street. Canfield followed the couple to the car.
Forty-five minutes later Canfield checked into the hotel. He had called his London contact from a public phone and they had agreed to meet as soon as the Londoner could drive down. The field accountant then spent a half hour enjoying the stability of a dry-land bed. He was depressed at the thought of going right back on board ship but he knew there was no other solution. Janet would supply the most reasonable explanation for his accompanying the old lady and it was logical that the wife and mother of the missing Ulster Scarlett should travel together. And certainly Canfield was not unhappy at the prospect of a continued association with Janet Scarlett. She was a tramp, no question; but he had begun to doubt his opinion that she was a bitch.
He was about to doze off when he looked at his watch and realized that he was late for his meeting. He picked up the phone and was delighted by the crisp British accent answering him.
'Madame Scarlatti is in suite five. Our instructions are to ring through prior to callers, sir.'
'If you'll do that, please, I'll just go right up. Thank you.'
Canfield said his name quite loudly before Elizabeth Scarlatti would open the door. The old woman motioned the young man inside to a chair while she sat on a huge Victorian sofa by the window.
'Well, what do we do now?'
'I phoned our London man nearly an hour ago. He should be here shortly.'
'Who is he?'
'He said his name is Barnes Derek.'
'Don't you know him?'
'No. We're given an exchange to call and a man is assigned to us. It's a reciprocal arrangement.'
'Isn't that convenient.' A statement.
'We're billed for it.'
'What will he want to know?'
'Only what we want to tell him. He won't ask any questions unless we request something inimical to the British government or so expensive he'd have to justify it; that's the point he'll be most concerned with.'
'That strikes me as very amusing.'
'Taxpayers' money.' Canfield looked at his watch. 'I asked him to bring along a list of religious retreats.'
'You're really serious about that, aren't you?'
'Yes. Unless he has a better idea. I'll be gone for about two and a half weeks. Did you write the letter for your daughter-in-law?'
'Yes.' She handed him an envelope.
Across the room on a table near the door, the telephone rang. Elizabeth walked rapidly to the table and answered it.
'Is that Derek?' asked Canfield, when she had hung up.
'Yes.'
'Good. Now, please, Madame Scarlatti, let me do most of the talking. But if I ask you a question, you'll know I want an honest answer.'
'Oh? We don't have signals?'
'No. He doesn't want to know anything. Believe that. Actually, we're a source of embarrassment to each other.'
'Should I offer him a drink, or tea, or isn't that allowed?'
'I think a drink would be very much appreciated.'
'I'll call room service and have a bar sent up.'
'That's fine.'
Elizabeth Scarlatti picked up the phone and ordered a complete selection of wines and liquors. Canfield smiled at the ways of the rich and lit one of his thin cigars.
James Derek was a pleasant-looking man in his early fifties, somewhat rotund, with the air of a prosperous merchant. He was terribly polite but essentially cool. His perpetual smile had a tendency to curve slowly into a strained straight line as he spoke.
'We traced the license of the Rolls at the pier. It belongs to a Marquis Jacques Louis Bertholde. French resident alien. We'll get information on him.'
'Good. What about the retreats?'
The Britisher took out a paper from his inside coat pocket. 'There're several we might suggest depending upon Madame Scarlatti's wishes to be in touch with the outside.'
'Do you have any where contact is completely impossible? On both sides?' asked the field accountant.
'That would be Catholic, of course. There're two or three.'
'Now, see here!' interrupted the imposing old lady.
'What are they?' asked Canfield.
'There's a Benedictine order and a Carmelite. They're in the southwest, incidentally. One, the Carmelite, is near Cardiff.'
'There are limits, Mr. Canfield, and I propose to establish them. I will not associate with such people!'
'What is the most fashionable, most sought after retreat in England, Mr. Derek?' asked the field accountant.
'Well, the duchess of Gloucester makes a yearly trek to the Abbey of York. Church of England, of course.'
'Fine. We'll send out a story to all the wire services that Madame Scarlatti has entered for a month.'
'That's far more acceptable,' said the old woman.
'I haven't finished.' He turned to