Cloak of Darkness by Helen MacInnes

row—well, it held out some highly sensitive communication devices. American. We are checking now with Washington to find out if they are authorised for sale outside of its own military requirements. We”—and there was the Frenchman speaking—“haven’t been allowed to buy them, even as America’s friends.”
    “Any more rows in the crate?”
    “A fourth one: typewriters.”
    “Neat. Any other crate examined?”
    “The freight superintendent has authorised a full check. It is proceeding right now. Coming?” Duhamel’s compact figure took three brisk steps toward the door. “We will have a firsthand view of the operation.”
    “One moment, Georges. Fill me in completely. Who sent these crates?”
    “Didn’t you guess? Why did I persuade—with some difficulty—the officer in charge to order a crate to be opened? Because, my dear Pierre, I recognised a name—a name you gave me.” He held up the clipboard, riffled through the papers to the third one. “Twelve crates trans-shipped at Algiers on the Juanita, of Barcelona registry, from the initial shipment on a Liberian freighter out of New Orleans to Algiers. The shipping agent who handled this freight, from New Orleans to Algiers to Djibouti, is the representative of—yes, you guessed it!”
    “Exports Consolidated,” Claudel said, and took a deep breath. “But why the devil didn’t you say so right away?”
    Duhamel smiled. “Because it wasn’t easy tracing all that in the last eighteen hours. I thought you ought to share some of the agony.”
    Now that Claudel looked closely at his friend, he could see a night without much sleep in the deep circles under Duhamel’s eyes: always shaded, but today dark. “Pretty good work, Georges.” We’ve got Brimmer, Claudel thought, we’ve got him.
    “The Juanita is now unloading the four crates for Djibouti. Also shipped in the same way.”
    “Exports Consolidated again?”
    “Again. It will be interesting to see what these crates contain. They are listed as office equipment: desk calculators, copying machines, typewriters. Of course”—Duhamel was thoughtful— “we do need these things in Djibouti: the Arab merchants are modernising their business. And the consignment of crates is going to Asah, a regular dealer—so perhaps this shipment is quite legitimate.”
    “Asah?” The name tugged at a strand of memory. “Has he a son who trades in a small way—by dhow—called Husayn?”
    “Yes. They are Afars, strong Muslims, sharp business-men, but there is no question mark against Asah’s name.”
    Until today, thought Claudel. And what about Husayn?
    “You know him?” Duhamel’s question was quick.
    “Asah? No. I’ve met the son.”
    “He’s more of a problem.” Duhamel didn’t expand that small statement. He went on. “About that other export house you mentioned—Klingfeld & Sons—there is nothing from them on any current unloadings from the four cargo ships now docked here. But the freight superintendent tells me that Klingfeld does export office equipment; we’ve had several shipments from them in the past. It’s a reliable firm, been in business for years. In fact, they supplied us with typewriters—and there’s one of them!” He pointed to a machine on a small table near his desk. “So we can cancel out Klingfeld, I think.”
    And I might be doing just that, Claudel reflected, if I hadn’t heard that a message from Klingfeld’s Paris office to The Hague had been intercepted. Now it’s meaning became not only clearer but threatening. Full information requested about Claudel’s presence here: Erik or the shipments? “They may be involved. Office equipment is their speciality, you said, I’ve never heard of Exports Consolidated selling typewriters.”
    “Concealment of the Klingfeld name?” Duhamel shrugged. “Is that hard information, Pierre, or a guess?”
    “A piece of information that might bolster a guess.”
    “A reliable informant?”
    “I’m taking her on