puckered and yellow in the morning light. He looked, Mike thought, as though he hadn’t had a wink of sleep last night, or as if he were suffering from a hangover. Only that he was the most abstemious of drinkers.
“Jan said you wanted me,” Mike said. And added as the puckers in the worried face deepened, “Is anything wrong, old man?”
“Plenty,” Daker snapped. “I tried to get you on the phone last night when I got back from the Air Council, but you weren’t at your hotel.”
“I was at a birthday party, ” Mike grinned. “In the home of our charming Miss Ferraby.”
“Good Lord!” Daker exclaimed, his dark eyes staring. He seemed quite fantastically amazed ... even shocked.
“Is there any reason why I shouldn ’ t go to birthday parties with the Ferrabys?” Mike demanded, a little annoyed.
“No,” said Daker. “Yes. How long has this been going on?”
“My dear chap, what an extraordinary tone to take! How long has what been going on? I happened to give Jan a lift last evening as she was leaving the works, asked her to have a bite of supper with me, as I was at a loose end, and she invited me to her home instead because it was her kid brother’s birthday. That’s the whole murky story in a nutshell, and without being unduly tetchy over it, I must say I can’t see that it’s any concern of yours.”
“As it happens it is pretty heavily my concern,” Daker said. He took from a drawer a much-thumbed copy of Ariel and handed it to Mike, opened at the relevant page. “Take a look at that marked paragraph,” he ordered.
Mike read the pencilled lines in silence and gave a low whistle. The lines of his jaw went tense. “Where did this come from?” he asked.
“S.M. brought it along yesterday ... called an emergency conference and had us all more or less on the carpet It’s the first serious leakage we’ve ever had and he’s pretty savage about it, naturally.”
Mike turned the magazine over and studied the flamboyant cover. “ Ariel ,” he murmured. “Never heard of it before. Who runs it?”
“Nobody seems to know. That’s one of the things we’ve got to find out. It’s printed from an address in Paris, but that might mean anything. S.M.’s news-cutting agency sent it along to him; it seems copies are on sale in one or two of the shops around Leicester Square that go in for continental publications. It hasn’t, I suppose, a wide circulation in this country, but that doesn ’ t make this E.106a leakage any less annoying. ” Daker gulped uneasily. “S.M is determined to run the writer of that paragraph to earth, and he’s convinced it’s a member of the works personnel. We went through all the possible sources of defection yesterday and the only possible trail we struck led t o ... who do you think? Jan Ferraby and her father.”
Mike made a strangled sound. “But that ’ s crazy, Daker .”
“I wi sh it was!” Daker buried his crumpled face in his hands and from his muffling palms said, “There are parts of that paragraph that are lifted straight from a memo I dictated to Jan in this very office only a couple of weeks ago. That’s something, by the way, I’m keeping under my hat for the moment—for Jan’s sake. S.M. would go berserk if he knew.”
Mike sat down, with the limp air of a man who collapses. He was for the moment beyond speech, but his whole being rang with a wild, inarticulate, denial of this monstrous thing Daker’s words affirmed. Jan with her crystal clear honesty was incapable of the treachery implied.
Daker raised his haggard face. “It was Parker who put us on the scent,” he said. “He knows, or knew, Hart Ferraby—and it was through that contact Jan entered the firm. Hart was air correspondent to the Morning News and chucked the job up about two years ago, because of some minor success he had had with a play he wrote. He was silly enough to imagine there would be other successful plays—and as it happened there haven’t been. So
“Jan said you wanted me,” Mike said. And added as the puckers in the worried face deepened, “Is anything wrong, old man?”
“Plenty,” Daker snapped. “I tried to get you on the phone last night when I got back from the Air Council, but you weren’t at your hotel.”
“I was at a birthday party, ” Mike grinned. “In the home of our charming Miss Ferraby.”
“Good Lord!” Daker exclaimed, his dark eyes staring. He seemed quite fantastically amazed ... even shocked.
“Is there any reason why I shouldn ’ t go to birthday parties with the Ferrabys?” Mike demanded, a little annoyed.
“No,” said Daker. “Yes. How long has this been going on?”
“My dear chap, what an extraordinary tone to take! How long has what been going on? I happened to give Jan a lift last evening as she was leaving the works, asked her to have a bite of supper with me, as I was at a loose end, and she invited me to her home instead because it was her kid brother’s birthday. That’s the whole murky story in a nutshell, and without being unduly tetchy over it, I must say I can’t see that it’s any concern of yours.”
“As it happens it is pretty heavily my concern,” Daker said. He took from a drawer a much-thumbed copy of Ariel and handed it to Mike, opened at the relevant page. “Take a look at that marked paragraph,” he ordered.
Mike read the pencilled lines in silence and gave a low whistle. The lines of his jaw went tense. “Where did this come from?” he asked.
“S.M. brought it along yesterday ... called an emergency conference and had us all more or less on the carpet It’s the first serious leakage we’ve ever had and he’s pretty savage about it, naturally.”
Mike turned the magazine over and studied the flamboyant cover. “ Ariel ,” he murmured. “Never heard of it before. Who runs it?”
“Nobody seems to know. That’s one of the things we’ve got to find out. It’s printed from an address in Paris, but that might mean anything. S.M.’s news-cutting agency sent it along to him; it seems copies are on sale in one or two of the shops around Leicester Square that go in for continental publications. It hasn’t, I suppose, a wide circulation in this country, but that doesn ’ t make this E.106a leakage any less annoying. ” Daker gulped uneasily. “S.M is determined to run the writer of that paragraph to earth, and he’s convinced it’s a member of the works personnel. We went through all the possible sources of defection yesterday and the only possible trail we struck led t o ... who do you think? Jan Ferraby and her father.”
Mike made a strangled sound. “But that ’ s crazy, Daker .”
“I wi sh it was!” Daker buried his crumpled face in his hands and from his muffling palms said, “There are parts of that paragraph that are lifted straight from a memo I dictated to Jan in this very office only a couple of weeks ago. That’s something, by the way, I’m keeping under my hat for the moment—for Jan’s sake. S.M. would go berserk if he knew.”
Mike sat down, with the limp air of a man who collapses. He was for the moment beyond speech, but his whole being rang with a wild, inarticulate, denial of this monstrous thing Daker’s words affirmed. Jan with her crystal clear honesty was incapable of the treachery implied.
Daker raised his haggard face. “It was Parker who put us on the scent,” he said. “He knows, or knew, Hart Ferraby—and it was through that contact Jan entered the firm. Hart was air correspondent to the Morning News and chucked the job up about two years ago, because of some minor success he had had with a play he wrote. He was silly enough to imagine there would be other successful plays—and as it happened there haven’t been. So
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