L'Aimant – Chapter 54
Summary:
A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.
Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.
Chapter 54: Another summons from The Service.
Disclaimer:
The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.
Author's Notes:
How pleased was I with the demolition job performed on a certain Foyle-friendly character in All Clear? Not remotely. Prepare to see canon repaired!
…
Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp in northern Germany was liberated by British troops on April 15th, 1945.
...
dancesabove not only beta'd this, licking my American speech into shape, but also furnished a whole raft of lovely input to this chapter.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
Christopher heard her footsteps on the gravel, and turned his head to smile a welcome. Man and wife exchanged a slow, complicit blink, then, with wordless ease, Sam settled herself against his other side and slid what she still thought of as her 'good' hand through the crook of his elbow.
"Stop buttering him up," she teased across her husband's chest, leaning round to Georgie. "He's already too particular about his appearance."
Georgie rested her chin on his lapel.
"Well, he usually smells better than this, but I can't complain, considering it's all my fault..."
"I think the answer to the problem will probably be baking soda sprinkled on the cloth."
"Mmm. I hope you're right. Let's try that when we get back. It looks as if the trousers aren't too badly stained..." Georgie poked a finger underneath the point of Christopher's waistcoat where it overhung his pleated trouser-front, and flicked up the material. "It's mostly his jacket and waistcoat."
Smartly, Foyle extracted his arm from round her shoulders and removed her hand.
"But the suit will need airing before we let him wear it again," put in Sam. "What do you think? Hang it in the shed after we've sponged it? My bike can live outside, now that the weather's better."
"Sounds like a sensible idea. You know, now that I've lost my lunch, I rather think I'm getting hungry again..."
Christopher leant back, closed his eyes and retired from the exchange. Sicked over, used as a pillow, fiddled with and fussed over. The vagaries of a fiftieth birthday.
He felt Georgina lift his arm, and acquiescing with a sigh, he let her feed it round her shoulders once again.
Chapter 54
Monday, 16th April, 1945
"Miss Pierce."
"Mr Foyle. Comfortable at your hotel?"
Sam's guess had been correct. Miss Pierce had work for him to do. The call to London came one week after his birthday. Foyle had declined, in much the terms he'd used in his last interview with Pierce, but a little soft-shoe shuffle from the Service, and he found himself on orders from the AC, bound for London. In a minor victory of recalcitrance over authority, and in recognition of the now-safer atmosphere in the capital, he had negotiated for Samantha to accompany him, and two nights' accommodation at The Strand Palace had been procured.
Now, in a familiar office in Whitehall, he stood across from Hilda Pierce and waited to ingest whatever cocktail of intrigue she would be serving on this inconvenient occasion.
His head dipped sideways; courtesy cost nothing. "Thank you. Perfectly comfortable. Samantha's taking the opportunity to visit friends today, but we'll be dining either there, or somewhere near the Royal Opera House, tonight."
"I trust you won't be disappointed when I tell you," supplied Hilda, "that it's operating as a dance hall?"
Foyle pouted, with a touch of personal theatre. "Wull, I'll try to contain my disappointment?" Privately, he expected Whitehall dramas to outstrip the goings-on on any stage.
Miss Pierce's smile was cat-like as she crossed the room. Pleasantries were over.
"On to the point, then. A friend of yours has been playing detective, and poking into areas designated 'Classified'."
"Friend of mine?" Foyle worked his mouth and watched her.
"Yes. We want him off our backs, Foyle. From my information, your friend is set to do some serious diplomatic damage with his probing."
Foyle frowned. Friends of his with a reputation for curiosity would not have made for a long list. Beck, perhaps? But Beck was every bit as close to Miss Pierce as to himself, and therefore for Pierce to describe him as 'your friend' would be peculiar. Arthur Whitehall was the only other name that sprang to mind (Arthur being, after all, a naturally inquisitive type). But no, the whole idea was utterly ridiculous.
"What friend?" he pressed.
Hilda perched herself on the wide oaken windowsill that overlooked the river. Outside, the Thames glinted its indifference. But perhaps friendships still counted for something in this war. She decided that she wouldn't answer yet.
"We've already lost a civil servant to his nerves over this—your friend is on his tail. I want him reined in, Foyle."
"I'm thinking to myself, perhaps naively," observed Foyle with dry restraint, "you might eventually get round to indicating who you mean?"
Hilda ignored the sarcasm. "The civil servant, incidentally, has returned to his mother's home in Hastings. I need you to keep a close eye on things, and if—when—your friend turns up, I want to know about it."
"Rrright. I sense a name is on the tip of your tongue?" The irony was palpable.
"Your American. Major John Kiefer."
John. Foyle's tongue moved imperceptibly to nudge the inside of his upper lip. He felt a wave of non-co-operation seep into his bones. Masking his dismay with a nonchalant display of interest, he raised an eyebrow.
"Major Kiefer—a promotion? Well, good for him!"
In a calculatedly annoying post-script, he appended a grin.
"Side-splitting, Foyle." Miss Pierce's tone was deadpan.
Foyle bowed transversely from the shoulder. "I thank you."
She sighed in irritation, and waved her guest towards an armchair. "For God's sake, have a seat."
"Nnnot sure I'm staying, actually."
Miss Pierce regarded him with patient scepticism.
"Laphraoig?" She moved behind her desk, lifting the golden bottle from its shelf. "'Hollow of Proig'—rare Islay malt..."
An eye closed, and Foyle wrinkled his nose. "Twwisted my arm."
He settled himself into the corner of the chair, and hitching up his trousers at the knees, draped one languid leg over the other.
"This chap Kiefer..." Hilda handed him the glass. "What can you tell me?"
Foyle took a sip of smoky amber fire and closed his eyes for a few seconds. Eventually, he fixed her with a steady seriousness.
"Well, I'd call him decent, honest, even-tempered. Protective of his men, but not the type I'd characterise as a troublemaker." His lower lip jutted speculatively. "You feel able to fill me in on the, um, sensitive details? Otherwise, I mightn't feel able to help you."
Miss Pierce assessed what she'd heard. Protective of his men. And so a mess was unavoidable. Kiefer on the warpath would be difficult to manage. And this had indeed been an immensely shameful waste of life—the incident, buried for almost a year now, had been all the more screamingly disgraceful for its attribution to incompetence over intent. Hilda gazed into her glass. That such a thing could happen was the vilest symptom of a common and pernicious human failing: that of doing either nothing or the minimum. She pictured now the shocking cine-footage she had seen that very morning, flown in from newly liberated Bergen-Belsen. There was a sickening example of cruelly deliberate annihilation; but how many people had made those atrocities possible by standing by and doing nothing... nothing?
"Drink your whisky, Foyle," she sighed wearily. "It's a long story, but we'll get to it."
...
"Problem here?"
As Foyle swept through the main entrance to The Strand Palace foyer, he spied Sam seated, waiting for him on a low settee, dressed for outdoors in her coat and gloves. Standing over her was a well-built man in his late twenties—an American in uniform. Foyle's brows knitted. From the slight sway of the soldier's stance, and his exaggerated gestures, it was clear the man was somewhat the worse for drink, and Sam's careful avoidance of eye contact made it clear that his attentions were unwelcome. What was more, a second young man, also in uniform, was trying to encourage him away.
"Oh, at last!" Hearing Christopher's mild challenge, Sam gathered up her handbag in relief.
It was short-lived.
"Beat it, grandpa. I'm talkin' to the lady."
Foyle raised his chin. "Not going to be possible. You're harassing my wife."
"Hey, sorry, buddy. He had no idea. We'll scram..." The soft southern voice was that of the drunk's companion, urgent, nervous and conciliatory. He plucked at the first man's sleeve to pull him away.
Foyle's face was stony. "Easy mistake to make. Sam?"
One wary eye cocked towards the potential source of trouble, he reached out a hand and, grasping her proffered fingers, drew her from the chair. Sam stood, and as she did, the ample folds of her box-coat parted to reveal the now very evident bump of her pregnancy.
The drunk's eyes swept down her body.
"Sheesh! Rich pickin's for you old guys while we're out there bustin' a gut."
The drunk's friend took him by the shoulders, sending Foyle an embarrassed look. "Hey, sorry, pal; he's had one too many."
"Shut the HELL up, Taylor." The man shrugged off his friend's hands and wheeled back round to a startled Samantha, risen from her seat in preparation for Christopher to lead her away.
Behind them, the hotel concierge, alerted by a raised voice disrupting the genteel composure of Reception, craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the disturbance, then picked up the telephone and spoke rapidly into the receiver.
"You gotta have it, don'tcha?" spat the drunk, leaning into her face.
Sam shrank back.
"Can't hold out till the boys come home. Well looky here,"—he poked an angry finger at her bump—"who caught a bat in the cave?"
Flushing, Sam slapped his hand away, incensed. "You don't impress me," she hissed, and sliding past him, thrust a hand through her husband's arm.
Face darkening to thunder, Foyle detached her gently, steering her round to his other side and out of reach. Then he turned to face her tormenter.
"Well, I think my wife has heard about enough from you."
"Oh, I'm just getting started." Using his greater height as a provocation, the man bent forwards so that their noses were within touching distance.
Foyle's unflinching, steely gaze doled out the full measure of his contempt.
"Stow it, Bodell!" The friend, now white-faced, interposed himself between the two men. With flat of hand applied to chest, he urged his companion back. Once he had managed, with some relief, to coax the scowling drunk away a few feet, he removed his cap and ran a hand over his cropped hair in a gesture of frustration. Then he settled the cap back on his head again, and addressed Foyle.
"Sir, his mouth's runnin' away with him." Lieutenant Taylor spoke with lowered voice. "Bad news from home—he's still smartin' from it. His old lady back in Minneapolis is shacked up with her boss. That's kinda why he's actin' like an asshole."
Casting a brief dismissive glance towards the drunk, Foyle turned to their mediator. His words were quiet and clipped.
"Nnnot exactly a miracle of objectivity, is he? Why don't you do your 'friend' a favour, take him upstairs and encourage his head under a cold tap?"
With a parting glare in the direction of Sam's persecutor, Foyle turned unhurriedly to rejoin his wife; but he had barely taken one pace when he felt a heavy hand descend onto his shoulder and grip hard. A blast of bourbon-sodden breath was in his ear.
"Hey buddy, you wanna see my head under a faucet, you better be ready to put it there yourself."
"Christopher! Come away!" Her voice urgent with anxiety, Sam's gloved hand tugged at Foyle's sleeve.
If she'd hoped this light restraint would work, that hope diminished as the fabric of her husband's coat-sleeve slipped from her fingers. Christopher pulled back his arm and swivelled smartly, his fist connecting heavily with the chin of their adversary. Being shorter than his opponent, Foyle's uppercut came from an opportunely low angle, crashing the man's nether jaw into his upper.
With a sickening thwack! the young man's teeth smashed together hard, sending shock-waves thrumming through his ears. The force of the blow slammed his head back, pitching him rearwards into the arms of his startled companion.
Grasping the opportunity, the other man promptly used his stumbling friend's momentum to disturb his balance further, and the would-be attacker finished sprawling, stunned and open-legged on the hotel foyer's marble floor.
Foyle watched with cold-eyed composure as the man reeled backwards, knees buckling beneath him with the loss of footing. Slowly Foyle shook out his hand, flexing the fingers deliberatively. With any luck, he mused, the expensive transatlantic dentistry that had been flashing at his wife when he'd first come on the scene was now rearranged beyond easy remedy. Foyle reached behind him, feeling for Samantha, and shifted her gently back a step.
"No closer, Love," he told her quietly, without turning as he spoke.
Foyle blinked down with lazy interest upon the toppled man. Feet apart, his lips set in a hard line, he stood and waited in a sea of calm for the troublemaker to decide how their conversation would proceed.
As their eyes met, the grounded soldier's daze gave way to fury. He began to struggle, even as his friend fought to restrain him, pleading, "Bodell. BODELL! Get a-hold of yourself!"
Bodell's eyes glittered up at Foyle with unreasonable hatred. Guys like that, dressed to the nines and making time with dames they had no right to. The taste of blood was strong inside his mouth, and as his tongue explored, he found that he could wiggle the filling in a right upper tooth. Kneeling beside him, Taylor had him in a vice-like grip around the shoulders, begging: "Drop it, man. You're outta line."
"It's geezers like him that're outta line..." spat Bodell, writhing to free himself.
"No, buddy. You ain't thinkin' straight..."
Bodell blinked through the blurry haze of his aggression. Foyle's image merged into the form of Peter Larsen, well-heeled five-and-dime proprietor who'd been so goddam big-hearted, giving Sal a job. Or so he'd thought...
"This ain't Sally. This ain't Minnesota. Folks here got their own lives," Taylor pleaded, never once relaxing his grip.
Bodell was narrow-eyed with fury, but as his friend spoke and as Foyle watched, the expression on his face weakened to a pained confusion. A tremble started round his lower lip, and within seconds Bodell had dissolved to tears. Shaking off his friend's restraint, he let out a sob, and turning, threw himself down on his side, drawing up his knees like a heartbroken child. "Aw, Jesus! Sal!"
Taylor placed a consoling hand on the man's back, and looked up at Foyle.
"Didya haveta deck him, Sir?" he appealed.
Foyle considered briefly, as he straightened his tie.
"Oh, I think so."
There was a tsk of irritation from behind, and Sam stepped round her husband, with the clear intent of making for the sobbing figure on the floor.
Foyle caught her wrist.
"Nunno," he told her firmly, with a look that, whilst it spoke his recognition and even admiration of her pity, also made it clear he was determined not to let her risk herself. Sam read the look, and shelved her independent instincts for his sake.
"Oh, no, ma'am!" Taylor's startled face peered up at her. "You stay right there. I'll tend to him."
An immaculately coiffed and suited gentleman of middle years had meanwhile crossed the foyer to join proceedings. His lapel sported a gilded, enamelled badge proclaiming Mr. D. Shadbolt, Under-Manager. Two burly-looking porters brought up the rear. Now he directed his question at Foyle.
"May we be of assistance here, Sir?"
The new arrival was duly scrutinised. "Bit late. Aand you might want to be more judicious when dispensing liquor in the future?"
Shadbolt bridled. "I assure you, Sir, this man did not imbibe at The Strand Palace bar. We have a strict policy against serving patrons so obviously in their cups."
"PX bourbon," Taylor put in helpfully. "I guess he downed too many shots up in his room."
Foyle eyebrow twitched the merest fraction. Kentucky gut-rot. What could one expect?
"In which case," Foyle addressed the under-manager, "your men would be best employed helping this fellow upstairs? I'd say he's eager to acquaint himself with English plumbing. Nice cold bath, perhaps?"
Shadbolt stiffened. "Be in no doubt, Sir, guests of this hotel are not required to bathe in frigid water."
"Happy to know it. But in his case, mmmake an exception?"
"Sorry you had to see that," Foyle told Sam quietly, as they quit the hotel. "Let's find ourselves some dinner. Anywhere but here."
Outside it had begun to spit with rain. They walked northeast along the busy Strand, so there was little opportunity for conversation as they dodged the steady stream of passers-by. Once they'd taken a left turn into the quieter Burleigh Street, the rain began in earnest. Foyle ducked under the overhang of a doorway, drawing Sam close out of the wet.
Raindrops began dripping from the narrow canopy.
"Any port in a storm," he smiled, turning up the collar of her topcoat to shield her neck.
"Did you hurt your hand?" she whispered (though there was no one really close enough to listen in).
"Mwell," he flexed his fingers, "yes, I did, a bit. He had an iron jaw. What was he? Swedish stock?"
"Honestly? How should I know? I was minding my own business when he rolled up. Anyway, drunk is not a nationality."
Foyle heaved a sigh. "Love, you're a magnet for unsavoury characters. Can't leave you unattended for a second, can I?"
Sam grinned. "Must be my perfume. Apparently, you know, the name means..."
"Ssso I'm told. Perhaps you should stop wearing it."
"Well it pulled you in successfully. And then you went and bought me another bottle. So what's a girl to do?"
"So I did." He kissed her gently, breathing in the warmth of her rain-dampened hair. And, as if on cue, there arose through Sam's natural, butter-soft scent the powdery, floral, tantalising nectar of L'Aimant.
Wrinkling her nose, Sam pulled away and tutted in mock indignation. "Ooh, you hypocrite. All those pontifications about the chap in the hotel, and there's whisky on your breath!"
Christopher gave her a hurt look. "Not remotely comparable, Sam. It was Islay malt. And I only had one glass... AND I wasn't harassing married women in hotel foyers."
"Christopher..." she stroked his reddened knuckles, then gave him a probing look. "You know what I think? I think you enjoyed hitting him."
"He was being obnoxious, had it coming." Foyle's eyes avoided hers. The Laphraoig had been at least a double, and the Kiefer business had upset him.
"Ah. Well, to quote my husband the detective, 'not quite what I asked, is it?'." With suspicious eyes she pinned him to the heavy panelled door behind. There would be no escape.
"All right, all right!" Dipping at the knees, he swivelled his shoulders into the admission. "S'pose it's true. S'pose I've been itching to do that ever since Fielding."
"Hah!" She jabbed teasingly at the miscreant's chest. "AND Miss Pierce has been oiling your wheels. Well, that explains a lot."
He bore it with patience, gentle-voiced and smiling like a wayward schoolboy. "You oil my wheels, Sam."
Now, as the rain pattered softly around them, his face grew serious. His eyes searched hers, and in their gentle brown depths he was relieved to read the warmth beneath her scolding.
There wasn't very long to wait before she softened.
"Oh, Christopher, I love you so much." Her hand caressed his face, stroked the hair and ears exposed beneath his hat.
He closed stinging eyes and felt the light touch of her lips on his. She followed with a row of nipping kisses, brushed along the jawline to his neck.
"Sam," he protested faintly, "we're, ah, in a public place."
But it was really all for show. Cocking a quick eye to satisfy himself that they were unobserved, he let his head loll back. And his immediate reward was Sam's breath, warm and passionate against his throat.
"Oh, dear Christ, what's the use?" he lamented pointlessly. Then he bent his head and kissed her.
It was a sweet, light kiss at first. Eyes falling slightly open so that he could watch her face, Foyle marvelled at her eagerness in offering him her lips out on a London street and in daylight, grey and waning though the evening made it. Shifting to change his angle without truly separating his mouth from hers, he canted the brim of his hat down to shield their faces from the rain and prying eyes.
Sam prickled with anticipation. And sure enough there came a gentle, questing nibble at her lower lip to ease her lips apart. Then Christopher deepened the kiss. It was sudden and intense, with that hard, possessive hunger that she had come to expect in him whenever she was threatened or impugned. The force of it stifled her soft cry as she thrilled to its feel; to his hand clasping the back of her head to brace her near him. Even as the movement of his mouth set every inch of her aglow, Sam shivered under Christopher's caresses. Nor were his hands idle, wandering over her body, pausing at the growing roundness of her breasts under her coat. Sam's breasts had now outgrown their early soreness and were more sensitive than ever, and in the bliss of it, she wrapped her arms about his chest to keep her knees from buckling.
Foyle was aware that his body fit against hers in a different way now. Gone was the ease of pressing himself against her lower body, but at the same time her curved abdomen was more pliable, and less an obstacle, than appearances suggested. Embraces were one thing, he thought hazily, but he'd not risk the safety of the child. The last few times he'd taken her to their bed, he'd positioned both of them on their sides.
Thus Foyle's mind drifted idly over their marital arrangements through the bliss of kissing Sam.
Out in the road, a passing taxi papped its horn mischievously, making them start. Foyle craned his neck out of their hidey-hole and glanced self-consciously around, fingering his tie.
"Listen. I, um, don't want to linger over dinner, how 'bout you?"
"Oh, you don't say," she giggled.
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
Sorry for the long wait. I've been rather busy with the garden and with family lately. But there won't be such an interval before the next chapter appears: it will be out within a week. And steamin'… ;o)
…
More soon. Really.
GiuC