Be Shot For Six Pence by Michael Gilbert Page B

terribly convincing, but I’ve often found that’s the way with the truth. It never sounds quite as reasonable as a good, logical, well-constructed lie.
    Lady listened in silence. The only animation he showed was when I told him about my contact in Cologne getting picked up by the police. He made me describe the man again; then the details of his arrest.
    “How did you know they were police?”
    “All police look alike,” I said. “It’s a sort of beefy, stolid, holier-than-thou look. Once seen never forgotten.”
    “I think perhaps you jump to conclusions,” he said. “Tell me again about Studd-Thompson. A childhood friendship, you say?”
    “That’s right. We used to cry each other to sleep, every night at school.”
    “Really,” he said. “That sounds improbable.”
    I saw then, that it was no use trying to pull his leg. His skin was about two inches thick and satire-proof.
    “And apart from this fortuitous friendship, you have no connection with our enterprise here?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t even know what your enterprise is,” I confessed.
    This confession seemed to cheer him up no end. He got up and walked round the room. The idea seemed to be that I should walk behind him, so I obliged.
    “We are engaged,” he said, “in ethnographical research. Speaking ethnographically, we stand here at the centre point of Europe. You follow the colour scheme.” He pointed to the nearest map. “Dark blue is for the Germanic races. Light blue the Austro-Germans. Then we have the Magyars, the Slovaks and the Croats – each with its own subsidiary and mixed racial derivatives.”
    “I see,” I said, untruthfully.
    “You have made a study of these matters?”
    “I know as much about ethnography as I know about making rice pudding.”
    “Ah. Then you’ll excuse me asking this, I know. Why did Studd-Thompson want you to join us?”
    “That,” I said wearily, “is surely something that we can ask him, when he comes back from wherever he has gone.”
    Lady’s lips moved gently. I could see he was repeating my last few words.
    “When he comes back from wherever he has gone.”
    Then he said: “So you have no idea why he wanted you out here?”
    “None at all.”
    “But you are old friends?”
    “Our friendship started a long time ago.”
    “And he had never mentioned what he was doing here?”
    “Possibly he realised that I was not interested in ethnography.”
    Lady allowed himself something which, in a less tightly composed man, might have passed for a smile. A lifting of the upper lip.
    “That would be it, I expect,” he said. “Now, what are you going to do?”
    “Wait for Colin.”
    “Here?”
    I controlled myself.
    “If you can’t put me up,” I said, “I have no doubt that I can find a room in one of the many hotels in Steinbruck. It looked a nice, cheerful, gossipy sort of place.”
    “No,” he said. “I am afraid I couldn’t allow you to stay in Steinbruck.”
    “How far away would you like me to go?”
    “I think I should like you to go back to England.”
    “Well, think again.”
    The trouble was, I realised, that I was losing my temper, whilst he was not. The disadvantages of such a situation are obvious. I made the necessary effort.
    “Let’s be rational,” I said. “I don’t know what the set-up is here, but you can’t turn me out of Steinbruck. I have a perfect right to be here. If I start asking questions round Steinbruck—”
    The alarm was carefully concealed, but it was there. I had found a tender spot.
    “On second thoughts,” said Lady. “I think you had better stay here.”
    “I think that’s one of the most gracious invitations I have ever received,” I said. “I really can’t refuse.”
    “Gheorge will allot you a room.”
    “That’s all right,” I said. “I’ve got a friend in the management.”
    Lady looked up sharply.
    “Who?”
    “A lady I had the good fortune to meet during the War.”
    “Lisa? Yes? Where?”
    “As I told you. I