“Yes, or a spy story,” Norma replied quickly. “Lieutenant Warren, I’ve discovered your German spy from India right here in America.”
“What? Why, that’s impossible!” The officer sat straight up to stare at her. “He was shot as a spy, two years ago in India!”
“Are you sure? Did your friend really say your photographer friend was shot?”
“Well, now,” Lieutenant Warren went into a brown study, “perhaps not just that. She did say that a photographer who had a studio facing the parade ground—I supposed he was the one I knew—was shot.”
“It might not be. Let me tell you all about it.” Norma’s voice dropped as she moved her chair close. From outside came the roar of a motor that slowly faded away.
“He calls himself Carl Langer,” Norma said.
“That wasn’t the name. But it’s easy to take a new name. Most spies do, I guess,” Lieutenant Warren said.
“I saw him the very first night we were here,” Norma went on. “I went out for a look at the moon and the sea and there he stood by the gate with a camera in his hand.”
“Oh, is he a photographer here, too?” Lieutenant Warren’s voice rose a bit.
“Yes, of course, and a very good one. His hair stands up the way it does on a pig’s back, only it’s scrubbed and shines white. His face is lined but is round and soft-looking.”