Goodyard felt in his overcoat pocket and produced a small object which he laid in front of Shalik on the white blotter. 'Would you know what that is, sir?'
Shalik frowned at the thick paper clip: the kind that is used to clip together heavy legal documents.
'Obviously a paper clip,' he said, curtly. 'I hope you have reason for asking me such a question, Sergeant. You are taking up my valuable time.'
'Oh, yes, I have a reason,' Goodyard was unperturbed by Shalik's sharp note. 'I understand, Mr. Shalik, that you are engaged in many transactions about which rival companies could be interested.'
Shalik's face hardened. 'Surely that is no business of yours?'
'No, sir, but it could explain this object here,' and Goodyard tapped the paper clip.
'Just what do you mean?'
'This apparent paper clip is a highly sensitive microphone which is illegal to possess and which is used only by authorized bodies. In other words, sir, this gadget is only used in espionage work.'
Shalik stared at the paper clip, feeling a sudden rush of cold blood up his spine.
'I don't understand,' he said.
'This paper clip was found in Miss Norman's flat,' Goodyard explained. 'Fortunately the district detective investigating her death was smart enough to recognize what it was. It was passed to the special branch. That is why I am here.'
Shalik licked his dry lips as he said, 'I know nothing about it.'
'Have you seen it before?'
'I don't think so . . . how can I tell?' Controlling a feeling of panic, Shalik waved to a pile of documents on his desk, each held together with big paper clips, but none quite as big as the clip lying on his blotter. 'It is possible . . . I don't know.'
'To use this microphone successfully,' Goodyard said, picking up the microphone and putting it in his pocket, 'a special taperecorder is required. Could I examine Miss Norman's desk?'
'Of course.' Shalik got to his feet and led the way into Natalie's office. 'That is her desk.'
Goodyard's search was quick and thorough. He also looked into the many filing cabinets and into the closet where Natalie used to hang her coat.
'No . . .' He turned to Shalik. 'Have you any reason to believe that Miss Norman was spying on you?'
'Certainly not.'
'You know nothing about her private life? I understand she had a young man living with her. Several people in her building have seen him entering her flat. Would you know who he is?'
Shalik's face showed his astonishment.
'I can scarcely believe that . . . still, if you say so. No, I know nothing about her.'
'Further inquiries will be made, sir. I shall want to see you again.'
'I am usually here.'
Goodyard made for the door, then paused.
'I don't know if you are aware that your servant is George Sherborn who has served six years for forgery.'
Shalik's face was expressionless.
'Yes, I know. Sherborn is a reformed character. I am very satisfied with him.'
Goodyard's bleak, cop eyes stared at him.
'Do they ever reform?' he asked and left.
Shalik sat down at his desk. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his damp hands while he thought.
Had the microphone ever been on his desk?
Suppose it had? Had that white faced bitch been recording his transactions? He thought of the dangerous currency deals. Then there was the information given him by the P.A. to the Chancellor of the Exchequer which had netted four of his clients fortunes. There was the merger leak he had got from a typist frantic for money. The list was endless. If she had planted the microphone on his desk, how many of his deals had been taped? There was
