World War II Thriller Collection Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.”
    â€œNot 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. “Donʼt waste any time on that one.”
    â€œVery 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.”
    â€œYes.” 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.”
    â€œGood idea.”
    â€œSee if you can organize something, will you?”
    â€œYes, 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 stopped and looked at her. She had been a spectator at the cricket match, and now he remembered her name. “Dr. Abuthnot,” he said. “Good morning.” She was a tall, cool woman of about his age. He recalled that she was a surgeon—highly unusual for a woman, even in wartime—and that she held the rank of captain.
    She said: “You worked hard yesterday.”
    Vandam smiled. “And I’m suffering for it today. I enjoyed myself, though.”
    â€œSo did I.” She had a low, precise voice and a great deal of confidence. “Shall we see you on Friday?”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œThe reception at the Union.”
    â€œAh.” The Anglo-Egyptian Union, a club for bored Europeans, made occasional attempts to justify its name by holding a reception for Egyptian guests. “I’d like that. What time?”
    â€œFive o’clock, for tea.”
    Vandam was professionally interested: it was an occasion at which Egyptians might pick up service gossip, and service gossip sometimes included information useful to the enemy. “I’ll come,” he said.
    â€œSplendid. I’ll see you there.” She turned away.
    â€œI look forward to it,” Vandam said to her back. He watched her walk away, wondering what she wore under the hospital coat. She was trim, elegant and self-possessed: she reminded him of his wife.
    He entered his office. He had no intention of organizing a cricket practice, and he had no intention of forgetting