A Dandy in Aspic

by Derek Marlowe

  Not at all all right so far, thought Eberlin. If they didn’t want him to take over from Nightingale, what the hell did they want?

  “You mean you don’t wish me to follow through with Hesperides, sir?”

  “No.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

  Quince’s voice slithered into the air once more.

  “Perhaps I could elucidate more easily, sir, since it is more my–”

  “I’m perfectly, capable, Quince. Where is that whisky?”

  “Oh, here, sir.”

  He set down a large glass of J. & B. at Eberlin’s elbow and before Frazer, then sat down himself next to Flowers who was drawing a horse on his blotter, slightly out of proportion and without a tail.

  “We’re not asking you to understand completely at first, Eberlin,” Frazer continued, “only to listen to what we have to say. I mentioned that we had first to eliminate this impediment. Well, that’s right–but we’re not going to ask you to do that either. No. What we want you to do is find out where the impediment is.”

  “By the impediment you mean–”

  “The assassin.”

  Eberlin set down the brimful glass of whisky carefully, attempting not to spill it. He was suddenly grateful for the semidarkness. Steadying his voice he said as casually as possible:

  “You used the word ‘where,’ sir. Does this mean that you know who the assassin is?”

  “Well, we believe it to be the same man each time. Purely theory of course but a pretty fair guess. You see, we’ve known for a while that the Russians have been infiltrating assassins into our system, and the man we want is obviously one of these. The choice of victims and methods bears this out, obviously. What we want you to do is go out, find out where he is and let us know. We’ll do the rest. We don’t even want you to touch him in any way or make yourself known to him, but just keep in the background. You’ve proved to us how efficient you are in Research J matters, and we believe you’ll make a damned good job of it. Moreover it’s a fair chance that you’re not known to the Russians and so can travel more easily.”

  “Do you have any strong lead on this assassin, sir?”

  “No. Not really, except that we know who he is.”

  The ceiling dropped possibly six inches but still retained its original beauty, though in a modified form, despite the fact that the temperature of the room had just reached boiling point. Restraining himself from mopping his brow, and seeking anxiously for a simple way of asking the frighteningly obvious question, Eberlin delayed the moment by asking Flowers to pass the lighter, then plunged forward with:

  “Who exactly–is he, sir?”

  “Oh,” replied Frazer, almost flippantly relighting his pipe, “does the name Krasnevin ring a bell at all?”

  * * *

  Quince drew the curtains back and the whole room was filled with sunshine, picking out the layers of tobacco smoke and the intimate creases and lines and formations of the men’s faces. A box of cigars was handed around and each man took one, cut it and lit it, passing around a lighted spill from hand to hand. Eberlin leaned back in the chair, holding a cigarette in his right hand and sipping the whisky. He was conscious of Gatiss’s eyes boring into the back of his neck. He swilled the drink in the glass in studied contemplation.

  “Well,” Frazer said, “I didn’t think you’d have heard of him, but we have been informed from MNF that Krasnevin is probably our man. He’s the chappie we want you to find. Now, don’t give us an answer now. Go outside for a stroll, take in a bit of that sun, have a look at the downs and think about it. Remember, you’re under no obligation, and let us know your answer in half an hour. All right? Any questions?”

  Eberlin could think of a million questions he wanted to ask and so replied, “No questions, sir.”

  “Good. We can discuss details if and when you decide. Shall we adjourn?”

  “One moment, sir–if I may be so impertinent as to ask Eberlin a question myself.”

  The sharp clipped voice came from the corner of the room and Gatiss stood up and walked slowly to the table and picked up the table lighter and studied it.

  “Not at all, Gatiss. Go right ahead.”

  “Thank you, sir. It’s just a point of curiosity.” He was not looking directly at Eberlin but seemed to be engrossed in the intricate design around the lighter. With almost impertinent indifference, he said quietly:

  “When you were on the way here to Selvers, this morning, did anything of interest occur?”

  All heads turned toward Eberlin and he smiled, puzzled. “Anything of interest?”

  “Yes, you know? Something that might have attracted your attention. Something unusual, abnormal perhaps.”

  “Well, not as far as I can … how exactly do you mean?”

  “You know exactly how I mean. Was there something that happened that shouldn’t have happened, or vice versa? It’s a perfectly simple question and shouldn’t be too difficult for a trained man like you.”

  “Well, I saw two cows in a field near Sevenoaks,” replied Eberlin with a grin, and the others gave a small laugh in chorus.

  “Oh really?” said Gatiss, dropping the lighter on to the table and without a trace of humor. “Were they Frisian or Jersey?”

  Their eyes locked at Gatiss looked down fixedly at Eberlin. The other three men straightened their faces and fidgeted. Flowers began to tip-tip and toy with a pencil.

  “I’m perfectly serious, Mr. Eberlin. Perhaps I ought to give you a clue if you want to consider this a parlor game. You were met by a chauffeur, were you not? Just outside Wadhurst?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I’ll repeat my original question. Did anything of interest happen to you today? Something abnormal?”

  “Not that I remember,” replied Eberlin steadily, reaching for the drink.

  “Then I say you should remember. Did the chauffeur ask you for your papers?”

  “No, he–”

  “Did you ask him for his?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Why not, Mr. Eberlin? Isn’t it one of the first rules of our profession to check every person contacted and never take anyone for granted?”

  “Yes, but I took the chauffeur at face value for rational purposes.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because, Mr. Gatiss, I can’t think of anyone else who would know my whereabouts sufficiently to be at that particular spot at that particular hour with a car to take me to Selvers. Do you?”

  Gatiss smiled and surveyed the table like a lord at a medieval feast.

  “I can think of several, Mr. Eberlin. Several. You would do well to think again,” and he walked slowly toward the door, pausing only to turn back to Eberlin and say:

  “Let me give you a particle of advice. We’re playing a dangerous game, you and I. It is not designed for frivolous thinkers. I insure my health by trusting no one, no one at all. I don’t trust you, Mr. Eberlin. Good day.” He left the room, closing the door hard behind him.

  There was an embarrassed silence. Eberlin knew he had made a mistake and had been ridiculously stubborn about it.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Gatiss is right,” he said to the others with conscious humility, “it was foolish of me.”

  “Indeed it was,” replied Frazer, “but I’m sure it was a rare occurrence. We are grateful to Gatiss however for bringing it to our attention. Shall we meet here in half an hour and hear Eberlin’s answer, gentlemen?”

  He stood up and left the room, followed by Flowers and Quince. Waiting till he was on his own, Eberlin walked downstairs into the quadrangle, breathing in the fresh air deeply, and then out of the square, under the arch and down onto the fresh grass, onto the grass of the fields, and into the peace and comfort of the downs.

  * * *

  He had visited most of Europe at one time or another and had been taken, a reluctant tourist, to all the natural beauty traps of the countries, and he had failed to discover landscape more idyllic, more
soothing and, like echoes of infant fantasy, more evocative than the English downs. In the summer, with the sun an intimate, and a secure isolation from the world, they offered at worst a panacea from care. Eberlin had often driven down from London on free weekends to Kent and Sussex and sometimes farther west, and parked the car and walked alone, like a reincarnated Romantic poet, clutching a slim volume of verse, pantheistic in wooded valleys.

  Now he stood on a green, crop-grassed slope staring across at a complementary slope opposite, seemingly out of perspective so that one felt one could touch the other bank of the V of this cornice of valley with a long pole, or a branch or a cane. But it was deceptive. For he would need to make his way down, to that narrow stream beneath him, and walk along till he found a bridge or a narrowing of the bank, and then up the other side until he could turn and look back, across at where he had been ten, fifteen minutes before. Eberlin lit a cigarette and began to walk parallel to the stream toward a row of oak trees left as a natural border in the rotation.

  He had barely covered a few yards when he heard his name called. Turning, his eyes blinded slightly by the sun, he could see the shape of a man making his way down toward him from the red brick building of Selvers he had just left. He waited till the man was twenty yards away and saw that it was the thin, ascetic, flushed figure of Heston-Stevas.

  “I hope you don’t mind my joining you,” he panted, reaching Eberlin. “They’re all sitting around talking about fishing and other dull things like that.”

  Eberlin smiled and said, “Not at all,” and the two men continued together across the slope.

  “I’m glad they asked you down here,” Heston-Stevas said after a while. “I mean, it’s obviously important and you seemed to be wasted in the office.”

  “It’s good to see someone with faith in me.”

  “Oh. Oh yes. Well–I’ve always thought that you deserved … well, you know …” He looked away down at the stream.

  They walked on in silence and Eberlin pointed up toward a scarred dead tree on the brow of the hill beyond.

  “Shall we make our way up there?”

  “Good idea.”

  It was a short but steep climb, over longer grass now and along by a broken fence and up past a deserted dried cattle font and over to a tree. They rested under its bleached, split branches, breathing heavily and gazing down at the patchwork of fields below them and the clear blue sky.

  “It always reminds me of Rupert Bear land,” Heston-Stevas commented with a smile. “I’ve always felt that the artist who drew the pictures must have lived near here.”

  “Rupert Bear?”

  “Yes. You must have read the comic annuals as a child. One always suspects that a white bear with a red sweater and yellow scarf will appear over a brow of a hill shouting out to some Chinese pixie or something. Awfully silly….”

  Eberlin smiled. He rather liked Heston-Stevas. A little harmless, but sympathetic and with a great deal of charm like most shy people.

  “Could I possibly steal a cigarette off you, Eberlin? I never seem to have any….”

  “Of course,” and he handed him one and took another himself. “Have you made up your mind yet? About taking the job,” asked Heston-Stevas, lighting the cigarettes.

  Eberlin glanced at him, puzzled.

  “How do you know I haven’t told them already?”

  “Oh, well, they always make their victims walk around for half an hour to decide. It’s part of their routine.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes….”

  Another man had appeared on the opposite hill and was standing stock-still, staring in Eberlin’s direction. They were directly in line with each other, face to face, though three hundred yards of sky separated them. The sun high-lighted the onlooker’s blond hair, and even without that Eberlin knew him to be Gatiss, watching him. Heston-Stevas appeared not to notice.

  “What will you do, then?” he asked.

  Do? He had to accept, of course. How could he risk another man looking for him, someone like Gatiss perhaps. It was so damn ironic and in such bad taste. And yet Eberlin found that he felt remarkably calm despite it all. Incredibly in control of himself. Gatiss was still standing opposite, dark glasses covering his eyes, arms folded.

  “I don’t know yet. Accept probably,” replied Eberlin. “I think I ought to return to the keepers.”

  And he moved quickly away and down the slope with HestonStevas hurrying to catch up and saying:

  “I wish you luck.”

  And then Eberlin glanced across at the opposite hill to find it empty. A tranquil slope.

  In ten minutes he was back in the quadrangle, his mind made up.

  5

  Billet-Doux

  If the rich could hire other people to die for them, the poor could make a wonderful living.

  –YIDDISH PROVERB

  In civilization, anyone can be king. But it takes a rare man to be king on a desert island.

  –ALEXANDER EBERLIN

  THE room was empty when Eberlin returned, and he looked around at the uncleared assortment of blotters, pencils and ashtrays on the table. Chairs scattered back. He turned to leave and almost collided with Lake.

  “The gentlemen are outside, Mr. Eberlin. They requested that you meet them on the terrace.”

  * * *

  The terrace was more an open yard than patio, a concrete floor under the sky overlooking the lower trees of a wood. Lunch had been served, had been eaten, and was now a pile of dirty plates and scraps on two small tables. Eberlin noticed that it had been some form of salad and was angry for not being invited. He picked up a spare chicken leg from a tray and stood chewing it, ignoring the others. They were all there, smoking cigars and drinking brandy, laughing and chatting among themselves. Gatiss, sitting alone, smiled at Eberlin and threw some untouched slices of ham to a hungry dog at his feet.

  “Ah, Eberlin, didn’t see you there.” Frazer smiled, beckoning him over to the table and gesturing to the other men. Eberlin crossed to the table, nodded and was offered a seat.

  “Have a good walk?” asked Frazer. “Yes.”

  “Lovely around here, isn’t it?”

  The terrace had grown quiet and all concentrated on minute matters, stubbing cigarettes, sipping coffee or brandy, wiping brows, straightening ties. Brogue, Copperfield, Heston-Stevas, Ridley, Moon and Lake stood up, made their apologies and left quickly, not into the house but down toward the wood, not talking but walking with deliberate casualness, not looking back and hovering in a small group beneath a large beech. The Negro, Brogue, was walking farther away, cigar holder clenched in teeth, farther toward a white cattle fence. Eberlin continued picking at the chicken leg.

  “Were you hungry, Eberlin?” inquired Quince. “Had you not eaten?”

  “Yes I am, and no I hadn’t.”

  “Oh dear. Well, we won’t keep you long.”

  He rubbed the side of his nose vigorously and made patterns in the ashtray with his index finger. “Oh dear,” he repeated.

  “If I may come to the point,” said Frazer quietly, keeping his voice out of earshot of the house and of Copperfield who had approached conspicuously near the terrace. “What is your answer, Eberlin? Do you agree?”

  “Yes,” replied Eberlin. “Yes I do.”

  There were immediate smiles on the faces and Frazer nodded twice, saying “Good. Good,” and “Good,” and Gatiss himself gave a brief smile, then walked to the edge of the terrace and glared at Copperfield who moved away, saying, “Hot isn’t it?” and stumbling over the root of a tree.

  “May I ask one thing?” inquired Eberlin, glancing across at Frazer.

  “Oh, do. Do. By all means.”

  “Why haven’t you chosen Gatiss rather than me? Surely this is more his line, sir.”

  “Well, it is and it isn’t. We had considered him, of course, but he has other business to deal with first. Of a more direct nature. Believe me, he won’t be neglected.”

  “I see.”

>   “Good. How’s the brandy? Oh, you didn’t have any. Well … let’s get down to details shall we? We suspect that Krasnevin, our man, your man, was in London but we believe that now he has left and is in Germany. Probably in West Berlin, but we can’t be sure. Anyway, that would be your first base, and since you know it well and can speak German, an ideal base.”

  “Why do you think he’s in Berlin, sir?”

  “Good question. Well, as I said, we can’t be sure, but we’re anticipating his movements. We’re assuming that he hasn’t just stopped his plans, but is waiting for his next victim. That man would be Gatiss.”

  “Gatiss?”

  “Why so surprised? I would have thought that was obvious. He is involved in Hesperides too, and not only that, he is known to the Russians–on unfavorable terms of course. Gatiss has been in Munich and Berlin for the past months, and will be returning there. Our Krasnevin, if he is as clever as we think he is, will surely be there too. Do you not think so?”

  “I’m prepared to accept your theory, sir.”

  “Not blindly, I hope.”

  Frazer smiled and lit his pipe. Flowers was drawing a deformed squirrel on the table napkin. It was holding a nut in its paws and had ears like a horse. The feet were badly conceived.

  Quince said suddenly, “See that rabbit? Running across the field there. Did you see it? Large one with brown fur. It just ran across the field.”

  Eberlin walked slowly across the concrete and stood five yards from Gatiss, and stared like him at the wood. Neither said anything for a moment, then Gatiss without turning his head, asked “Confident, Eberlin?”

  Eberlin looked down the terrace edge and across at the speaker, standing arms behind his back, dark glasses pushed forward down the nose, the sun-tanned jaw pointed up arrogantly.

  “I haven’t thought about it. Perhaps after dinner.” Gatiss smiled to himself.

  “I recommend oysters for thought. Try Wheeler’s. They’re rather pleasant there.” He stepped off the concrete onto the grass, and walked down and around the corner of the house and out of sight.

  “Eberlin?”

  It was Frazer’s voice.