Heil Harris!

terrified burglars to sort through the party papers. They made sad reading. A mailing list of seven hundred supporters — who were in fact „only people who had attended a meeting or a jumble sale. One hundred and three card carrying members, seventy-two of whom hadn’t paid their subscriptions for years. And in another drawer were letters from King Street, carbon copies of letters to the Morning Star, humdrum letters of solid support for this and that, massive protest in the strongest possible terms against other enormities. She wondered why they were bothering. Was this the truth behind that awful spectre that haunted western civilisation? Seedy, hard up and intellectually sterile.
    “They might be glad if we set this place on fire,” said Emma. “They need the insurance money.”
    “Hurry up,” grumbled Higgs. “We’ve been here thirty-five minutes.”
    Emma noticed that the games master was tinkering with the petrol bomb as if it were a prayer wheel and the genuine schoolmaster kept sidling up to the window and peering into the street. “You’d better chase up that cup of tea,” she ordered. “Tell the colonel we’re thirsty.”
    Corporal Higgs crept into the kitchen. “Colonel Hay burn,” he whispered, “sir.”
    “Get out,” she heard him say thickly. “I’m busy.” He was just visible through the crack at the side of the door, slumped thoughtfully over the kitchen table and staring at a bottle.
    “Let’s get out of this place,” snapped the schoolmaster. “I’m damned scared.”
    Emma laughed brightly and sat at the desk. “No point in coming here without making a full search of the premises.” She was enjoying the occasion. It was a real test of their manhood. She carefully picked the desk lock with a bent pin while they sweated.
    “Quick,” the games master shouted. “Here’s a copper.”
    “Relax. Carry on sorting through those pamphlets for heaven’s sake. You’re all behaving like schoolboys on a scrumping expedition. Wasn’t this supposed to be a test of nerve?” She shook her head at their childish ways before turning her attention back to the papers in the desk.
    The Co-operative, Wholesale Society Bank folder showed that the party had a credit of thirty-seven pounds and that someone called B. H. Keegan kept them solvent. The bottom drawer contained files, marked with such names as Hayburn, Throgmorton, Harris... One of the Werewolves, Emma realised, must be a spy.
    The street door knob rattled from the outside.
    The files listed who had attended the seven meetings since January and summarised what was said. It gave thumbnail sketches of individual members and made guesses at such matters as finance and backing. It should be easy to work out who had made these reports.
    There was a knock at the street door.
    “There’s a knock at the door,” said the games master.
    “So answer it,” Emma said patiently. “And remember that if you look nervous we’ll all be arrested.”
    He went to the door. While he was saying good evening to the policeman Emma glanced over her shoulder to see whether Higgs and the colonel were likely to prove an embarrassment. But the kitchen was silent.
    “Good evening, constable,” said Emma. “It’s nice to know that we’re being looked after so efficiently. Can we offer you a cup of tea while you’re here?”
    The policeman puffed for a moment while he examined their three faces. “That would be very acceptable, miss. It’s cold out tonight. Luckily the rain has given over.”
    Emma put her head round the kitchen door and called, “Higgs, an extra cup of tea for the constable.” She smiled diffidently at the sound of a tray being dropped on the floor. “Are you the normal policeman on this beat?” she asked conversationally.
    “Yes, miss. I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
    “No, you wouldn’t have. I’m from London. King Street sent me down to sort out a few local confusions. That’s why these poor gentlemen are working so late.”
    “Is Mr. Goldman here?”
    Emma laughed. “I’m afraid not. That’s what the confusion is all about. He won’t be working here any more.”
    “But he’s been secretary for seventeen years.” The constable removed his helmet and scratched his head. “Has he been purged?”
    “Well, relieved of his duties. He hasn’t been liquidated, because this is England. Ha ha ha. Things have changed in the two years since Mr. Khruschev retired. By the way, this is Mr. Keegan, the new