Be Shot For Six Pence by Michael Gilbert Page A

before that.”
    “He was here a fortnight ago last Thursday, then?”
    “That is right. A fortnight back from last Thursday. Come along now.”
    “Has anyone heard from him since he left?”
    “I do not know. Perhaps. Lady will tell you.”
    “Lady?”
    “Ferenc Lady. He is the leader here. Did you not know?”
    “I know nothing,” I said. “Absolutely nothing.”
    As we walked towards the door Lisa gave my hand a little squeeze. We climbed together the broad stairs which led from the hall to the first-floor landing. Facing us was a double door of carved, unpainted, lime wood. Lisa went in without knocking and I followed. It was a big ante-room. A young man with a pale face and sad eyes behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses, sat at a desk. He was snipping a paragraph from a newspaper and pasting it into a giant scrap book. A pile of mutilated paper lay on the floor behind him.
    He looked politely at us.
    “Gheorge,” said Lisa. “This is Philip.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Philips.”
    “Well—actually Philip—”
    “Mr. Philip.”
    I gave it up.
    “This is Gheorge Ossudsky. He is Ferenc Lady’s private secretary – and watch dog.”
    Gheorge said, seriously, “You over-rate my capabilities, Lisa. And why should Lady need a watch dog. He is well able to watch after himself.”
    “Is the great man busy?”
    “I do not think so. Perhaps I will go in and ask.”
    “If you ask him, of course he’ll say he’s busy. Just announce Philip. Say that he has come from England with a message for him.”
    “Hey—” I said.
    “That is all right. You want to talk to him, I suppose. ‘
    “I suppose so,” I said, weakly. Gheorge disappeared. There was a murmur of voices behind the partition. He reappeared and beckoned. Lisa gave my arm another little squeeze. I recognised it. It was just the sort of squeeze my mother used to give me before I walked into the dentist’s surgery.
    The inner room was small, but well proportioned. A drawing-room in the scheme of things, I guessed; but the original furniture and carpets had been turned out and replaced by a desk, a conference table, and a number of chairs. On the walls, where the pictures and tapestries had once hung, were maps – huge maps, in thick relief and in bold colour; the sort of maps which my mind associated with a military headquarters.
    Ferenc Lady had got up from behind the desk as I came in. My first reaction was plain surprise; my next, something akin to dismay. It was the build-up that was to blame. I had been expecting a pocket Mussolini. What I saw was a small, petulant looking gentleman wearing one of the most terrible drape jackets I have ever seen off the West End stage. His small featured, sallow face would have been good- looking if he had not been so obviously irritated. I judged him to be as young or younger than me.
    “Do I know you?”
    He was, as I discovered afterwards, trilingual. On this occasion he spoke in his native Hungarian. I answered him in the same tongue.
    “I am afraid you do not. But the score is level, because until five minutes ago I had no idea you existed, either.”
    His teeth flashed in a smile of pure ill-humour.
    “Perhaps you would like to sit down and tell me about yourself?”
    As he jerked his head, a little waft of something-or-other-of violets reached me. I felt sure I was going to love him.
    “When did you learn to speak Hungarian?”
    “During the War. I spent a year in Hungary.”
    “A spy?”
    “Certainly not. An escaping prisoner of war.”
    “You are not very fluent. Your vocal sounds are too thick and you use the English word order. A Hungarian would say, ‘A year in Hungary I spent. ‘”
    “Would you prefer to talk in English?”
    “As you like.”
    He switched smoothly into English. There was a touch of Belsize Park about it, but he was perfectly fluent and even colloquial.
    “What brings you here?”
    I told him about Colin Studd-Thompson and the advertisement. It didn’t sound