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out together from the door of his flat and Harry saw a friend he knew across the road—an American called Cooler. He waved to Cooler and started across the road to him when a jeep came tearing round the corner and bowled him over. It was Harry's fault really—not the driver's."
           "Somebody told me he died instantaneously."
           "I wish he had. He died before the ambulance could reach us though."
           "He could speak then?"
           "Yes. Even in his pain he worried about you."
           "What did he say?"
           "I can't remember the exact words, Rollo—I may call you Rollo, mayn't I? he always called you that to us. He was anxious that I should look after you when you arrived. See that you were looked after. Get your return ticket for you." In telling me Martins said, "You see I was collecting return tickets as well as cash."
           "But why didn't you cable to stop me?"
           "We did, but the cable must have missed you. What with censorship and the zones, cables can take anything up to five days."
           "There was an inquest?"
           "Of course."
           "Did you know that the police have a crazy notion that Harry was mixed up in some racket?"
           "No. But everyone in Vienna is. We all sell cigarettes and exchange schillings for Bafs and that kind of thing."
           "The police meant something worse than that."
           "They get rather absurd ideas sometimes," the man with the toupee said cautiously.
           "I'm going to stay here till I prove them wrong."
           Kurtz turned his head sharply and the toupee shifted very very slightly. He said, "What's the good? Nothing can bring Harry back."
           "I'm going to have that police officer run out of Vienna."
           "I don't see what you can do."
           "I'm going to start working back from his death. You were there and this man Cooler and the chauffeur. You can give me their addresses."
           "I don't know the chauffeur's."
           "I can get it from the coroner's records. And then there's Harry's girl..."
           Kurtz said, "It will be painful for her."
           "I'm not concerned about her. I'm concerned about Harry."
           "Do you know what it is that the police suspect?"
           "No. I lost my temper too soon."
           "Has it occurred to you," Kurtz said gently, "that you might dig up something—well, discreditable to Harry?"
           "I'll risk that."
           "It will take a bit of time—and money."
           "I've got time and you were going to lend me some money, weren't you?"
           "I'm not a rich man," Kurtz said. "I promised Harry to see you were all right and that you got your plane back..."
           "You needn't worry about the money—or the plane," Martins said. "But I'll make a bet with you—in pounds sterling—five pounds against two hundred schillings—that there's something queer about Harry's death."
           It was a shot in the dark, but already he had this firm instinctive sense that there was something wrong, though he hadn't yet attached the word "murder" to the instinct. Kurtz had a cup of coffee halfway to his lips and Martins watched him. The shot apparently went wide; an unaffected hand held the cup to the mouth and Kurtz drank, a little noisily, in long sips. Then he put down the cup and said, "How do you mean—queer?"
           "It was convenient for the police to have a corpse, but wouldn't it have been equally convenient perhaps for the real racketeers?" When he had spoken he realised that after all Kurtz had not been unaffected by his wild statement: hadn't he been frozen into caution and calm? The hands of the guilty don't necessarily tremble: only in stories does a dropped glass betray agitation. Tension is more often shown in the studied action. Kurtz had finished his coffee as though nothing had been