He underlined it. Then he wrote underneath in slightly smaller letters:

Ironmonger—3 poppadoms

Then he tore the page out and burned it in the ashtray for security reasons.

On a fresh page he began to construct a graph showing the daily frequency of Goldwasser’s head-scratching against his consumption of chocolate wafers in the Tea Room, marking on the line the Ironmonger and Midnight Lunch incidents under the code-names SEAHORSE and OVERMANTEL.

He stared at it until it blurred before his eyes. Perhaps he had confused the code-words, and Beanday was Monday and Spoonday was Friday. Or was Troutday Monday, and Plumday Tuesday, and Spoonday Thursday? Or had he just forgotten the days of the week? How the devil did they go? Sunday, Plumday, Tuesday, Spoonday . . . ? Plumday, Monday, Spoonday, Bensday . . . ? Bensday? What was this nonsense? Wumsday, for heaven’s sake.

Suddenly he had a great moment of insight. Goldwasser had bought twelve brass screws in the IRONMONGERS to fix the OVERMANTEL!

A second flash of understanding followed almost immediately. Goldwasser had bought the three POPPADOMS for the MIDNIGHT LUNCH – one for himself, one for writing messages on, and one for the SEAHORSE!

It all tied up. A pattern was beginning to emerge. He was starting to make sense of what at first had appeared to be some of the most puzzling data to come his way in his whole career in intelligence.

He looked at the reports again, and at once another question struck him – a question which might just possibly be the key to the whole mystery. He pulled out his Amateur Wrestler and Judo World Diary, and noted in the space marked Memo:

‘Ask “Bissel” and “Jurgensen” who “Naismith.” ’

He put the diary back in his pocket, and tottered agedly out to find someone to play a game of bowls with.

22

22

Rowe had started his novel once again. Chapter I [he wrote]. No Particle Forgot.

There was a cry from the terrace. Shielding his eyes against the hard, almost tangible glare of the noonday Mediterranean sun, Rick looked up.