They Never Looked Inside by Michael Gilbert Page B

of Folder 26 than all of Inspector Hazlerigg’s filing cabinets.

III
     
    Glasgow breathed affectionately into a glass which had contained a half-and-half of gin and grapefruit essence, and said: “But why do you want to follow this man, dearie?”
    Miss Carter nodded in vigorous agreement. The three were seated in the cheerful chintzy living room at the Leopard.
    “Secret Service,” said McCann promptly.
    He had made his mind up on this a few minutes before. It was true that his knowledge of Secret Service men was limited. On one occasion, previous to the Sicily Landing, he and other officers in his Battalion had listened to a security lecture from a stout Major from M.I.5. He had been very impressed by the lecturer’s manner, and had surmised that his rather stupid façade must conceal a brilliant and ruthless intellect. Later, on the same day, in Mess, he had played poker with the gentleman in question, and doubts had crept in.
    However, his present audience were not critical.
    “Coo!” said Glasgow. “Secret Service, eh. That’s the stuff.”
    “Show us once again where the house is,” said Miss Carter, poring over a street map.
    “It’s the corner one, in that block, between the Square, Flaxman Street, and Flaxman Mews.”
    “I see—and that block opposite is the one where the V2 landed.”
    “That’s it—now I thought that between you—well—dash it, you know almost everybody round here.”
    The two ladies looked at each other speculatively. What Major McCann was seeking was an observation post. He had argued, and rightly, that loitering in the street was out of the question. And there were no public houses, restaurants, or shops within a hundred yards of the place he wanted to watch.
    “Miss Plant,” said Miss Carter.
    “Lulu, eh? Yes, she might do it.”
    They again looked thoughtfully at each other and back at the Major.
    “What’s Lulu got that would interest me?” he asked.
    The two ladies appeared to find this remark highly diverting.
    “You say,” went on the Major, “that she’s got a room which overlooks this corner. But do you think she’d fancy the idea of me sitting about her flat all day? It would be embarrassing for both of us.”
    The ladies regarded him with unconcealed scorn. They considered, their looks said, that he ought to put his duty to his country before his personal feelings in a matter of this sort.
    “If Lulu doesn’t mind, I can’t see what you’ve got to beef about,” said Miss Carter frankly.
    “Lulu’s a high-class girl,” said Glasgow. “Works in a milk bar. Quite the lady too. She always coughs before coming in the door.”
    “It’s not myself I’m thinking about,” said the Major weakly. “I’m considering Miss Plant’s feelings. She won’t want me sitting round in her room all day.”
    “Lulu’s patriotic,” said Glasgow. “She’ll do her duty.”

IV
     
    Actually the transaction caused surprisingly little embarrassment to either party. That evening, by appointment, McCann went to the Leopard and met Miss Plant, a coruscating brunette of the Bacall school; she shot him the stock look which brunettes usually shoot at prominent members of the British Secret Service, and then became severely practical. She presented him with a key of the front door, of which she appeared to have quite a number – and a key of her room, with careful directions as to how he was to reach it; gave him instructions for dealing with the landlady, should she appear on the scene, and a number of tips concerning the functioning of the electric kettle and the whereabouts of various small stocks of tea and sugar.
    Accordingly, ten o’clock the next morning found McCann propped up in an easy chair at a window overlooking the corner of Flaxman Street. The back of his chair tilted conveniently against the wall, a steaming cup of tea on the what-not beside him, his binoculars handy on the window ledge and a pile of Blackwood’s magazines on the floor.
    He was