The telephone rang. He picked it up. “Primrose—” he began. A thick voice cut him short.

“Vat you, me ol’ cock sparrer? Ow you doin’? Eh? Eh? I said, ’ow you doin’, sparrer, eh?”

For a couple of seconds Brett’s mind reeled, adjusting itself to work he had forgotten. Then he felt his heart give a mighty, thankful bound. “Pink! All right,” he said, transferring the ’phone to his right hand and reaching for the pencil and message block.

“I bin keepin’ all right too. Change me job, I ’ave. Nice little job at ’Ampstead. Eh? I said ’Ampstead. Well, ain’t seen you since yer ’oliday. Ow’s dear ol Ramsgit? I like it all rairn Pegwill Bay. Eh? I said Pegwill Bay. Nice. Quiet like. Useter be, anyow. Get ve jets, ese days, overin abairt. Eh? I said overin. One come dairn ve ovver week, crash like, near ve ol fort. Eh? I said near ve ol fort. ol Roman place. You know. Ah well, wodger doin’ Chrissmas? I’m packin’ up Chrissmas Eve. Eh? I said Chrissmas Eve. Ain’t clockin’ airt midday, rotten ol barfs. I wonarf knock off sharp six-firty. Eh? I said six-firty. Well, might be seen you sometime, sparrer, eh? Dropper ve old usual sometime, eh?”

“Certainly,” said Brett. “Same place?”

“Ass me ol’ sparrer! Ah well, pushin’ off. Appy Chrissmass! Tooraloo!”

Brett put down the phone and studied the lines scribbled on the pad.

Hampstead Pegwell Bay hovering near the old fort Christmas Eve six thirty.

Pink. He was in the Pink. Good, useful—but not priceless—Pink. How had Pink, of all people, tuned in to the Hampstead lot? But it didn’t matter, as long as this proved as sound as Pink’s previous offerings. And why should it not? The old fort, the old Roman place. That would be Richborough, Rutupiae, the legions’ depot. Pink was revealing unsuspected erudition. Richborough, Kent. The county would have to be asked to co-operate. And hovering—that sounded as if they would have to deal with a helicopter. He couldn’t think what other meaning to put on the word. The U.S. Air Force was stationed at Manston, close by; but there would probably be some technical, legal, difficulty in getting help from them. He would have to keep it a purely police occasion; and it was obviously going to be complicated. He blenched—leave stopped over a large area, the day before Christmas!

He picked up the phone, called for a taxi in five minutes, and raced upstairs, peeling off his bright silk clothes as he ran.

Part Three

Christmas Eve

“They say no one’s seen feather nor bone of Wacey,” said Beddoes. “That right?”

Nightingale wearily pulled out a chair and sat down. “Beddoes, your searing zeal is ghastly. Yes. I rang when I woke. How did I manage to wake, I wonder, after about three hours’ sleep.” He stared out of the window of his office, at the menacing midwinter dawn. The sky bore a dirty flush, like the face of a child with measles.