“With Sir William still missing, I should think so,” said Lord Broxton. “You’ve gone about things in a most perplexing manner, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “In regard to Sir William, I guess you have seen or heard nothing of him? He hasn’t been found by anyone? No one has asked for ransom, or made any threats concerning his welfare?” Fleming was doing his best to keep his manner cordial, but it was an effort.

  “Were you expecting something of the sort?” Lord Broxton demanded.

  “No, but I thought it was possible that there might have been some word, or—” He left it hanging. Why were such bombastic fools as Broxton allowed to hold diplomatic posts, he wondered.

  “I have heard nothing one way or the other, except for the confirmation of your report vouchsafed me by MI5. No one has reported anything to me.” Lord Broxton began to pace, his countenance set in petulant lines. “Well? What have your inquiries told you?”

  “There are two deaths that appear to be connected to Sir William’s disappearance, for they were men who have been his colleagues,” Fleming said bluntly in the hope of getting Lord Broxton’s full attention.

  “Two you say,” Lord Broxton challenged. “Geoffrey Krandall and what other?”

  “There was a Canadian scientist who was found in the wilderness near Hudson’s Bay. He was part of the Manhattan Project, as Sir William and Geoffrey Krandall were.” He decided not to say much of anything about Cathcart; if Lord Broxton were going to be spending a long week-end with Soleilsur, the less he knew about the situation the better, for he could easily let something slip that could ruin this investigation. “There may be a third party, but I haven’t been able to confirm either his existence or his present location.”

  “He may not be part of this?” Lord Broxton asked, a shade too quickly.

  “He may not exist, as I’ve said, but I am going on the assumption that he does. There were three men called Moan, Groan, and Sigh. If Sigh isn’t Sir William, then he must be another man, but I cannot discover whom he may be.” He wasn’t entirely comfortable with his lies, but he didn’t dare trust Lord Broxton with the truth. He hurried to bring his thoughts into order.

  “What has this to do with your investigation?” Lord Broxton asked. “Does it mean that you suspect yet another culprit?”

  Fleming didn’t allow himself to be distracted. “I can’t say for sure, not yet. I don’t want to make unfounded assumptions, or accusations. I’ll have to try to find out more about Sir William’s activities, but you do understand that it may be difficult to get all the information I may require.”

  Lord Broxton rounded on Fleming, “See here: you can’t go poking about in military secrets on the off-chance that you may discover a tid-bit of information that might help you to find Sir William. If the case is that difficult, best leave it to the professionals.”

  “I was a professional,” Fleming reminded him.

  “Was,” Lord Broxton repeated.

  “Some of those secrets are my secrets,” Fleming went on. “You don’t think I would try to compromise the government, do you?”

  “If you did,” Lord Broxton said smugly, “there would be immediate repercussions. This Robertson thing has shown us to what depths supposedly loyal Britons may sink.”

  “And a loyal American. James Hendley was as much a part of the mischief as Robertson.” Fleming waited to see what Lord Broxton’s response would be.

  “You cannot view this as another scandal,” said his lordship. “You have allowed yourself to be influenced by the Americans, who have much to answer for in this sad coil.” He went to the side-board and opened the upper part of the cabinet, revealing a fully stocked bar. Taking the time to pour himself a single-malt Scotch, he downed the drink, and poured a second. “I will not have such disgraceful doings on my watch, and so I warn you, Mister Fleming.”

  Keenly aware of the implications of Lord Broxton’s lack of hospitality, Fleming kept his tone as neutral as possible. “I have no wish to give any embarrassment, Lord Broxton. But if there is damage being done, I believe the security of the Empire must supersede any worries of discomfiture. I believe I have a duty to do what I can to unearth our enemies.”

  “Well enough, for you. You are a journalist and you’re expected to poke and pry. But when you bring out the hornets, you do not feel their stings, as I do.” He drank down his second Scotch and poured a third rather more generous measure than the first two.

  “If any part of my investigation redounds to your discredit, I apologize for it now. But consider my situation if you would: I know Sir William is missing, possibly killed, and that other men who worked with him on atomic secrets have been murdered recently. Aside from my experience during the War, I couldn’t let something as problematic as this go unaddressed. As a reporter, I have an obligation to pursue my story. As an Englishman, I have a duty to protect my country. How am I to accomplish any of those things if I must reserve my actions in order to maintain your sanction?”

  Lord Broxton scowled. “You’re a clever chap—newspaper johnnies so often are. You throw words around and make me think that you aren’t responsible for anything that happens.”

  “Lord Broxton, I’m not doing this as an intellectual exercise,” said Fleming in a rush of exasperation. “You don’t seem to appreciate how much danger we may all be in. You tell me that my hands are tied, and I must accept the limitations you impose for the good of the country. The secrets these dead men worked with have deadly implications, and Robertson is the sole culprit in this case, although how he could instigate the kidnapping of Sir William, I cannot think, nor can I find anything that supports such a supposition.” He knew he had stepped over the line, but just at present he didn’t care. “I have no reason to do anything to humiliate you—you are the least of my concerns. I want to be certain that the capabilities to build atomic weapons don’t spread any further than they have already. And I am very much afraid something of that sort could happen if this situation goes unchecked and undisclosed. It isn’t only foreign governments who worry me, but individuals with great fortunes and greater ambitions. Good God, man! The bastard’s already got away with killing two—and possibly three—men that we know of. What else is he going to be allowed to do before we are willing to stop him?”

  “That is enough,” said Lord Broxton with awful hauteur. “You forget where you are, sir. I will overlook your outburst because I see you are laboring under strong emotions. No doubt your journey has exhausted you.” He glowered in the direction of the window. “Take a day to gather your thoughts, and give me your report—in writing. I don’t think it would be advisable for us to speak face-to-face.”

  Fleming took a deep breath. “If you insist, m’lord,” he said, ducking his head more out of habit than any vestige of respect for Lord Broxton.

  “I will not chide you more. I can see you are exercised in—” He stopped. “I’ll excuse you now.”

  “Very well, m’lord,” said Fleming stiffly.

  “I don’t want to hear anything more from you until you can assure me there will not be another lapse in conduct.” He tossed off his Scotch. “Lady Broxton and I will be away for a long weekend. If you would prefer to postpone our next interview until my return, that will be satisfactory to me, provided there is any necessity for another meeting between us. You may leave your report with Stowe. He’ll put it into my hands.” He waved in the direction of the door. “Good day to you, Mister Fleming.”

  “Good day, Lord Broxton,” Fleming said, turning on his heel and leaving the opulent room with long strides that were perilously close to flight. As he walked, he began to realize that in spite of the unpleasantness the meeting had gone fairly well for him. He had not had to reveal more to Lord Broxton than minimal information, and he had not been required to speculate on his discoveries, both of which struck him as fortunate; let Lord Broxton bluster and bully all he liked, he—Ian Fleming—would do his utmost to honor his obligations whether his lordship will or no.

  Stowe didn’t do more than glance up as Fleming retrieved his bags from the side of his desk. He signaled to the guards to let Fleming pass, and went on reviewing the memos on his desk.

  “Don’t you have any recreation, Stowe?” Fleming asked as he headed toward the tall doors.

  “I play tennis, Mister Fleming,” was his disinterested answer.

  Fleming uttered a single laugh. “Well, then, carry on,” he said as he pushed through the doors.

  His Rapier seemed eager to be on the road, as if, machine though it were, it could sense the state of its driver’s mind, much as a horse would do with its rider. Fleming drove out of Kingston, impatiently hooting at the slower vehicles around him, and was soon on the open road, bound for his estate.

  Cesar was waiting in the kitchen garden when Fleming drove in. He smiled his greeting. “Mister Fleming, sah,” he called. “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, Cesar. It’s good to be home,” he said with feeling as he drove the Lagonda Rapier into the garage and shut off the motor. He got out of the auto, took his bags, and went toward the front door, hoping to have his comfort restored once inside.

  Cesar opened the door, a bit short of breath from his rush through the house. “How was your journey, sah?”

  “Long,” Fleming answered, and went toward the stairs. “Cesar, will you draw me a bath? Heat some water for me? I need a good soak. I fear I smell like old socks.” He chuckled, but with a degree of self-deprecation, for he feared it might be true.

  “Perhaps a saddle-pad,” said Cesar. “Go on up. I’ll have the bath ready in half an hour. In the meantime, if you want a bite of luncheon, I can provide that.”

  Fleming stopped three treads up the stairs. “I am hungry. And I want to have a drink.”

  “Gin?” Cesar suggested, watching as Fleming considered the possibilities.

  “Rum, I think. With mango and a dash of bitters. No ice, but chilled.” As he spoke, Fleming’s mouth watered.

  “Of course,” said Cesar. “I’ll have it for you by the time you change your clothes.”

  Fleming took the hint. “They are ripe, aren’t they?” He resumed his climb to the upper floor, his bags feeling heavier with each step. By the time he reached his bedroom, it seemed he was carrying two sacks of anvils; he set them down and peeled out of his jacket, then emptied the pockets, setting the knife aside on the nightstand. Unbuckling his holster belt, he put the revolver with the knife, glad to be rid of its weight at last. Stretching, he felt relaxed for the first time in days. He skinned off his shirt, wadded it, and tossed it onto the Silent Butler in the corner. Then he removed his singlet and went to get his robe from the closet. As he pulled it on, he felt the familiar caress of the heavy cotton, and at last began to persuade himself that he was safe at last.

  Five minutes later he was downstairs, barefoot and tired. He went to the lounge where Cesar met him, a glass in hand.

  “Here you are, sah,” he said, giving Fleming his drink.

  “Thank you.” He took a long sip, sighed, and sat down on the sofa. “Oh, by the way, I should mention that Mister Powell is coming out to dine. Do we have something to feed him? He’s asked for your chowder, but that won’t be enough unless you make a vat of it.”

  “I’ll go into the market and buy a chicken and some fish, if there is something fresh. I know Jared Smith will have conch and clam.” He pointed to a stack of envelopes. “Your mail, sah. As you see, there is a letter from Mister Coward.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Fleming. “Thank you, Cesar,” he said, motioning Cesar to leave. “Let me know when the bath is ready.”

  “I will, sah,” said Cesar. “While you bathe, I will walk to the market.”

  “Yes. That seems suitable,” said Fleming remotely as he opened his first envelope, a flimsy blue air-letter from Durham, a missive from his cousin. He read through the family news with marginal interest, then opened Noel Coward’s letter, entertained by the witty accounts of his recent activities in London, including a sly joke about the new theatre season. By the time Cesar called him to the bathroom, he had finished reading his mail, and was beginning to think life could be ordinary again, a conviction that remained with him all through his bath and the opening of his second bag: on top of his clothes was a half-sheet of paper reading: LEAVE WELL ENOUGH ALONE.

  Chapter 33

  FLEMING HAD two pages of material to hand over to Merlin Powell when he arrived. He had thrown himself into the task after spending the greater part of an hour trying fruitlessly to deduce who had put that infernal note into his bag; he could not imagine Stowe doing it, and neither of the guards seemed to be likely candidates for such action. Lord Broxton wouldn’t stoop to such activities, and if Walter Sissons were a suspect—He could not think who else could have got into his bags without him seeing, and attempts to discern possible suspects gave him a headache, so he concentrated on his writing as much to help him get back a semblance of equanimity as to show any industrious intentions. He handed them over to Powell, saying as he did, “I’ll want another go at it before I turn it in.”

  “Very well,” said Powell, taking the sheets of paper and beginning to read. “I see the u is still crooked,” he added. “You really ought to have someone repair that.”

  “I will,” said Fleming, going into the lounge, where the delicious odors from the kitchen pursued them like enchanting wraiths: conch, clam, cream, shallots, pepper, garlic, and ginger all blended together into the chowder Powell so relished.

  Powell continued to read, inhaling conspicuously in anticipation. “Not bad for a first crack at it. You’ve presented a vast amount of information in relatively few words,” he went on. “But I think it may be a bit too dense, if you understand my concerns. I don’t think the average reader would be comfortable trying to sort all this out. I think it may be as well to do the pieces on Krandall and Preussin separately, Krandall first, of course. You needn’t wrap it all up in a neat package.”

  “There isn’t a neat package to wrap it in,” Fleming complained mildly.

  “My point precisely,” Powell agreed. “Let’s use that—Mystery Surrounding Murdered Mathematician Deepening—that sort of thing.”

  “All right,” said Fleming, wondering if Powell would say the same thing if he told him about Sir William, and the three notes he had been given, or the tracing device that had been attached to his Packard in America. Something Dunstan had said on the airplane was niggling at the back of his mind, but he didn’t take much time to think about it—whatever it was would come later, as he sorted all this out. He went to the bar. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Gin, I think, a splash of tonic, no ice.” Powell had sat down facing the French windows, and was scrutinizing the pages in front of him. “About your sources—they’ll stand up to inquiry, I suppose. This report from Los Alamos—is there any reason we shouldn’t quote it?”

  “None that I can think of,” said Fleming. “I requested it as a journalist, and I was given the photostatic prints by the U.S. Army.”

  “Then we should have no trouble quoting from the information. I’ll have to have the photostats, to make sure the excerpts are accurate. And if we have them to quote from, we can cite them as our source, and not have to bother with a second source, for confirmation.” He shrugged a bit apologetically. “I always feel as if I’m asking you to do something awful to your copy-book.”

  “You’re making sure we don’t get sued, hardly a copy-book problem,” Fleming said as he finished making Powell’s drink. “You may want to run it by Whitehall, to be sure it doesn’t step on any toes that might not like being stepped on.” He said this without a trace of the slyness he was feeling. He had not had much experience of having to skirt around the government instead of having its support, no matter how indirectly given. This position perplexed him and made his work more difficult; he said none of this to Powell, who wouldn’t understand.

  Powell responded just as Fleming thought he would. “If we have it from the Yanks, and they released it, Whitehall can go bugger itself.” His belligerence departed as quickly as it had come. “We can claim innocence, if we have to, and say the Americans are at fault. So long as we stick to the material you were given at Los Alamos, then there can be no objection about our methods.”

  “Just so,” said Fleming as he handed the tall glass to Powell. “Chin-chin.”

  Hoisting the glass, Powell said, “To the story.”

  Fleming lifted his thistle of brandy. “To the story,” he agreed.

  “Now, then, Fleming,” Powell went on as he put his glass down, “you say this Canadian chap was murdered. How much official material do you have on that?”

  “Nothing official, more’s the pity, only what my contact at the FBI reported to me; his information came from the RCMP, and I don’t know what, or how much, has been released to the public. We may have to scrounge, as the Americans say, to find a source for this one.” Fleming sat down, trying to appear at ease.

  “Um,” Powell declared.

  “If you contact the Canadian office, they should have something to tell you,” Fleming continued, as if Powell hadn’t mentioned it earlier that day.

  “The only news the Toronto office has is that a man was found murdered in a remote hunting lodge. ‘Authorities are making inquiries.’” The last was tinged with revulsion.

  “Then perhaps: ‘sources within the investigation’?” Fleming suggested.

  “‘Informed sources’ would be safer, since you’re not in direct contact with the RCMP, if we can’t find anyone to talk to us on the record,” said Powell. “Make sure you don’t state anything as absolute fact unless the information has been made available.”

  “In other words, I can say the man was found murdered, not that Mister Maxwell Preussin was found flayed and mutilated,” Fleming said, and saw Powell go white. “Oh. Sorry. I thought I’d mentioned how he was killed.” He took a cigarette from the brass container on the table and lit it.

  Powell took a second, larger sip of gin-and-tonic. “I thought he had been beaten and stabbed, as Krandall was.”