Slymne, on 12 April you arrived and on the 22nd you left again. On the 27th you came once more and departed 3rd August. The night before last you returned and drove 900 kilometres without resting. It will help if you explain.'
Slymne tended to agree but a seemingly distant portion of his mind took over. 'I teach geography and I like France. Naturally I come frequently on visits.'
'Which is presumably why you speak our language so fluently,' said Inspector Roudhon with a smile.
'That's different. I'm not very good at languages.'
'But an incredible student of geography to investigate the country for 900 kilometres without stopping. And at night too. Unless...' He paused and lit a cigarette. The room stank of stale tobacco. 'Unless, Monsieur Slymne, and I merely hypothesize, you understand, you were already in France and someone provided you with an alibi by booking a crossing to Calais in your name.'
'An alibi? What would they do that for?' said Slymne, trying to keep his eyes in focus. The situation was getting madder every moment.
'That is for you to tell us. You know what you have been here for. What mission you and Major Fetherington are on.'
'Can't,' said Slymne, 'because we aren't on one. Ask the Major.'
'We have. And he has had the good sense to tell us.'
'Tell you? What's he told you?' Slymne was wide awake now.
'You really want to know?'
Slymne did, desperately. The detective left the room and returned with a signed statement a few minutes later.
'Major Fetherington admits to being a member of the Special Air Services. He was parachuted into the forest near Brive from a light aircraft...'
'From a light aircraft?' said Slymne in the grip of galloping insanity.
'Yes, monsieur, as you well know. He has even named the type and the airfield from which he flew. It was a Gloster Gladiator and left from Bagshot at 0400 hours Tuesday morning '
'But...but they haven't made Gladiators since God knows when,' said Slymne. What on earth was the Major up to? And there couldn't be an airfield near Bagshot. The man must have gone off his rocker.
'On landing he hurt his back but buried his parachute and made his way to the road above Colonges where you picked him up,' continued the detective. 'You were to give him his orders...'
'His orders?' squawked Slymne. 'What orders, for Lord's sake?'
The detective smiled. 'That is for you to tell us, monsieur.'
Slymne looked desperately round the room. Major Fetherington had landed him up to his eyeballs in it now. Talk about passing the buck. 'I don't know what you're on about,' he muttered. 'I haven't been anywhere near Brive and...' He gave up.
'If you will take my advice, Monsieur Slymne,' said the Inspector, 'you will tell us now what you know. It will save you from meeting certain gentlemen from Paris. They are not of the police, you understand, and they use different methods. I haven't met such men myself and I hope I never have dealings with them. I believe they are not very nice.'
Slymne cracked. But when, an hour later, he signed the statement and the Inspector left the room, he was still denied the sleep he so desperately wanted. Commissaire Ficard wasn't having it.
'Does the clown think we're mentally deficient?' he shouted. 'We have the assassination of one of America's top political theorists and the mutilation of a Soviet delegate and he asks us to believe that some English schoolmaster is responsible? And the other one has already admitted being SAS. Oh, no, I am not satisfied. The Minister is not satisfied. The American Ambassador is demanding immediate action and the Russian too and we have this buffoon telling us...' The phone
