Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

“I know someone who can.” Rand glanced at his watch. It was still snowing outside and he hated the thought of another trip into London the following day. “Maybe I can get back to you this afternoon, but I can’t promise that. I’ll either be back before five or I’ll phone you.”

“Very good, Mr. Rand. I’m in your hands.”

Rand gathered up the Polaroid photos. He put on his coat and said goodbye to Janice Casey on his way out. Then he hailed a taxi for his old office overlooking the Thames.

It was Rand’s first visit to Concealed Communications in nearly a year, and he was distressed at the number of empty desks. “We’ve been cutting back, like everyone else,” Parkinson explained, having met him at the elevator and escorted him in. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you turn up today, Rand, in all this snow.”

There was no love lost between the two of them. Rand had never approved of the manner in which Parkinson’s predecessor, his old friend Hastings, had been removed from his post. Now, having to ask Parkinson for a favor, he felt naturally reticent. But Parkinson too was ill at ease, and after Rand explained the nature of the problem he seemed relieved it was nothing more.

“We have a high-capacity computer that’s standing idle this very minute,” he assured Rand. “Follow me.”

The young woman operator was fast and efficient, and seemed thankful for any task to pass the time. Her name was Rose and she spoke to Rand as she typed in the necessary information. “I’ll wager it was a whole lot busier in your day, Mr. Rand.”

“It was indeed. This whole section was given over to just the Middle East. But there are no sides fighting for control anymore.”

Parkinson stood by, perhaps making certain that Rand didn’t wander around too much. “You’re assigning each letter a numerical designation from one to twenty-six?” he asked at one point.

Rand nodded. “And then starting over if necessary. There have to be numbers for a math formula to work.”

The head of Double-C snorted. “All this for a stupid game!”

“There!” Rose announced. “Message entered in plaintext and cipher. The computer can work through the math quite quickly.”

She was right, of course. In less than fifteen minutes Rand had the answer he sought. It involved squares and square roots of numbers translated back into letters. A stupid cipher, really, but adequate for its limited purpose.

“You owe us one, Rand,” Parkinson said, turning away.

Just then the phone on Rose’s desk buzzed. Even the sound of the telephones was different from what it had been in Rand’s day. She took the message and said to Parkinson, “Your secretary has the Pryzic file.”

He seemed to frown at her mention of a name in front of Rand, even if he had once been in charge of the department. “Fine,” he said, and turned to leave. “I’ll walk you to the elevator, Rand.”

“That’s good of you.”

It was not until he was out on the street, heading across Westminster Bridge, that he remembered where he’d heard the name Pryzic before.

Though he returned to Harold Sillabus’s office well before five, Rand found the door locked and the place seemingly deserted. He could hardly slip the results of his computer work under the door, so it meant another trip into London after all. He decided it would be a long time before he got himself involved in anything like this again.

He left the building and was searching for a taxi back to Paddington Station when he heard someone call his name. “Mr. Rand, please! A moment!”

It was the man Sillabus had called Pryzic, still in his fur-collared leather coat, bearing down on Rand from the corner. Close up, his face was like chiseled granite, with lips that pulled back threateningly from red gums and bad teeth. His left eye seemed oddly cold as he stared at Rand and said, “I saw you speaking with Sillabus earlier. Are you a friend of his?”

“Only an acquaintance. How do you know my name?”

“Your work is well known, even famous, in certain circles.” The eye seemed to bore into him as the leather-clad man spoke.

“My work? I’ve been retired more than fifteen years.”

“Nonetheless—”

“Have you been here long? Did you see Mr. Sillabus go out?”

“No, I did not see him. Come talk with me. I have something to tell you about Sillabus.”

The idea of talking to this stranger did not appeal to Rand. “I have a train to catch.”

“There is a pub around the corner. We can talk there.”

“I—”

The granite face allowed itself a slight smile. “There is nothing to fear. We are in London, no?”

The pub was a place called Seasons, and it was more of an upscale tavern than a traditional pub. Wooden wall plaques carried stanzas about each season by English poets, and the barmaids wore appropriate costumes. For winter they had white fur trim. Pryzic, as he had finally introduced himself, ordered a German beer and Rand joined him.

“You are doing work for Sillabus?” he asked as he slipped off his leather coat. Underneath he wore a brown tunic that could have been part of a uniform.