The Key to Rebecca Read Online Free PDF

often. He sat behind a huge curved desk—bigger than the DMI’s—going through his in tray. Always willing to talk rather than work, he motioned Vandam to a chair. He picked up a bright-red cricket ball and began to toss it from hand to hand. “You played a good game yesterday,” he said.
    “You didn’t do badly yourself,” Vandam said. It was true: Bogge had been the only decent bowler on the Intelligence team, and his slow googlies had taken four wickets for forty-two runs. “But are we winning the war?”
    “More bloody bad news, I’m afraid.” The morning briefing had not yet taken place, but Bogge always heard the news by word of mouth beforehand. “We expected Rommel to attack the Gazala Line head on. Should have known better—fellow never fights fair and square. He went around our southern flank, took the Seventh Armored’s headquarters, and captured General Messervy.”
    It was a depressingly familiar story, and Vandam suddenly felt weary. “What a shambles,” he said.
    “Fortunately he failed to get through to the coast, so the divisions on the Gazala Line didn’t get isolated. Still ...”
    “Still, when are we going to stop him?”
    “He won’t get much farther.” It was an idiotic remark: Bogge simply did not want to get involved in criticism of generals. “What have you got there?”
    Vandam gave him the incident report. “I propose to follow this one through myself.”
    Bogge read the paper and looked up, his face blank. “I don’t see the point.”
    “It looks like a blown cover.”
    “Uh?”
    “There’s no motive for the murder, so we have to speculate,” Vandam explained. “Here’s one possibility: the hitchhiker was not what he said he was, and the corporal discovered that fact, and so the hitchhiker killed the corporal.”
    “Not what he said he was—you mean he was a spy?” Bogge laughed. “How d’you suppose he got to Assyut—by parachute? Or did he walk?”
    That was the trouble with explaining things to Bogge, thought Vandam: he had to ridicule the idea, as an excuse for not thinking of it himself. “It’s not impossible for a small plane to sneak through. It’s not impossible to cross the desert, either.”
    Bogge sailed the report through the air across the vast expanse of his desk. “Not very likely, in my view,” he said. “Don’t waste any time on that one.”
    “Very good, sir.” Vandam picked up the report from the floor, suppressing the familiar frustrated anger. Conversations with Bogge always turned into points-scoring contests, and the smart thing to do was not to play. “I’ll ask the police to keep us informed of their progress—copies of memos, and so on, just for the file.”
    “Yes.” Bogge never objected to making people send him copies for the file: it enabled him to poke his finger into things without taking any responsibility. “Listen, how about arranging some cricket practice? I noticed they had nets and a catching boat there yesterday. I’d like to lick our team into shape and get some more matches going.”
    “Good idea.”
    “See if you can organize something, will you?”
    “Yes, sir.” Vandam went out.
    On the way back to his own office, he wondered what was so wrong with the administration of the British Army that it could promote to lieutenant colonel a man as empty-headed as Reggie Bogge. Vandam’s father, who had been a corporal in the first war, had been fond of saying that British soldiers were “lions led by donkeys.” Sometimes Vandam thought it was still true. But Bogge was not merely dull. Sometimes he made bad decisions because he was not clever enough to make good decisions; but mostly, it seemed to Vandam, Bogge made bad decisions because he was playing some other game, making himself look good or trying to be superior or something, Vandam did not know what.
    A woman in a white hospital coat saluted him and he returned the salute absentmindedly. The woman said: “Major Vandam, isn’t it?”
    He