Enigma

in wonder. 'Tell me about last night.'
    'I cycled over to her cottage.'
    'What time?'
    'About ten, ten-thirty. She wasn't there. I talked with Miss Wallace for a bit. Then I came home.'
    'Mrs Armstrong says she didn't hear you come in until around two o'clock this morning.'
    So much for tiptoeing past her door, thought Jericho.
    'I must have cycled around for a while.'
    'I'll say you did. In the frost. In the blackout. You must have cycled around for about three hours.'
    Wigram gazed down at his notes, tapping the side of his nose. 'Not right, Mr Jericho. Can't quite put my finger on it, but definitely not right. Still.' He snapped the notebook shut and gave a reassuring smile. "Time to go into all that later, what?' He put his hand on Jericho's knee and pushed himself to his feet. 'First, we must catch our rabbit. You've no idea where she might be, I suppose? No favourite haunts? No little den to run to?' He gazed down at Jericho, who was staring at the floor. 'No? No. Thought not.'
    By the time Jericho felt he could trust himself to look up again, Wigram had draped his beautiful overcoat back around his shoulders and was preoccupied picking tiny pieces of lint from its collar.
    'It could all be a coincidence,' said Jericho. 'You do realise that? I mean, Donitz always seems to have been suspicious about Enigma. That's why he gave the U-boats Shark in the first place.'
    'Oh absolutely,' said Wigram cheerfully. 'But let's look at it another way. Let's imagine the Germans have got a whisper of what we're up to here. What would they do? They couldn't exactly chuck out a hundred thousand Enigma machines overnight, could they? And then what about all those experts of theirs, who've always said Enigma is unbreakable? They're not going to change their minds without a fight. No. They'd do what they look as though they might be doing. They'd start checking every suspicious incident. And in the meantime, they'd try and find hard proof. A person, perhaps. Better still, a person with documentary evidence. God, there are enough of them about. Thousands right here, who either know all the story, or a bit of it, or enough to put two and two together. And what kind of people are they?' He withdrew a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and unfolded it. 'This is the list I asked for yesterday. Eleven people in the Naval Section knew about the importance of the Weather Code Book. Some rum names here, if you stop to think about them. Skynner we can exclude, I suppose. And Logie—he seems sound enough. But Baxter? Now Baxter's a communist, isn't he?'
    'I think you'll find that communists don't have much time for Nazis. As a rule.'
    'What about Pukowski?'
    'Puck lost his father and his brother when Poland was invaded. He loathes the Germans.'
    'The American, then. Kramer. Kramer! He's a second-generation German immigrant, did you know that?'
    'Kramer also lost a brother to the Germans. Really, Mr Wigram, this is ridiculous
    'Atwood. Pinker. Kingcome. Proudfoot. de Brooke. You . . . Who are you all, exactly?' Wigram looked around the tiny room with distaste: the frayed blackout curtains, the tatty wardrobe, the lumpy bed. For the first time he seemed to notice the print of the chapel above the mantelpiece. 'I mean, just because a bloke's been to King's College, Cambridge
    He picked up the picture and held it at an angle under the light. Jericho watched him, transfixed.
    'E. M. Forster,' said Wigram thoughtfully. 'Now he's still at King's, isn't he?'
    'I believe so.'
    'Know him?'
    'Only to nod to.'
    'What was that essay of his? How did it go? The one about choosing between your friend and your country?'
    '“I hate the idea of causes, and if I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.” But he did write that before the war.'
    Wigram blew some dust off the frame and set the print carefully back on the top of Jericho's books.
    'So I should hope,' he said, standing back to admire it. He turned and smiled at Jericho. 'So I should frigging well hope.'
    After Wigram had gone, it was some minutes before Jericho felt able to move.
    He lay full length on the bed, still wearing his scarf and overcoat, and listened to the sounds of the house. Some mournful string quartet which the BBC judged suitable entertainment for a Sunday night was scraping away downstairs. There were footsteps on the landing. A whispered conversation ensued which ended with a woman—Miss Jobey,