"Sorry if I butted in," said Desmond, sliding his box of cigarettes off his finger on to the littered table and sitting down on a chair. "I came in to say good-bye. I'm going back to France to-night!"Maurice looked round quickly. He appeared to be quite his old self again and was all smiles now.
"So soon?" he said. "Why, I thought you were getting a job at the War Office!"Desmond shook his head.
"Not good enough," he replied, "it's back to the sandbags for mine. But where are you off to?""Got a bit of leave; the Intelligence folk seem to be through with me at last, so they've given me six weeks!""Going to the country" asked Desmond.
Strangwise nodded.
"Yep," he said, "down to Essex to see if I can get a few duck or snipe on the fens. I wish you were coming with me!""So do I, old man," echoed Desmond heartily. Then he added in a serious voice:
"By the way, I haven't seen you since last night. What a shocking affair this is about old Mackwayte, isn't it? Are there any developments, do you know?"Strangwise very deliberately fished a cigarette out of his case which was lying open on the table and lit it before replying.
"A very dark affair," he said, blowing out a cloud of smoke and flicking the match into the grate. "You are discreet, I know, Okewood. The Intelligence people had me up this morning... to take my evidence..."Strangwise's surmise about Desmond's discretion was perfectly correct. With Desmond Okewood discretion was second nature, and therefore he answered with feigned surprise: "Your evidence about what? About our meeting the Mackwaytes last night?"After he had spoken he realized he had blundered. Surely, after all, the Chief would have told Strangwise about their investigations at Seven Kings. still...
"No," replied Strangwise,, "but about Nur-el-Din!"The Chief had kept his own counsel about their morning's work.
Desmond was glad now that he had dissimulated.
"You see, I know her pretty well," Strangwise continued, "between ourselves, I got rather struck on the lady when she was touring in Canada some years ago, and in fact I spent so much more money that I could afford on her that I had to discontinue the acquaintance. Then I met her here when I got away from Germany a month ago; she was lonely, so I took her about a bit. Okewood, I'm afraid I was rather indiscreet.""How do you mean?" Desmond asked innocently.
"Well," said Strangwise slowly, contemplating the end of his cigarette, "it appears that the lady is involved in certain activities which considerably interest our Intelligence. But there, I mustn't say any more!""But how on earth is Nur-el-what's her name concerned in this murder, Maurice?"Strangwise shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah, you'd better ask the police. But I tell you she'll be getting into trouble if she's not careful!"Throughout this conversation Desmond seemed to hear in his ears Barbara's words: "That woman's afraid of your friend!" He divined that for some reason or other, Strangwise wanted to create a bad impression in his mind about the dancer. He scanned Maurice's face narrowly. Its impenetrability was absolute. There was nothing to be gleaned from those careless, smiling features.
"Well," said Desmond, getting up, "nous verrons. I shall have to make a bolt for it now if I don't want to miss my train.
Good-bye, Maurice, and I hope you'll get some birds!""Thanks, old man. Au revoir, and take care of yourself. My salaams to the General!".
They shook hands warmly, then Desmond grabbed his box of cigarettes in its neat white wrapper with the bold red seals and hurried off to his room.
Strangwise stood for a moment gazing after him. He was no longer the frank, smiling companion of a minute before. His mouth was set hard and his chin stuck out at a defiant angle.
He bent over the table and picked up a white paper package sealed with bold red seals. He poised it for a moment in his hands while a flicker of a smile stole into the narrow eyes and played for an instant round the thin lips. Then, with a quick movement, he thrust the little package into the side pocket of his tunic and buttoned the flap.
Whistling a little tune, he went on with his packing.
