Heil Harris!

Cynthia off to be amused by his regiment.
    “By the way,” said Cynthia suddenly, “it probably isn’t safe to leave me here by myself. I might be murdered.”
    “Why on earth would anyone murder you?”
    “Someone murdered Freddie.”
    “That was different. He wasn’t attractive, vivacious or feminine.”
    “Oh. Do you think I might be raped instead?”
    “I doubt it.”
    “Really, Emma, you are a bore! It’s up to you to look after me. Because you’re some sort of spy, aren’t you? You should be turning the county upside down and then dramatically arresting the killer. That would brighten up a Wednesday evening in May.”
    “Shall we see what’s on television? There might be a play—”
    “I don’t like plays. And I wish I hadn’t invited you down for the weekend. It was only because David was so scared. He asked me if I knew a good private detective.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I don’t think you really care about Freddie!” Emma went to the drinks tray and examined the selection. “You may be bored, Cynthia, but quarrelling isn’t the most useful way of passing the time. Sit down and practise your civilised conversation. And by the end of the week if you’ve been a good girl I’ll tell you who strangled that insufferable young man. But there’s no point in being, hysterical.” She chose a rather inferior brandy and took it to the window.
    “How will you know by the end of the week?” She was sulking now, which was preliminary to an apology.
    “Because there are two alternatives. One, that Freddie wasn’t a gentleman and that he was murdered for not paying his gambling debts or for having an affaire with someone else’s fiancée—”
    “Freddie would never have owed money to people like that.”
    “Or, two, that he was killed because of his association with the Werewolves. In the first case the police will soon find out who did it, and in the second case I shall soon find out.”
    A car was coming up the drive at seventy miles an hour. It had to be an army private with spirit, with Colonel Hayburn huddled in terror at the back.
    “What do you mean, someone else’s fiancée? You don’t think Albert would murder anyone for me?” She considered the prospect and then giggled. “That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”
    “Rattling.”
    To Emma’s astonishment the chauffeur leaped out of the car with a bugle, and standing rigidly to attention in the forecourt he blew the call for parade. It seemed as if Hayburn had started drinking early this evening. Emma. slipped her deep purple jacket over the catsuit and went out prepared for the worst.
    “If I’m raped,” Cynthia called after her, “I’ll thank you for it!”
    The chauffeur saluted as he opened the door for her, but then Emma had to hang on desperately as the car shot round in a circle and roared away down the drive. Hayburn was huddled in the dark depths of the back seat, his face occasionally lit up by the glow of a cigarette.
    “Is that Al Capone over there?” asked Emma.
    He didn’t answer.
    “Where are we going?”
    The car had turned into the Swindon road.
    “I thought we were going to see Ludwig Harris,” she murmured.
    “Eh? What do you mean?” Hayburn leaned forward and switched on the interior light. “What do you know about Harris?”
    This was the difficult part. She laughed indulgently. “Don’t you remember what you said to me last night? You must have had more to drink than I knew.” He wasn’t reassured so Emma pushed him further. “You told me that Harris was the great leader and you promised to introduce me to him.”
    The penetrating stare wavered from her face to the rest of her body. “What else did I say?”
    “You told me that the Reichsbank money — or Goering’s treasure, 1 didn’t quite follow which, was at your disposal.”
    Hayburn nodded. “You know an awful lot.”
    “I’m a member, aren’t I?”
    “Yes.” He switched off the light and they sped on in silence until he spoke again. “One of our members is a traitor.”
    The Swindon barracks had been built in the days when army discipline had been famous throughout the world. Through the guardroom and down a flight of dungeon steps led to a room where the backbone had been put into the British Empire. No-one, Hayburn explained, had ever escaped from this room, and no-one had ever left it feeling mollycoddled.
    “Until I came here this place hadn’t been used for fifty years. But I’m a traditionalist. I started using it