By the way, your dinner's ordered too!"
"But who the devil are you?" asked Desmond in amazement.
"On special service, the same as yon, sir!" said the man with a
grin and Desmond understood.
Really, the Chief was extremely thorough.
They went to the stores in the Haymarket, to Fortnum and Mason's,
and lastly, to a small, grubby shop at the back of Mayfair where
Desmond and his brother had bought their cigarettes for years
past. Desmond purchased a hundred of their favored brand, the
Dionysus, as a reserve for his journey back to France, and stood
chatting over old times with the fat, oily-faced Greek manager as
the latter tied up his cigarettes into a clean white paper
parcel, neatly sealed up with red sealing wax.
Then Desmond drove back to the Nineveh Hotel where he left his
taxi-driving colleague in the courtyard on the understanding that
at 7.25 the taxi would be waiting to drive him to the station.
Desmond went straight upstairs to his room to put his kit
together. In the strong, firmly woven web spread by the Chief, he
felt as helpless as a fly caught in a spider's mesh. He had no
idea of what his plans were. He only knew that he was going back
to France, and that it was his business to get on the leave-boat
that night.
As he passed along the thickly carpeted, silent corridor to his
room, he saw the door of Strangwise's room standing ajar.
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