They took their time with dinner at the Indian restaurant, even had dessert, a cheese-based dumpling in cream called ras-malai.
         They finished their beers and got the bill—David was amazed how cheap it was. Then he pulled a wrapped package out of his jacket pocket.
         “Here’s hoping our little adventure goes onward,” he said.
         “What is this?” asked Katie, looking straight at him.
         “Open it and find out. Something no girl reporter should be without.”
         Katie carefully opened the package the way David always saw women do, and she smiled broadly.
         “You got me a new recorder? Jeez, David, you are a sweetheart. That is so nice of you!”
         “I know you never travel without one, and it helped get us out of one jam before,” he said, referring to the Capone case.
         Katie got halfway up from the table and gave David a kiss on both cheeks. “Grazie mille! Best present I ever got.”
         Katie looked the recorder over and said, “Seems to work the same as my old one. Same brand.”
         David nodded. “I bought batteries for it, too.”
        “Well, let’s test it out,” she said, going through the usual counting to five and playing it back. 
         Katie opened her bag to get her credit card. She also took out a lipstick and a compact with a small mirror.  She uncapped the lipstick and applied a single swipe, but dropped the compact on the table with the mirror open. Katie reached for it, then gasped.
         “What?” asked David.
         “I think, maybe, I’ve got a clue about this drug name,” she said, then turned the compact mirror towards David and handed him the paper with the drug name on it. “Hold it up to the mirror.”
         David did so, seeing the words “Emeenifed” and “HgaRX” in the mirror, though reversed. He still didn’t see whatever Katie saw. He shrugged his shoulders.
         “Read what you see in the mirror,” said Katie.
         “Well, it’s reversed, so it reads ‘defineemE XRagH.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”
          “It’s like an anagram. The name of the drug has the letters for ‘neem’ in it. Harold Neame.”
         “Jesus!”
         “I think Philby’s trying to link Neame to that Hungarian drug company.  He knew we’d have to go to a pharmacy to find out there is no such drug and hoped we’d be smart enough on our own to figure out the name and connection.”
         “Holy shit. He must have known this while we were in his apartment, but it was probably bugged so he couldn’t say it out loud.”
         “Yep,” said Katie, “and he also knew that if he’d written down Neame’s real name and address or contact, our fake student friends might find it.”
         “So now we have to figure out this connection to Neame with the drug company. Maybe he works for them, or once did. Maybe he was a black market drug dealer in Vienna after the war and escaped to Hungary with the help of the Russians.”
         “And maybe he’s our Harry Lime.”
         “Did it ever occur to you, Katie, that Philby is deliberately throwing us off the trail and getting our attention away from him?”
         Katie took her time to answer, then said, “That’s a real possibility, isn’t it?”
         “Well, whatever is going on, we have a new excuse to stay in London for a while.”
         “Or fly to Hungary.”
         “I think we’d better keep this to ourselves for now,” said David.
         “You mean I shouldn’t tell Dobell?”
         “Not till we have more to go on. Let’s speak to the pharmacist tomorrow, go over everything and start from there. I don’t think we should talk to Lentov or Southey about this. At least not yet. Remember, according to both the American and British archives, Harold Neame disappeared into thin air.”
         “Or maybe into Hungary,” said Katie, closing her compact and putting it and the recorder back in her bag.

        The next morning Katie and David went down to breakfast early, asking the front desk to alert them to any calls. Back in David’s room the phone rang at ten o’clock. It was the pharmacist from Boots.
         “Mr. Greco, this is Ms. Singh. I’m afraid I don’t have much more news for you about the drug you asked about. I called up HgrRX, which is located in Budapest, and asked if they had any drugs by the name you gave me, including any under license in another country.  They said they’d call me back, and I just heard from them a few minutes ago.  They said they have nothing on record by the name Emeenifed and never had.”         
       David was not surprised to hear her answer.
        “That’s really very nice of you to go to all that trouble,” said David, who shook his head at Katie and whispered “No such drug,” then asked Ms. Singh if she knew anything about the Hungarian pharmaceutical company.
          “They are probably the largest in Eastern Europe outside of Germany and Russia. I don’t think they are much involved in research, more limited to standard drugs, and I can’t think of any trademark drugs they make that have a wide sale outside of Eastern Europe.”
         “Would you have any idea where I could find out more about the company?”
         “There are the usual directories, like the one I used,” she said, “but I think you might start with any library with a good business section or check the pharmaceutical journals.  As a matter of fact, there is one called the Journal of Pharmacy and the European Journal of Pharmaceutical Sciences, though they contain mostly published peer-reviewed studies.”
         David realized where Katie and he would be spending the afternoon.
         Then Ms. Singh said, “Ah, it just occurred to me, Mr. Greco!  I had a professor in my college whose specialty was the history of the pharmaceutical industry in Europe. Would you like his name? I’m sure he’d be happy to speak with you.”
         David said that would be so helpful, copied down the man’s name—Dr. Kenneth Passamore—and phone number at King’s College. He thanked her profusely, hung up and told Katie what the woman had told him.
         “Maybe this Professor Passamore can save us from plowing through the library stacks,” said David.
         “Hey, I love plowing through library stacks,” said Katie, “but I admit this guy could give us a shortcut.  Shall I call him?”
        “Be my guest,” said David and handed her the phone.
         They were delighted that the professor answered the phone at his office, and Katie explained what she and David were after in the matter of HgrRX and if he knew anything about it. She didn’t mention Harold Neame, or Harry Lime.
         “Ah, yes, Hungarian Pharm,” he replied. “A very big and rather controversial company, I must say.”
         Katie was hoping she and David could meet Passamore rather than get the information over the telephone—she’d always prefer to interview a source in person, perhaps to put him in her story, and shied away from sources who refused to meet her somewhere.
        But before she could ask him, Passamore said, “Are you here in town? Any chance you could pop over to my office, say, about—what is it now? Ten-thirty? Oh, why don’t we say in about an hour?”
         Katie was delighted by the invitation and said they’d be over at 11:30 on the dot.
         The college was located south of the Thames, close to London Bridge in Southward, so Katie and David took the tube to London Bridge station, and, with the weather being brilliantly free of clouds, Katie and David had the time to walk across the Bridge and the few blocks to the college.
         As part of King’s College (left) the campus dated back to 1829, founded by King George IV (below).  On the way over Katie did a quick study from her London guidebook and found out that Kings College had had twelve Nobel Prize winners. She was also reminded that the poet John Keats had actually trained there to be a medical chemist and read that Florence Nightingale and Joseph Lister were illustrious graduates.
         “What exactly are we going to ask this guy?” said David while crossing the Bridge.
        “I guess whether he’s ever heard of Harold Neame and if he had any connection to Hungarian Pharm,” replied Katie.
         “So we’re going to tell him the whole story thus far?”
         Katie thought for a moment then said, “Let’s just start with what he knows of Hungarian Pharm’s history then see where we go.  I don’t think we should get into anything about Harry Lime and Philby.”
         “He’s going to want to know why in God’s name we’re interested in some pharmacy company in Budapest,” said David.
         “Well, I can’t lie and say we’re doing a story on the company. We’ll have to give him something about why we’re so interested.”
         “Okay,” said David, “let’s just see how it goes until he asks us why we want to know what we want to know.”
         “Fine with me,” she said. “If we do need to say more, you say it, okay?”
         “Wonder if he’s ever seen the movie The Third Man.”
         “Hard to imagine he hasn’t, especially since it’s about a guy selling bad penicillin in the British Sector of post-war Vienna.”
         Professor Passamore’s office was like a thousand others in academia: A box with a desk piled high with books and papers, two chairs and pictures and mementos hung on the walls along with Post-its of various sizes and colors.
         “Ah, the Yanks have landed,” he said, getting up from his chair and excusing himself to bring another into the cramped room. “We can stay here or go out to the common room, if you like.”
         Katie and David said the office was fine.
         Passamore was in his fifties, quite bald with wire-rimmed glasses, striped bow tie and a pale yellow tattersall shirt.  A doctor’s white coat was on a hangar in the corner.
         “So, tell me. You are interested in knowing about Hungary Pharm? May I ask the reason?”
         Katie said, “Well, as I said on the phone, I’m a journalist and I’m looking into certain connections that grew out of the drug trade after World War II.”
         “And why is Hungary Pharm part of this . . . investigation?” asked Passamore, assuming the tone of a professor overseeing a student seeking guidance.
         David knew he had to give Passamore some of the story thus far. He went on to explain, with as little detail as possible, that they were following a story about Harry Lime, who had been involved in the black market drug trade in Vienna after the war.
         Passamore leaned back in his chair and put his hands together.
         “And again—forgive me, but what has this to do with Hungary Pharm. Harry Lime was a fictional character in that Orson Welles movie, correct?”    
         David further explained that they’d gotten a name of a real-life black marketeer of the time who may or may not have something to do with Hungary Pharm.
         Passamore nodded and said, “I see. And this man was an American?”
         “No, he was British and apparently got into the black market but escaped capture and his whereabouts are unknown.”
         “And the man’s name was?”
         “Harold Neame,” answered Katie.
         Passamore turned the name over in his head and repeated it a few times, then said, “The name doesn’t ring any kind of bell, but it may be of interest to know that Hungary Pharm’s owner—it’s not publicly traded—is rumored to be British but is known by a Hungarian name, Gorgo Toth.”
         “Well, that’s something,” said David. “Do you know anything about him?”
         “I know more about the company overall than about Toth, but what I do know about both is somewhat controversial within the industry. Hungary Pharm does not have the most reputable image, at least not in the Western world. In the East, in countries like Hungary, pharmaceutical companies must file papers that any drugs they sell outside of their country meet international standards as established by the World Health Organization.  But within their own country and others in the East, those standards are not so strict, and Hungary Pharm is a company that has been more than once accused of selling sub-standard products.  I did a little research while you were on your way over and found a few items that may be of interest to you.”