CHAPTER THREE

Enter Adam Quirke

The death of the Master was fanfared and trumpeted not only throughout the British Federation but throughout the world. Gyron de London, one of the wealthiest men on Earth, had passed away. The announcements said ‘peacefully’, and inference drawn from the fact that he did not appear to have suffered any pain upon his demise. He was given a colossal funeral, at which all the high-ups and dignitaries attended. A day of mourning was announced throughout the city…then the body was removed to the mausoleum, there to lie enshrined and embalmed for all who wished to gaze upon a man who had climbed to power over the shoulders, and bodies, of others.

By the time a week had passed the business world had adjusted itself again. Somehow the air was sweeter without the iron clutch of the Master. True, there was nobody yet with enough dominance to take his place—and certainly Harry de London, who had automatically taken over his father’s control as the next-of-kin, was no autocrat. He was too young for one thing, and apparently had far too much of his mother’s good nature in him for another.

Then, by degrees, certain people began to look at each other with an unspoken thought, each one remembering the warning that had reached de London before his death. To all intents and purposes he had died naturally—or at any rate without anybody being near him—but had that really been so? The certain people who exchanged these questioning glances with each other were Harry himself, Owena, Rogers and Miss Turner. And it was Miss Turner herself who finally broke down the tension. She asked for, and was granted by her new employer, a special meeting, and here she put forth the one major interrogation:

“Did Mr. de London die of fear because of the warnings he received, or was soma outside agency responsible for his end?”

Harry and his wife looked at each other. Owena’s pretty face was blank, expressionless, and gave away nothing. Rogers, the chauffeur, waited for the next, his lantern jaw set and his mouth hard.

“I’m only an employee,” he said finally, “so I can’t see that it really signifies whether I’m here or not.”

“It signifies,” Miss Turner told him, “because you also had warnings at the same time as Mr. de London, therefore you are, so to speak, as suspect as the rest of us.”

“Suspect?” Owena raised her brows. “Frankly, Miss Turner, I don’t like your tone.”

“I’m not apologizing, Mrs. de London.” The secretary gave her a frosty stare. “I’m thinking of the various legal aspects of my late employer’s affairs. For one thing, there’s a fortune in insurances tied up in the fact of whether he died from natural causes, somehow committed suicide, or was murdered.”

“Yes,” Harry mused, “you’re right there. I’ve seen the various papers to which you refer. I was going to let it pass as death from natural causes—or rather syncope, as the doctor put it on his certificate. Do I understand you question that diagnosis?”

“I don’t question the diagnosis, but in view of the threats which preceded the death, forecasting it to the very day, I do think that the doctor may have been misled. Death may have been induced somehow.”

“Very well then,” Owena said, “let us call in the police and have them investigate. For legal reasons if nothing else we must have a proper directive in order to run this business correctly.”

“I did call in the police,” Miss Turner stated, surprisingly. “Immediately after I knew of Mr. de London’s death. The Commissioner himself took charge of the matter and his cleverest experts went to work.”

“And what did they find?” Harry asked.

“Nothing. But on the chance that something emerges from their scientific analyses back at headquarters they ordered that the strong room be closed and sealed until they gave permission for it to be reopened. That is why it is like that now.”

The others glanced towards it—that mighty hollow cube which had been erected to save a millionaire from his last visitor. The airlock was shut and across it were steel wires welded at the ends into the metalwork.

“I rather wondered about that,” Harry admitted, “but I’ve had too many other things to do to question it. You took a lot on yourself. Miss Turner.”

The secretary gave another of her arctic glances. “That is a matter of opinion, sir. Immediately after the death of my employer there was nobody in control here except me and I felt it my duty to contact the police because I knew of the warnings that had been sent. I was glad I did. The Commissioner already knew of them: apparently Mr. de London had been in touch with him.”

“All of which means you believe murder was done?” Rogers asked.

“I believe so—cleverly, subtly, ruthlessly, the victim already softened up by the warnings which had been sent.”

“And yet the police can’t find anything,” Harry pointed out. “Nothing more we can do, is there?”

“There’s one thing we can do, if you will grant me permission, and that is consult Adam Quirke.”

There was silence for a moment, then Owena asked:

“Who is Adam Quirke? I’m not very familiar with the names of important Earth people as yet.”

“Quirke,” Harry told her, with a rather whimsical smile, “is a scientist of unusual attainments. An eccentric, without doubt, but nonetheless brilliant. He acts as a free agent but is back of most of the difficult cases handled by the Interplanetary and Metropolitan police.”

“You mean he’s a detective?”

“Yes, if one can say that of a man who arrives at his conclusions by the most incredibly complicated scientific reasoning.”

“I still think he should be consulted,” the secretary said. “It’s quite obvious the ordinary police cannot find anything to get their teeth into. Quirke, on the other hand, might. With your permission I’ll call on him and see what be can do.”

“Quite all right to me,” Harry responded. “What do you think, Owena? And you. Rogers?”

“I’m neutral, sir,” Rogers replied. “If your wife says ‘yes’ or ‘no’ I’m outweighed in any case. I prefer not to cast a vote either way.”

“By all means see the genius,” Owena agreed, spreading her hands. “I’ve never seen an Earth scientific detective at work: it might prove interesting.”

Miss Turner got to her feet, frigid as a statue. “With all due respect, Mrs. de London, I feel compelled to point out that the purpose of consulting Mr. Quirke is not to study his methods but to solve once and for all how Mr. de London senior met his death. I believe we owe him that, no matter what our private feelings might be.”

“You are being insolent, Miss Turner,” Owena observed, a glint in her striking eyes.

“I am stating a fact, Mrs. de London. I spent most of my life working for Mr. de London and I want to be satisfied as to how he met his death. I will go immediately and see if I can get in touch with Mr. Quirke.”

* * * *

This did not prove very difficult. Adam Quirke lived in a detached house in the city centre, a house ringed by invisible scientific gadgets by which, through screens and microphone pick-ups he was able to survey any caller and, if necessary, even register their heartbeats and see if fear were prompting the visit. He read no such signs on the instruments trained on the unsuspecting Miss Turner as she rang the front doorbell—so he actuated the switch which made the door swing open mysteriously.

The secretary hesitated, peering into the clean, highly-polished hall, then she jumped violently as an amplified voice boomed forth:

“Welcome, madam! Straight down the hall to the door straight ahead of you marked ‘Private’.”

With some trepidation and feeling rather like a nervous heroine in a movie thriller, Miss Turner obeyed the injunction, and the moment she had crossed the compensator photoelectric beam the front door closed silently behind.

“Amazing, to say the least of it,” Miss Turner muttered, and went bravely on her way. Reaching the door marked Private she tapped upon it and immediately a voice invited her to enter.

She pushed the portal wide and hesitated nervously, gazing upon a large laboratory drenched in the odour of chemicals. She was not quite sure whether to turn tail, call, or go forward. Then she caught sight of Adam Quirke himself and stared in almost rude amazement.

Not infrequently she had seen his 3-D photograph in the newspapers and magazines, but she had not gleaned from them the real dimensions of this eccentric scientific investigator—nor indeed anything of his immense geniality. Adam Quirke was a big man, in every sense of the word with massive shoulders and what seemed to be nearly seven feet of height. Actually he was six feet nine inches and weighed twenty-two stone. Delicate instruments quivered as he lumbered across the laboratory to greet his guest—and Miss Turner, no more than five-feet two, gazed up at mm with still that astounded expression in her eyes.

“Good morning, madam,” Adam Quirke smiled, extending a vast hand. “I notice you are somewhat ill-at-ease. I can assure you this laboratory is quite harmless. “Oh—my secretary,” he added, as a woman of perhaps twenty-seven, grey-eyed and fair-haired, came into view with a notebook peeping from her overall pocket.

“I—I must confess my breath was rather taken away,” Miss Turner explained, smiling awkwardly.

“To be sure,” Quirke smiled, and waited with immense indulgence whilst his secretary brought up a chair for the visitor.

“Now, madam…” Quirke eased his colossal rear onto the edge of the nearby bench. “…maybe we can get to business. Miss Brayson will take down all the details whilst I listen. I don’t know what I’d do without her She’s—my right hand, my left hand, my eyes, my guide—everything but my wife.”

“Oh?” Miss Turner looked vaguely questioning.

“I’m married already,” Quirke explained, grinning—then his grin exploded into merriment and the two women had to wait until the storm had passed. Finally Quirke came up for air, wiping his eyes and blowing like a swimmer who has swallowed too much salt water.

“Mr. Quirke is quite a wit,” Miss Brayson explained, cocking dubious grey eyes towards the mountain.

“What would life be without a joke?” Quirke asked, spreading his hands. “But forgive me, madam, I digress. Your name?”

“I am Violet Turner, formerly First Secretary to the Master—Gyron de London. Now I hold the same position to his son.”

“So?” Quirke waited. He had a very large face, capped by an untidy mane of snow-white hair. His complexion was as pink as a teenage girl’s and his eyes a remarkable china blue. It was in these eyes that the real soul of the man seemed to lie. They varied constantly in expression—sometimes merry, sometimes pensive. And Miss Turner had no doubt they could pierce deeply into any wrongdoer if necessary.

“I am assuming,” Miss Turner continued, “that you are conversant with the details of Mr. de London’s recent death—”

“Quite conversant, madam. He died on the exact date predicted by some unknown threatener, despite the fact that he had sealed himself in a tungsten-steel cube and had the aforesaid cube surrounded by guards.”

“You are conversant, Mr. Quirke! May I ask how you—?”

“The Commissioner of Police is a personal friend. He gave me the details—partly, I feel, in the hope that I would extract some valuable suggestion from the hat. I did not do so.”

“Oh! I had rather thought—”

“I haven’t a hat,” Quirke explained solemnly, and Miss Brayson put down her notebook and stifled a yawn whilst the cataclysm of laughter broke forth again. Through it all Miss Turner also waited, her face becoming even sourer than normal.

“Your forgiveness, madam,” Quirke apologised, dabbing his eyes. “I cannot resist these quips.”

“Since you couldn’t help the Commissioner you obviously will not be able to help me,” Miss Turner said acidly. “I don’t think I need take up more of your time, Mr. Quirke.”

“And yet you came here to ask my advice? Madam, you have not given me much opportunity, have you? I gather you wish to ask the same question as the Commissioner. Was de London murdered or did he die naturally?”

“I don’t wish to ask that at all because I’m perfectly sure he was murdered. The coincidence of his death on the fatal date just cannot be accepted as natural causes.”

“I agree,” Quirke rumbled, fondling his four chins. “Please continue, Miss Turner. Getting it down, Molly?” he asked, with a glance at his secretary, and the blonde head nodded briefly.

“Matter of fact, I have nothing more to say, relative to the actual demise of my employer.” Miss Turner looked vaguely surprised at herself. “I simply came here on impulse, Mr. Quirke, because I have noticed on many occasions that you have solved problems which have had the police baffled.”

“My fame spreads—like my figure,” Quirke smiled. “I would remind you, though, that only the scientific problem is of interest to me. If you feel that Mr. de London was scientifically murdered—”

“I’m convinced he was.”

“Why?” The blue eyes sharpened to diamond points and Miss Turner felt suddenly warm.

“Because he went to such lengths to protect himself. That cube-room in which he locked himself was specially proofed against all known radiations, including cosmic. Then there were the guards around the cube. Nothing but a scientific method could have killed him.”

“So,” Quirke mused, “it would seem. The Commissioner was more cagey than explicit, I’m afraid, fearing perhaps to sound too ignorant for a man in such a responsible position. Well, madam, what do you wish me to do?”

“Examine the problem, if you will. I haven’t come of my own initiative. I’m speaking not only for myself but for the new directors of the de London Organisation, and my late employer’s chauffeur.”

“May I ask what the chauffeur has to do with it?”

“He received messages at the same time as my employer.”

“Ah, yes!” Quirke held up one sausage of a finger. “Of course. I recall the Commissioner referring to that… Dear me, I must look through the notes I made at the time and bring myself up to date. So I am asked to find out whether de London was murdered or not?”

“You are asked to find out how he was murdered. Nothing will alter my conviction that he was. For legal reasons we must know the facts.”

“I see.” Quirke levered himself from the bench and stood thinking; then his eyes flashed abruptly back to Miss Turner.

“I suppose it is a waste of time to ask if de London had enemies? Manifestly he must have had in his position. And I was one of them.”

“You!” Miss Turner looked shocked.

“I hated the sight of him.” Quirke smiled blandly. “Without speaking ill of the dead I feel bound to state that Gyron de London was one of the biggest bullies I ever met. However, that will not influence me in trying to discover who had the good sense to kill him—and—more important, how he was killed.”

“Everything regarding the cube-room is still exactly as it was when my employer was found. The Commissioner had it sealed pending further enquiry.”

“Good old Commissioner,” Quirke chuckled. “I happen to know that right now he’s counting the increasing grey hairs on his scalp as he tries to fathom what happened to de London. Well, nothing else for it, Molly, but to desert our current investigation and take a look at this new problem.”

“Yes, sir,” Molly Brayson assented, and folded up her notebook.

Miss Turner got to her feet. Quirke rid himself of the untidy smock he was wearing and replaced it with an immaculate french-grey jacket to match his trousers. His secretary reached down a dustcoat and threw it carelessly about her.

“You have everything necessary, sir?” she asked Quirke as he adjusted his florid bow tie.

“Everything necessary, yes,” he agreed, then rumbling and choking over his obscure joke he lumbered to the door and pulled it open, watching the two women go out ahead of him.

If Miss Turner had expected the gigantic scientist to talk on the de London problem during the short walk to the city’s heart she was disappointed. He merely commented on the weather, the kind of food he enjoyed, and the things he abhorred. It left Miss Turner, efficiency-plus, vaguely disturbed in mind. Had she made a mistake in asking this rumbling, chuckling, joke-cracking mountain of flesh to take up the de London mystery?

They arrived at the de London Edifice fifteen minutes later. In the private office Harry and Owena were still present, going over the files, but Rogers had departed to his duties at the estate.

In silence Owena and Harry watched the three enter, their eyes automatically drawn to the immense figure of the scientist, his mane of white hair ruffled more than ever by the wind.

“Mr. Quirke,” Miss Turner introduced, and then motioned to Owena, seated languidly, and Harry, who was standing. “Mr. and Mrs. de London, junior.”

“Delighted!” Quirke beamed and shook hands, introduced his secretary, and then settled himself in the widest armchair he could find.

“I trust Miss Turner explained the details, Mr. Quirke?” Owena questioned.

“As much as was necessary, madam. I am already fairly conversant with the case…” Quirke’s blue eyes were glancing to various parts of the office, including the sealed cube-room. “I have decided to handle the matter, though I do not guarantee success. I do not pretend to be a superman.”

“That’s rather a pity,” Harry said. “I have the feeling it will need one to get to the bottom of this business.”

“Is that a statement or a hope?” Quirke still smiled.

“Eh? A statement, of course! You don’t suppose I want the mystery left in mid-air, do you?”

“I don’t know. I just wondered, seeing as you are as involved as anybody. Well now, let’s see…” Quirke sat thinking for a moment. “Fortunately the Commissioner gave me a lot of details so that will save wearisome questioning. You saw your father on the day of his death, Mr. de London, did you not?”

“Yes. It was about the middle of the afternoon.”

“Yes. And both of you had a look inside the steel cube there and then emerged again.”

“I never said so!” Harry snapped.

“No—the Commissioner did,” Quirke smiled. “You stated that fact to him.”

“Well, yes. He wanted every detail, so I told him.”

“Very wise of you. And I am afraid the fact that you and your wife entered that cube-room automatically casts suspicion on you.”

“Rogers examined it, too, and so did I,” Miss Turner put in.

“I am aware of that also. Which makes each one of you open to complete investigation. I thought I’d make that little point quite clear to start with.” Quirke shifted position slightly and breathed heavily. “There are some details I have not got, so I may as well have them. Why did you visit your father on the fatal day, Mr. de London?”

“Just a business matter,” Owena replied, at which the blue gimlets fixed upon her, even though the smile remained.

“I am sure your husband is capable of answering for himself, madam. We’ll try, shall we?”

“It was a business matter, yes,” Harry confirmed. “Nothing at all relevant to my father’s death.”

“We do not all think alike. I’d like you to be more explicit.”

“Well, I—it was simply a matter of arranging finances.”

“How arranging them? Surely your father was capable of handling such matters without your help, sir?”

“Er…” Harry stopped and cocked an eye on Owena. She was in the midst of delivering a brassy stare from her large eyes, but apparently it was entirely wasted on the urbane Quirke.

“Let me delve a little,” Quirke said, hunching forward and puffing asthmatically. “You recently returned from a honeymoon visit to Mars, Mr. de London. Naturally your wife came back with you. The marriage did not have the blessing of your father.”

“That is mere assumption,” Harry snapped.

“Not entirely. If the marriage had had your father’s blessing every newscast and paper in town would have blared it forth: that was the de London way of doing things. What happened? A complete silence, even though an almost obscure notice mentioned the fact that Mr. de London junior and his delectable half-Martian wife had arrived at the spaceport. From that I infer that your father did not approve.”

“Correct,” Harry sighed, and did not see Owena’s bitter look.

“Good!” Quirke clapped his hands together with startling impact. “Let us go a stage further. If your father did not approve of the marriage he would hardly support it financially. Yet it used to be common gossip in society that he was your sole financial backing. Result, your income probably ceased. For that reason you made an effort to obtain a position but were discharged, when your identity became known.”

“Who says so?” Harry demanded.

“The Press said so. You do not imagine so important a man as the son of de London could involve himself in trying to take an ordinary job—and losing it—without mention, do you?”

“What are you inferring?” Owena asked sharply.

“I hardly need to infer, madam. The cause of your visit to your father, Mr. de London, was money. You needed some and came to the only source you knew of.”

Harry was silent. He had just seen Owena’s hard expression, completely transforming her usually pretty face. Adam Quirke sat back again and mopped his face.

“The amount was five-hundred-thousand, I think,” he remarked at length. “I rather wish you’d have admitted it instead of keeping silent. I’m prone to strongly suspect the silent type.”

“This is monstrous!” Harry declared. “You couldn’t possibly know the amount—”

“I again refer you to the Commissioner,” Quirke sighed. “On your father’s death murder was suspected by the police. Accordingly all his papers and personal effects were subjected to scrutiny. In his personal cheque-book was a counterfoil for five-hundred-thousand, made out to you… I’m not a magician: I just have a good memory when I can find time to exert it. Did I get the amount right, Molly?”

“Right, A.Q.,” she assented.

“And what,” Owena asked deliberately, “has all this to do with my father-in-law’s death?”

“I dunno, madam. I’m just scraping facts together and trying to get the limelight fixed clearly on each one of you. To my mind the method of murder is not so important as the motive. The Commissioner takes the opposite view. He would probably have pinned you for murder, on suspicion, Mr. de London, had he been able to prove what you’d done. Since he can’t, he’s stuck…”

“I didn’t murder him,” Harry growled, “even though I often felt like doing so.”

“Thank you for admitting that much. Now, five-hundred-thousand is a very big sum—the kind of sum your father would never have handed out without extremely good reason, particularly since you and he were at loggerheads. Now suppose we have a little get-together on the reason, eh?”

“You cannot force us to speak,” Owena pointed out.

“Very true, madam. I merely ask for co-operation. Whatever the reason it is better I know, otherwise my endeavours to unearth it may cause you considerable embarrassment.”

“It was hush-money,” Harry said bluntly. “My father perpetrated a swindle some years ago and I knew about it. So did my wife. Being without money I demanded five- hundred-thousand from my father as the price of silence. He considered it was better to pay than risk scandal.”

“Blackmail, eh?” Adam Quirke shrugged his gigantic shoulders. “All right: now we know where we are. Illegal though your action may have been I don’t propose to do anything about it because I am not even remotely interested… What did you do when you went into that cube-room?”

“Merely surveyed,” Owena replied.

“With Mr. de London senior’s permission?”

“Never asked him,” Harry said. “Just curiosity which prompted us. We didn’t know precisely what the strong room was for even though a suspicion had crossed our minds.”

“You just looked around—and what did you see?”

“Air conditioning apparatus, a big cushion on the floor and the electric light flex. Nothing more except the walls.”

“Mmmm…” Quirke sat hunched like a baby elephant that has gone to sleep. Miss Brayson, knowing him so well, was quite aware that he was very much awake, and she went on making notes silently.

“And you, Miss Turner?” The blue eyes opened suddenly and pinpointed the secretary. “You studied the cube-room too, you say? Why?”

“Purely curiosity, same as Mr. and Mrs. de London here. I knew what the room was for, of course, and I urged my employer to have some furniture, even if it was only a camp bed. He wouldn’t hear of it. He was afraid some death-dealing device might be placed in the bed fixture itself.”

“Very wise precaution. And I suppose the cushion came from home?”

“Yes. He brought it himself—wouldn’t even allow Rogers to carry it. Rogers is the chauffeur and man of all work.”

“Ah, yes. I must have a word or two with our friend later on. Tell me, Miss Turner, what were your relations with your employer?”

“Entirely normal and businesslike. I will admit right now that I respected him, even though I didn’t like him. His power and ruthlessness appealed to me.”

“You hated him, you mean?”

Miss Turner reflected. “I wouldn’t say that. I just— Well, I just didn’t like him. He used me as secretary for a number of years and never gave me a chance to make use of my youth. One might say, in a sense, that he destroyed me.”

“Which might make it reasonable to you that you should destroy him in return?”

The secretary gave a steady look. “Yes—but I didn’t.”

Adam Quirke struggled to his feet and breathed hard. Then with his hands in his jacket pockets he began to roam around the big office to the accompaniment of heavy vibrations.

“Regarding these messages which Mr. de London received,” he resumed. “I haven’t seen them since the Commissioner has them, but I will make a point of seeing them. I understand they came from Mars. You, Mr. and Mrs. de London, spent your honeymoon on Mars—and you, Miss Turner, also spent a vacation there?”

“Yes,” Miss Turner said quietly.

“I trust, madam, the significance of your Martian vacation coinciding with the threats from Mars has not escaped you?”

“I’m perfectly aware that I could be tied up with them, as could Mr. and Mrs. de London here—but I deny all responsibility.”

“Quite—but you doubtless felt a sweet sense of pleasure at seeing your employer’s reaction when he received them?”

“I gloated inwardly, yes, when I knew what the messages implied. I felt I was getting my own back for years of being browbeaten.”

“Thank you for being so frank.” Quirke turned away abruptly and heaved his huge bulk over to the cube-room. Pausing, he stood looking at it, his head with its bushy white main tilted to one side. Harry and Owena exchanged glances. Molly Brayson closed her notebook and drifted to her chief’s side. Miss Turner sat with her eyes downcast, hands limply in her lap.

“I understand,” Quirke said, without turning, “that engineers had to blast their way through this door to reach the interior?”

“They did,” Harry assented. “After that the door was put right again and sealed over, as you see it now.”

“Mmmm.” Adam Quirke did not waste any more time. He seized the wires lying across the door, and pulled one of them with all its strength until it snapped.

“Do you think you should do that?” Miss Turner asked. “After all, the Commissioner of Police—”

“Is sunk with all hands,” Quirke smiled, turning. “When I handle a case, Miss Turner, I consider no laws except my own… I see an external clamp has been fitted here additionally?”

“Formerly there were only the internal clamps,” Harry explained. “After the police investigation an outer one was fitted.”

Quirke pushed up the clamp and opened the heavy airlock then he stepped into the square, steel-lined ‘cell’ beyond and switched on the electric light. Its radiance cast on the cold metal walls, floor, and ceiling—upon the cushion, upon the air-conditioning apparatus. There was nothing more.

“Measure up, Molly,” Quirke requested, surveying his huge equator jutting like a sea buttress.

Molly Brayson promptly obeyed, pulling a spring-rule from her pocket. Miss Turner, Harry and Owena drifted to the open doorway to watch.

“Twelve by twelve by twelve,” Molly announced finally.

“A square deal, in fact,” Quirke observed, and simmered with internal laughter; then he roamed to the centre of the cube and looked above him at the electric light. Even with his hand extended over his head he could not reach the brightly gleaming bulb.

“I should hardly think the electric light had anything to do with it,” Harry remarked dryly, at which Quirke turned to him and beamed.

“Never can tell, Mr. de London. There is so little here to work on. A cushion, an air-conditioner, and the electric light. Those are the visible things. Then we have the invisible ones—the possibilities. We have to consider the factor that somehow radiations may have been driven through these dense walls.”

“But they’re radiation-proof!” Miss Turner objected. “How could anything get through?”

“Only in two ways, Miss Turner. Either through an unsuspected fault in the insulation, or else by the use of a wavelength not generally accepted in scientific circles. There are such wavelengths, as I well know.”

“We can test,” Molly Brayson suggested.

“We can and we shall—later. Meantime I will take the cushion for analysis, since it is the one moveable object. I am rather surprised the Commissioner has left it lying around.”

“It is perfectly innocuous.” Owena said. “The Commissioner had his experts examine it here on the spot.”

“His experts?” Quirke chuckled within himself and his fat shook ponderously. “My dear lady, his experts know only routine facts and how to find them. If they came across one which isn’t in their training they wouldn’t know what to do with it. I am the seeker of the improbabilities. Therein lies my unique talent.”

“Easy, A.Q.,” his secretary warned. “You’re blowing your own trumpet again!”

“Am I? Thank you for reminding me, my dear. Would you be good enough to bring the cushion?”

Quirke returned to the airlock and stepped through it. He puffed gently and looked down on the interested but vaguely doubting faces.

“The overture is complete,” he announced. “I shall reappear at various times with an assortment of equipment, and I shall also seek an early interview with our friend Rogers. Where can I find him?”

“At the de London residence,” Harry replied, and at that Adam Quirke beamed a farewell and followed the faithful Molly Brayson out of the office.