'It's in the hands of my solicitor now.'

'I see,' he said slowly. I don't know what he saw and I didn't really care. 'How are you feeling otherwise?' he asked. 'You're not long out of hospital.' . I looked at him over the edge of my glass. 'Have you ever been beaten up, Charlie? Given a thorough going-over by experts?'

'I can't say that I have.'

'It's the most degrading thing that can happen to a man,' I said flatly. 'It isn't so much what they do to the body; that can stand a lot of punishment. It's the feeling of utter helplessness. You're no longer your own man – you're in the hands of others who can do with you what they like. And you ask me how I feel.'

'You're bitter about it, aren't you, Max? You know, I didn't expect that of you.'

'Why not?'

'Well, you have the reputation of being a pretty cold fish, you know. You run your end of the business like a computer.'

'There's nothing wrong with being logical and acting logically,' I said.

'No.' There was a pause before Charlie said, 'I suppose the divorce will keep you in England.'

I drained my glass. 'I don't see why it should. I'm thinking of taking your advice to soak up some sun. I'll be glad to get away from London for a while.'

Charlie looked pleased. 'It'll do you good; you'll come back like a new man.'

'How is Jack Ellis settling in?'

'Very well. I'm glad you said what you did to him about the job; it's cleared the air and makes things easier all round. How long do you expect to be away?'

'I don't really know. Hold the fort, double the profits and bank the proceeds. Expect me when you see me.'

We talked idly for a few more minutes and then Charlie took his leave. I had an obscure feeling that he had not 'dropped by in passing' but had come for a reason, to get some question answered. About the divorce? About my health? I went over the conversation and wondered if he had got his answer.

I had an uneasy night. I thought of myself as seen by others – Max Stafford, the cold fish. I hadn't known Charlie had thought of me in that way. We had always been personal friends as well as getting on well with each other in the business. To get a flash of illumination on oneself through the eyes of another can sometimes come as a shock.

I slept and woke again after having bad dreams of vaguely impending doom. I lay with open eyes for a long time and then, finding sleep impossible, I turned on the bedside light and lit a cigarette.

I prided myself on thinking and acting logically, but where hi hell was the logic of goose-chasing to Algiers? The sexual bounce, maybe, from Gloria to Alix Aarvik? The desire to be the parfit, gentil knight on a white charger going on a quest to impress the maiden? I rejected that. Alix Aarvik was a nice enough girl but. there was certainly no sexual attraction. Maybe Max Stafford was a cold fish, after all.

What, then?

Maybe it was because I thought I was being manipulated. I thought of Andrew McGovern. He had tried to send Alix to Canada. Why? In the event he didn't send her. Why? Was it because I had been a bit too quick and caught her and talked to her the day before she was supposed to leave? If the damage had been done there would be no reason to send her away. I had been beaten up immediately after I had seen her. If McGovern had been responsible for that I'd have to think up some new and novel punishment for him.

Was McGovern deliberately putting pressure on me through Brinton? Brinton, on the day of the board meeting, had said he was under pressure from McGovern. What sort of a hold could McGovern have over a shark like Brinton? And if McGovern was doing the squeezing, why was he doing it?

Then there was Paul Billson. Before he entered my life I had been moderately happy, but from the moment Hoyland rang me up to have his hand held there had been nothing but trouble. Everything seemed to revolve around Paul, a man obsessed.

Logic! If everything revolved around Paul Billson, maybe he was the person to talk to. Maybe going to Algiers wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

I put out the light and slept Three days later I flew to Algiers.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Algiers is the only city I know where the main post office looks like a mosque and the chief mosque looks like a post office. Not that I spent much time in the mosque but I thought I had made a major error when I entered the post office for the first time to collect letters from poste restante. I gazed in wonder at that vast hushed hall with its fretted screens and arabesques and came to the conclusion that it was an Eastern attempt to emulate the reverential and cathedral-like atmosphere affected by the major British banks. I got to know the post office quite well.

Getting to know the wh ereabouts of Paul Billson was not as easy. Although my French was good, my Arabic was nonexistent, which made it no easier to fight my way through the Byzantine complexities of Algerian bureaucracy, an amorphous structure obeying Parkinson's Law to the nth degree.