Upstairs McCann was surprised to find Miss Carter yawning desperately, entertaining M. Bren and Colonel Hunt.
“Here’s some friends of yours, Angus,” she said. “Now don’t think me rude, but I’m going to bed. Good night everybody. There’s some more beer in the sideboard.” Colonel Hunt sprang to his feet and held open the door.
M. Bren bowed punctiliously and McCann opened a bottle of beer.
“We go to France,” said M. Bren without preamble. “You had better hurry, mon vieux.”
“Good God,” said McCann, “I thought I was going to bed. What odd times you chaps choose to do things. Why the secrecy?”
“There is no question of secrecy,” said Colonel Hunt precisely. “We have been waiting for a suitable storm.”
“Well, you’ve got one now all right,” said McCann as a ferocious gust came near to fetching the signboard of the Leopard off its hinges.
“Exactly,” said the Colonel. “All trans-Channel traffic was suspended this afternoon. The Met. people say that it probably won’t be resumed for three or four days.”
“Well, that’s fine,” said McCann, settling comfortably in his chair and pouring himself a glass of light ale, “that means we can’t go.”
“Au contraire,” said M. Bren.
“It’s like this,” said the Colonel. “An interruption of cross-Channel traffic holds up the leave circuit. Trainloads of troops reach the terminal camps at Ostend and Dieppe, but none of them can get any farther. You see what this means?”
“It means a hell of a crush,” said McCann, who had had some experience of army staging camps.
“It means,” said the Colonel patiently, “that your soldier smuggler, who normally only stays in the camp for a few hours, will now be immobilised for three or four days with the stuff on him.”
“Yes,” said McCann, “I do see it really. I’m sorry to be so dense but I’ve had a trying evening. When do we leave?”
“The train quits Paddington for Plymouth at four o’clock,” said M. Bren.
“You’ve got half an hour to change and pack. Have you got battle-dress here? Good. It’s going to be a rough crossing. M. Bren has all instructions for you. One other thing. You’ll be dealing with a camp commandant at Dieppe who is a Major. You’d better become a temporary Lieutenant- Colonel. I’ll fix the paper work. Have you still got your crowns up on your battle-dress? Good.” The Colonel felt in his capacious side pocket. “Here are the pips to put up with them. Sign for them here, please.”
McCann signed the illegible tissue paper which seems to accompany all Service transactions from the issue of a bootlace to the handing over of a battleship, and was on the point of leaving the room when a thought struck him.
“Something happened tonight,” he said, “which I think ought to be reported to Inspector Hazlerigg.”
“Telephone,” suggested the Colonel.
“No-o—” Really there hardly seemed anything definite enough to telephone about. “I think I’ll put the whole thing in a written report. There’s no great urgency about it.”
“Write it in the train,” said Colonel Hunt. “Give it to the R.T.O. at Plymouth. Mark it S.M. with this code number. It’ll reach London by special messenger tomorrow evening.”