Enigma

someone else. Pressure of space and all that.'
    'You didn't think I'd be coming back?'
    'Well, let's say we didn't know we'd need you back so soon. Anyway, there's fresh digs for you in town, so at least it'll be more convenient. No more long cycle rides late at night.'
    'I rather like long cycle rides late at night. They clear the mind.' Jericho closed the lids on the suitcases and snapped the locks.
    'I say, you are up to this, old love? Nobody wants to force you into anything.'
    'I'm a damn sight fitter than you are, by the look of you.'
    'Only I'd hate you to feel pressured . . .'
    'Oh do shut up, Guy.'
    'Right-ho. I suppose we haven't left you with much choice, have we? Can I help you with those?'
    'If I'm well enough to go back to Bletchley, I'm well enough to manage a couple of suitcases.'
    He carried them to the door and turned off the light. In the sitting room he extinguished the gas fire and took a last look around. The overstuffed sofa. The scratched chairs. The bare mantelpiece. This was his life, he thought, a succession of cheaply furnished rooms provided by English institutions: school, college, government. He wondered what the next room would be like. Logie opened the doors and Jericho turned off the desk light.
    The staircase was in darkness. The bulb had long since died. Logie got them down the stone steps by striking a series of matches. At the bottom, they could just make out the shape of Leveret, standing guard, his silhouette framed against the black mass of the chapel. He turned round. His hand went to his pocket.
    'All right, Mr Leveret,' said Logie. 'It's only me. Mr Jericho's coming with us.'
    Leveret had a blackout torch, a cheap thing swathed in tissue paper. By its pale beam, and by the faint residue of light still left in the sky, they made their way through the college. As they walked alongside the Hall they could hear the clatter of cutlery and the sound of the diners' voices, and Jericho felt a pang of regret. They passed the Porter's Lodge and stepped through the man-sized gate cut in the big oak door. A crack of light appeared in one of the lodge's windows as someone inside pulled back the curtain a fraction. With Leveret in front of him and Logie behind, Jericho had a curious sensation of being under arrest.
    The deputy director's Rover was pulled up on the cobbled pavement. Leveret carefully unlocked it and ushered them into the back seat. The interior was cold and smelled of old leather and cigarette ash. As Leveret was stowing the suitcases in the boot Logie said suddenly: 'Who's Claire, by the way?'
    'Claire?' Jericho heard his voice in the darkness, guilty and defensive.
    'When you came up the staircase I thought I heard you shouting “Claire”. Claire?' Logie gave a low whistle. 'I say, she's not the arctic blonde in Hut 3, is she? I bet she is. You lucky bugger ., .'
    Leveret started the engine. It stuttered and backfired. He let out the brake and the big car rocked over the cobbles on to King's Parade. The long street was deserted in both directions. A wisp of mist shone in the shaded headlamps. Logie was still chuckling to himself as they swung left.
    'I bet she jolly well is. You lucky, lucky bugger ...'
    Kite stayed at his post by the window, watching the red tail-lights until they vanished past the corner of Gonville and Caius. He, let the curtain drop.
    Well, well...
    This would give them something to talk about the next morning. Listen to this, Dottie. Mr Jericho was taken away at dead of night—oh, all right then, eight o'clock—by two men, one a tall fellow and the other very obviously a plain clothes copper. Escorted from the premises and not a word to anyone. The tall chap and the copper had arrived about five o'clock while the young master was still out walking and the big one -the detective, presumably—had asked Kite all sorts of questions: 'Has he seen anyone since he's been here? Has he written to anyone? Has anyone written to him? What's he been doing?' Then they'd taken his keys and searched Jericho's room before Jericho got back.
    It was murky. Very murky.
    A spy, a genius, a broken heart—and now what? A criminal of some sort? Quite possibly. A malingerer? A runaway? A deserter! Yes, that was it: a deserter!
    Kite went back to his seat by the stove and opened his evening paper.

    NAZI SUB TORPEDOES PASSENGER LINER, he read. WOMEN AND CHILDREN LOST.

    Kite shook his head at the wickedness of the world. It was disgusting, a young man of that age, not