"Satisfied." I opened my right-hand drawer, picked up the notes, address and flask, dropped them into the drawer and closed it just as Martin was finishing the securing of the straps on his brief-case. Something in the atmosphere, maybe an extra stillness from my side of the table, caused him to look up sharply and then he became as immobile as myself, except for his eyes, which continued to widen until they seemed to take up all space behind the rimless glasses.
"It's a gun all right," I assured him. "A Japanese Hanyatti nine-shot automatic, safety-catch off and indicator, I observe, registering full. Don't worry about the scotch tape over the mouth of the barrel, that's only to protect a highly delicate mechanism. The bullet behind will go through it, it'll go through you and if you had a twin brother sitting behind you it would go through him also. Your forearms on the table."
He put his forearms on the table. He kept pretty still, which is the way people usually do when they're peering down into the barrel from a distance of three feet, but his eyes had gone back to normal quickly and he didn't seem all that worried that I could notice. This troubled me, for if any man had the right to be worried it was Henry Martin. Maybe this made Henry Martin a very dangerous man.
"You have an unusual way of conducting business, Cavell." No shake in the voice, just a dry contempt. "What is this, a hold-up?"
"Don't be silly — and don't you wish it were. I already have your money. You asked me earlier if I took you for a fool. The time and circumstances didn't seem right for an immediate answer, but I can give it to you now. You are a fool. You're a fool because you forgot that I worked in Mordon. I was security chief there. And the first job of any security chief is to know what goes on in his own bailiwick."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"You will. This vaccine here — it's designed to give immunity against which particular virus?"
"I'm only an agent for the Council for World Peace."
"It doesn't matter. What matters is that all the vaccines, up till now, have been made and stored exclusively in Horder Hall, Essex. The point is that if that flask came from Mordon it contains no vaccine. It probably contains one or other of the viruses."
"Secondly, I know that it is normally impossible for any man, Council for World Peace sympathiser or not, to take top secret viruses out of Mordon, no matter how clever or surrepetitious he is. When the last man has left the laboratories fourteen hour time clocks come into operation and the opening combination over-riding those is known to only two men. If anything has been taken it has been taken by force and violence. That demands an immediate investigation."
"Thirdly, you said the Foreign Office was solidly on your side. If that's the case, why all this cloak-and-dagger approach to me to smuggle vaccine through? The diplomatic bag to Warsaw is the obvious answer."
"Finally, and your biggest blunder, my friend, you forgot the fact that I have been engaged in one form or other of counter-espionage for quite some time. Every new body or organisation that's set up in Britain automatically comes under the microscope. As did the Council for World Peace when it set up its headquarters here. I know one of the members, an elderly, stout, bald and short-sighted character who is the complete antithesis to you in every way. His name is Henry Martin and he's the secretary of the London branch of the council. The real one."
He looked at me steadily for a few moments, not scared, his forearms still resting on the table, then said quietly, "There doesn't seem to be much more left to say, does there?"
"Not much."
"What are you going to do?"
"Turn you over to the Special Branch. With you goes a tape of our conversation. Just as a routine precaution I switched on a recorder before you came into this room. Not evidence, I know, but the address, flask and your thumb-print on fifty fivers will be all the evidence they require."
"It does look as if I made a mistake about you," he admitted. "We can do a deal."
"I can't be bought. Not, at least, for fifty miserable fivers."
A pause, then softly, "Five hundred?"
"No."
"A thousand? A thousand pounds, Cavell, inside the hour."
"Keep quiet." I reached over the phone, laid the receiver on the table and began to dial with my left forefinger. I'd reached the third number when a sharp knock came to my office door.
I let the receiver lie and got to my feet, making no noise. The corridor door had been shut when Martin had come into my room. No one could open that corridor door without the bell chiming. I'd heard no chime, there had been no chime. But somebody was in the outer office now, just outside my door.
Martin was smiling. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was there. I didn't like it. I moved my gun and said softly, "Face into that corner, Martin, hands clasped behind your neck."
"I don't think that's necessary," he said calmly. "That man outside the door is a mutual friend."
"Do it now," I said. He did. I crossed to the door, standing well to one side, and called out, "Who's there?"
"Police, Cavell. Open up, please."
"Police?" The word carried familiar overtones, but then there were a great number of people around who were able to imitate a great number of voices. I glanced at Martin, but he hadn't moved. I called out, "Your credentials. Under the door with them."
There was a movement on the other side of the door, then an oblong cardboard slid into view on the floor. No badge, no credentials, nothing like that, just a calling card bearing the words D.R. Hardanger and a Whitehall telephone number. The number of people who knew that this was the only form of identification that Superintendent Hardanger used would be very few. And the card matched the voice. I unlocked and opened the door.
Superintendent Hardanger it was, big, burly, red-faced, with the jowls of a bull-dog, dressed in the same faded grey raglan and black bowler that he'd worn in all the years I'd worked with him. I caught a glimpse of a smaller man behind him, a khaki-clad arm and leg, no more. I'd no time to see more for Hardanger had moved his sixteen stone of solid authority four feet into my office forcing me to take a couple of backward steps.
"All right, Cavell." A flicker of a smile touched the abnormally light blue eyes. "You can put that gun away. You're quite safe now. The police are here."
I shook my head. "Sorry, Hardanger, but I'm no longer working for you. I have a licence for this gun and you're in my office without permission." I nodded towards the corner. "Search this character and then I'll put my gun away. Not till then."
Henry Martin, hands still behind his neck, turned slowly round. He grinned at Hardanger, who smiled back and said, "Shall I search you, John?"
"Rather not, sir," Martin said briskly. "You know how ticklish I am."
I stared at them, from Hardanger to Martin, then back again. I lowered my gun and said wearily, "All right, what gives?"
"I'm genuinely sorry about this, Cavell," Hardanger said in his rough gravelly voice. "But necessary. How necessary, I'll explain. This man's name really is Martin — John Martin. Of the Special Branch. Inspector. Recently returned from Toronto. Want to see his credentials or will my word do?"
I crossed to my desk, put the gun away and brought out the flask, money and slip of paper with the Warsaw address. I could feel the tightness in my face but I kept my voice quiet.
"Take your damned props, Martin, and get out. You, too, Hardanger. I don't know what this stupid charade, this farrago of rubbish, was for and I'll be damned if you can make me care. Out! I don't like smart alecs making a fool of me and I won't play mouse to any man's cat, not even the Special Branch's."
"Easy up now, Cavell," Hardanger protested. "I told you it was necessary and——"
"Let me talk to him," the man in khaki interrupted. He came round Hardanger and I could see him clearly for the first time. Army Officer, and no subaltern either, slight, spare, authoritative, the type I'm allergic to. "My name is Cliveden, Cavell. Major-General Cliveden. I must—"