tone. He fumbled under his coat and inside his trouser pocket. 'The key is here. Foolish of me. Must have my mind on my thoughts.'
`And,' Tweed went on, 'we never spoke a word to each other while we were inside. I simply called out your name twice and then tried to find you.'
I do understand.' Andover sighed visibly with relief.
`Is your daughter Irene right-handed?' Tweed enquired suddenly.
Andover's reaction was manic. He grabbed Tweed with both hands round the throat. 'What the devil made you ask that question?' he roared. Tweed again stood his ground. He grasped Andover's wrists, squeezing hard. He had far greater strength than most people supposed. Prising the throttling hands loose, he held on to them and put his face close to Andover's. 'That is quite enough of the rough stuff.' He let go as he felt the hands go limp.
Andover was shaking like a leaf in the wind when Paula again intervened in her conversational tone.
`Driving here, Tweed and I were discussing whether more people were left-handed as opposed to right. Just idle chat to pass the time.'
`Oh, I see.' Andover ran a hand through his flaxen hair. `Tweed, I'm dreadfully sorry. Quite unforgivable on my part. Don't know what got into me. Had a bout of neuralgia. Leaves you frightfully edgy.'
`I know it can be very painful,' Paula agreed in her soft voice.
`One of those things.' Andover was addressing Paula now as though he'd forgotten Tweed's existence. 'Irene is left-handed. Five months ago I gave her an emerald ring.' A flash of pain crossed his strong-boned clean-shaven face. 'It was her eighteenth birthday.'
`I'd like to meet her sometime,' Paula continued carefully. 'But at that age they don't spend much time at home.'
`Quite right, my dear... She's gone off on an extended holiday... with her French boy friend, Louis... Good chap, her Louis... You'd have liked him..
And you're lying, Tweed thought, as he trailed off. He had the impression Andover was retreating into a world of his own and asked the question quickly.
`You asked me to come down here. May I ask why — now I'm here?'
`Of course.' Andover, normal once more, frowned. Paula studied him. About five feet ten tall, slim in build, he had a high forehead, a clever face, and almost a touch of arrogance in his manner. No, not arrogance — rather a fixity of purpose. She had the feeling that for a brief time she was seeing the Andover Tweed had known in London.
`Of course,' he repeated. 'I have a file in the house I want you to study. It's very serious. We may be facing a new enemy — far worse than Hitler or Stalin so far as Western Europe is concerned. And just when Europe thought it was safe to go to sleep. If you don't mind waiting outside at the front I'll go in and get it for you. Not the sort of thing you entrust to the post... Disaster, Tweed. Catastrophe might be a better word...'
He started to walk along the side of the house briskly, shoulders erect, when he swung on his heel, came back.
`Tweed, I really am sorry. The way I treated you. I've been pretty rotten company. Why not call in next door, have a drink with my neighbour, Brigadier Maurice Burgoyne, another old China hand. He's civilized, which is more than I've been...'
Before Tweed could respond Andover had disappeared and they followed him slowly. At the front of the house they waited in silence by the car, both of them shaken by their macabre experience.
Andover trotted out five minutes later by Paula's watch. He carried a large brown manilla envelope under his arm. As he handed it to Tweed Paula saw it had an address scrawled on it and a first-class stamp. Andover caught her glance.
`Camouflage,' he explained to her as he handed the envelope to Tweed. 'A fictitious name and address and stamped for the post. No one will guess what it contains. You can tell the Brig. you called here.' He put his hand to his forehead. 'I've got it. Tell him I have an attack of neuralgia and sent you round for some decent
`And,' Tweed went on, 'we never spoke a word to each other while we were inside. I simply called out your name twice and then tried to find you.'
I do understand.' Andover sighed visibly with relief.
`Is your daughter Irene right-handed?' Tweed enquired suddenly.
Andover's reaction was manic. He grabbed Tweed with both hands round the throat. 'What the devil made you ask that question?' he roared. Tweed again stood his ground. He grasped Andover's wrists, squeezing hard. He had far greater strength than most people supposed. Prising the throttling hands loose, he held on to them and put his face close to Andover's. 'That is quite enough of the rough stuff.' He let go as he felt the hands go limp.
Andover was shaking like a leaf in the wind when Paula again intervened in her conversational tone.
`Driving here, Tweed and I were discussing whether more people were left-handed as opposed to right. Just idle chat to pass the time.'
`Oh, I see.' Andover ran a hand through his flaxen hair. `Tweed, I'm dreadfully sorry. Quite unforgivable on my part. Don't know what got into me. Had a bout of neuralgia. Leaves you frightfully edgy.'
`I know it can be very painful,' Paula agreed in her soft voice.
`One of those things.' Andover was addressing Paula now as though he'd forgotten Tweed's existence. 'Irene is left-handed. Five months ago I gave her an emerald ring.' A flash of pain crossed his strong-boned clean-shaven face. 'It was her eighteenth birthday.'
`I'd like to meet her sometime,' Paula continued carefully. 'But at that age they don't spend much time at home.'
`Quite right, my dear... She's gone off on an extended holiday... with her French boy friend, Louis... Good chap, her Louis... You'd have liked him..
And you're lying, Tweed thought, as he trailed off. He had the impression Andover was retreating into a world of his own and asked the question quickly.
`You asked me to come down here. May I ask why — now I'm here?'
`Of course.' Andover, normal once more, frowned. Paula studied him. About five feet ten tall, slim in build, he had a high forehead, a clever face, and almost a touch of arrogance in his manner. No, not arrogance — rather a fixity of purpose. She had the feeling that for a brief time she was seeing the Andover Tweed had known in London.
`Of course,' he repeated. 'I have a file in the house I want you to study. It's very serious. We may be facing a new enemy — far worse than Hitler or Stalin so far as Western Europe is concerned. And just when Europe thought it was safe to go to sleep. If you don't mind waiting outside at the front I'll go in and get it for you. Not the sort of thing you entrust to the post... Disaster, Tweed. Catastrophe might be a better word...'
He started to walk along the side of the house briskly, shoulders erect, when he swung on his heel, came back.
`Tweed, I really am sorry. The way I treated you. I've been pretty rotten company. Why not call in next door, have a drink with my neighbour, Brigadier Maurice Burgoyne, another old China hand. He's civilized, which is more than I've been...'
Before Tweed could respond Andover had disappeared and they followed him slowly. At the front of the house they waited in silence by the car, both of them shaken by their macabre experience.
Andover trotted out five minutes later by Paula's watch. He carried a large brown manilla envelope under his arm. As he handed it to Tweed Paula saw it had an address scrawled on it and a first-class stamp. Andover caught her glance.
`Camouflage,' he explained to her as he handed the envelope to Tweed. 'A fictitious name and address and stamped for the post. No one will guess what it contains. You can tell the Brig. you called here.' He put his hand to his forehead. 'I've got it. Tell him I have an attack of neuralgia and sent you round for some decent
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