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disappointed.

Three
I NTRODUCING M R . R OBINSON
    I t was some six weeks later that a young man tapped discreetly on the door of a room in Bloomsbury and was told to come in.
    It was a small room. Behind a desk sat a fat middle-aged man slumped in a chair. He was wearing a crumpled suit, the front of which was smothered in cigar ash. The windows were closed and the atmosphere was almost unbearable.
    â€œWell?” said the fat man testily, and speaking with half-closed eyes. “What is it now, eh?”
    It was said of Colonel Pikeaway that his eyes were always just closing in sleep, or just opening after sleep. It was also said that his name was not Pikeaway and that he was not a colonel. But some people will say anything!
    â€œEdmundson, from the F.O., is here sir.”
    â€œOh,” said Colonel Pikeaway.
    He blinked, appeared to be going to sleep again and muttered:
    â€œThird secretary at our Embassy in Ramat at the time of the Revolution. Right?”
    â€œThat’s right, sir.”
    â€œI suppose, then, I’d better see him,” said Colonel Pikeaway without any marked relish. He pulled himself into a more upright position and brushed off a little of the ash from his paunch.
    Mr. Edmundson was a tall fair young man, very correctly dressed with manners to match, and a general air of quiet disapproval.
    â€œColonel Pikeaway? I’m John Edmundson. They said you—er—might want to see me.”
    â€œDid they? Well, they should know,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “Siddown,” he added.
    His eyes began to close again, but before they did so, he spoke:
    â€œYou were in Ramat at the time of the Revolution?”
    â€œYes, I was. A nasty business.”
    â€œI suppose it would be. You were a friend of Bob Rawlinson’s, weren’t you?”
    â€œI know him fairly well, yes.”
    â€œWrong tense,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “He’s dead.”
    â€œYes, sir, I know. But I wasn’t sure—” he paused.
    â€œYou don’t have to take pains to be discreet here,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “We know everything here. Or if we don’t, we pretend we do. Rawlinson flew Ali Yusuf out of Ramat on the day of the Revolution. Plane hasn’t been heard of since. Could have landed in some inaccessible place, or could have crashed. Wreckage of a plane has been found in the Arolez mountains. Two bodies. News will be released to the Press tomorrow. Right?”
    Edmundson admitted that it was quite right.
    â€œWe know all about things here,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “That’s what we’re for. Plane flew into the mountain. Could have been weather conditions. Some reason to believe it was sabotage.Delayed action bomb. We haven’t got the full reports yet. The plane crashed in a pretty inaccessible place. There was a reward offered for finding it, but these things take a long time to filter through. Then we had to fly out experts to make an examination. All the red tape, of course. Applications to a foreign government, permission from ministers, palm greasing—to say nothing of the local peasantry appropriating anything that might come in useful.”
    He paused and looked at Edmundson.
    â€œVery sad, the whole thing,” said Edmundson. “Prince Ali Yusuf would have made an enlightened ruler, with democratic principles.”
    â€œThat’s what probably did the poor chap in,” said Colonel Pikeaway. “But we can’t waste time in telling sad stories of the deaths of kings. We’ve been asked to make certain—inquiries. By interested parties. Parties, that is, to whom Her Majesty’s Government is well-disposed.” He looked hard at the other. “Know what I mean?”
    â€œWell, I have heard something.” Edmundson spoke reluctantly.
    â€œYou’ve heard perhaps, that nothing of value was found on the bodies, or amongst the wreckage, or as far as is known, had been pinched