“BILL,” ROLLISON SAID with quiet persistence, after a long, pregnant-type pause, “I can’t answer any of the questions about this man because I don’t know a thing about him. Unless —”

“Ah!” broke in Grice, semi-triumphant.

“Unless he’s using a false name, which would presum-ably mean using a false passport,” Rollison finished.

“I have known friends of yours do such things,” Grice observed, cuttingly.

“Bill,” said Rollison in his gentlest voice. “You aren’t exactly in the friendliest of moods this morning, are you?”

There was a short pause, followed by a staccato exclamation, before Grice said in tacit agreement:

“I must have got out of bed the wrong side. Can you go to the airport?”

“To identify the man, if by chance I do know him under some other name?”

“Yes.”

Rollison pondered. He had a committee meeting for a fund-raising group for Cancer Research but they could get on without him, and he had a luncheon appointment with, his accountant, who could easily be put off; and in any case a ‘no’ would probably make Grice’s mood even more difficult. So he said in the most conciliatory tone:

“Yes, Bill, I can leave here in twenty minutes or so. Will you be there?”

“I wish I could be but I’ve a Commissioner’s meeting,” Grice answered. The overhanging threat of that could partly explain his mood. “You know Paterson of the Airport Police, don’t you?”

“Slightly.”

“I’ll tell him to expect you,” Grice promised. “And thanks.”

“I really can’t wait to meet Thomas G. or C. Loman,” Rollison told him.

“I’ve just made sure it’s G., as in George,” asserted Grice.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know how I get on,” Rollison promised, and rang off.

For a few moments he sat back, frowning at the ceiling, and did not look round when Jolly came in. Jolly would have heard the conversation on the kitchen extension: it was accepted that he should listen to all but personal calls, thus saving the need for explanation on matters he would need to know about in any case. “What do you make of it?” Rollison asked.