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bugger off–which he did in no uncertain manner.'
    He paused, and then slipped his fist into his palm.
    'By God, I remember it now! Because I was surprised at Jan getting so angry with them. He came back to me breathing fire.
    'He said they were no more Poles than he was a Scotsman. Bloody Russians, he said they were–and Jan hated Russians as much as Germans. He reckoned his elder brother was at that place–Katyn?–where they killed all those Polish officers. We hadn't heard about it officially, but there was a grapevine among the Polish aircrew.'
    So that was how it had all started, thought Audley. The first report had come from Wojek simply because he hated Russians on principle. It had happened before, often. National hatreds were poor sources of useful infomation, but excellent watchdogs.
    But Jones was almost enjoying his memories now, warming to the task.
    'Then there was another foreigner. A little chap, not at all like the other two–one of them was very sharp. In fact I can remember him–the Russian–quite well now. I only saw him properly twice, maybe three times in the pub. But he was one of those people you can't really forget: he had a broken nose–it gave him a sheep-like look from a distance. Not from close up, though.'
    Audley's stomach muscles tightened. Jones had described Nikolai Andrievich Panin with remarkable accuracy.
    'Have you got him in your files too?'
    Audley started guiltily. Jones was too quick by half. And I, thought Audley, am not very good at this job.
    'Of course. But we'll talk about him again some other time. Tell me about the little foreigner.'
    'He was nothing. A Frenchman, I think. And scared out of his wits. I never even gave him a chance to explain what he wanted. He just muttered something about Steerforth's cargo and I told him to go to hell. I can't remember anything more about him–except that I think he was quite relieved to clear off.'
    That fitted too. The Belgian had been an ex-policeman with a dubious wartime record. He had readily admitted that he had been hired, and paid, anonymously to trace Steerforth's plane. There had been no mention of any missing property. But he had soon sensed something bigger and possibly more dangerous, and he had wanted no part of it, he said.
    A little man, but a big complication, thought Audley. He gave an extra dimension to the Steerforth mystery, which admitted only one explanation. But it was an explanation as yet without any facts to support it.
    'Then there were your people,' said Jones. 'But you'll know all about that, I've no doubt.'
    'There are two points I'm still unclear on,' said Audley slowly. 'You hardly knew Steerforth, yet you knew he was a selfish bastard?'
    Jones nodded.
    'I married his widow. My knowledge of Steerforth is second-hand, but I'd say it's better than first-hand really.
    'When I decided to ask Margaret to marry me I wanted to make sure I didn't have a ghost lying in bed between us. Maybe some men could just forget that there was a past. I couldn't, because I just wasn't sure he was dead. So I had to exorcise him, alive or dead. To do that I had to make her tell me about him.'
    'Wasn't that rather cruel?'
    'If she'd loved him it would have been. But they didn't even like each other any more. Only she didn't know that until she'd heard herself say it–to me. Then I knew I wouldn't have to share her with him.'
    Audley cast a sidelong glance at Jones. Half a loaf would never have been good enough for him. The file had assessed him as an innocent bystander whose involvement with Steerforth had been accidental. Only his subsequent marriage with the man's widow made him suspect. But now that too could be discounted. Not only was there no likelihood that he was withholding anything on Steerforth, but it was unlikely also that Steerforth would have confided in a wife who bored him.
    Nevertheless Jones's own assessment of that last flight tallied usefully with Butler's and his own: it had the smell of a put-up