Free Gibraltar Road by Philip McCutchan Page A

discovered that Ackroyd hadn’t been in the Yacht Club either for the last twenty-four hours; further discreet inquiries told him that this could be considered somewhat unusual. It was then that Shaw, in the circumstances, began to feel a little natural concern—a concern which became real worry when he got back to the Bristol and found a coded cable waiting for him. Quickly he broke it down. The cable read:
    Contact Defence Security Officer soonest possible.
    It was from the Old Man himself.

    The security policeman at the desk in the D.S.O.’s outer office was sorting forms. He said, “I’m sorry, sir, Major Staunton is out with the Chief of Police and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
    “All right,” said Shaw. “I’ll wait, if that’s in order.”
    “Right-ho, sir, that’ll be quite O.K.” The policeman gave him a seat and Shaw lit a cigarette. He hadn’t finished it when a car stopped outside and a dark, rather saturnine man with a soldierly bearing, whom Shaw guessed was Major Staunton, hurried in with another man—a man in police uniform, evidently the Chief of Police.
    Staunton spoke to the security man at the desk. “If anyone wants me I’m not here.” The voice was clipped, brusque. “Meeting in half an hour with H.E. in The Convent, and I don’t know when I’ll be finished. Admiral and Air Officer Commanding will be there too, and the Brigadier—” He broke off as Shaw caught his eye. “Who’re you, may I ask?”
    “The name is Shaw—Admiralty Inspector of Arament—”
    “Ah, yes, I heard you were coming.” The tone was short and impatient. “Sorry. Can’t see you now.”
    “It’s by way of being important—”
    Staunton’s dark eyes flashed; even the tight black moustache seemed to stick out straighten “My dear sir,” he snapped tartly, “there’s something vastly more important than Armament Inspection going on. We’ll have to make it another time. Good day to you.”
    Staunton swept into his private office, followed by the Chief of Police, and the door was slammed shut.
    Shaw’s teeth clamped together and he felt the familiar pain in his guts. He moved swiftly over to the door before the security policeman could stop him. He jerked it open.
    “What the—” Major Staunton stared angrily, his whole face seeming to hackle up. The dark eyes, level and steady over a hawk-like nose, had gone stony. “Will you kindly get to hell out of here?”
    Shaw said quietly, “I’m sorry.” Shaw had been given absolute discretion to handle this job in his own way, and though that cable had not told him specifically to make his department known to the Defence Security Officer he knew that Staunton and the Chief of Police would be two of the most trusted men, men in whom he could confide without any qualms at all when circumstances made it necessary. Those circumstances had clearly come. Shaw reached into his pocket and produced the red-and-green-panelled Identity Card, which he passed to Staunton. He said, “I’m instructed to contact you, Major.”
    Staunton looked at Shaw, took up the card, and examined it. “I see,” he said, raising his thick eyebrows a little. He glanced across at the police chief. “Naval Intelligence,” he said quietly. “Makes rather a difference, that.” He swung back to Shaw. “Now, Commander. I’ve not been told anything about you—in this connexion.” He tapped the card. “What do you want?”
    “I want to find a man called Ackroyd.”
    Staunton looked at him keenly and grunted. He sat back for a moment. Then he said, “Excuse me just a minute, won’t you?” He reached out for a telephone, said, “Scramble line to Whitehall.” When he got through he explained briefly about Shaw, and after that his conversation consisted mainly of grunts. Then slamming back the receiver he gave Shaw another shrewd, appraising look and said, “You appear to have considerable priority, you know. Well—I’m at your disposal and I’ll help in any