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Cal told him a version of everything-everything except Troy’s part in it all. They sat in an office at Scotland Yard until it was nearly light. When Henrey asked him how ‘Miss Stilton’, as he insisted on calling Kitty, came to be at ‘the scene of the crime’, he was able to give his first wholly honest answer, ‘I don’t know.’ Eventually Henrey said ‘Is there anyone at the embassy I should contact in connection with this?’ Cal said ‘I don’t know’ again, and then Henrey really did lock him up and he crashed like a felled redwood. It was a different regime. In the morning they brought him a bowl of warm water, a razor and a cup of tea, then they brought him breakfast of toast with butter and that shredded orange jelly the English were so fond of and then, when he asked for coffee, they brought him coffee. Afterwards he lay on the cot all morning reading
The Times and the Manchester Guardian-Scotland Yard could not run to a copy of the Herald-Tribune. The Luftwaffe had bombed Dublin last night. The first raid in weeks and they’d missed by miles. He was beginning to think he could spend the rest of his life in jail and let the war go to hell above his head, they could let him out in six or seven years-in the meantime he could finish Moby Dick-never had managed that feat as a teenager-when the door opened and another, completely different cop strode in, shook his hand, introduced himself as Major Something-or-other ‘of the Branch’, and said, ‘I contacted your man as soon as I heard.’
‘My man?’ said Cal. ‘Who the heck is my man?’
‘I am, old boy!’
And Reggie Ruthven-Greene stuck his head round the door.