Troy walked briskly across the green lino to the rarely polished oak door of the editor's outer office. This was Pauleen's domain. Those without appointments were brutally intimidated and sent packing. She believed, dedicated girl, that although editors might come and editors might go, she would nevertheless go on for ever. She was knitting at something or other, which no other secretary in the taut building dared to do, when he opened the door.

"A splendid scene of domesticity. Expecting?"

Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have received a devastating reply designed to make them miserable and repentant. But she had a soft spot for Troy. He was so good-looking, and always doing exciting things. Secretly she kept a scrapbook of his cuttings, his world adventures. He was her pin-up boy, her private Beatle.

So she ignored the riposte. "Better not keep the Old Man waiting," she advised, using the description of the chief that she reserved for her intimates, "the horn of the rhino is into him today."

"His lordship?"

"Yes, Lord Moneybags. Who else?"

"It's nothing to do with me?"

He looked at her anxiously.

"Don't be silly. I told you that he has a job for you. It's the story we missed this morning that's causing all the trouble. It concerned one of his lordship's school chums. They were dining together last week and our peer didn't get a sniff of what was up. He had to read it in the opposition and now he's blaming everyone else. But it has absolutely nothing to do with you, so forget it. Don't keep the chief waiting."

She signalled Troy towards the sanctum with a flick of her right hand.

Troy rapped on the inner door politely, but with deliberate brusqueness. He loathed newspaper creepers, the human vines that clung desperately and subjectively to the walls of the men in power, whoever they were. He thrust his head inside the big room, the room with the view out over the confusion of newspaper vans with their floppy rubber mudguards, and immediately caught the attention of the big fellow behind the desk.

The man who paid him.

Jack Heron was the current incumbent of the £35 swivel chair known as 'the hottest seat in Fleet Street'. His lordship changed editors as often as he changed suits, and regarded them as equally expendable. One could feel only sympathy for the man who was 'in' for he was already on his way out.

It was probably the over-generous Golden Handshake his lordship was prepared to offer ad infinitum that attracted a steady stream of new recruits. No one could regard that seat as a career. Editorship of the Globe was as perilous as starring in a musical that hadn't been written by Lionel Bart. Heron, however, was as tough as old boots, a campaigning editor as astute as an Arab merchant closing an arms deal. His face was permanently bland. His iron-grey hair added the requisite touch of authority, his steel-rimmed glasses the seal of intelligence. Yet, superficially, he was full of fun.

He gave the impression that if he were to dispense with a man he would do so with a smile on his lips, and a conspiratorial wink. His belly was a good deal larger than it should have been, the result of countless expense account lunches, and a fold of flesh flopped over the edge of his desk as he scribbled an inter-departmental memorandum.

"Ah, come in, Troy. It's good to see you."

The Globe's New York man closed the door softly and started across the carpet. The pile was of a thickness that must have made its mark in the balance sheet and the Globe's former editors, the legions of the lost, gazed down at them from silk-papered walls.

"Pull up a chair."

The instruction was unnecessary since a large mahogany seat, its brown leather facing veined with age, was ranged before the oblong desk like a witness stand.

"Have a good flight over?"

God, the man was looking his age.

"Fine, sir."

"And enjoying your leave?"

"It's great to see London again."

They talked American politics for a while and Troy painted the international picture as the world looked from New York. Heron made several notes on his scribbling pad of observations which would fit in with future leader columns and said he planned a Focus on America shortly. He would have welcomed Troy's assistance in this particular venture. However...

Here it comes, thought Troy. Could Pauleen be wrong?

Did it happen like this, after a few friendly words? He weighed the editor's last sentence uneasily. These were hard times for newsmen, and with editors three-for-sixpence foreign correspondents had been devalued to ten-a-penny.

"Don't look so worried, man. All I meant was that you might well be out of the country when this particular series is being put together."

"Then you do have a job for me, sir?"

Heron didn't reply immediately. He enjoyed keeping members of his staff in suspense. Quite apart from the natural pleasure it afforded him it was good for discipline and added to his authority. He had realised early in his career that the successful executive is also something of an actor.

He pulled out a pouch of crushed hide, then found his briar in another pocket,   and fumbled for matches. Troy offered him a lighter. He accepted it in his own time and lit up slowly. After several exploratory draws he gave a little sigh of satisfaction as combustion spread.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I have."

Puff. Puff. Puff. Another flick of the lighter.

"What do you know about Italy?"

Troy composed his thoughts before replying. If ponderous deliberation were to be the order of the day then two could play the game.

"Well, I was in Rome... let's see... about five years ago. It's a soft climate and most Italians are as happy-go-lucky as children. They like us, the English, more than the Swiss or French do. They work as little as they are able consistent with making a living because they don't worship money for its own sake, as the Americans do. The sun seems to sap the guts out of them and consequently they don't have an industrial society to compare with our own -- although Milan and the north has come a hell of a long way since the war. A few years ago they experienced what was flamboyantly described as an 'industrial miracle' but the whole thing boiled over because they had run too far and too fast on limited resources. Jobs, and the new high standard of living that went with them, vanished overnight.

"The turnabout caused a great deal of unrest and helped the Communists... I should have said that Italy has the largest Communist Party in Western Europe, though it's doubtful if they are Russian-style Communists. Oh yes, and memory reminds me that the women are sensational."

Heron hadn't attempted to interrupt him, but when Troy paused for breath he said: "That's the superficial picture, certainly, but there are some gaps in your portrait. The significance of a bold and enlightened no-nonsense Pope leading the Roman Catholic church, for instance. You haven't mentioned that. It is my information that there are things of very great interest happening beneath the skin of Italy today. Things which could affect all of us. And I feel it is our duty to keep the Globe's readership informed about them."

"But you have good men there, sir. Isn't... ?"

Heron cut him short with a question.

"I believe you have worked with Jack Fletcher?"

"Yes, I have. Many times in America. Jack is a fine Operator, too. I have only admiration for his methods when he's after a story. No newspaperman on earth is more reliable -- or dedicated."

"And you heard, of course, that we had moved Fletcher from Jamaica to Rome ?"

"Yes. To cover the Royal visit, isn't it?"

"That was the idea."

"Jack has a light touch, and he's just the man for that sort of job. I believe he's a Catholic, too, so he would understand the finer points. I congratulate you on your choice."

"Well, we won't go into that... for at this moment it seems extremely unlikely that Fletcher will be covering the Princess's visit for the Globe."

"Why? Is he sick?"

Heron removed his glasses with a quick movement and held them away from his face so he could better catch Troy's reaction as he imparted the startling fact.

"Fletcher has disappeared!"

"Disappeared ?"

A band of thick blue smoke from Heron's pipe rolled across Troy's face, but he barely noticed it. Now he was wide awake and his brow was slashed with worried speculation. Heron was not the man to engage in practical jokes with his subordinates, and his countenance was grim as Troy repeated the word in an interrogative tone.

"Yes, absolutely and completely. We cannot understand it. One day he was at an hotel in the centre of Rome with a big and interesting assignment in front of him -- and his wife and children at his side... we let them travel across the Atlantic with him at our expense, you know -- and the next day they had all disappeared without trace. Like white rabbits in a magician's hat. We've tried a hundred ways to locate him ... them ... but we've drawn an absolute blank."

Troy sprung to the defence of his colleague.

"I find this hard to believe, sir. There must be a sound reason why Fletcher hasn't contacted the office. Perhaps he was in a car crash, and the whole family has been taken to hospital? Italian drivers are maniacs."

"We thought of that. I've had every hospital in Italy checked by Sergio Peretti .. . he's our stringer out there, works for one of the Rome morning papers. Peretti swears he has combed through every accident record in Italy, and the Fletcher family isn't among them."

"I cannot believe that he would go AWOL -- I just can't believe it."

Troy exploded the words because he would have staked his career on the integrity of Jack Fletcher. Jack was a careful, hard-working, sensible sort of a chap, a born reporter and reliable to the nth degree. If Troy needed help on an assignment Jack was the man he would have wished to have along to help him. While some might drink too much and others womanise, Fletcher was rock steady. That was why the news staggered Troy. It was like hearing that the Bank of England had run out of fivers.

If Fletcher had a fault, it was his tight-fisted attitude towards money matters. He would go to extraordinary lengths to avoid giving a tip or standing a round of drinks and had been known to detour a mile to avoid a charity box. His accounts were meticulously managed and the interest regularly computed. His long-term plan was to salt away as much as would cover his life span, and then to retire to a Greek island to write books.

It was difficult to assess just how much of this trait belonged to Fletcher's native character because once he had found it the subject of general discussion he played up to the role, projecting himself as the 'Jack Benny' of the South American newspaper corps.

He contrived to appear 'careful' -- though privately he had helped many a lame dog over its particular stile -- and he would happily embellish any story, true or false, which was related in club or bar against himself.

Amusing incidents along these lines flashed through Troy's mind as he faced Heron across the desk, but he wouldn't mention them because they could have no possible bearing on Fletcher's disappearance.

"Just how long has Fletcher been missing ?" he asked.

Heron ignored the question as he replaced his glasses and substituted another, which was his prerogative.

"Tell me, Troy -- do you have any views on Royalty?"

This unexpected veer in conversation momentarily threw the foreign correspondent off-balance, and he answered rather lamely: "I have an aunt who would walk twenty miles through the night to see one of them -- even if he or she were just going to whip by in a closed car."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Troy knew very well that it didn't and he fidgeted uneasily in his chair. He had certain views on the subject as a subject but he wasn't altogether sure whether it would be wise to voice them here.

"I'm a Republican," he replied, suddenly.

Heron nodded slowly as if to indicate that Troy's reply was by no means revolutionary or at variance with what he had expected to hear.

"By that you mean you have nothing against the individuals concerned, but dislike the system."

"Exactly, sir. And that doesn't make me a socialist. I believe the trappings are an anachronism in the late twentieth century."

Heron smiled. "That's what people were saying in the late nineteenth century. And probably the eighteenth, too. But I believe at least seventy-five per cent of the people who work in the Street would agree with you. We see too much of the antics of the surrounding Jacks-in-office and the tomfoolery of their reflected glory. Still -- with things as they are -- we have to play along... as a newspaper, you understand. There are a number of things to be said for having a caste. The Royals must support a fair slice of the tourist industry and that is good for the country. .. our London visitors love to press their noses through the railings and go home to tell their friends about it; and there's still a little bit of the Commonwealth remaining to be inspired. There's also his lordship. Do you follow me ?"

"Yes, I see what you mean."

"Good. So let's forget our personal approach to the subject and consider this Royal visit to Italy. It's a first-rate story, never forget that. Our much-loved Princess is going, and the circumstances are so unusual as to be dramatic.

"There have been threats of violence against her, and with the Communists active over there it could mean something more than sensation-seeking by the lunatic fringe. Then there's the religious aspect. She's going to meet the Pope outside Vatican City, and that should make a really good story. Some are saying that the timing of this visit has been fixed carefully to help the exiled Italian royal family to get back on the Throne, though how that could come about I cannot see."

"You are saying that you want me to cover this visit in place of Fletcher?"

"Unless he turns up with a satisfactory explanation. The Princess flies out later this week, and we have to give her the full treatment. His lordship heard that you were on leave in London and told me this morning that he considers you the ideal man for the assignment. It's your prime job. But also you must find out what has happened to the Fletchers. It's ten days now since we heard from him, and unless I get word soon I shall have to inform the Foreign Office. We should hate to do that because it will make us look a bunch of bloody fools if it turns out Fletcher has skipped off on some fancy joyride."

"I'm damned sure he hasn't, sir..."

"Don't prejudge events. I've been in this game long enough to know that even the most solid rock can crumble. It is usually around forty, and it usually involves a woman."

"Jack loves his wife. In my job ..."

"Your job is to find out. Get this man Peretti working really hard on it while you give us the stuff on the Royal visit. With two of you -- you should be able to handle both problems. I'll give you a week to find Fletcher, and if you get any lead you can call me direct. I have a very tight schedule..." Heron flicked through his engagement book pensively ... "but I will give you priority. Now I can't say fairer than that. But if he's still missing, then I shall have no choice but to inform the F.O. and Interpol."

"So it's a double assignment?"

"Yes, Troy. And a damned tricky one, though you have handled worse. Incidentally I'm instructed to tell you that his lordship is personally interested in your mission and considers you the one man who can sort it out -- in fact he's told me to send duplicates of all your stories and service messages as they arrive."

"I'll do my best -- for Fletcher," declared Troy, perhaps a little unwisely. "I suppose I am still the Globe's New York correspondent despite this switch ? How about the apartment in Manhattan?"

This was a question of cash and the editor had too much of importance on his mind to bother with financial detail. He replied impatiently: "Oh, don't worry about that. As soon as this business is settled you can fly direct from Rome to America if it suits you. We'll pay the rent meanwhile."

A slow smile spread across Troy's face. "I wasn't thinking of the rent, sir. I wondered if you were going to stick me in Europe for good."

"Would that be so terrible?"

"I enjoy New York."

"You're welcome to it," commented Heron. "It's the last place I'd want to live. But you do a fine job for us over there, and I wouldn't have you moved. Your file to London has been superb."

Praise from Heron was more embarrassing than the other thing and Troy wriggled in his seat.

"Do you have any leads on Fletcher, sir? Somewhere to start ? It's all pretty vague."

"Speak to MacLachlan. I went over this with him half an hour ago. He knows where Fletcher was staying and he'll give you all the help he can. I'd like to sit in at his briefing myself, but I have an appointment with the Leader of the Opposition in twenty minutes. Some damned thing he has dreamed up to fire at the Government. I can't very well keep him waiting -- and I want you off to Rome this afternoon."

"If the seat is booked -- I'll be on the 'plane, sir."

"Then good luck. And keep in touch. All the time. As I said, if you want my help, I'll make myself available whatever the pressures. We should hate to have to tell the Foreign Office about Fletcher. For once forget MacLachlan's economy strictures ... let us know what is happening. Money no object."

He chuckled.

"And it's quite something for me to say that."