certain conclusions, but between you and me they are usually wide of the mark. Refugees are certainly pressured to return to their own country, but we know of no clear instance of assassination following a refusal. What the pattern usually indicates is a flagrant double-cross. The victim is an agent who is playing double and who refuses to toe the line. His visitor brings him an ultimatum — the terms are naturally a little harsh — and the agent is reluctant; it may then be necessary to liquidate him.’
Whitaker screwed up his eyes. ‘You mean it really goes on, this sort of thing?’
Empton showed his teeth again. ‘But of course it does, old man. Jungle law and all that. You can’t have intelligence without it. If a man is a threat to security and you can’t buy him or coerce him, you have to kill him: that’s logic. We live in a split world, you know. Now if this is what has happened to your man, and I’m presuming that it is, then I’m afraid we’ll never get a conviction in the case. I can probably trace the killer and cause him to return from where he came, but that’s as far as it will go. A trial may not be expedient.’
Whitaker turned to Gently, as though seeking support. Gently kept sucking his pipe and staring glumly at nothing.
‘But, look here-’ Whitaker began.
‘I know, I know,’ Empton interrupted. ‘British justice and all that — mustn’t give the myth a knock.’
‘But it amounts to condoning a murder.’
‘Exactly that,’ Empton said. ‘I’m sorry. We’re doing it every day. I’m sure the novelty will soon wear off with you.’
He tapped the photograph he had brought.
‘This’, he said, ‘could be our man. Jan Kasimir, thirty-nine, late of Krackow, Poland. Another refugee, naturally — he’s been in England for two years — getting acclimatized, you might say, and establishing the innocence of his character. He resides in Hampstead where he works for an instrument-maker and behaves like a model alien. We’ve kept our usual discreet eye on him. He was about ripe for a commission.’
He pushed the photograph across to Whitaker. It showed a good-looking man with sharp-cut features. He had dark hair, dark eyes, a toothbrush moustache and a delicate chin. He was wearing a plain bow tie and was facing the camera with confidence.
‘How do you know this is him?’ Whitaker asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Empton said. ‘I’m following my nose, old man. I want this photograph shown to Madsen. The description he gave is pretty sketchy, but such as it is it fits Kasimir. And Kasimir limps, that’s the point. I read of the limp and remembered Kasimir.’
Gently removed his pipe, and coughed.
‘Is a question in order?’ he asked.
Empton flickered a look at him. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Fire away.’
‘Do you know that Teodowicz was an agent?’
‘No.’
‘But you would have done — if he were playing double?’
Empton showed his teeth precisely. ‘Nicely taken, old man,’ he said.
‘It naturally occurred to me,’ Gently said. ‘The line you’re taking seems to rest on it.’
‘It does indeed,’ Empton said. ‘On that, and the rather familiar pattern. No, we don’t know he was an agent, and he had not made any approach to us. But he may have been meditating an approach, and was perhaps killed for that reason.’
‘I see,’ Gently said.
‘And the pattern remains,’ said Empton.
‘Yes, the pattern,’ Gently said.
Empton didn’t say anything.
‘One other thing,’ Gently said. ‘Is the way he was killed quite typical? I don’t meet this sort of thing very often, and I thought the number of bullets impressive.’
‘Perhaps unusual,’ Empton said.
‘Less than good professional standard?’
‘It depends on the purpose,’ Empton said. ‘We may find a reason for it later.’
‘Two hundred bullets,’ Gently said. ‘Where one would have served the same purpose. An overall burst of about forty seconds. Scything the victim up and down.’
‘That’s what struck us,’ Whitaker said. ‘We felt certain it was a case of a revenge killing. Or the work of a maniac, one or the other. Nobody could be sane to do that.’
Empton lifted one eyebrow. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for your reactions. But agents are liquidated in various ways, according to the exigencies of the moment. I agree that this instance looks unprofessional. I thought at first it was to conceal identity. But I have no doubt it was done for a purpose other than emotional catharsis.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Whitaker said.
‘Yes,’ Empton said. ‘Is Madsen handy?’
‘He’s been waiting since ten,’ Whitaker said.
‘Right,’ Empton said. ‘Have him in.’
Felling fetched Madsen in. He was a pale-haired Scandinavian who kept nervously smiling. He had a long straight nose, a girlish mouth and fair complexion, but his frame was bony and solid and he walked with a springing step. He was given a chair by the desk, and sat in it awkwardly, stooping forward. He smiled at Gently and Whitaker. The smile drooped when it came to Empton. Empton stared at him, apparently casual. But the smile faded right away.
‘So you’re Madsen,’ Empton said. ‘Come from Bekkestua, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Madsen said. ‘Bekkestua.’
‘Skansenveien.’
‘Yes, Skansenveien.’
‘Number twenty-two,’ Empton said.
‘Yes, number twenty-two,’ Madsen said.
‘A nice place to live,’ Empton said. ‘Why didn’t you go back there, Madsen?’
Madsen tried to make his smile. It ended up in a twitch.
‘My people,’ he said. ‘They are all dead. My father was shot by the Germans. My mother, my sister, my fiancee… there is nothing to go back to. The house was burned to the ground. I went back once, to make my claim.’
‘Touching,’ Empton said. ‘The claim was thirty thousand kroner.’
‘It is about fifteen hundred pounds.’
‘Hardly worth claiming,’ Empton said.
Madsen tried the smile again, but it just wouldn’t come. He moved his hands inside his knees; big, powerful- looking hands.
‘What is it you want?’ he said suddenly. ‘There is nothing I try to hide. I am a Norwegian by birth, that is so, I don’ make any secret of this.’
‘Just as well,’ Empton said. ‘We know all about you, Madsen.’
‘But what do you know? I do not mind!’
Empton said: ‘We’ve been talking to Kasimir.’
Madsen’s eyes were tugged to him, flinched, fell away again. Empton sat in a lazy poise, his eyes lazy. But unblinking.
‘Who — who is that?’ Madsen asked.
‘The one they sent here. Who brought the terms.’
‘I do not know what you mean.’
‘Oh yes you do. Kasimir talked.’
‘But I do not know any Kasimir — this is double Dutch, about Kasimir!’
‘Stop acting innocent,’ Empton said. ‘It’s a waste of time. We know what you did.’
Madsen was trembling. He smiled at the desk, at Gently, at Whitaker, at the desk again. Gently was sitting hunched and expressionless. Whitaker was frowning. Felling stood by the door. Madsen lifted his big hands.
‘I tell you, I know nothing,’ he said. ‘I have never heard of a man, Kasimir. What you are saying doesn’t mean anything.’
