“Thank you. I’ll see what I can learn and inform you when I can.” Dorincourt wasn’t a common name; I should have no trouble discovering all there was to know about him.
I hailed a taxi, but instead of having the cabby drive me home, I directed him to Victoria Street, to the nondescript building that had held the offices of NS3 since the latter days of the Second World War.
* * * *
Mother’s informants were not as thorough as mine—if it had been otherwise, it would have been disconcerting in the extreme. However, there didn’t seem to be a great deal more to learn of Andrew Dorincourt beyond the usual: six feet tall, not quite fourteen stone, hair ink-black and eyes so dark a blue they almost appeared black as well.
His father had done some highly secretive work during the last War, most of which was still classified. His mother was the daughter of an obscure baronet. He had three brothers and a sister, all younger than he.