The Best American Mystery Stories 1998

Edward D. Hoch The Old Spies Club from Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

Rand had been retired from British Intelligence for a good many years, but it was not until he turned sixty that he was invited to join the Old Spies Club. That was not its official name, of course, but around London’s clubland it was often called that, especially by nonmembers who may have been a bit jealous of its exclusive status and impressive membership.

The club itself occupied three floors of a late-Victorian building on St. James’s Street, just a short walk from Piccadilly. The main floor was given over to the gentlemen’s lounge and the dining room, with a billiard room, card room, smoking lounge, library, and the other amenities one might expect. On the second floor were rooms for meetings or private dinners, along with the club’s offices. The third floor contained three dozen residential rooms where members might stay for a day or a year. These were often occupied by members in the city on a visit, although some members also found them useful when death or divorce suddenly changed their marital status.

Rand had taken a good deal of kidding from his wife Leila about being elderly enough for the Old Spies Club, and in truth he had never been much of a joiner. He was a bit dismayed the first time he took the train up from Reading and stopped in the place one warm July afternoon. The first person he met, just inside the door, was Colonel Cheever, a blustering old man who could have starred in any number of film comedies about the army. It was hard to imagine he’d ever been engaged in any sort of intelligence work.

“Rand! How are you, old chap? I saw your name come up on the new member postings. Good to have you aboard.” His gray moustache drooped around his thick lips and he had a habit of spitting when he spoke quickly, but Rand had to admit he seemed trim and in good health for his age. Cheever had been in army intelligence, far from Rand’s own sphere of activity. Their paths had only crossed a few times at government functions Rand couldn’t avoid.

Now, in trying to be politely friendly, he asked Cheever, “Do you come here often, Colonel?”

“I’m here for the meeting at two o’clock. I expect you are too.”

“No,” Rand admitted. “I was just in the city for the day and thought I’d acquaint myself with the place.”

Colonel Cheever smiled. “Let me give you the tour.”

Rand admired the comfortable leather armchairs in the lounge, wondering if he’d ever be elderly enough to pass his afternoons in such a place. “The air in here used to be blue with cigar smoke,” the colonel explained, “but now the smokers have been relegated to a smaller lounge down the hall. Times do change.”

He led the way through the spacious billiard room and the card room, where green-shaded lights hung down over felt-covered tables.

“I imagine there are some wicked card games in here,” Rand commented.

“Wicked, indeed! I prefer bridge, but most players like faster methods of losing their money.”

The dining room, with its rows of neatly arranged tables, was quite inviting and Rand made a mental note to dine there sometime with Leila. When they’d reached the second-floor meeting rooms it was two o’clock, time for the colonel’s meeting. Rand started to excuse himself but saw another familiar face among those entering the meeting room. “Harry! Harry Vestry!”

The slender smiling man turned at the sound of his name. “Well, if it isn’t Rand! Good to see you, old chap. How long have you been gone from Concealed Communications now?”

“Too long, Harry. I’m old enough to qualify for this club, after all. And Double-C doesn’t even exist anymore under that name.” Vestry chuckled. Rand had been a close friend of Vestry’s when they were recruited together for intelligence work, but the vagaries of overseas assignments had separated them after a few years. “Look, why don’t you sit in on our meeting, Rand? It’s nothing really secret, and you may have some good suggestions to toss in.”

“I don’t even know what it’s about,” Rand protested mildly.

Vestry smoothed back his thinning gray hair. “Finding the truth, old chap. That’s what it’s about.” Then, acknowledging Cheever for the first time, he urged, “Bring him along, Colonel. It’s an open meeting.”

Cheever placed a hand on Rand’s shoulder. “You heard the man. Come along and join us.”

There were a dozen of them around the long oval table, though seats had been provided for twice that number. Rand had already observed that, like most London clubs, this one had not yet progressed to admitting women. Harry Vestry took his place at the head of the table, ready to conduct the meeting, and it was obvious he’d been within his rights when he invited Rand to sit in. Looking around the table at the other men, all about his age or slightly older, Rand was surprised that he knew so few. Cheever and Vestry were the only two he could have named, though a tall man with a red face and a bald head like a bullet seemed familiar.

“I think we all know the purpose of this meeting,” Vestry began when the others had quieted their conversations.

Rand raised his hand. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Of course, Jeffrey. I forgot. Well, you probably read in the papers last winter about the death of Cedric Barnes during heart surgery. He was the author of all those books on famous British spies, double agents, MI5, MI6, and Air Intelligence. I believe he even did a volume on Concealed Communications, your old department.”

Rand remembered. He’d read it when it came out, feeling a perverted sense of pride when he found sixteen references to himself in the index. Even in a top-secret organization it was nice to achieve some level of recognition. Oddly enough, he’d thought of Cedric Barnes just a few days earlier, after reading a news account from America that stated that the CIA had agreed to stop employing journalists in the gathering of intelligence data. “I had lunch with the man once,” Rand said. “He wanted an interview but it was forbidden by the Official Secrets Act. I don’t know where he obtained all his information.”

“It hardly matters now,” Vestry said. “What matters is that his daughter Magda intends to auction off the furnishings from his country house. Barnes’s wife has been dead about ten years, so everything went to the daughter. The auction is scheduled here in London next week, at Sotheby’s. Many of us believe grave danger can be done to the country if that auction is allowed to go forward.” Rand was a bit surprised when he allowed his gaze to circle the table and saw that the others were taking this seriously. “Do you really think he had some top-secret papers hidden in a piano leg?”

“Such things are possible,” the tall red-faced man said. “He worked at home with his daughter’s help, and we already know certain well-placed journalists will be bidding on select pieces. A diary or journal could be invaluable.”

Harry Vestry continued. “My proposal, gentlemen, is that we stop this auction by placing a preemptive bid for the entire offering. I have already spoken to Magda Barnes about the possibility and she is agreeable.”

“How much does she want?” Colonel Cheever asked.

“One million pounds.”

There were sighs and groans from around the table. “The club doesn’t have that sort of money,” someone said.

“We may be able to negotiate a lower figure,” Vestry tried to reassure them. “But we must all realize the importance of this matter.”

Rand spoke again. “If it’s so important, why doesn’t the government step in and take action?”

“We understand they have done all they can on an official basis,” Vestry answered vaguely. Rand wondered if he was implying that the government had appealed to the Old Spies Club for financial backing in the matter.

It was Colonel Cheever who seemed most vocal in opposing Vestry. “Are you saying you expect the members in this room to come up with the million pounds necessary to cancel the auction? Such a suggestion borders on the ridiculous!”

Vestry tried to remain calm against this attack, but the members around the table quickly chose sides. After most of them had spoken, it seemed obvious he was in the minority. “The money just isn’t there,” the red-faced man said.

“Do you have any other suggestions, Shirley?” Vestry asked.

At first the use of the feminine name jarred Rand, but then something clicked in his memory. Shirley Watkins, the man with a woman’s name. During his years of covert government service Shirley’s job had always been assassination. Few knew his name and fewer still had seen his face. Rand had met him just once in Berlin, twenty years ago, but supposed him long dead. Could this possibly be the same man?

“Let me talk to the daughter,” Shirley suggested. “Maybe I can make her see reason.”

It might have been an innocent remark, but coming from this man it could also have been a death threat. Rand knew his imagination was running away with him but still he raised his hand and spoke. “If you’ll excuse me, I wonder if I might be of service, gentlemen. As I said, I had lunch with Cedric Barnes a few years back when he wanted an interview for the Double-C book. His daughter might remember my name if she helped him with the book.”

“That’s very good of you, Rand,” Colonel Cheever said at once. “What say you all? Shall we take Jeffrey up on his offer?”

There were assents from around the table, and perhaps a sense of relief. Rand wondered what he was getting himself into.

Sotheby’s London auction rooms were located on New Bond Street, in a remodeled four-story building that probably dated from Georgian times. The building ran through the block to St. George Street, and the main entrance was around the back. It was here that Rand entered, stopping to purchase a pricey full-color catalogue of that week’s lots to be auctioned. The one that interested him was titled simply Items from the Country House of an Author and Journalist.

He went upstairs to the second-floor exhibition hall and spent the better part of the next hour inspecting an array of furniture including antique desks, chairs, tables, lamps, even a four-poster bed with a canopy. Barnes’s old manual typewriter was there with a shiny new plastic ribbon in place. A pile of books, neatly tied in manageable bundles of twenty or so, was being sold as a separate lot. Glancing over the titles, Rand recognized some of the Cold War classics, plus a few books on espionage in general and World War II in particular. David Kahn’s thick volume The Code Breakers was there, along with Hitler’s Spies, and Robert Harris’s recent novel Enigma. There was also a complete set of Cedric Barnes’s own books, many in foreign-language editions, leaving little doubt as to the identity of the “author and journalist.” An array of office supplies, a camera, and a tape recorder completed the lot.

Rand spent the rest of his time studying the others who roamed through the exhibition hall. One that he recognized at once was Simon Spalding, a columnist for the Speculator. He was an expert at digging up dirt on the Royal Family, and perhaps now he was widening his horizons.

On his way out Rand stopped in the office and requested a ticket to the auction itself. The young woman behind the desk informed him that no tickets were necessary. “Anyone may attend our regularly scheduled auctions,” she said. “However, if you think you might be bidding you should register at the door and receive a numbered paddle which you hold up to signify a bid.”

“I wonder if you could help me with one other matter. Could you put me in touch with a family member regarding this auction?” Apparently she was accustomed to such requests. “You may place an early bid with us for any item you wish.”

“This is more of a family matter,” he said, purposely vague.

She glanced toward the closed door to an inner office. “Just a minute, please.” She tapped lightly on the closed door and then entered.

After a moment she emerged with a dark-haired woman, perhaps in her middle thirties, wearing a bright summer dress that looked expensive to Rand’s untrained eye. She smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Magda Barnes. The items to be auctioned are from my father’s house. I came by today to see how they were being displayed. May I be of service?”

He accepted the hand, which was surprisingly soft. “Is there somewhere we could talk in private, Miss Barnes?”

“I was using their conference room to review the catalogue. Perhaps we could talk in there.” She glanced at the secretary, who nodded permission.

Inside the small room Rand introduced himself and came right to the point. “Your father was a respected journalist. I met him once and you may recall I was mentioned several times in his book on the Department of Concealed Communications. Some of us, now retired from the Service, are concerned that your father’s possessions might contain some hidden notes that could fall into the wrong hands.”

She smiled at the thought. “No, no — I’ve been over everything being offered at auction. I examined and searched each item at least twice. There are no hidden notes or journals. All his personal papers and manuscripts will be given to Cambridge University.”

“Miss Barnes, the feeling is that he might have come into possession of material he could not publish under the Official Secrets Act. Do you know what he was working on at the time of his death?”

The smile faded as she began to comprehend the people he represented. “Did that man Vestry send you?”

“I have spoken with Harry Vestry. He did not send me.”

“He knows my price.”

“One million pounds is beyond our resources.”

“Then the auction will go on as planned, even though I realize I won’t come close to that figure. Men like Vestry fought my father all his life. I owe him nothing.”

“When I was looking over the items just now I spotted a familiar face. Simon Spalding. You certainly don’t owe him anything.”

The news didn’t seem to bother her. “He knew my father years ago. I remember him visiting the house once around the time of Sadat’s assassination. It’s not surprising he’d be interested in the exhibition. Perhaps he might even bid on something.”

“Has he approached you about any particular piece?”

“No.” She stood up from the table and said, “I really must be going, Mr. Rand. We have nothing further to discuss. Tell Harry Vestry the auction will go on as planned.”

He sighed and left the room after a few polite words. Then he went downstairs into the warm July afternoon. He’d walked about a block when someone fell into step beside him. It was the bulletheaded former assassin, Shirley Watkins. “Didn’t do so well, did you, Mr. Rand? I could have told you that. She’s the sort of woman needs a little fright before she sees reason.”

The following morning, as she was leaving to deliver one of her summer lectures on Egyptian archaeology at Reading University, Rand told Leila he’d be going into London again. “Two days in a row?” she asked, somewhat surprised.

“Maybe three. There’s an auction at Sotheby’s tomorrow that I should attend. It’s part of Cedric Barnes’s estate, the fellow who wrote those insider books about British Intelligence.”

“I hope you’re not going to buy anything.”

“I’ll try not to,” he said with a grin.

This time only three of them were in the meeting room on the second floor of the Old Spies Club. Vestry and Colonel Cheever listened intently as Rand told them what had transpired the previous afternoon. “When I suggested contacting Magda Barnes I had no idea that Shirley would be dogging my steps. Did one of you send him after me?”

“Hardly, old boy,” Cheever answered. “You know Shirley. He has a mind of his own.”

“Look, the auction is taking place tomorrow morning. Shirley can’t stop it. You can’t allow him to threaten that woman in any manner.”

“Nothing could be further from our minds,” Vestry assured him. “We’re out of the game now, retired. I don’t break codes anymore and Shirley Watkins doesn’t kill people. Is that understood?” Colonel Cheever snorted. “I doubt that he ever did kill people. It was probably all a scare campaign to intimidate the other side.”

“Maybe he started believing the campaign himself. He spoke of Barnes’s daughter needing a little fright to see reason. I told him to leave her alone.”

“Did you look over the auction items?” Vestry asked. “Any likely hiding places for notes or a journal?”

“A desk or coffee table could have a hidden drawer or a false bottom. If it’s on microfilm or a microdot the possibilities are endless.” Rand decided it was time to bring things out in the open. “Look here, there’s something about this whole business you’re not telling me. You talk of spending upwards of a million pounds, of threatening Barnes’s daughter, of keeping the press away. From what? What’s in this journal that makes it so valuable?”

Vestry maintained an uneasy silence until Colonel Cheever started to speak. Then he interrupted to say, “You might as well know, Rand. Rumor has it that Cedric Barnes once interviewed a double agent, someone working for us who was on the verge of defecting to Moscow. This was to be the man’s swan song, his public rationale for his actions, not to be published until he was safely out of the country.”

“And—?”

“And at the last moment something changed. The double agent never defected, and Cedric Barnes kept his word. He never published the interview.”

“How long ago is this supposed to have happened?” Rand asked. Harry Vestry shrugged. “In some versions it was 1985. Other versions have it way back in the seventies when Barnes was still a relatively young man. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“And yet the dozen men around this table yesterday all believe it happened. Not only that, they believe the interview still exists somewhere. Why would Barnes keep it all these years? Why not simply destroy it?”

“Unfortunately, he was a newspaperman,” the slender man answered. “I imagine he kept it all these years on the off chance that the man might defect after all. The Cold War ended, the Berlin Wall came down, and still he kept it.”

“You have no way of knowing that with any certainty,” Rand pointed out.

“Simon Spalding knows it, and he’s after the journal.”

Someone else knew it too, Rand suddenly realized. The man who had given the interview. Naturally he would have begged Barnes to destroy it after he decided to remain in England. Naturally he would suspect it was still in existence. He would have been most anxious to keep it out of Spalding’s hands.

Rand found himself asking the obvious question. “Which of the club members first brought up this matter? Who was it that wanted the auction stopped?”

Colonel Cheever answered. “We’d all heard the rumors, of course. They say Barnes dropped hints himself on nights when he’d had a few too many brandies. When the auction was announced, several of us were concerned. I suppose Harry and I took the lead in it, but it was Shirley who talked it up and arranged for the meeting. He claimed to have two dozen of the old boys, but as you saw, only half that number really appeared when the time came.”

“Eleven of us, really,” Vestry corrected. “Rand was an addition, you’ll remember. I’d say you and I and Shirley were the organizers. The other eight were lukewarm to the idea.”

“Could you give me a list of their names?”

“What in heaven’s name for?” Vestry still possessed the field agent’s reluctance to commit anything to paper.

“If there’s any truth to the rumors, the mysterious double agent could be retired now. He could even be a member of this club. If so, he would have been especially interested in attending your meeting yesterday.”

“Nonsense!” Cheever blustered. “I’ve known these people for most of my life. I’d vouch for any of them.”

Rand ignored him and asked Vestry, “Where can I find Shirley Watkins?”

The slim man considered his question. “If he’s not here he’s most likely at the Moon and Stars. It’s a pub down by the river, near Canary Wharf.”

The two worlds of Shirley Watkins were vastly different from one another. The quiet luxury of the Old Spies Club was only some eight kilometers from the Moon and Stars Pub at Canary Wharf, but they were separated by more than distance. Once a haven for seamen off the nearby docks, now it was a meeting place for office workers from the tallest building in England. Even a recent IRA bombing had done little to frighten people out of the area. On this summer Wednesday the place was crowded and the aroma of beer mixed with a haze of cigarette smoke.

Rand spotted Shirley Watkins at once, seated in a booth with a middle-aged woman wearing too much makeup. He had on a suit and tie, and his bald bullet head seemed to reflect the overhead lights as he drank from a pint of stout. A decade or so older than the other male customers, he could still have been an executive from one of the Canary Wharf firms. When he saw Rand heading for him he told the woman, “Here’s business. I’ll talk to you later.” She gave Rand a sour look and exited the booth.

Rand slipped in to take her place. “I want to speak with you about the auction,” he began.

Shirley eyed him, sizing him up. “How’d you find me?”

“Harry Vestry said you might be here.”

“Yeah, Harry. I think he still spies on all of us, just to keep his hand in.”

“Did you take my advice about Magda Barnes and stay away from her?”

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whatever you say is fine with me. I was always one for obeying orders.”

Rand deliberately avoided making eye contact, fearing he might detect a touch of irony in the words. “I was talking with Vestry and the colonel this afternoon. They told me about the rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“The interview that Barnes is supposed to have done with a double agent before he defected.”

“Yeah, that.” Shirley Watkins downed the rest of his pint. “Do you believe any of it?”

“I don’t know. I heard it for the first time about an hour ago.”

“Well, I’ve got my doubts, but I’ll do whatever they want.”

Rand frowned at the words. “What do you mean by that?” he started to ask, then cut himself short. Another familiar face had just entered the Moon and Stars.

“What’s the matter, Rand?”

“That reporter Spalding just came in. He must have followed me.”

“Say the word and he’ll be feeding the fishes.”

Rand gave a dry chuckle. “Did you ever in your life really kill anyone, Shirley, or has it all been an act?”

“I’ve done my part.”

“Haven’t we all?” He slid out of the booth. “I’d better go talk to Spalding.”

The columnist was nursing a half-pint, trying to avoid looking in the direction of the booth, when Rand joined him. “You’re Simon Spalding, aren’t you? I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced. I’m Jeffrey Rand.”

Spalding was a slender man in his early fifties with thinning brown hair and a crooked nose that might have been broken in his youth. “Oh yes. One of the retired spies. There are a great many of you around these days, aren’t there? You must have hated to see the Cold War end.”

Rand already knew from Spalding’s columns that he didn’t particularly like the man. “I retired from the Service long before the end of the Cold War,” he said, and then asked, “Were you a friend of Cedric Barnes? I saw you at Sotheby’s yesterday.”

Spalding shrugged. “A fellow journalist. I was interested in what was being offered. I only met him once, at some awards dinner.”

“I suppose his daughter has already removed anything of special value.”

He shot Rand a glance that seemed an unspoken question. “We don’t know that. Sometimes people have clever hiding places for their valuables. They even sell fake beer cans now so you can hide your money and jewelry in the fridge.”

“Good idea, so long as the thief doesn’t have a thirst. I gather you’ll be at the auction tomorrow morning?”

“Sure. I’d like to pick up a souvenir of the old guy.”

“There are legends about him, about the stories he didn’t publish.”

Simon Spalding laughed. He was warming a little toward Rand. “We all have stories that don’t get published for one reason or another, same as you blokes. I remember back in nineteen eighty-one when the Speculator took me off the European desk and gave me the column to write, I passed along some great story leads to my successor but nothing ever happened.”

“Tell me something, just between us,” Rand said with a smile. “Who are you following this evening — me or Shirley?”

“They say that man is a government-authorized assassin.”

“Does he look like one?”

“Damn right he does!”

“Then he’s probably not. Not anymore, certainly. He’s retired, same as the rest of us.”

A sly look came over the columnist’s face. “Member of the Old Spies Club, is he?”

“What’s that?”

“The place on St. James’s Street where you all go. That’s what they call it, don’t they? I’d do a column about it if I wasn’t afraid of getting sued.”

“Stick to the Royal Family,” Rand advised. “It’s safer.”

He moved away from the bar and headed for the door, waving goodbye to Shirley Watkins.

Rand had to catch the early train into London for the auction the following morning. He was up before Leila because he wanted to clean and oil the little Beretta pistol he hadn’t fired in years. Just seeing him with it would have upset her, he knew. But catching sight of himself in a mirror, he realized how foolish he looked. He was too old for these things. Deadly weapons were not for Sotheby’s, and certainly not for the Old Spies Club.

The first familiar face he saw as he entered the auction house and registered for his plastic paddle was Harry Vestry, standing near the door and glancing at his watch. “I was hoping you’d be here, Rand.” He glanced at Rand’s paddle. “Number Seventy-seven! Sure to be lucky if you care to bid. If Cheever and Watkins get here too, I’d like to position us in different parts of the hall where we can keep track of the bidding. I know it’s often impossible to identify the high bidder, especially if it’s made by phone, but we can try.”

Still playing the old spy, Rand thought. “Simon Spalding is sure to be here, bidding on something. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Good! I saw him go in a few minutes ago. He took a paddle, so he plans to bid.”

But when Rand entered the large high-ceilinged auction room with its twin chandeliers and rows of folding chairs, the first person he saw was Magda Barnes, immaculate in a white summer suit. “We meet again, Mr. Rand.”

“So it seems.”

“Will you be bidding on any of my father’s items?”

“I may.” He lifted number seventy-seven and gave it a little twirl. “Good luck! You have a nice crowd.” Then he went off to find a seat.

The auction had already started and they were on the fifth item, Rand estimated there were about a hundred and fifty people in the room. Some, apparently the high bidders, were in glass booths above floor level. They seemed to be connected by telephone to their agents on the floor. Above the stage where the auctioneer stood, a large electronic sign gave the latest bids in pounds sterling, dollars, francs, yen, and other currencies. As each item was announced for bidding it was shown on a turntable next to the auctioneer. Spotters along each side of the room watched for bids that the auctioneer might miss.

Rand could see that the prices were running fairly high for the antique items. Personal items and office supplies brought less, although Simon Spalding, seated a few rows ahead of Rand, paid two hundred pounds for Barnes’s old manual typewriter. Rand was surprised when Colonel Cheever suddenly appeared, raising his paddle from a back row to bid on the collection of books. The bidding was lively but Cheever finally lost out.

The canopied four-poster bed, too large for the turntable, was wheeled onto the stage. It went to a dark-complexioned man who may have been an Arab. Barnes’s writing desk fetched a good sum from a neatly dressed young couple.

Finally Rand spotted Shirley seated On the aisle near the rear. He held a plastic paddle with the number sixty-eight on it. That probably meant he’d come in before Rand, yet Harry Vestry at the door hadn’t noticed him. It signified nothing, of course. Vestry might have stopped in the men’s room for a moment.

The collection of Cedric Barnes’s own books, in various languages, was the last item to be auctioned. This time Colonel Cheever tried again, with better results. He took the lot for eleven hundred pounds.

Several of the winning bidders went to the office to settle up and claim the items if they were small enough to carry. Rand was on his way out when he ran into Simon Spalding at the St. George Street entrance. “Did you bid on anything?” the columnist asked.

“Not a thing. But I see you picked up that old typewriter.” Spalding hefted it in its leather carrying case. “It’s worth about a tenth of what I paid, but I wanted a remembrance of the old guy. He was one of the tops in the business.”

Rand smiled in agreement. “He certainly was that.” He glanced at his watch. “Look here, Spalding, it’s nearly one o’clock. We both could stand a spot of lunch. The Old Spies Club, as you referred to it, is only a few blocks away, just across Piccadilly. Come along with me and I’ll treat you.”

Spalding quickly accepted. “That’s very generous of you, Rand. I’ll admit to being curious about the place.”

As they entered the club, he suggested that Spalding might want to leave the typewriter in the checkroom, but the columnist clutched it firmly. “Oh no! This cost me two hundred pounds and I’m hanging onto it.”

Rand chuckled and led the way into the dining room. After a luncheon of roast beef and blood pudding, topped with red wine and finished off with trifle for dessert, Spalding took out a cigar and they adjourned to the gentlemen’s smoking lounge. It was deserted at this hour of the afternoon except for one man sleeping in an armchair, his bald head visible over its top. The columnist lit his cigar, offering one to Rand, who declined. Then they settled back in the comfort of the overstuffed leather armchairs.

“I can see why you chaps like this place,” Spalding said. “It’s a perfect setting to wile away one’s retirement.”

Rand smiled slightly. “Now that we’re comfortable, suppose you show me the typewriter.”

“What? This thing?”

“The very same.”

“What for?”

“So I can confirm my suspicion as to the identity of the fabled double agent.”

Simon Spalding laughed. “You think this old manual typewriter of Barnes’s will tell you that?”

“I know it will, and so do you. Who ever saw a shiny plastic ribbon on a manual typewriter? They all used fabric ribbons.” He reached down and unzipped the leather carrying case. The columnist made no attempt to stop him. “It’s a bit narrower than the quarter-inch plastic ribbons that electric typewriters use. There was all this talk of a journal, but Cedric Barnes used a tape recorder for interviews, didn’t he? They even auctioned one off today.” Rand removed the ribbon from the machine. “It’s a tape, masquerading as a typewriter ribbon. The tape of Barnes’s infamous last interview with the double agent.”

“It’s going to make me a rich man,” Simon Spalding said.

“Or a dead one. Suppose I get a machine and we play this tape right now.”

“Here?”

“We’re alone except for that fellow sleeping in his chair. We won’t disturb him. Don’t you want to know the size of the fish you’ve landed?”

“I’d rather find out back in the office.”

“Funny thing,” Rand said, keeping his voice light. “You told me yesterday you only met Cedric Barnes once, at an awards dinner. But his daughter said you were at their house back around the time of Sadat’s assassination. That would have been nineteen eighty-one, wouldn’t it?”

“You have a better memory for dates than I do.”

“There were rumors about Barnes’s unpublished interview with a double agent, a defector who changed his mind at the last minute. Rumors of a journal Barnes kept of the interview. Only Barnes didn’t keep journals, he used a tape recorder. One person would have known that for sure, would have known exactly what to look for among the items to be auctioned, would have spotted that recording tape disguised as a typewriter ribbon. The man Barnes interviewed, the double agent himself.”

“Damn you, Rand!”

“If I’m wrong, play the tape for me.”

Spalding’s hand came out of his pocket holding a small automatic pistol. Rand remembered his own gun and wished now that he’d brought it.

“I’m a journalist, remember, not one of you spy boys!”

“You don’t look much like a journalist with that gun. I suppose the British and Russians used journalists occasionally, just as the CIA is sometimes accused of doing. Your job on the European desk was the perfect place to gather information. As for that interview, a journalist would be the most aware of a good news story, and the most likely to tell Barnes his side of the story before he defected.” Simon Spalding held the gun very steady. Behind him, Rand thought he could hear the sound of the bald man snoring. “If what you say is true, why would I change my mind after giving Barnes the interview?”

“Because the Speculator gave you a column.”

His face had become a frozen mask. “How could you know that?”

“Magda Barnes remembers you at the house in nineteen eighty-one, around the time of Sadat’s assassination. You told me last evening they took you off the European desk and gave you the column in eighty-one. Did you desert Communism for a newspaper column, Simon?”

“That’s what Barnes asked me! I should have killed him before his tongue got loose and he started those rumors. I thought I’d put it all behind me, especially after the collapse of the Soviet Union.” Rand reached out his hand. “Give me the gun. It’s much too late in the game to be shooting people.”

Spalding raised the pistol, to fire or to surrender it. Rand would never know which. There was a low cough from behind the man’s chair and a flower of blood burst from his chest. His head went back and he lay there dead.

The bald man was Shirley Watkins, and the silenced pistol was out of sight before Rand ever saw it. “Thought you might need help,” he said. “Hated to put a hole through the chair, though.”

“You were already here when we entered,” Rand protested.

“Saw him waving his cigar around the dining room. Knew you’d head this way.”

Rand stared at the body, and then at Shirley. “You really are an assassin.”

“I was once, in my younger days.”

“What do we do now?”

“Forget it ever happened. I’ll handle everything. If that tape is what you say, the whole thing will be hushed up. This is the Old Spies Club, remember?”

Rand caught the evening train home.