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either Franz, Reck, or somebody from outside. It was almost too much to hope that whoever it

was would have left useful fingerprints on the note, but it was worth trying, so he picked it up

carefully by its edges and slid it into an envelope which he sealed down, marked A, and put in

his pocket.

“We’ll start at the easiest end first,” he said. “Franz.”

There was a cupboard in a corner of the room where glasses were kept in case

Hambledon wished to entertain visitors in the privacy of his study, or even occasionally to

entertain himself: he walked across and opened it. It was small and overfull, tumblers on one

side, wineglasses on the other, in ranks of three abreast. Hambledon put on his gloves, took a

clean linen handkerchief from his pocket, and very carefully polished each of the three

wineglasses in the front row.

“There,” he said, replacing them, “now it won’t matter which one he takes.” He rang the

bell for Franz and sat at his desk again.

“You rang, sir?”

“Oh, yes. Bring me a half-bottle of Graves, will you? I’m thirsty.”

Franz brought it in on a tray and got out a wineglass from the cupboard. He drew the cork

from the bottle and picked up the glass to fill it; just at that moment Hambledon glanced up from

his work.

“Don’t pour it out yet, Franz. I’ll do it—I’ll just finish this first.”

“Very good, sir,” said Franz, and departed.

Hambledon put his gloves on again and, holding the glass carefully by the base, swathed

it in tissue paper. He then rolled it up in a sheet of newspaper and tied a label on it inscribed B.

After which he extracted a wineglass from the very back of the cupboard where Franz would not

notice a gap in the ranks, poured out his Graves and thought about Reck. It was a little unlikely

that Reck should be of the inner ring of the Freedom League, but not impossible: it was a lot

more likely than, for example, that the Chief of the German Police should be a British agent. He

would have Reck’s fingerprints too, just in case.

He resumed his gloves, took a half-sheet of notepaper and wrote on it in blue pencil, in a

hand as unlike his own as possible, the cryptic sentence, “The bee has crawled into the tulip in

search of honey.” He folded and creased it as though it had been in an envelope, took his gloves

off again, drank another glass of Graves, and strolled off to Reck’s room. Reck was mixing

chemicals.

“Hullo,” said Hambledon, “how’s the photography going?”

“All right,” said Reck. “Expensive hobby, rather.”

“Don’t let that worry you. Harmless amusements are always included in the expense

account.”

“Yes, I know,” said Reck cynically. “The operative word is ‘harmless.’”

“Quite. Got any good ones to-day?”

“How can I tell till they’re developed? I exposed plates at the principal entrance to the

Zeughaus, a collision between two cars and a tram, and a small boy being rude to a policeman.”

“On the whole,” said Hambledon, sinking into an armchair, “I have had an uneventful

day. The only interesting thing that happened was that I found a note when I got home this

evening.”

Reck was pouring something out of a bottle into a graduated measure-glass; his hand did

not shake nor did the flow of liquid vary. “Either he knows nothing about it,” thought

Hambledon, “or teetotalism is all it’s cracked up to be and more.”

“Assignation or libel?” asked Reck, when the measure had been filled exactly to the

desired line and no more.

“Neither. Here it is,” said Hambledon, offering him the folded sheet, which he held

lightly between his fingers like a cigarette. “What d’you make of it?”

Reck took it without hesitation, unfolded it and read it aloud. “What does it mean?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Hambledon with complete truth.

“How did it come?”

“By post. Posted in Berlin last night.”

“Evidently someone is flattering you,” said Reck acidly.

“Why? Am I the industrious bee or the colourful tulip?”

“Neither. They thought you’d understand.”

“You are neither kind nor helpful,” said Hambledon in a pained voice. “I thought you

might be able to suggest something.”

“Oh, I can suggest plenty of things, but I doubt if they’ll be helpful. It’s a warning of

intended burglary, do you know a burglar whose name begins with B?”

“No.”

“It has a political significance. Our heaven-sent Leader is going to march into Rumania

after the oil-fields.”

“What am I supposed to do about it? Arrest him?”

“Goering’s going to invade Russia in search of caviar.”

“You are incurably flippant,” said Hambledon, getting up and taking his paper from

Reck. “I shall go and brood over it alone.”

He put the half-sheet into an envelope, labelled it C, and took all three exhibits to the

fingerprint experts in the morning, asking whether, if there were any prints on A, they coincided

with those on either B or C, and if not, were they among the Department’s records. He received

the report the same afternoon. There were two sets of fingerprints on exhibit A, one being the

same as on exhibit B, i.e., the glass, and the other coincided with a set acquired by the

Intelligence section during the Great War 1914-18; they were those of a Dutch importer at

Cologne named Hendrik Brandt.

Hambledon really felt for a moment as though he were going to faint. A man can plan so

carefully: with a little luck he works himself into an unassailable position, he has a flawless

identity and a better background than the Leader himself, and all of a sudden Fate rises to her full

height and socks him on the jaw. It only remained for Goebbels to obtain one of his fingerprints

and make a similar inquiry, and the balloon would go up in a shower of sparks and a strong bad

smell. “Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Tommy Hambledon, “I wonder who did that? Von Bodenheim,

I’ll bet, just taking precautions in the usual routine manner. Fancy a man you’d shot down twenty

years earlier rising from the dead to get his own back like this—after twenty years.” He clutched

his head in both hands. “Goebbels must have hundreds of my fingerprints; he may send them in

tomorrow—he may have already done it—I’d better not think about it or he might get the idea

and act on it. I must get Ludmilla out at once, and Frau Christine—and her family. Oh, dear, I

wish Bill was here, he’d suggest something. Franz—then it was Franz who put the note in my

desk. Franz belongs to the Freedom League. He must have duplicate keys to all my drawers and

probably the safe as well, heaven knows how much he’s read. Oh, dear, I wish things didn’t all

happen at once—”

He got up and walked distractedly about the room trying to think calmly, but it was very

difficult. He felt acutely the need of someone to whom he could talk. The only available person

was Reck, so Hambledon picked up his hat and went home. Reck raised his eyebrows as

Hambledon walked into his room, and said, “Hallo! Come to arrest me?”

“Don’t make these ill-timed jokes,” snapped Hambledon. “Come along to the study, will

you, I want to talk to you. Franz! Franz, bring whisky and soda into the study, will you? What’ll

you have, Reck?”

“Grenadine, please.”

“Grenadine, please, Franz. Grena—oh, my hat. Wait till Franz has been in and gone

again, I could a tale unfold, etc. Lovely weather we’re having for the time of year, aren’t we? I

always think it’s so much warmer when the sun shines, don’t you?”

“For pity’s sake,” said Reck earnestly, “pull yourself together. Franz will notice

something.”

“I will when he comes, besides, Franz knowing a spot more or less hardly matters now,

he knows too much already. At the moment I’d like to run round in small circles putting straw in

my hair.”

“There isn’t any straw.”

“Franz will obtain some. What have you been doing to-day?”

“Oh, nothing in particular,” said Reck, as Franz came into the room. “Walking about

looking at things. I’d like to take some night photographs of Berlin, it’s only a question of giving

a long enough exposure. The only trouble is lighted vehicles passing, they leave a sort of fiery

trail which is tiresome.”

“I know, I’ve seen it in photos,” said Hambledon. “Scarcely life-like, is it? Thank you,

Franz, that will be all. I shall have to have the traffic stopped for you, that’s all. How long would

it—Thank goodness he’s gone. Listen,” and Hambledon told Reck everything, admitting also

that he had suspected him.

“Naturally,” said Reck. “It would have been absurd not to.”

“Yes, but evidently your fingerprints are not recorded, whereas mine are duly docketed as

Brandt, Hendrik, importer, Dutch, Höhe Strasse, Cologne. You see the beauty of it, don’t you?

Goebbels has got a down on me already, don’t know why; if he starts looking round for evidence

against me—”

Reck whistled dolefully, and the two men looked at each other in a painful silence.

“You are in the soup, aren’t you?” said Reck.

“Not yet, but I’m teetering on the edge of the tureen. I don’t see what I can do. I can’t

very well have the record expunged.”

“Burn down the Record House or whatever they call it.”

“You drastic old man. But something like that will have to be done. I can’t go on living

over a volcano like this day after day. It might be simpler to shoot Goebbels.”

“Frame him,” said Reck.

“I’ll bear that suggestion in mind, too. Now there’s Franz to deal with, I think I’ll have

him in and talk seriously to him. I should think he could be managed; he knows his life is in my

hands, even if Goebbels’ isn’t, and, of course, I don’t really mind if Germany is riddled with

Freedom Leaguers, Moonlighters, Ku-Klux-Klansmen, Fenians, Sons of Suction, Ancient

Buffaloes, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Besides, I don’t want to lose a good servant. In my

official capacity I have to discourage these activities, that’s all.”

Reck merely grunted, and absent-mindedly helped himself to one of Tommy

Hambledon’s best cigars.

“I must get Aunt Ludmilla out at the earliest possible moment, and Frau Christine

Beckensburg and her clan too. As for you, Reck, I think you’d better slide out unostentatiously,

too. Can’t you attend a photographic conference in Paris or somewhere?”

“No,” said Reck. “I think I’d better stay here.”

“Why?”

“Well, judging by the mess you’re getting yourself into, somebody ought to look after

you.”

“Good Lord! Look after me!”

“Yes, why not?”

“B-but—”

“Besides, you keep rather good cigars, and I’d hate the source to dry up.”

Reck finished his Grenadine, nodded to the Chief of Police and strolled nonchalantly out

of the room, leaving Hambledon gaping.

“The idea of that moss-grown old buffer thinking he ought to look after me. I must be

getting old. Oh, well, I suppose I must deal with Franz now.” He rang the bell, and Franz

appeared.

“Oh, Franz—”

“Sir?”

“Franz, I have got to talk to you very seriously. Don’t stand over there by the door all

ready to bolt at any moment, come over here.”

Franz walked up to the desk with his usual perfect composure, and with no expression on

his ugly lined face beyond courteous inquiry.

“I hope, sir, that I have not in any way failed to give satisfaction.”

“You are a damned good servant and I’d hate to lose you, why did you go and get

yourself mixed up with those poisonous Freedom Leaguers?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t stand there saying ‘sir’ at intervals like a talking parrot, you heard what I said.

You took out of a locked drawer—a locked drawer, Franz—an order to raid the League’s offices,

and left this note in its place.” Hambledon slammed down the note in question on the table. “It is

of no use to deny it, your fingerprints are on it.”

“I was not aware that I had attempted to deny it, sir.”

“Look here, Franz. You and I have been together now for a number of years. It is acutely

painful to me to find that you are working against me in my own household.”

“Oh, no, sir. Believe me, I have never worked against you and I never would. What you

were good enough to say just now about—”

“Franz. You belong to the German Freedom League, therefore you are working against

the Government.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Franz calmly, “but so, I think, are you.”

Hambledon leaned back in his chair and looked at the man with so savage an expression

that most men would have turned and fled. Franz merely shifted his weight from the right foot to

the left, and continued:

“For instance, sir, it is known that the man Otto Hauser, who stole the specification of the

magnetic mine, made a copy of it which was never found; he told a friend of mine about it. I

think you searched for it yourself, did you not, sir?”

“Go on,” said Hambledon quietly.

“Coming nearer home, there is Herr Reck and his transmitting set, which he keeps in the

roof-space above his bedroom. It was purely by accident, sir, that I discovered that the plug in

the wall above his chest of drawers, to which he connects his tapping key, was not the ordinary

power-plug it resembles. I endeavoured to work the vacuum-cleaner from it, sir.”