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“And what might be the contents of these forbiddingly large crates?” Pakeshi asked. “Since, without the intervention of your good friend Major Stanhope, they might have attracted visitors to my own front door, I suggest a certain right to an answer.”

“Oh, that’s only my Churchill stuff,” I said. “If there’s anything among them to interest anyone, I’ll almost be glad.” I managed a feeble laugh and kicked one of them. Someone had tried to pry this one open. So far as I could tell, though, the nails hadn’t been lifted. Inside all of them, the papers were probably as neatly sorted and packed as I’d left them. “The only person who might have any interest in taking that off me would be Churchill’s ghost,” I said with another laugh. “What the begging letters show would give Randolph a stroke. Other than that, it’s the increasingly disjointed ramblings of a dying drunk.”

“I hope Flora made some order in your flat,” Mrs Dale said in a dreamy voice. “She and her husband were with me in Bengal a few years ago—when we had to send out the whole army. She is used to clearing away the evidence of sudden death.” She smacked her lips and laughed softly. “I find it so hard to find anyone at all nowadays—let alone anyone decent. If only we didn’t have that criminal three shilling supertax, I’d ask her to move in with me.” She broke off and spoke to Pakeshi in one of the Indian languages. He smiled and took her glass.

“Well, my dearest of neighbours,” he said from the sideboard, his back to me, “I am no friend of your Mr Churchill. More importantly, though, since you have raised the possibility of some connection with your unfortunate experience of this morning, I think I’d rather like everything moved without delay into your own flat.”

Mrs Dale drained her glass with a long cry of ecstasy, and managed to reach for the remote control. She stabbed at one of the buttons. I heard the click of the cassette tape engaging and then the opening strains of something Indian with flutes and a drum accompaniment.

CHAPTER TEN

We were straining over the last box of papers when the lift doors opened and Inspector O’Brien stepped into the hallway. In his hat and mackintosh, he looked for a moment like some British version of a Republican Guard.

“Ah, Dr Markham,” he said, sounding almost pleased to see me. “The porter did assure me you’d still be awake, so I’ll not bother apologising for the lateness of my call.” He stopped and looked at Pakeshi, who’d beaten a sharp retreat through the doorway of his own flat. “You gave your name earlier as Dr Srindomar Pakeshi,” he said in a suddenly official voice.

“Indeed, O most honourable Inspector of Police,” came the greasy reply. “Are there further questions you wish to put to me?” O’Brien looked back at him for a moment.

“I have no further questions, Dr Pakeshi,” he said. “However, there were two Indian gentlemen downstairs as I came into the building. Your porter refused them entry. But from the nature of what they were saying, it is possible you will receive a visit from several of my colleagues tomorrow.” Pakeshi’s face lost its cheerful look—no, it turned suddenly grey. The door slammed firmly shut, and we were alone in the hallway.

I led O’Brien into my flat and shut the door. He refused my offer of tea, but sat down at the kitchen table and took out his pipe.

“Have you found Major Stanhope?” I asked. There must have been a good reason for this unannounced visit. He shook his head. I thought of mentioning that I’d seen him again, but remembered what Stanhope had said. Besides, I wondered if I’d be believed. “Have you had any more out of the Imperial Airways people?” I asked again. There was something final about that shake of the head. O’Brien opened his bag and took out a small notebook.

“The men dressed as police officers and the larger man who called at your flat remain a mystery,” he began. However, we’ve managed to identify the small man in the leather coat. He was German, sure enough, though his identity card was forged. He was a refugee called Krystoff Buchbinder. He’d been living in England six years. Before then, he was an official in the German foreign Ministry. According to his asylum application, he’d been accused of spying for Soviet Russia, and was afraid he’d not receive a fair trial in Berlin.” I said nothing, but looked at the notebook O’Brien was holding.

“His landlady identified the body,” he went on, “when she came to report that men had forced their way into her house earlier and tried to break through his door. Fortunately, she was able to scare them away with a shotgun. We made our own search. I can’t say much of what we found there. But we did find this.” He held out the notebook. I opened it and stared at the spidery writing.

“It looks like a note on my movements in the weeks before I went to America,” I said nervously. “I’m not too good with German handwriting,” I added. “But I could read more if you left it with me.”

“That won’t be necessary, Sir,” he said, taking the notebook back. He put it on the table. “I have already had a full translation made.” I tried to look steadily back into his face. The effort was too great, and I lit a cigarette. I’d run out of Capstan Super Strength. Woodbines would have to do.

“There are references here to an address the dead man wrote as Orwellstrasse 37,” he said carefully. “I take this to mean a 37 Orwell Street. Are you familiar with this place?” I swallowed and flushed red. “My question,” O’Brien prompted, “is purely connected with the matter in hand. I believe that the 37 Orwell Street off Euston Road—there is one other Orwell Street in London—is a place of resort for men of a certain inclination.” I swallowed again and looked at the notebook. I’d have liked to pick it up and turn the pages.

“Did you know the dead man?” O’Brien asked gently. “Did he come here this morning asking for money?” I shook my head firmly. This much I could deny. I repeated the story of our meeting outside Foyles. That at least confirmed that he had been following me about. “I will assure you, Sir,” O’Brien finally continued, “that my question is purely connected with the attempt on your life. The more I can know about Mr Buchbinder and his interest in you, the better it will be for my investigation.”

“Until yesterday afternoon,” I said, recovering my voice, “I’d never seen Herr Buchbinder before in my life. It really isn’t as you think it might be.” We sat for a while in silence. O’Brien lit his pipe and stared at the open notebook. He lifted it and turned to the last completed page. He pushed it across the table.

“Then we must look at other possibilities beside blackmail,” he said. “There are several references here, I am told, to a ‘Churchill Memorandum’. You know that I have some familiarity with your professional work. Are you in possession of any document that might correspond to this?”

I thought of the boxes that now covered the larger bloodstains on my living room carpet. Unless my memory was at fault, I must have had several hundred documents that could be described as memoranda. But I’d read them all. It made no sense that someone could have wanted to kill me to get possession of any one of them. I thought again of Stanhope. I would now have mentioned the meeting in Westbourne Grove. But O’Brien had got up and was looking through the door into my living room.