Joe sighed. “Well, for a start—he’s not Armiger. Though whoever chose the name for him seems to know the bloke well. It means ‘bearer of arms’ and I’ve never known him without one. Or to be unwilling to use it. And he never misses.”

“Sounds like the perfect bodyguard. Are you going to tell me his real name?”

“Armitage. Slight change but enough to evade our border procedures. He was a sergeant in my outfit in France and under my command. Very effective soldier. He doesn’t exaggerate—he did indeed save my life. He calls me ‘Captain’ because that was my rank at that critical moment. It’s a way of reminding me of what I owe him, presented as ironic deference.”

“What an arsehole!”

“He’s that all right. But he joined the police force and was a good officer.” Joe paused for a moment, weighing his words. “Yes, a good officer. Intelligent, active and ambitious. He was being groomed for a starring role in the force—an example to the lower classes—ability will get you to the top in the new Britain. What he didn’t tell the force was that he was doing a little cat burgling on the side. Or that he was a paid-up member of the Communist party. You should read his file, James. More entertaining than a night out at the Haymarket! Our enterprising lad got his fingers badly burned one night when, in the act of burgling, he ran up against a villain even more resourceful than himself. Blackmail and murder ensued.”

“Murder? What the hell is he doing still on the loose?”

“He killed a woman, James. In cold blood, as if that makes a difference. Murdered her to order. To save his skin and that of another. In all this he acquired grateful friends in very high places. Friends who had no compunction in going over my head. The powers that be were very thankful to see him sail off aboard the liner to the States and, I’d guess, they eased his path once he’d arrived. Letters of recommendation and all that. But with the threat of the gallows looming over him, they never expected him to return to our shores. I fear Armitage has not kept his side of the bargain.”

“Why’s he back, then? A man of resource such as you describe—he could have avoided the duty. Must have wanted to make the trip rather badly. He’s up to something.” James Bacchus gave Joe a very direct look. “And I think you probably know what it is.”

“Oh, he’s probably come back for his cat,” Joe said lightly. “Big ginger creature. Unpleasant biter. When Bill went off in a hurry, Superintendent Cottingham took it into care and he’s still caring for it, I believe. Yes—at the top of his list of things to do you’ll find: ‘a) Rescue Marmalade. b) Put a bullet in Sandilands’ head.’ ”

“Gawd!” Bacchus groaned. “You don’t give me an easy life, Joe! Are you telling me I’ve now got to provide a guard for the guard? You and this villain are both technically working together to protect the senator against …” He raised his shoulders, searching for a word. “… the world? Would that cover it? And Armitage is out to top you before he puts his gun back in its holster. What’s he using, by the way?”

“Great cumbersome thing. A Colt?”

“I’ll get that checked.”

“How …?”

“I’ll just ask my opposite number at the FBI what they’re ‘packing,’ as they say, offering supplies of ammunition and all that. We can be helpful when we want. They’re very grateful, especially since they discovered their own so carefully shipped stores had gone missing from the checkroom. We hint, loftily, that they’ve been mightily careless. The Italians actually believed us when we fed them the same codswallop and sacked their quartermaster. And the French! But the Americans—well, they play our game. They know we can’t tolerate a capital with armament of one sort or another loose on the streets for an indefinite time. They’d do the same.”

Bacchus, whose attention had hardly strayed from the headset, now picked up one earpiece and applied it casually. “Your bloke’s on the move. Armitage. Says he’s going up to their rooms … Senator’s calling for another pot of coffee. Thinks his girlfriend might pop in for breakfast. Are we sure Kingstone’s got a girlfriend, Joe? Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her … Ah! Here’s Cottingham strolling over to introduce himself. Here’s your chance! Get out into the corridor and trip up your pistol-packing sergeant.”

Joe was already sliding out.

“THERE YOU ARE, Sarge!”

“There you are, Captain!”

The cheerful calls rang out at the same moment across the width of the black-and-white tiled vestibule.

“I was wondering if …” Joe began.

“So was I!” Armitage grinned. “I was hoping you’d lingered behind, retying a shoelace.” He waved away the attentions of the footman. “Shall we take the elevator?”

The two men got out on the third floor, and Joe followed the sergeant down the thickly carpeted corridor.

“They’ve put you in here, 310,” said Armitage. “Got your key, sir? Senator Kingstone is directly opposite in 315. His friend is booked into 316 and I’m in 314.”

“Oh, good. We can all have a game of bridge if it gets boring,” Joe muttered.

“We’ll take a look inside.” Armitage took a ring of keys from his pocket and opened the door of Kingstone’s room.

A perfectly ordered, carefully decorated and furnished suite of rooms greeted them. Joe noted fresh flowers on low tables, easy chairs, a desk. The bed was in a separate room and enjoyed the luxury of an adjoining bathroom fitted out in white marble with silver taps.

“The staff has been in already,” Joe remarked, taking in the made-up bed, the neatly arranged toilet items.

“Any little surprises here?” Armitage asked, matter-of-factly.

“We’ve been here four days and I’ve checked thoroughly—you’re not the only man who carries a screwdriver about with him—but unless the Yard really has pulled itself into the twentieth century at last, I’d say the whole suite was clear. Wouldn’t want the senator’s romantic idyll being shared with your thugs in the Branch.”

Joe cut him short. “What do you take us for, man? Cads? Absolutely no intention of intruding. What did your”—he gave slight stress to the “your”—“Secretary of State say when he closed down your code-breaking section? ‘Gentlemen do not read each other’s mail.’ A very proper sentiment! Gentlemen do not listen in to a chap’s private conversations with a lady friend either.”

Armitage listened to all this with a cynical smile. “Besides, the staff here is well trained and observant. Probably on the payroll. You can learn anything you need to know from their reports.”

“Exactly. You know our methods.”

“Yep! And that’s going to be a help. Siddown, Captain,” he drawled, indicating two easy chairs. “Time we got a few things straight.”

“The first thing you can straighten out is your accent,” Joe said, his expression mild and interested. “Do I detect Tennessee? I’m no expert but it does have a flavour of the catfish rather than the jellied eel, these days.”

“Trick I learned from you. I was never sure you knew you were doing it yourself, but I noticed all right. You could talk to a pepper-and-salt brigadier in his own accent one minute and then turn and sound off at the men in trench lingo the next. It gives people confidence if they’re talking to someone who speaks as they do. If you get it right, they don’t even notice you’re doing it because they’re hearing what they’re expecting to hear.”

Joe smiled. “Just as I’m hearing upper class London at the moment? You always did have a linguist’s ear, Sarge.” He went on talking as he set about a routine examination of the room, opening and closing windows, locating the fire escape, locking and unlocking the communicating door. “Tell me—anything else left over from the good old days? Your Communist sympathies are alive and well, are they? I hear the States are a hot bed of red-tinged societies these days.”