Free Game Without Rules by Michael Gilbert Page A

his coat pocket,” said Mr. Behrens.
    “Thass a lie too.” The man clapped a hand into his pocket, and his expression changed. He drew out the postcard-sized folder. As he did so, it fell open disclosing the photographs inside it.
    “Do you mind if I have a look at those?” said the constable.
    “It’s a plant,” said the man. “I never—”
    He handed off the constable, dodged past Mr. Behrens and started off up the pavement. Mr. Behrens, reversing his umbrella, caught him round one ankle with the handle. The man crossed his legs and fell heavily.
    “You’ll have to come along to the station,” said the constable. “I take it you’ll be preferring a charge, sir.”
    “I shall certainly do so,” said Mr. Behrens. “Here is my card. I think it disgraceful if one cannot pay a visit to London without being subjected to the attention of men like that.”
     
    Harry Sand-Douglas was a very large man, with a pink face, a mop of iron-grey hair and eyes the colour of forget-me-nots. He finished his helping of marmalade pudding, pushed back his plate and lit a pipe.
    “I think you did quite right,” he said. “I hope you can make the charge stick.”
    “It might be difficult actually to charge him,” said Mr. Behrens. “All I really hoped to do was to get rid of him. He was annoying me.”
    “They’ll hold him overnight,” said Mr. Calder. He had joined them at the port stage. “If you go round to the police station and withdraw the charge, they’ll probably let him go. Then we could put a tail on him and see who’s employing him. That really would be useful.”
    “It’s an idea,” said Mr. Behrens, “I’ll telephone Elfe tonight. The interrogation originals at Staines were incomplete. Someone’s been through them. But Harry tells me that duplicates were kept.”
    “They were microfilmed,” said Sand-Douglas. “They were too bulky to be kept in any other way. When I think of the amount of paper we filled up questioning perfectly harmless people!”
    “Where is the microfilm stored?”
    “I’ve an idea it’s somewhere at Oxford. I can find out. I’ll ask Happold. He was in charge of that side of it.”
    “Good heavens,” said Behrens. “Is Happold still alive? He must be ninety.”
    “Ninety-one,” said Sand-Douglas, “and bathes in the Cherwell every morning.”
    At half-past ten Mr. Behrens said to Mr. Calder. “Why don’t you stay the night here? I’m sure they can find you a bed.”
    “It’s kind of you,” said Mr. Calder, “but I told Rasselas I’d be back. He’ll be worried if I don’t turn up.”
    He caught the last train from Victoria to Swanly, picked up his car which he had left there and drove back to Lamperdown under a half moon, through the quiet lanes which smelled of tar and honeysuckle. A question about Mr. Behrens’ assailant was teasing him. It was a matter of timing. The morning would probably solve it. He put it out of his mind.
    Half a mile from the cottage, a grey shape loomed. Mr. Calder braked sharply, and pulled the car up before a field gate. The great dog ran up to him and stopped, head cocked.
    “All right,” said Mr. Calder. “Message received and understood.”
    He opened the gate, and manhandled his car in. It was a slight slope, and it was not a light car, but there was a surprising strength in Mr. Calder’s barrel chest and stocky legs. When the car had been hidden, he started to walk home.
    The dog ran ahead, silent as a cloud.
    Two hundred yards from the cottage, a roughly metalled track forked to the left. It led to a field, which was rented to a farmer. Rasselas went forward slowly. At a bend in the track he stopped again.
    A van was parked, facing toward him. The offside door was open and there was a man standing beside it. Mr. Calder turned softly and went back the way he had come. Fifty yards down the track there was a gap in the hedge. He wriggled through it on hands and knees, and crept up the inside of the hedge until he could see