The Greek Key

'Seems we were here only five minutes ago,' Partridge remarked as a horse-drawn gharry with an Arab driver pulled up at the entrance to the building.

'Precisely three hours,' growled Humble and parked the jeep by the kerb.

Partridge, a one-pipper, twenty years old, wished once again he'd kept his mouth shut. Humble was fifty-six, ex-Scotland Yard, long-faced and pessimistic. He never missed a chance to put Partridge in his place. The lowest of the low – one-pippers. Not that it was Partridge's fault he had been posted to the SIB at his youthful age. You didn't create fallen arches under your feet. Hauled out of his regiment by a medical officer who had spotted this physical defect. 'Feet like that. You can't wear Army boots, my lad…'

An attractive fair-haired girl in her late twenties, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, a blue frock, high-heeled shoes, paid off the gharry driver and started up the wide steps leading to the huge closed double doors. Partridge felt the adrenalin start to pump as he studied her snow-white skin.

Humble leapt out of the jeep and intercepted her. She stared arrogantly at him, reaching for the doorbell. A wrinkled face stared back from under the peaked military cap, his eyes cynical, the thin mouth of a man who has learned over the years to choose his words.

'Don't press that bell. You're not going in there. Who are you, anyway?'

'Flying Officer Malloy's wife. His unit is based here. And may I enquire your authority to order me about? Incidentally, who is that young boy getting out of your jeep?'

With appraising interest she watched Partridge alighting from the vehicle. A gaggle of Arab street urchins appearing from nowhere surrounded the jeep.

This is my authority. SIB.' Humble waved his ID card in her face. 'A particularly unpleasant murder took place inside this building yesterday.'

'Not really? Some wog got in, I suppose. I tried to phone my husband and the operator refused to put me through. Such damned sauce.'

'Acting under orders, madam. No communication is permitted for the present. I suggest you go straight back to your married quarters.' He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled down a passing gharry. There's your transport home.'

'You've a bloody nerve. I shall complain…'

As she strolled back down the steps Partridge was handing a few piastres to the leading urchin. 'Watch this jeep until we get back. If it's OK you get the same again.'

It was a necessary precaution. They could have returned to find the wheels missing. He had heard every word of the conversation between Humble and Mrs Malloy. He passed her on the way up the steps. She gave him a direct look with half-closed eyes and was gone.

'Barmy outfit, this one,' Humble complained as he thumbed the bell. 'Allowing women like that to visit the place. Our first stop is Colonel Grogan. Right tartar from what I hear. Runs this pansy bunch of propagandists.'

That attractive girl you were talking to…' Partridge began.

'Married to some RAF type. Flying Officer Malloy. And she had her eye on you. If you know what I mean.' Humble made a crude gesture with his fingers which Partridge found distasteful.

'I was going to say,' Partridge persisted as Humble pressed the bell again, 'it was odd. She never asked who had been murdered.'

'Who knows what goes through a woman's mind?'

The door was opened by a private in the SIB. They're still examining the murder room,' he informed Humble. 'Haven't found anything that helps much yet, sir,' he continued as he escorted them into the lift. The body was removed hours ago.'

'I know. You needn't come up with us. Colonel Grogan's on the third floor? We'll find him.'

'Anything from the pathologist yet?' Partridge enquired as the lift began its rheumatic ascent.

'He's been up all night working on the corpus delicti. All he'll say so far is that the weapon which carved up Ionides could be a commando-type knife. Could be,' he snorted. 'I have yet to get a straight answer from any of those buggers.'

Colonel Grogan's door faced the lift beyond the entrance to the corridor running round the building. Humble knocked on the top panel, a voice rapped out, 'Come in, close the door, you're two minutes late.'

'Accounted for, sir, by the two minutes we had to wait outside to gain admittance to this place.'

'Sit down. This place, as you call it, is one of the most sensitive propaganda centres in Mid-East Command. And who am I talking to?'

Humble introduced himself and his companion, produced his identification, which Grogan glanced at and settled back in his chair. Humble had him weighed up at a glance. A regular soldier, contemptuous of all those 'in for the duration', which appeared to include his visitors.

Grogan, he estimated, would be in his late fifties. His thatch of white hair was trimmed close to his bony skull, his clean-shaven face was craggy, his expression bleak. He sat erect as a poker in his hard-backed chair.

'What do you want?' he demanded.

'Well, sir, we are investigating a particularly horrific murder which took place on these premises…'

'Get to the point. I haven't all day.'

'Up to this moment we have interviewed Sergeant Higgins who found the body. Nothing much he could tell us. But I understand that among the units you oversee…'

'Command!' Grogan snapped.

'As you say, sir. I understand there is a secret unit led by a Colonel Maurice Barrymore…'

'Half-colonel. Temporary appointment. Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore you must be referring to.'

Oh, my God, Humble thought, no wonder they gave him a desk job a thousand miles behind the lines. A World War One type. Up boys, and at 'em. Never mind the casualties – take that machine-gun post. He changed tactics.

'I need to interview this Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore – and his men. I understand they've just returned from some training course. That they've only been back here in Cairo for two days…'

'Good luck to you.' Grogan stood up. 'They're waiting for you. Can't imagine why you're interested in them.'

'I don't have to explain my reasons. Sir.'

'Can't imagine why they call you Humble.' Grogan glared. 'Follow me.'

Stiff in his walk, he led the way down the corridor, back straight, the veteran of a thousand inspection parades. Turning along a fresh corridor, he stopped in front of a closed door, opened it and walked in. He made a dismissive gesture towards Humble and Partridge.

'SIB. Over to you.'

Without a glance at them, he walked out, closing the door. The three men waiting in the room stared at their visitors in silence. The windows – again barred – overlooked the front street where the jeep was parked. Partridge noted as Humble made introductions.

'Better sit down, I suppose,' the half-colonel behind a desk suggested. 'Although we can't give you long. We have things to do.'

'So have we, sir,' growled Humble. 'Like investigating a grim murder…'

Partridge, seated next to his chief, assessed the three men with interest. Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore had spoken in a languid voice, was dark-haired with a trim moustache, thin-faced with an aquiline nose. Effortlessly, he carried an aura of authority and command.

The records showed he was only twenty-one years old but from his air of sophistication Partridge would have guessed he was in his thirties. He sat back in a swivel chair, turning a short swagger cane between strong fingers. He pointed with the cane to the two men seated in hard-back chairs on either side of the desk.

'Captain Robson. Company Sergeant Major Kearns. Members of my unit.'

'Which unit is that. Colonel?'

'Classified.' He used the tip of the cane to push a typed sheet of paper across the desk. That explains.'