Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens by Michael Gilbert

And, incidentally, just what is your game?”
    “Whiskey,” said Mr. Calder, “and croquet.”
    Mrs. King-Bassett gave vent to a sort of unwilling half-guffaw, somewhere deep down in her throat. It was not at all unlike the noise Rasselas had made. She said, “I’ve seen you walking round a good deal with that dog of yours. And using a pair of field glasses. What are you? Some sort of security guard?”
    “Sort of.”
    “And who are you watching?”
    “This may be a bit embarrassing,” said Mr. Calder slowly. He took a pull at the whiskey. It was good whiskey. “The man I’m chiefly interested in is, I think, by way of being a friend of yours. Albert Rivers.”
    Mrs. King-Bassett spat with force and accuracy into a vase of ferns in the fireplace. “That’s what I think of Albert Rivers,” she said. “And if he was here, I’d spit in his face.”
    “What—?”
    “He’s a slimy, two-timing, parsimonious pansy and no friend of mine. If he comes near here again, Prince has orders to take the seat out of his trousers. And he will.”
    “But—”
    “Look. I don’t mind him inviting himself round here every other day. I didn’t mind him drinking all my whiskey. I could even put up with him talking a lot of scientific mish-mash. God, how he talked! Talk and drink was all he ever did. All right. But when it comes to trying to run me in double harness with a bloody airman’s wife. . .”
    “Not very tactful.”
    “And if you’re now telling me that he’s a Russian spy and you’re planning to run him in, all I can say is, bloody good show. In fact, come to think of it, I might be able to help you. Some of that stuff he told me about his work – nerve gases and all that caper. I can’t remember all the details, but I’m pretty sure it was against the Official Secrets Act. What are those bloody dogs up to now? Fighting again?”
    “I’m afraid they’re both chasing your chickens.”
     
    Mrs. Trumpington put her head round the door after breakfast next morning and told Mr. Behrens that his bank manager wanted him on the telephone.
    “I expect it’s your overdraft,” she said. “Mine’s quite out of hand these days.”
    Mr. Fortescue said, “There’s some news from Porton which I thought you ought to have. It came to me from the Defence Ministry this morning. They’ve had a burglary. Someone broke into Colonel Crofter’s office last night and stole a fully charged cylinder of dianthromine.”
    “Why on earth would anyone do that?”
    “I’ve no idea,” said Mr. Fortescue. He sounded tetchy. “You and Calder are the men on the spot. You’d be more likely to know than I would. I think it’s time you two got together over this. You’ve been operating at different ends long enough. Get together.”
    “I’ll arrange a rendezvous,” said Mr. Behrens. “Before I ring off, could you pass on a message to Harry Sands-Douglas? The Dilly Club will be able to find him. Tell him that I think I’ve located the key to the bridge articles. The hot ones have all got a reference to ‘science’ or ‘scientists’ in the third sentence.”
    “I suppose he’ll understand what you’re talking about?”
    “He’ll understand,” said Mr. Behrens, and rang off.
    After that he did some complicated telephoning, had lunch at the Haunch of Venison, and wandered slowly back along the High Street, under the crenellated gate and into the close. Ahead of him loomed the bulk of the cathedral, like a grey whale asleep in the sun. A pair of falcons, male and female, were flirting in the air-currents round the top of the spire. Mr. Behrens entered the precincts and made his way to the seat by the west front. Mr. Calder was already there, Rasselas flat on the turf beside him.
    Mr. Behrens said, “The old man wanted me to find out how things were going at your end. He’s had no report from you for forty-eight hours.”
    “I’ve been busy. Clearing the ground. I don’t think either of Rivers’ girl friends