“West speaking.”

“Good morning, sir.” It was a girl. “The American Embassy — I’m sorry, the United States Embassy — is on the line. They wanted the Assistant Commissioner or the Commander, but they’re not in, sir.”

“I’ll speak to the Embassy,” Roger said. At least this was different.

“Just a moment, please,” the girl said.

Almost at once a man with a clipped North American accent said: “Is that Superintendent West?”

“Yes, sir. Good morning.”

“Good morning. Mr West, we need your help here, and we need it very badly and very fast. I am Tony Marino, and I’ll wait in my office until you arrive. You’ll find an impatient and worried man, Mr West.”

Roger could have asked questions, and could have been formal. Instead, he said simply:

“I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes, Mr Marino.”

“I’m very grateful.” The American’s voice died in the click of the telephone.

Roger stood up, took his trilby from a wall-peg and hurried to the door. If he saw the Commander, CID or Hardy, the new Assistant Commissioner, he would have to report this, and he didn’t want to miss it He saw no one of superior rank, but as he reached the ground floor in the lift, Chief Inspector Bill Sloan, big, fresh-faced, boyish-looking, was waiting to step in.

“Just the man,” said Roger. “I’ve had a call from the American Embassy, they want someone in a hurry. It fell in my lap, and I’m keeping it Tell the Commander or the AC.”

Sloan grinned. “I’ll forget it long enough for you to get there.”

It took eighteen minutes to reach Grosvenor Square. In the bright morning sunshine, a dozen American tourists were busy with their cameras near the Roosevelt statue, big American cars, dwarfing the English ones, were parked nearby. He expected some formality, not the youthful-looking man waiting just inside the hall of the big new Embassy building which some people hated, and some thought was magnificent, who said: