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use the spade, be well acquainted with the compost heap, mulch diligently, use the Dutch hoe and every other kind of hoe, trench really deep for your sweet peas - and all the rest of the beastly business. Can you do it?”
    “All these things I have done from my youth upward!”
    “Of course you have. I know your mother. Well, that's settled.”
    “Is there a job going as gardener at Meadowbank?”
    “Sure to be,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “Every garden in England is short staffed. I'll write you some nice testimonials. You'll see, they'll simply jump at you. No time to waste, summer term begins on the 29th.”
    “I garden and I keep my eyes open, is that right?”
    “That's it, and if any oversexed teenagers make passes at you, Heaven help you if you respond. I don't want you thrown out on your ear too soon.”
    He drew a sheet of paper toward him. “What do you fancy as a name?”
    “Adam would seem appropriate.”
    “Last name?”
    “How about Eden?”
    “I'm not sure I like the way your mind is running. Adam Goodman will do very nicely. Go and work out your past history with Jenson and then get cracking.” He looked at his watch. “I've no more time for you. I don't want to keep Robinson waiting. He ought to be here by now.”
    Adam (to give him his new name) stopped as he was moving to the door.
    “Robinson?” he asked curiously. “Is he coming?”
    “I said so.” A buzzer went on the desk. “There he is now. Always punctual, Mr. Robinson.”
    “Tell me,” said Adam curiously. “Who is he really? What's his real name?”
    “His name,” said Colonel Pikeaway, “is Mr. Robinson. That's all I know, and that's all anybody knows.”

Cat Among the Pigeons
    III
    The man who came into the room did not look as though his name was, or could ever have been Robinson. It might have been Demetrius, or Isaacstein, or Perenna - though not one or the other in particular. He was not definitely Jewish, nor definitely Greek nor Portuguese nor Spanish, nor South American. What did seem highly unlikely was that he was an Englishman called Robinson. He was fat and well dressed, with a yellow face, melancholy dark eyes, a broad forehead, and a generous mouth that displayed rather overlarge very white teeth. His hands were well shaped and beautifully kept. His voice was English with no trace of accent.
    He and Colonel Pikeaway greeted each other rather in the manner of two reigning monarchs. Politenesses were exchanged.
    Then, as Mr. Robinson accepted a cigar, Colonel Pikeaway said:
    “It is very good of you to offer to help us.”
    Mr. Robinson lit his cigar, savoured it appreciatively, and finally spoke.
    “My dear fellow. I just thought - I hear things, you know. I know a lot of people, and they tell me things. I don't know why.”
    Colonel Pikeaway did not comment on the reason why.
    He said:
    “I gather you've heard that Prince Ali Yusuf's plane has been found?”
    “Wednesday of last week,” said Mr. Robinson. “Young Rawlinson was the pilot. A tricky flight. But the crash wasn't due to any error on Rawlinson's part. The plane had been tampered with - by a certain Achmed - senior mechanic. Completely trustworthy - or so Rawlinson thought. But he wasn't. He's got a very lucrative job with the new regime now.”
    “So it was sabotage! We didn't know for sure. It's a sad story.”
    “Yes. That poor young man - Ali Yusuf, I mean - was ill equipped to cope with corruption and treachery. His public school education was unwise - or at least that is my view. But we do not concern ourselves with him now, do we? He is yesterday's news. Nothing is so dead as a dead king. We are concerned, you in your way, I in mine, with what dead kings leave behind them.”
    “Which is?”
    Mr. Robinson shrugged his shoulders.
    “A substantial bank balance in Geneva, a modest balance in London, considerable assets in his own country now taken over by the glorious new regime (and a little bad feeling as to how the spoils have been