Enigma

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    wedge her chin on top of them to keep control. She let them fall on the table and there was a collective groan from Miss Monk's girls. A couple of signals fluttered over the edge of the table and on to the floor and Jericho, primed for action, swooped to retrieve them. He got a brief glimpse of one—

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    —before it was snatched out of his hands by Miss Monk. She seemed for the first time to become aware of his presence. She cradled the secrets to her plump breast and glared at him.
    'I'm sorry, you are—who are you exactly?' she asked. She edged to one side to block his view of the table. 'You are—what?—a friend of Claire, I take it?'
    'It's all right, Daphne,' said Weitzman, 'he's a friend of mine.'
    Miss Monk flushed again. 'I beg your pardon, Walter,' she said. 'Of course, I didn't mean to imply-'
    Jericho cut in: 'I wonder, could I ask you, has she done this before? Failed to turn up, I mean, without telling you?'
    'Oh no. Never. I will not tolerate slacking in my section. Dr Weitzman will vouch for that.'
    'Indeed,' said Weitzman, gravely. 'No slacking here.'
    Miss Monk was of a type that Jericho had come to know well over the past three years: mildly hysterical at moments of crisis; jealous of her precious rank and her extra fifty pounds a year; convinced that the war would be lost if her tiny fiefdom were denied a gross of lead pencils or an extra typist. She would hate Claire, he thought: hate her for her prettiness and her confidence and her refusal to take anything seriously.
    'She hasn't been behaving at all oddly?'
    'We have important work to do. We've no time here for oddness.'
    'When did you last see her?'
    'That would be Friday.' Miss Monk obviously prided herself on her memory for detail. 'She came on duty at four, went off at midnight. Yesterday was her rest day.'
    'So I don't suppose it's likely she came back into the hut, say, early on Saturday morning?'
    'No. I was here. Anyway, why should she do that? Normally, she couldn't wait to get away.'
    I bet she couldn't. He glanced again at the girls behind Miss Monk. What on earth were they all doing? Each had a mound of paperclips in front of her, a pot of glue, a pile of brown folders and a tangle of rubber bands. They seemed—could this be right?—to be compiling new files out of old ones. He tried to imagine Claire here, in this drab room, among these sensible drones. It was like picturing some gorgeous parakeet in a cage full of sparrows. He wasn't sure what to do. He took out his watch and flicked open the lid. Eight thirty-five. She had already been missing more than half an hour.
    'What will you do now?'
    'Obviously—because of the level of classification—there's a certain procedure we have to follow. I've already notified Welfare. They'll send someone round to her room to turf her out of bed.'
    'And if she isn't there?'
    'Then they'll contact her family to see if they know where she is.'
    'And if they don't?'
    'Well, then it's serious. But it never gets that far.' Miss Monk drew her jacket tight across her pigeon chest and folded her arms. 'I'm sure there's a man at the bottom of this somewhere.' She shuddered. 'There usually is.'
    Weitzman was continuing to give Jericho imploring glances. He touched him on the arm. 'We ought to go now, Tom.'
    'Do you have an address for her family? Or a telephone number?'
    'Yes, I think so, but I'm not sure I should . . .' She turned towards Weitzman, who hesitated fractionally, shot another look at Jericho, then forced a smile and a nod.
    'I can vouch for him.'
    'Well,' said Miss Monk, doubtfully, 'if you think it's permissible . ..' She went over to a filing cabinet beside her desk and unlocked it.
    'Coker will kill me for this,' whispered Weitzman, while her back was turned.
    'He'll never find out. I promise you.'
    'The curious thing is,' said Miss Monk, almost to herself, 'that she'd really become much more attentive of late. Anyway, this is her card.'
    Next-of-kin: Edward Romilly.
    Relation: Father.
    Address: 27 Stanhope Gardens, London SW.
    Telephone: Kensington 2257.
    Jericho glanced at it for a second and handed it back.
    'I don't think there's any need to trouble him, do you?' asked Miss Monk. 'Certainly not yet. No doubt Claire will arrive at any moment with some silly story about oversleeping—'
    'I'm sure,' said Jericho.
    '—in which case,'