect two bits of wood still joined together.

How, in heaven's name, had their stranger come out of it alive?

She shuddered when she thought of what those waves and those rocks might have done to a human body. Jo caught her sudden change of mood and said into her ear, "Go home, now." She turned quickly away from the sea and hurried along the muddy path to the cottage.

Back inside, they took off their wet coats, hats and boots, and hung them in the kitchen to dry. Lucy went upstairs and looked in on the stranger again. This time he did not open his eyes. He seemed to be sleeping very peacefully, yet she had a feeling that he had awakened and recognized her tread on the stairs, and closed his eyes again before she opened the door.

She ran a hot bath. She and the boy were soaked to the skin. She undressed Jo and put him in the tub, then-on impulse-took off her own clothes and got in with him. The heat was blissful. She closed her eyes and relaxed. This was good, too; to be in a house, feeling warm, while the storm beat impotently at the strong stone walls.

Life had turned interesting, all of a sudden. In one night there had been a storm, a shipwreck, and a mystery man; this after three years of...She hoped the stranger would wake up soon so that she could find out about him.

Meanwhile it was time she started cooking lunch for the men. She had some breast of lamb to make a stew. She got out of the bath and toweled herself gently. Jo was playing with his bath toy, a much-chewed rubber cat. Lucy looked at herself in the mirror, examining the stretch-marks on her belly left by pregnancy. They were fading, slowly, but they would never completely disappear. An all-over suntan would help, though. She smiled to herself. Fat chance of that! Besides, who was interested in her tummy? n.o.body but herself.

Jo said, "Can I stay in a minute more?" It was a phrase he used, "a minute more," and it could mean anything up to a half a day.

"Just while I get dressed," she told him and hung the towel on a rail and moved toward the door.

The stranger stood in the doorway, looking at her.

They stared at each other. It was odd-Lucy thought later-that she felt not a bit afraid. It was the way he looked at her; there was no threat in his expression, no lewdness, no smirk. He was not looking at her pubis, or even her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but at her face-into her eyes. She looked back, a bit shocked but not embarra.s.sed, with just a tiny part of her mind wondering why she did not squeal, cover herself with her hands and slam the door on him.

Something did come into his eyes, at last-perhaps she was imagining it, but she saw admiration, and a faint twinkle of honest humor, and a trace of sadness-and then the hold was broken and he turned away and went back into his bedroom, closing the door. A moment later Lucy heard the springs creak as his weight settled onto the bed.

And for no good reason at all she felt dreadfully guilty.

20.

PERCIVAL G.o.dLIMAN HAD BY NOW PULLED OUT ALL the stops. the stops.

Every policeman in the United Kingdom had a copy of the photograph of Faber, and about half of them were engaged full time in the search. In the cities they were checking hotels and guest houses, railway stations and bus terminals, cafes and shopping centers; and the bridges, arches and bombed lots where derelicts hung out. In the country they were looking in barns and silos, empty cottages and ruined castles, thickets and clearings and cornfields. They were showing the photograph to ticket clerks, petrol station staff, ferry hands and toll collectors. All the pa.s.senger ports and airfields were covered, with the picture pinned behind a board at every pa.s.sport control desk.

The police, of course, still thought they were looking for a straightforward murderer. The cop on the street knew that the man in the picture had killed two people with a knife in London. Senior officers knew a bit more; that one of the murders had been a s.e.xual a.s.sault, another apparently motiveless and a third-which their men were not to know of-was an unexplained but b.l.o.o.d.y attack on a soldier on the Euston-to-Liverpool train. Only chief constables, and a few officers at Scotland Yard, knew that the soldier had been on temporary attachment to MI5 and that all the murders were somehow connected with Security.

The newspapers, too, thought it was an ordinary murder hunt. The day after G.o.dliman had released details, most of them had carried the story in their later editions-the first editions, bound for Scotland, Ulster and North Wales, had missed it, so they carried a shortened version a day later. The Stockwell victim had been identified as a laborer, and given a false name and a vague London background. G.o.dliman's press release had connected that murder with the death of Mrs. Una Garden in 1940, but had been vague about the nature of the link. The murder weapon was said to be a stiletto.

The two Liverpool newspapers heard very quickly of the body on the train, and both wondered whether the London knife murderer was responsible. Both made enquiries with the Liverpool police. The editors of both papers received phone calls from the chief constable. Neither paper carried the story.

A total of one hundred and fifty-seven tall dark men were arrested on suspicion of being Faber. All but twenty-nine of them were able to prove that they could not possibly have committed the murders. Interviewers from MI5 talked to the twenty-nine. Twenty-seven called in parents, relatives and neighbors, who affirmed that they had been born in Britain and had been living there during the '20s, when Faber had been in Germany.

The last two were brought to London and interviewed again, this time by G.o.dliman. Both were bachelors, living alone, with no surviving relatives, leading a transient existence. The first was a well-dressed, confident man who claimed implausibly that his way of life was to travel the country taking odd jobs as a manual laborer. G.o.dliman explained that-unlike the police-he had the power to incarcerate anyone for the duration of the war, and no questions asked. Furthermore, he was not in the least interested in ordinary peccadilloes, and any information given him here at the War Office was strictly confidential and would go no further.

The prisoner promptly confessed to being a confidence trickster and gave the address of nineteen elderly ladies whom he had cheated out their old jewelry during the past three weeks. G.o.dliman turned him over to the police.

He felt no obligation to be honest with a professional liar.

The last suspect also cracked under G.o.dliman's treatment. His secret was that he was not a bachelor at all, not by a long way. He had a wife in Brighton. And in Solihull, Birmingham. And in Colchester, Newbury and Exeter. All five were able to produce marriage certificates later that day. The bigamist went to jail to await trial.

G.o.dliman slept in his office while the hunt went on.

BRISTOL, Temple Meads, railway station: Temple Meads, railway station: "Good morning, Miss. Would you look at this please?"

"Hey, girls-the bobby's going to show us his snaps!"

"Now, don't muck about, just tell me if you've seen him."

"Ooh, ain't he handsome! I wish I had!"

"You wouldn't if you knew what he'd done. Would you all take a look, please?"

"Never seen him."

"Me neither."

"Not me."

"When you catch him, ask him if he wants to meet a nice young Bristol girl-"

"You girls-I don't know...just because they give you a pair of trousers and a porter's job, you think you're supposed to act like men..."

THE W WOOLWICH Ferry: Ferry: "Filthy day, constable."

"Morning, captain. I expect it's worse on the high seas."

"Can I help you? Or are you just crossing the river?"

"I want you to look at a face, captain."

"Let me put my specs on. Oh, don't worry, I can see to guide the ship. It's close things I need the gla.s.ses for. Now then..."

"Ring any bells?"

"Sorry, constable. Means nothing to me."

"Well, let me know if you see him."

"Certainly."

"Bon voyage."

"Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely."

NUMBER 35 Leak Street, London El: 35 Leak Street, London El: "Sergeant Riley-what a nice surprise!"

"Never mind the lip, Mabel. Who've you got here?"

"All respectable guests, sergeant; you know me."

"I know you, all right. That's why I'm here. Would any of your nice respectable guests happen to be on the trot?"

"Since when have you been recruiting for the army?"

"I'm not, Mabel, I'm looking for someone, and if he's here, he's probably told you he's on the trot."

"Look, Jack-if I tell you there's n.o.body here I don't know, will you go away and stop pestering me?"

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because of 1936."

"You were better looking then, Mabel."

"So were you, Jack."

"You win...take a butcher's at this. If chummy comes in here, send word, okay?"

"Promise."

"Don't waste any time about it, either."

"All right!"

"Mabel...he knifed a woman your age. I'm just marking your cards."

BILL'S C CAFE, on the A30 near Bagshot: on the A30 near Bagshot: "Tea, please, Bill. Two sugars."

"Good morning, Constable Pearson. Filthy day."

"What's on that plate, Bill-pebbles from Portsmouth?"

"b.u.t.tered buns, as well you know."

"Oh! I'll have two, then. Thanks...Now then, lads! Anyone who wants his lorry checked from top to bottom can leave right away.... That's better. Take a look at this picture, please."

"What are you after him for, constable-cycling without lights?"

"Never mind the jokes, Harry-pa.s.s the picture around. Anybody given a lift to that bloke?"

"Not me."

"No."

"Sorry, constable."

"Never clapped eyes on him."

"Thank you, lads. If you see him, report it. Cheerio."

"Constable?"

"Yes, Bill?"

"You haven't paid for the buns."