Cayle had been back at Thackeray Mansions for an hour, and was going through Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke’s envelope of Press cuttings from the library when they called.
The bell was broken, and they had to give a couple of loud knocks. ‘Evening, Cayle. Mind if we have a word with you?’ He was still in his sheepskin coat and had his foot inside the door instantly Cayle opened it. He held up a card in a celluloid holder and said, ‘Special Branch, Sergeant Dempster. This is Mr Mayhew.’
Behind him stood a balding man in a mackintosh who might have been from the Ministry of Pensions. Dempster stood aside to let him through. Mayhew nodded. ‘I hope this isn’t inconvenient, sir?’
‘Any time.’ Cayle waved them both into the sitting-room. ‘Drink?’
They shook their heads and remained standing without removing their coats. Cayle turned to the dresser and poured himself a canned beer.
‘You live here alone?’ Dempster said; he was looking down at the unfinished Scrabble game on the table.
‘On and off,’ said Cayle. ‘It’s not an offence, is it?’
‘It’s an offence to withhold information from the police, Mr Cayle.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like not telling us last night that you knew Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke.’
‘I wasn’t asked.’
‘Sure, sure.’ Dempster gave a tight humourless smile. ‘I’d better tell you that we checked his appointment book. He had a date yesterday for twelve at the Ritz. No name, but the barman downstairs confirmed that he’d been there. Seems he’s a friend of yours — the barman, I mean. Told us you talked with Jameson-Clarke for about half an hour. Right?’
‘Right,’ said Cayle.
‘Why didn’t you tell us that this morning?’ said Dempster.
‘I might have done, if you hadn’t been so stroppy.’
‘Sensitive, are you?’
‘You’d be surprised!’
They faced each other in morose silence. Mayhew, who had been quietly filling a knobbly black pipe from a plastic pouch, said: ‘Would you mind telling us what you and Sir Roger talked about?’
Cayle took a deep drink and said carefully: ‘I came back from Moscow last week. Sir Roger wanted me to fill him in on a few things. It was a routine chat. A lot of the Foreign Office boys do it. Keeping in touch.’
Mayhew put a match to his pipe and sucked at it with a slow wheeze. ‘How did Sir Roger seem to you yesterday, Mr Cayle?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Did he appear anxious? Nervous? Worried about something?’
‘Well, he wasn’t trembling in fear of his life, if that’s what you mean.’
Mayhew looked at him for a moment with quiet, deep-set eyes. ‘We know from his secretary that he cancelled an appointment yesterday to meet you.’
‘Really? I should be flattered.’
‘I think you should be concerned,’ said Mayhew. ‘It may well be that you were one of the last people to see him.’
‘The last? You mean, he’s kicked the bucket?’
‘I didn’t say that. Now, just try and remember exactly what you both discussed. It’s just that Sir Roger may have said something — something apparently quite innocuous — which might give us an idea of where he’s gone. Try and remember, Mr Cayle.’
Cayle fetched himself another can of beer and told them about how he’d met Sir Roger down at ‘The Squadron’ in Cowes last summer, when they’d both been messing about in boats. As for the Moscow trip, Sir Roger had been interested in the usual background impressions — the general atmosphere of the city, what the locals were talking about, what sort of people they were, and how they reacted to a foreign journalist.
While he was talking, Sergeant Dempster walked across the room and began examining the bookshelves. Cayle watched him take out several copies and leaf through them; they were from a corner he kept for works on international espionage. Dempster pushed one of them back into the shelf and turned. ‘Very interested in Kim Philby, aren’t you?’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘I wouldn’t say all. Some of us, maybe. But you seem to be a real fan — you got half a dozen books on the bastard.’
‘I’m thinking of writing a book on him myself. You might even get a warrant to read the first draft.’
Dempster gave him a blank stare. Mayhew was peering into the bowl of his pipe. He said, without looking up: ‘You met Philby in Moscow last week, I understand, Mr Cayle?’
‘That’s what the story said.’
‘Yes, quite. And I expect no doubt the subject of this meeting came up in your talk yesterday with Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke?’
‘I think it was mentioned.’
Mayhew knocked out his pipe into an ashtray and stood up. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Cayle. I’m sorry we had to trouble you. By the way, will you be going abroad in the next few days?’
‘Better check with my editor.’
‘Yes, we will. Good night, Mr Cayle.’
Cayle opened the door for him, then paused. ‘You didn’t ever run into Kim Philby yourself, did you, Mr Mayhew?’
Mayhew suddenly smiled: it was as though an electric light had been switched on inside his skull and lit up his sunken eyes like a Halloween mask. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Never got on with him, though. About the only thing we had in common was the same birthday.’
Cayle laughed. ‘Don’t tell me — another poor kid who got all his presents on Christmas Day?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you.’
‘You were born on New
