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smiling. “I just thought you might have been aware of something in the air—that possibly, for example, your husband had had something on his mind, that he might have made unscheduled trips perhaps, during which, let’s say, he could have been approached by persons who wished to talk to him privately?”
    She stiffened. “Do you mean Neil might have been in touch with foreign agents, Commander Shaw? Why, that’s just ridiculous! He just isn’t—”
    “No,” Shaw broke in. “I don’t mean that—at least, I certainly don’t mean to suggest he’d ever had initiated anything of that sort. But, you see, I do find it hard to believe the Communists would be planning anything that might say, destroy Skyprobe IV unless they had first contacted your husband with a view to getting him to part with information—or whatever it is they want—while he was still on the ground. After all—he’s a pretty valuable property to both sides. He’s not expendable. Do you follow?”
    Her mouth was still tight. “Yes,” she said. “I follow, all right. But there wasn’t anything like that, I assure you. He’d have told me—I know he would. And if there had been anything likely to go wrong, and if Neil had known about it, or if approaches, as you call them, had been made to him . . . well, he’d scarcely have cleared the flight at all, would he? He’d have reported to NASA or CIA or someone and called it off!”
    “It was just an idea,” Shaw murmured, “and obviously a poor one! In any case, this threat may not exist at all for all I can say at the moment.” He didn’t want to add to this woman’s worries by reminding her that Danvers-Marshall was still liable to pressures on account of the girl in Poland and that, if approaches had been made, he could hardly report them unless at the same time he was prepared to reveal that he had come in on a dirty ticket years before. In the light of what he had heard, and of what Latymer had told him the previous day, Shaw was currently unhappy about Neil Danvers-Marshall; but all he said, when he got to his feet, was: “I don’t think I need bother you any more for now, Mrs. Danvers-Marshall. You’ve been a lot of help, and I’m grateful.” He paused, then said casually, “As a matter of fact, though, there is just one more thing. Do you know a man called Rudolf Rencke, by any chance?”
    “Rudolf Rencke?” She frowned. “Heavens, what a name . . . no, I’ve never heard of him. Should I have?”
    He shrugged. “Not necessarily.” He turned for the door, but she stopped him.
    She asked, “What about Neil. . . afterwards?”
    “Once we’ve bowled this thing out and the capsule’s down safely?” He felt she was going ahead a little too fast, perhaps. He wanted to let her down lightly for now, even at the expense of a white lie. He went on, “I’m bound to report what you’ve told me, you’ll realize that, and I can’t forecast the official reaction. But I doubt if after all these years they’d drop a man of the Professor’s stature just because of an omission in his original security statement, still less make any charges public.” He didn’t add that that would apply only if Danvers-Marshall hadn’t in fact had any contact with hostile agents that he had failed to report; he left her to fill that in for herself.
    * * *
    By lunch-time Shaw was back in London.
    Wasting no time he drove through to the car park at Tower Hill, where he left the Wankel. He walked quickly through to Houndsditch where half way along he took a turning to the left. He crossed the road, went on for another thirty yards, then entered a dismal-looking shop over which was a fascia board inscribed P. J. Fetters. Stamps—Coins—Curios . A bell gave a tinny sound as he pushed the door open. There was a musty smell, a smell compounded of dust and mothballs, decay and mildew and damp. Shaw waited at the counter; behind it, a door led into P. J. Fetters’s private apartments but no P. J.