Cloak of Darkness by Helen MacInnes Page A

trust. But I think she’s most reliable.”
    “She?”
    “A professional, Georges,” was all Claudel would say. And thinking of Jean, he led into the subject of Erik.
    “Hasn’t been seen.” Duhamel was curt, slightly offended.
    “He may be in Djibouti, though. Dressed as an Arab, talking outside the market with an Englishman, so-called, who is said to be a West German and one of Erik’s early backers.”
    Duhamel recovered his usual sang-froid. “You do have your sources. Any that I can use?”
    “Have you a list of the passengers on the Spaarndam? The Englishman is called William. William what?”
    Duhamel found a sheet with the full complement of names on board the Spaarndam , ran his finger down the brief list of passengers. There was only one William. “William Haversfield.” He looked up at Claudel, said with a shrug, “If you wanted him detained for using a false passport, sorry. He’s a Dutch problem now. I think that I’ll contact the captain of the ship.”
    “No. He isn’t our business. So I was told. Most definitely. But I did need his name, his address in England, weight, height, eye colour.” That would help Interintell trace him back to his Berlin days, perhaps even lead to Erik if they made other contacts. Then another thought struck Claudel. “How many crew members are at liberty?”
    “Day passes have been issued to eleven. Don’t worry, Pierre. No one boards that ship without his pass being checked. If your Erik tries to slip in with a crowd of seamen, he won’t get far”— the telephone rang and Duhamel picked up the receiver—“I can assure you,” he told Claudel, and then began listening.
    Claudel seized the chance to read the passenger list, upside down as it was on the desk. It was a trick he had long ago perfected. There were two Jeans. One was Barton from Boston; the other was Zinner from Brooklyn, New York. Which left him not much wiser, but you couldn’t win all the time.
    Duhamel’s call was over. He repeated the report he had just received. A second crate for Ethiopia contained exactly what was stated on the manifest. But a third crate, on its bottom layer, had the latest equipment for long-range detonation of explosives. The entire consignment was being examined.
    “Quite a scene at the railway depot,” Claudel said. “What about the crates for Djibouti?”
    “They are about to be opened. Let’s go!”
    Claudel hesitated.
    “Don’t you want to see what’s inside them? Possibly nothing—as I said, the trader Asah is a reputable man. But the crates have to be opened; the name Exports Consolidated made sure of that. Come on, my friend.”
    “I don’t think I should be seen—”
    “There’s no risk—for you. I didn’t mention your name in connection with all this. Took the credit for myself in my usual modest way, said my information came from Algiers ten days ago. What more do you want, Pierre? You will simply be an old friend whom I brought along with me to see what’s going on. The innocent bystander—you always were good at that.” Duhamel clapped Claudel’s shoulder, picked up his clipboard again, and Claudel’s silent debate ended. Yes, he wanted to see the contents of these crates. Yes, it was necessary that he should see them if his report to Interintell wasn’t to be based on something he had been told. But most of all, it was a very male reaction to a friend’s remark: no risk—for you.
    As they left, Claudel said, “Georges—take care for the next few days. There could be more danger in this than we think.”
    “Danger? You and I are used to that. Now let’s talk about unimportant things, and relax.”
    They stepped into the bright burning sunshine, found refuge from it in the few minutes’ drive to a mountain of cargo stacked on an empty dock. Duhamel was talking about cars—he was proud of his little white Renault that handled so neatly and behaved like something twice its price. “All in the maintenance,” he was saying as