Twenty COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE¹
I reported to Beck as soon as I got to London.
He waved his cigar at me.
“There might have been something in that idiotic² crescent idea of yours after all,” he allowed.
“I’ve turned up something at last, have I?”
“I won’t go as far as that, but I’ll just say that you may have. Our construction engineer, Mr.
Ramsay of 62, Wilbraham Crescent, is not all he seems. Some very curious assignments he’s takenon lately. Genuine firms, but firms without much back history, and what history they have, rather apeculiar one. Ramsay went off at a minute’s notice about five weeks ago. He went to Rumania.”
“That’s not what he told his wife.”
“Possibly not, but that’s where he went. And that’s where he is now. We’d like to know a bitmore about him. So you can stir your stumps³, my lad, and get going. I’ve got all the visas readyfor you, and a nice new passport. Nigel Trench⁴ it will be this time. Rub up your knowledge of rareplants in the Balkans. You’re a botanist⁵.”
“Any special instructions?”
“No. We’ll give you your contact when you pick up your papers. Find out all you can about ourMr. Ramsay.” He looked at me keenly. “You don’t sound as pleased as you might be.” He peeredthrough the cigar smoke.
“It’s always pleasant when a hunch⁶ pays off,” I said evasively.
“Right Crescent, wrong number. 61 is occupied by a perfectly⁷ blameless builder. Blameless inour sense, that is. Poor old Hanbury got the number wrong, but he wasn’t far off.”
“Have you vetted⁸ the others? Or only Ramsay?”
“Diana

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