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continue like this.”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Because it means he can go on behaving the way he has.”
    “Yes, and on and on.”
    “On the other hand a divorce is so expensive what with lawyers’ fees and detectives and everything.”
    “It probably adds up.”
    “And it’s not as if there was someone else I wanted to marry. He hated so many people I hardly know anyone any more.”
    “It’ll probably take time.”
    “So perhaps I ought to call the whole thing off, see what happens when he comes back. He’s coming back in three months. Not rush into anything.”
    “That might be sensible.”
    “But look—why the hell should he get away with it? Off with another woman—it’s humiliating!”
    I sighed my sympathy.
    “And of course he doesn’t love me or he wouldn’t have gone off like that, would he?”
    I said it was not my idea of love.
    Dody wandered over to the bureau. “This is his photograph. It’s not really a good likeness. You’ve met him—he’s much better looking than that, isn’t he?”
    “Yes, that was my impression.”
    “He is good looking. And fun. And well known. I suppose he can’t help it if girls go for him. Everyone else I know bores me.”
    “There certainly are a lot of boring people in the world.”
    “It really was all his mother’s fault. For being so drunk all the time. And his father always off to the North Pole or somewhere. He had a horrible childhood. He said she never even gave him a bath herself. You know, perhaps I should have shown more that I loved him.”
    “Yes.”
    “A man like that needs someone possessive—even aggressive. Like that Indian girl.”
    “Mmnnn.”
    “But you think I should?”
    “Yes. I mean no. I mean should what?”
    “Go on with the divorce as planned.”
    “Well what do
you
think?”
    “I think I should.”
    “So do I.”
    “Good.”
    I looked at my watch. It was twelve noon and I was wondering if I was going to be able to get away with not paying for that night’s hotel room or if it was already too late. “I’d better be getting back,” I said rising.
    Dody looked at me in terror. “What’s the matter? Is it something I’ve said?”
    “Why no. It’s to get my clothes.”
    She looked at me stupidly. “Your clothes?”
    “To pack. To pack my clothes. Oh and before I forget”—I had forgotten; and the ugly thought struck me with considerable force—“how much rent do you want me to pay?”
    “But I wouldn’t dream of it. I couldn’t possibly take any money from you. It’s already been paid in advance by him. And you’ll be doing me such a fav...” She stopped in mid-track. “You mean you’ll come and live here?” she asked incredulously. “You really will? Oh Honey, I can’t tell you—I’m so relieved—why didn’t you say so straight off?”
    I closed my eyes and counted ten. “I’ve been trying to all this time,” I said, as gently as I could.

4
    After I checked out of my hotel and moved myself into Dody’s flat I telephoned Smitty at his office.
    “Have you got a file on C. D. McKee in your morgue?” I asked.
    “Yes, what for?”
    “So that I may sparkle perceptively over drinks tomorrow night.”
    “You Yanks—” I could imagine the look he was giving the phone. “You Yanks; thorough.”
    I stuck out my tongue at him from my end but merely said, “Bye, bye. Be right down,” and caught a series of buses to Fleet Street.
    Smitty got out the file and I flipped through. C. D. McKee. Cosmo Darwin McKee. Nothing at all about his early life. A few short paragraphs in which he was included in lists of academic honours conferred on him by various foreign universities while at Oxford. The war, his Generalship, meetings with Heads of Staff, etc., etc. Then a sort of social butterfly series—photographs mainly
—old Porky leering out from glossy groups at Hunt Balls and deb parties and art exhibitions. I was flipping through faster when suddenly, wedged in between the Hunt Balls and his