“But I take your point. Speak in English. And I suppose I can’t speak to anyone else.”
“Our man there is under instructions to get you out directly you’ve had your second little chat. We are allies of our friends the Belgians, but it’s always best to take precautions just in case old Mr. Hitler has eyes and ears on the ground and no one knows those eyes and ears belong to a German.” MacFarlane sighed. “Not that you have anything of interest to them, but by now they might be a bit put out by the stunt you pulled in Munich last year. In any case, to try to keep you safe and sound and not having to go up in a kite in the first place, I thought I might try to get Janssens and Martin to agree to a tête-à-tête over the telephone, but neither of them went for the bait on that one—so you’re right, you should get over there if you’re looking for the confirmation you want. So long as the delay while you’re there is worth the risk.”
“There won’t be another murder,” said Maisie. “That’s why I have just a little time to make sure.”
In the distance an aircraft could be heard approaching.
“That’ll be the five o’clock from Newmarket to a field in Belgium, via Biggin Hill,” said MacFarlane, mimicking a railway stationmaster. “Newmarket is home to this particular Lysander. Come on, Maisie, we’d better get over there.”
It was, as Maisie had expected, a cramped journey in the only passenger seat on an aircraft hailed for maneuverability. But it could do the job—the Lysander was known to be able to land or take off on almost anything, including, in this instance, Flanders farmland. Maisie had kept her eyes closed for most of the short journey, gripping the seat for support. She was a nervous flyer, and was glad to have foregone the opportunity to eat, and now, upon landing, felt her legs almost give way as she jumped to the ground, aided by the man waiting for her. He escorted her to an idling motor car, and returned to the aircraft to speak to the pilot, who handed him a large package. She saw the two men look at their watches, and the pilot nod before taking his seat once again. The man returned to the vehicle, placed the package in the back of the motor car, and covered it with a blanket. He turned to Maisie and shook her hand before opening the passenger door for her. “Lawrence,” he said.
Maisie was about to ask whether that was a Christian name or surname, but held back. She was not meant to know. Lawrence was about forty years of age; he wore trousers of dark beige and a tweed jacket. His pale green shirt was complemented by a green and yellow cravat at his neck. His hair had been combed back and oiled to keep it in place. As he began to drive out onto the country road, Maisie looked at his hands on the steering wheel. They were broad hands, the hands of someone who had done manual labor, but it was as if they had been freshly manicured in an attempt to render them less rough and ready. They were, thought Maisie, the hands of someone who could very well use them to kill.
“We’ll be in the motor for about three quarters of an hour.” With his right hand Lawrence pulled a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket, shook one out, and offered it to Maisie.
“No, thank you,” Maisie said.
He held the packet close to his mouth and clasped the most prominent cigarette between his lips. Having returned the packet to his pocket, he took a lighter from another pocket—it did not appear to concern him that the motor swerved every time he moved—and lit the cigarette. Lawrence snapped the lighter shut, put it back into his pocket, and inhaled on the cigarette. He removed the cigarette with the V between the first two fingers of his right hand, and blew smoke out of the open window. Flicking ash into a tray close to the gear-stick, he began to speak.
“Your first appointment is at half past eight, with the police chief. No need for correct salutations—a simple ‘M’sieur’ will do. Same with the mayor. Both nice chaps, though you mightn’t get much joy with either of them. Close-lipped about the war—most people just want to forget.”
“We’ll see,” said Maisie, looking out of the window across the flat land of Belgium. More than once they had passed cemeteries and memorials to war dead. “I believe they know something that will prove of use—I wouldn’t have made the journey had it not been important.”