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By Root 13865 0

carried on over the last few years between Hosnani, the subject of my original pended paper, and the so-called Jewish Underground Fighters in Haifa and Jerusalem. One glance at it should convince any impartial person that my original appraisal of the gentleman in question erred on the side of moderation. The quantities of arms and ammunition detailed in the attached check-list are so considerable as to cause the Mandate authorities grave alarm. Everything is being done to locate and confiscate these large dumps, so far however with little success. This of course raises once more, and far more urgently, the political que stion of how to deal with this gentleman. My original view, as you know, was that a timely word to the Egyptians would meet the case. I doubt if even Memlik Pasha would care to prejudice Anglo-Egyptian relations and Egypt’s new-found freedom, by refusing to act if pressure were applied. Nor need we enquire too closely into the methods he might employ. Our hands would at least be clean. But obviously Hosnani must be stopped — and soon.

I am copying this paper to W.O. and F.O. The London copy leaves under flying seal with an Urgent Personal from the Com-missioner to the F.S. urging action in these terms. Doubtless you will have a reaction from London before the end of the week. Comment on the letter of Mr. Pursewarden which you copied to me seems superfluous at this stage. The enclosures to this

Memorandum will be sufficient explanation. It is clear that he could not look his duty in the face.

I am, Sir, Your Most Obedient Servant,

Oliver Maskelyne, Brigadier.

The two men sighed simultaneously and looked at one another.

‘Well’ said Errol at last, thumbing over the glossy photostats with a voluptuous finger. ‘At last we have proof positive.’ He was beaming with pleasure. Mountolive shook his head weakly and lit another cheroot. Errol said: ‘I’ve only flicked over the corre-spondence, sir, but each letter is signed Hosnani. They are all typescripts, of course. I expect you’ll want to mull them over at leisure, so I’ll retire for an hour until you need me. Is that all?’

Mountolive fingered the great wad of paper with nausea, with a sense of surfeit, and nodded speechlessly.

‘Right’ said Errol briskly and turned. As he reached the door, Mountolive found his voice, though to his own ears it sounded both husky and feeble. ‘Errol’ he said, ‘there’s only one thing; signal London to say that we have received Maskelyne’s Memor-andum and are au courant. Say we are standing by for instructions.’

Errol nodded and backed smiling into the passage. Mountolive settled to his desk and turned a vague and bilious eye upon the facsimiles. He read one or two of the letters slowly, almost un-comprehendingly, and was suddenly afflicted by a feeling of vertigo. He felt as if the walls of the room were slowly closing in upon him. He breathed deeply through his nose with his eyes fast closed. His fingers began involuntarily to drum softly upon the blotter, copying the syncopated rhythms of the Arab finger-drum, the broken-loined rhythms which one might hear any evening floating over the waters of the Nile from some distant boat. As he sat, softly tapping out this insidious dance measure of Egypt, with his eyes closed like a blind man, he asked himself over and over again: ‘Now what is to happen?’

But what could possibly happen?

‘I should expect an action telegram this afternoon’ he mumbled. This was where he found his duty so useful a prop. Despite his interior preoccupations, he allowed it to drag him along now, to drag his aberrant attention along like a dog on a lead. The morning was a relatively busy one. His lunch-party was an unqualified

success, and the surprise visit to the Scent Bazaar afterwards confirmed his powers as a brilliant and thoughtful host. After it was over, he lay down for half an hour in his bedroom with the curtains drawn, sipping a cup of tea, and conducting the usual debate with himself which always began with the phrase: ‘Wou ld I rather be a dunce than a fop — that is the question?’