"That way we lose whatever chance we have of following Blondie to somebody more important."

"Your decision."

Godliman had made a church with his matches. He stared at it for a moment, then took a halfpenny from his pocket and tossed it. "Tails," he observed. "Give him another twenty-four hours."

The landlord was a middle-aged Irish Republican from Lisdoonvarna, County Clare, who harboured a secret hope that the Germans would win the war and thus free the Emerald Isle from English oppression forever. He limped arthritically around the old house, collecting his weekly rents, thinking how much he would be worth if those rents were allowed to rise to their true market value. He was not a rich man: he owned only two houses, this and the smaller one in which he lived. He was permanently bad-tempered. On the first floor he tapped on the door of the old man. This tenant was always pleased to see him. He was probably pleased to see anybody. He said, "Hello, Mr Riley, would you like a cup of tea?"

"No time today."

"Oh, well." The old man handed over the money. "I expect you've seen the kitchen window."

"No. I didn't go in there."

"Oh! Well. there's a pane of glass out. I patched it over with blackout curtain, but of course there is a draught."

"Who smashed it?" the landlord asked.

"Funny thing, it ain't broke. Just lying there on the grass. I expect the old putty just gave way. I'll mend it myself, if you can get hold of a bit of putty."

You old fool, the landlord thought. Aloud he said, "I don't suppose it occurred to you that you might have been burgled?"

The old man looked astonished. "I never thought of that."

"Nobody's missing any valuables?"

"Nobody's said so to me."

The landlord went to the door. "All right, I'll have a look when I go down."

The old man followed him out. "I don't think the new bloke is in upstairs," he said. "I haven't heard a sound for a couple of days."

The landlord was sniffing. "Has he been cooking in his rooms?"

"I wouldn't know, Mr Riley."

The two of them went up the stairs. The old man said, "He's very quiet, if he is in there."

"Whatever he's cooking, he'll have to stop. It smells bloody awful."

The landlord knocked on the door. There was no answer. He opened it and went in, and the old man followed him.

"Well, well, well," the old sergeant said heartily. "I think you've got a dead one." He stood in the doorway, surveying the room. "You touched anything, Paddy?"

"No," the landlord replied. "And the name's Mr Riley."

The policeman ignored this. "Not long dead, though. I've smelled worse."

His survey took in the old chest of drawers, the suitcase on the low table, the faded square of carpet, the dirty curtains on the dormer window, and the rumpled bed in the corner. There were no signs of a struggle.

He went over to the bed. The young man's face was peaceful, his hands clasped over his chest. "I'd say heart attack, if he wasn't so young." There was no empty sleeping-pill bottle to indicate suicide. He picked up the leather wallet on top of the chest and looked through its contents. There was an identity card and a ration book, and a fairly thick wad of notes. "Papers in order and he ain't been robbed."

"He's only been here a week or so," the landlord said. "I don't know much about him at all. He came from North Wales to work in a factory."

"Well," the sergeant observed, "if he was as healthy as he looked he'd be in the Army." He opened the suitcase on the table. "Bloody hell, what's this lot?"

The landlord and the old man had edged their way into the room now. The landlord said, "It's a radio" at the same time as the old man said, "He's bleeding."

"Don't touch that body!" the sergeant said.

"He's had a knife in the guts," the old man persisted.

The sergeant gingerly lifted one of the dead hands from the chest to reveal a small trickle of dried blood. "He was bleeding," he said. "Where's the nearest phone?"

"Five doors down," the landlord told him.

"Lock this room and stay out until I get back."

The sergeant left the house and knocked at the door of the neighbour with the phone. A woman opened it.

"Good morning, madam. May I use your telephone?"

"Come in." She showed him the phone, on a stand in the hall. "What's happened? Anything exciting?"

"A tenant died in a lodging house just up the road," he told her as he dialled.

"Murdered?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"I leave that to the experts. Hello? Superintendent Jones, please. This is Canter." He looked at the woman. "Might I ask you just to pop in the kitchen while I talk to my governor?" She went, disappointed.

"Hello, Super. This body's got a knife wound and a suitcase radio."

"What's the address again, Sarge?"

Sergeant Canter told him.

"Yes, that's the one they've been watching. This is an MI5 job, Sarge. Go to number 42 and tell the surveillance team there what you've found. I'll get on to their chief. Off you go."

Canter thanked the woman and crossed the road. He was quite thrilled; this was only his second murder in thirty-one years as a Metropolitan Policeman, and it turned out to involve espionage! He might make Inspector yet. He knocked on the door of number 42. It opened and two men stood there. Sergeant Canter said: "Are you the secret agents from MI5?"

Bloggs arrived at the same time as a Special Branch man, Detective-Inspector Harris, whom he had known in his Scotland Yard days. Canter showed them the body.

They stood still for a moment, looking at the peaceful young face with its blond moustache. Harris said, "Who is he?"

"Codename Blondie," Bloggs told him. "We think he came in by parachute a couple of weeks ago. We picked up a radio message to another agent arranging a rendezvous. We knew the code, so we were able to watch the rendezvous. We hoped Blondie would lead us to the resident agent, who would be a much more dangerous specimen."

"So what happened here?"

"Damned if I know."

Harris looked at the wound in the agent's chest. "Stiletto?"

"Something like that. A very neat job. Under the ribs and straight up into the heart. Quick. Would you like to see the method of entry?"

He led them downstairs to the kitchen. They looked at the windowframe and the unbroken pane of glass lying on the lawn.

Canter said, "Also, the lock on the bedroom door had been picked."

They sat down at the kitchen table, and Canter made tea. Bloggs said, "It happened the night after I lost him in Leicester Square. I fouled it all up."

Harris said, "Don't be so hard on yourself."

They drank their tea in silence for a while. Harris said, "How are things with you, anyway? You don't drop in at the Yard."

"Busy."

"How's Christine?"

"Killed in the bombing."

Harris' eyes widened. "You poor bastard."

"You all right?"

"Lost my brother in North Africa. Did you ever meet Johnny?"

"No."

"He was a lad. Drink? You've never seen anything like it. Spent so much on booze, he could never afford to get married-which is just as well, the way things turned out."

"Most have lost somebody, I s'pose."

"If you're on your own, come round our place for dinner on Sunday."

"Thanks, I work Sundays now."

Harris nodded. "Well, whenever you feel like it."

A detective-constable poked his bead around the door and addressed Harris. "Can we start bagging-up the evidence, guv?" Harris looked at Bloggs.

"I've finished," Bloggs said.

"All right, son, carry on," Harris told him.

Bloggs said, "Suppose he made contact after I lost him, and arranged for the resident agent to come here. The resident may have suspected a trap-that would explain why he came in through the window and picked the lock."