The Sergeant was licking the blood off one of his knuckles. He glanced at George and then, sitting down at the table, took the passport from Miss Kolin’s satchel.
“Maria Kolin,” he remarked. “French.”
“I asked where she’s being taken.”
Arthur was standing behind him still. “I wouldn’t try getting tough, Mr. Carey,” he advised. “Don’t forget, you brought her here.”
The Sergeant was examining the passport. “Born in Belgrade,” he said. “Slav.” He shut the passport with a snap. “And now we will talk a little.”
George waited. The Sergeant’s eyes rested on his.
“How did you find out, Mr. Carey?”
George hesitated.
“Talk fast, chum.”
“The truck the Corporal brought us up in-it had slots for false number-plates and the plates were lying inside on the floor of the truck. They were the same numbers as those mentioned in the Salonika papers.”