cheering whenever the Queen's mentioned you'd better fill me in right away.'
'Just do as I do and you'll be all right. Come on, we're late already.'
In the ante-room they were hailed by the Colonel.
'Ah, here are our spy-catchers,' he said. 'Magnificent job of work this afternoon, both of you. Congratulations. Settled that crazy fellow's hash in fine style. Great relief. Now, what are you drinking, Mr. Jagger? Spot of pink gin?'
'I'd as soon just stick to my beer, thank you, Colonel. I took the liberty of laying on a supply with one of your waiters.'
'First-class idea. And sherry for you, eh, Brian? Ah, and Willie. You're looking a bit harassed, Willie. A drop of whisky will put you right.'
'Thank you, sir. Is there any sign of my guest, do you know?'
Ayscue, who had just hurried into the room, did look harassed, also more gaunt than usual. He was rubbing his eyes as if they itched intolerably.
'Oh, the fellow who's going to lecture us on our Patagonian opposite numbers. No, not a trace. Don't you worry, he'll be along soon.'
'I'm sure he will, yes. Could I have a word with you about Churchill, sir?'
'Of course, of course. I take it you've been over to see him. Tell me…'
The Colonel and Ayscue moved away. Hunter moved in from the other side.
'I wonder what's going to become of poor Dr. Best,' he said.
'Well, he's not our pigeon any more,' said Jagger. 'No point in interrogating a lunatic, let alone bringing him to trial. If he ever recovers I suppose we might take an interest again.'
'Will he, do you think?'
'How would I know? You heard what Mann said. The quicker it comes on the less likely it is to go away. He's Secret Agent Best forevermore, I'd say. Good luck to him.'
'I wonder if that bang on the head he got had anything to do with it.'
'I'd say not, but Mann's sending me a complete report as soon as he can. I'll let you have a copy. Just out of interest.'
'Thanks. Anyway, you're satisfied you got the right man.'
'Oh, completely. Aren't you?'
'Of course, for what my views are worth.'
'… some time tomorrow at the latest,' said the Colonel, coming back into aural range. 'Otherwise I shall be forced to take a serious view. No joke when a fellow's missing vital training.'
'I'll do everything I can, sir,' said Ayscue.
An expression of horror appeared on Leonard's face.
'For Christ's sake,' said Jagger, 'what's the matter now?'
'My gloves,' muttered Leonard. 'I've left them in my room. I'll just slip up and get them.'
'Is everybody off their head around here? What good will they do you, old lad? You told me yourself all you do is carry the buggers. What's it all for?'
'You wouldn't understand. I'll be back in a minute.'
Leonard went out thoughtfully and rather sadly. What was saddening him was the realization that, with the end of his job here in sight, his service as a Sailor must also be drawing to its close. His next assignment, requiring him to impersonate a lounger in a Whitehall pub, perhaps, or a checker at a naval dockyard, would hardly allow him to appear in his present guise. Perhaps he could acquire some sort of honorary post in the regiment's Old Comrades' Association, keep up the connection that way.
He opened the door of his room and had scarcely taken in the fact that Deering was already there before the man had sprung at him. For the second time in four hours, Leonard found himself involved in a severe and painful physical struggle. A fist caught him on the ear and sent him reeling against the bed, where, he noticed, the suitcase containing his secret files lay open and a copy of his preliminary report on the Best affair, completed that afternoon, had been unfolded. He threw himself forward and got in what he thought was going to be a punishing head-butt in Deering's stomach. That stomach proved to be a good deal harder than it had ever looked, and Leonard lost the initiative further when the edge of Deering's hand came down on the back of his neck, though without enough force to knock him over. The two closed and for a time grappled indecisively, banging into chairs, slamming into walls and then sliding along them, but the end of this phase came when Deering got a good grip on Leonard's throat and pushed him back against the rosewood dressing-table. Very soon it turned out to be impossible to loosen Deering's hands with his own, so Leonard started feeling about on the dressing-table top for possible weapons. He identified by touch an unopened carton of toothpaste, an empty sponge-bag, a plastic bottle of scalp tonic, finally, when his chances of ever drawing another breath seemed remote, a clothes-brush with a heavy wooden back. Hitting Deering on the head with this hard and repeatedly made him take one hand away and grab at it, upon which Leonard was able to gain some sort of footing and kick him on the shin. He released his hold and Leonard followed up, but too slowly or feebly, because Deering grabbed him by the arm and swung him forcefully into his triple mirror, which collapsed and shattered under him. He hit his head on something.
He rested on the floor for a few moments, wondering whether he had spent any time unconscious. There was some blood on the back of his hand, although the skin there seemed to be whole, and a lot of broken glass all about. He got carefully to his knees and looked down at himself in one of the larger fragments of mirror. The light was good enough to show that he was more or less undamaged apart from a long but evidently shallow cut on his forehead, the source of the blood on his hand. Up again at last, he lurched over to his painting of the five Sailors, knocked askew during the fight, and straightened it. Then, still panting pretty hard, but otherwise his own
