III

The man who came into the room did not look as though his name was, or could ever have been, Robinson. It might have been Demetrius, or Isaacstein, or Perenna—though not one or the other in particular. He was not definitely Jewish, nor definitely Greek nor Portuguese nor Spanish, nor South American. What did seem highly unlikely was that he was an Englishman called Robinson. He was fat and well dressed, with a yellow face, melancholy dark eyes, a broad forehead, and a generous mouth that displayed rather over-large very white teeth. His hands were well shaped and beautifully kept. His voice was English with no trace of accent.

He and Colonel Pikeaway greeted each other rather in the manner of two reigning monarchs. Politenesses were exchanged.

Then, as Mr Robinson accepted a cigar, Colonel Pikeaway said:

‘It is very good of you to offer to help us.’

Mr Robinson lit his cigar, savoured it appreciatively, and finally spoke.

‘My dear fellow. I just thought—I hear things, you know. I know a lot of people, and they tell me things. I don’t know why.’

Colonel Pikeaway did not comment on the reason why.

He said:

‘I gather you’ve heard that Prince Ali Yusuf’s plane has been found?’

‘Wednesday of last week,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘Young Rawlinson was the pilot. A tricky flight. But the crash wasn’t due to an error on Rawlinson’s part. The plane had been tampered with—by a certain Achmed—senior mechanic. Completely trustworthy—or so Rawlinson thought. But he wasn’t. He’s got a very lucrative job with the new régime now.’

‘So it was sabotage! We didn’t know that for sure. It’s a sad story.’

‘Yes. That poor young man—Ali Yusuf, I mean—was ill equipped to cope with corruption and treachery. His public school education was unwise—or at least that is my view. But we do not concern ourselves with him now, do we? He is yesterday’s news. Nothing is so dead as a dead king. We are concerned, you in your way, I in mine, with what dead kings leave behind them.’

‘Which is?’

Mr Robinson shrugged his shoulders.

‘A substantial bank balance in Geneva, a modest balance in London, considerable assets in his own country now taken over by the glorious new régime (and a little bad feeling as to how the spoils have been divided, or so I hear!), and finally a small personal item.’

‘Small?’

‘These things are relative. Anyway, small in bulk. Handy to carry upon the person.’

‘They weren’t on Ali Yusuf’s person, as far as we know.’

‘No. Because he had handed them over to young Rawlinson.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ asked Pikeaway sharply.

‘Well, one is never sure,’ said Mr Robinson apologetically. ‘In a palace there is so much gossip. It cannot all be true. But there was a very strong rumour to that effect.’

‘They weren’t on young Rawlinson’s person, either—’

‘In that case,’ said Mr Robinson, ‘it seems as though they must have been got out of the country by some other means.’