‘I will be with you in a very short moment, good sir. Please, relax, enjoy the soothing vapours of the towels.’ Dortmunder stretched out a hand – the shop was so small he could reach Inchball from where he was standing – and replaced the damp cloth over his eye. In the last moment before darkness returned, Quinn noticed that Dortmunder was holding a large envelope in his other hand. He wasn’t able to make out the address, which looked foreign to his eye. One thing he did notice was that it was written in green ink.

In his scented darkness, Inchball strained to pick up a word that he could understand or that might be useful to him. A name. The name of a coastal town, perhaps. Or something that sounded like an English battleship. All that he was able to make out was Dortmunder clicking his heels in apparent military subordination and hissing, ‘Sehr gut, Herr Hartmann.’

Inchball heard the door close. The sound of razor against strop resumed. The other man – Herr Hartmann, it seemed – was gone. And whoever Hartmann was, it was clear that he was Dortmunder’s superior.

Dortmunder removed the towels, his face beaming with ersatz bonhomie. If he had been rattled by Inchball’s seeing Hartmann, and overhearing their conversation, he was determined not to show it. As Inchball knew from experience, that forced cheerfulness was the clearest indicator of guilt.

Well, the guv’nor would eat his words now. This had been far from a wasted trip. He had witnessed the handing over of suspicious documents and he had a glimpse of the man who really did seem to be the spy master of Dortmunder’s cell.

And if the scent of the rich, warm foam that was being worked into his cheek was anything to go by, he was about to have a very good shave indeed.

ELEVEN

The camera arrived the following Monday. Quinn had to admit he was amazed. In the normal run of things, procurements took longer than this.

Macadam, of course, was beside himself with pleasure as he unpacked the camera. To Quinn’s eye, the Empire Number Two was a rather unprepossessing object: a plain-looking oblong box made of some indeterminate wood with a number of metal fittings. ‘Ooh, there’s some weight in that.’ There was a note of personal pride in Macadam’s voice as he hefted it, as if he had played some part in making the camera so heavy. ‘That’s the quality of the manufacturing for you.’ He proceeded to demonstrate at some length the numerous virtues of the camera, opening and closing its various compartments, pointing out the precision of the engineering, looking through the eye piece, turning the crank, adjusting whatever knobs would allow themselves to be adjusted.

Quinn caught Inchball’s eye at the height of its exasperated roll.

‘You see, sir, focusing is done from the front and the back. The lens is a Zeiss Tessar, with a focal ratio of F6.3, which should serve us well in the conditions under which we shall be using it.’

‘What did you say?’ Inchball sat up sharply. His tone was dark and laden with suspicion. His brows contracted in a watchful frown. This was a man alert to every danger the nation faced.

‘F6.3. It’s commonly known as the f-number, although I prefer to call it the focal ratio.’

‘No, before that. The lens. Wha’ did you call it?’

‘A Zeiss Tessar.’

‘German, is it?’

‘Well, the lens is, yes. The Germans manufacture excellent optical equipment. Zeiss lenses in particular are considered to be the very best available. Rather more expensive than other lenses, but considering the importance of the work we will be undertaking, I felt that it was worth it.’

‘I don’t trust it.’

‘What?’ Macadam flashed a look of appeal towards Quinn, which Quinn did his best not to notice.

‘Get rid of it,’ insisted Inchball.

‘You are joking!’

‘It’s unpatriotic. We should have an English lens on there. Besides, what if it’s a dud?’

‘What on earth are you talking about? How could it possibly be a dud? Zeiss lenses are the best in the world.’

‘The Germans, righ’, they’re plannin’ to invade us, righ’? So … no, hear me out … there’s all sorts of things we get from Germany. These lenses is jus’ one example. But wha’ they do, righ’, is deliberately send over ’ere a load of substandard merchandise. A load of crap, basically. Not jus’ these lenses. Everythin’. Bicycles, motor cars – I dunno. You name it. Tyres.’

‘Tyres?’

‘Yeah, tyres. That would be your main one, that. So … righ’ … when the moment of truth comes, and we need to use any of this stuff we’ve bough’ from them, it all breaks down. All the tyres go flat. Nothin’ works – nothin’ we got from Germany. So while we’re all distracted tryin’ ’a fix it all – that’s when they strike. Get us at our weakest. It’s all part of their plan.’

‘Zeiss. Lenses. Are. The best. In the world!’ insisted Macadam with slow, deliberate emphasis. He could no longer keep his appeal to Quinn mute: ‘Sir?’

Quinn let out a sigh. ‘I do not believe that an application for additional equipment will meet with success. We have been fortunate to get what we have. We must make the best of it.’

‘With respect, sir, I hardly think that using a Zeiss lens is making the best of it.’

Quinn pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Macadam, you have your camera. You have your lens.’

‘Bleedin’ German lens,’ muttered Inchball.

Quinn stood up decisively, although he did remember to bow his head at the last minute. ‘Perhaps we can now give some thought as to how we are going to employ this equipment in our current operation?’

They were now committed to keeping the barber shop under surveillance, as far as the limited resources of the department allowed. Quinn had to accept that Inchball’s first instinct had been tested and proved sound. His description of the man who had come to the door – ‘He was as bald as a bleedin’ coot, I’m tellin’ yer!’ – somehow clinched it. So too had the detail of the green writing on the envelope. When Inchball had told him about this, he had immediately thought back to his interview with Lord Dunwich. ‘What does it say about a man if he uses green ink?’

Quinn tried to remember where he had seen green ink. He searched through the old correspondence on his desk until he found the card from the film production company. There it was in the top left-hand corner: Quick-Fire Quinn and guest.

He had meant to throw it away, having no intention to accept its invitation:

You are cordially invited to the world premiere of

THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER

The main reason he discounted the possibility of going, or so he told himself, was his annoyance at being addressed as Quick-Fire Quinn. But he had found the addition of ‘and guest’ after his name troubling in a different way. Whom would he invite? Of course, he fantasized about taking Miss Latterly. But what he was really frightened of was that in a moment of weakness he would ask Miss Dillard.

But now, the mention of green ink by Lord Dunwich and the green ink on the package handed over in the barbershop … was there some connection between the film company, the barber’s and Lord Dunwich’s spies?

He scanned down the type: Written and directed by the renowned maestro KONRAD WAECHTER.

The name sounded German. Perhaps there was something here after all.

He knew that Lord Dunwich was holding something back. His sort always did. But surely it didn’t follow that his lordship was in league with foreign spies? Perhaps the question about green ink had been prompted by a completely unrelated matter. Had Lord Dunwich received an invitation to the premiere too?

He made a mental note of the date of the event before returning the card to its place in his pile of correspondence.

Could it be that the spy operation was a red herring, designed to divert the department from something even more nefarious? Quinn had noted a hunted quality to Lord Dunwich’s eyes, a way they had of simultaneously seeking out and shying away from any questioning gaze. Those were not innocent eyes. They were eyes that longed to reveal the secrets that burdened them. It was a quality he recognized. He saw it every time he looked in the mirror.