I turned in disgust from the desk and gazed anxiously round the room, softly lit by the standard lamp in the corner next to the radiogram. I was feeling nervous. Time was passing. The regular and inevitable tick of the clock on the mantelpiece filled the tiny room I had to find something. I had to. I felt desperate. My skin pricked with sweat. This was the only positive action I could take. If I found nothing, I should never be able to convince the authorities of the danger of the position. And if I couldn’t convince them of that, then -
My eyes searched the room and came to rest on a little tallboy standing behind the door. More drawers to search. I flung myself into the task of searching them. More papers, books full of notes, receipts, some pages of the MS. of a book on military tactics with innumerable illustrations of imaginary battles to amplify the arguments, a jumble of cigarettes, cards, old pipes, and the other odds and ends that inevitably sprinkle the drawers in a bachelor’s rooms.
At length I stood up. The floor about me was littered with papers and books, tossed on to it in my frenzy to do the impossible and examine everything in a few minutes. I gazed around, hot and frustrated. Where else might I find anything? The bookcase! One by one I pulled the books out and tossed them on to the floor, after first holding them up by their covers so that anything slipped between their pages would fall out. By this method I gleaned a few letters and odd pieces of paper with notes on them or the solution of mathematical problems.
When the bookcase was empty I straightened my aching back. Nothing! What about the bedroom? Perhaps the suits in the wardrobe would yield something. It was a forlorn hope. I had started across the room when I suddenly saw the wallet. It was lying on the mantelpiece, perfectly obvious, even at a casual glance. It seemed incredible that I could have spent nearly twenty minutes in that room and not have noticed it. I pounced on it eagerly. Two pound notes, stamps, several visiting-cards and a photograph. Idly I glanced at the last. It was faded and torn at the edges through constant friction against the leather of the wallet. It showed a short, well-built man with a long head, full lips and rather prominent nose. It was an intelligent face, the prominent jaw and alert-seeming eyes suggesting a powerful personality. It was not a face that was easy to forget. I felt a slight tremor inside me. This was Vayle. On his arm was a dark, vivacious-looking girl, her features and figure tending to plumpness. She seemed vaguely familiar. I turned the snap over. A faded rubber stamp on the back showed unmistakable German lettering. I made out the word ‘Berlin’.
I was just on the point of returning it to the wallet when something in my brain clicked. Quickly I turned it over and gazed once more at the photograph itself. And then I knew I was right. The girl was Elaine. She was a little thinner now, a little less round in the face. It was a younger, more naturally carefree Elaine — or else it was very like her. I turned it over again and looked at the stamp. The letters ‘1934’ were just visible above the Berlin. In 1934 Vayle was in Berlin with Elaine. It was an important link.
And at that moment I heard the jingle of a key in the front door. I looked wildly round. There was no possible place to hide. The door opened and shut and footsteps sounded in the passage whilst I stood there petrified. Then in frantic haste I slipped the photo into my trouser pocket. The next moment the door had opened and Vayle stood there gazing at me and at the wreckage of his sitting-room.
I must have looked a fool, standing there with my mouth agape in the midst of that litter. A sudden cloud of anger showed in his face, flushing his cheeks. But his eyes, grey eyes that matched his iron-grey hair, remained detached and alert. The storm of anger passed. He came forward into the room. ‘It appears I have a visitor,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would introduce yourself.’ He went over to the mantelpiece and took a cigarette from a glass cigarette box. He lit it with a lighter.
My confusion subsided. But my fear mounted. His manner was so easy and pleasant, and his eyes, that watched me all the time, were so hard. I knew I was not equal to dealing with a man of this calibre. ‘I think you have heard of me,’ I said. ‘My name is Hanson.’ I tried desperately to match his ease of manner but I was conscious of the tremor in my voice as I spoke.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I remember now. A gunner.’ But there was no flicker of interest or recognition in his eyes. They remained unchanged — cold and watchful. Instinctively I felt that he had known who I was the moment he had opened the door. He drew slowly at his cigarette. He said nothing, but he watched me closely. I couldn’t help it — I lowered my eyes before his gaze. And as soon as I had done so I shifted my feet and did not know where to look or what to do with my hands. I felt such a fool caught there in the act of burgling his flat. I was worried, too, about what action he was going to take. Here was his chance to get me away from the ‘drome. My only hope was that he would consider this too great a risk. If he had me arrested it would mean a court-martial. And at a court-martial I would be able to press home my reasons for entering his flat. They would have no grounds for disbelieving me, since I could show that I was not short of money, and my editor would back me. And there was that business of framing me with the diagram and arranging for me to be searched. That could be used too. Pity I had burned the diagram. But Vayle didn’t know that.
I plucked up courage at the realisation that the position was not entirely to my disadvantage. Moreover, it seemed to offer the last final proof — for there was still a little bug of doubt lurking in the far corner of my mind. If Vayle had me arrested, that doubt would be very gravely strengthened. But if he didn’t, I should know for certain. It would mean that he dared not take the risk.
I looked at him. He was still watching me, leaning on his elbow against the mantelpiece. ‘Well?’ I said.
‘Well?’ he countered. And then added: ‘Suppose you explain what this is all about?’ A slight movement of the eyes indicated the litter of books and papers that covered the floor.
I said: ‘I think you know the explanation.’
He appeared to hesitate. Then he nodded slowly. ‘Yes, perhaps I do. I heard about the telegram you tried to send to your newspaper. I wanted to talk it over with you there and then. But Wing-Commander Winton wouldn’t hear of it. He said the matter must be left to your own officer. I see I should have insisted. It would have saved this — ‘ he paused to choose his word — ‘this sacking of my rooms.’
‘You didn’t by any chance ask for me to be transferred immediately to another unit?’ I suggested,
‘No,’ he said, and he sounded sincere. He indicated one of the big easy-chairs by the fire. ‘Sit down and we’ll talk this thing over.’ His voice was quiet, yet there was a firmness about it. It was a voice to be obeyed.
But I stood my ground. ‘I prefer to stand,’ I said. I was desperately in need of all the confidence I could muster, and I knew how small it would make me feel to sit here with his standing and talking down to me.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you please,’ he said. ‘First, perhaps, it would be as well for me to mention that it is in my power to have you arrested with very unpleasant results to yourself.’
‘I don’t think you will do that,’ I said. ‘You have too much at stake to take a risk of that sort.’
‘Oh!’ His thick eyebrows went up. For a second I sensed that I had him at a disadvantage. He wasn’t sure of something. ‘That brings us to the point I want to discuss with you. Perhaps you would explain just why you suspect me of being a Nazi agent?’