by Len Deighton
And the voices were different too; quick-witted responses and relaxed movements in these large, warm and comfortable rooms were quite unlike the hushed voices and furtive movements that had become a standard part of British life. But more than anything else Douglas was surprised by the light; there was so much of it and every room was the same. Rich golden light picked out the superb mouldings, the marble mantelpieces and Adam furniture, glittered in the cut-glass chandeliers, and shone through the bubbles in the endless champagne.
It was a magnificent house, comparable with Portman House round the corner, containing enough beautiful things to be a museum. And like a museum it was crowded with such objects, so that they were too close together, as if in some monstrous competition of the absolute.
At the far end of the ballroom, through two smaller reception rooms, and beyond the folding doors with sixteenth-century flower paintings on the panels, there were spotlights. There, mounted on a specially constructed platform – discreetly clothed in red velvet – was a small fifteenth-century Flemish diptych that Sydney Garin had purchased in Geneva. For this one evening only it was on display for the private pleasure of Garin’s invited guests. Tomorrow it was to be crated for delivery to Reichsmarschall Göring’s art gallery at Karinhall. In exchange, Garin and Shetland had accepted eight ‘decadent’ surrealist paintings that Göring had confiscated from non-Aryan owners.
Around the ballroom there were little groups of middle-ranking German officers, self-conscious in their uniforms and awkward in their lack of English language. Here and there some self-appointed spokesman fronted each group, behaving like some travel courier guarding a bunch of elderly tourists. There were high-ranking officers, elderly self-assured men with closely cut grey hair and sometimes monocles, wearing the gold insignia of Admirals on their white mess jackets, or the wide red trouser-stripe that denotes the General. Some were accompanied by personal interpreters in the special Sonderführer uniform.
There were girls there too. Plump girls with too much expensive make-up, and dresses that were cut tight across the bottom and deeply at the neckline. Elsewhere in London at this time such girls might have gone unremarked but in this temperate assembly they were conspicuous in a way that perhaps they intended to be. Already such girls had learned how to sandwich together a few German phrases – pronunciation perfect – and when their knowledge of German ran dry, a smile or a laugh would usually do. There were lots of smiles and laughter, and the couples who could not converse together danced instead.
Gathered in a defensive circle, under a magnificent Cranach Crucifixion, Douglas recognized a representative collection of London’s new socialites. Upon them fortune had smiled since the night when a German news agency message reported Churchill’s request for a cease-fire.
Here was a man whose modest restaurant in Soho had sold more than two thousand bottles of champagne in that first week of celebration. There, glittering with diamonds, was a widow who a year ago had been skimming fat and patching sheets in her failing third-rate Bayswater Hotel. Close to a large, German officers’ club, it fast became a favourite rendezvous for officers and girls – no questions asked, short day-time stays a speciality – until she sold it to a consortium of German businessmen for close on a million pounds.
All the famous hotels were promising shareholders high dividends but there were other beneficiaries for whom the Germans had arrived like the Good Fairy in a pantomime. Pottinger – a dark-complexioned man with a beard and moustache calculated to make him look French – had gone deeply into debt with his mail-order English language courses. Now he was embarrassed by a cash flow so large that he was paying for advice about reinvestment.
The red-faced man in lacy shirt, kilt and sock with jewelled dagger, was the owner of a dilapidated distillery in Argyll. His long-term contract with German EVM procurement officials was enough for him to form a public company and become wealthy overnight. The same German official who benefited from that arrangement had made the Scotsman’s brother-in-law a purchasing agent, supplying Irish horses and fodder to the German army’s Southern Command (GB). Now this magnificent array of beautifully dressed people chatted happily together at the feet of the tormented Christ.
Douglas stood aside, as an elderly Colonel eased his way to one of the buffet tables. In tow he had a pretty young boy in a very new dinner suit. Some Luftwaffe fighter pilots nearby laughed; the Colonel flushed but did not look up.
‘You’ve got a wonderful little Turner watercolour there, Superintendent.’ Douglas turned from the painting to greet the elegant Peter Shetland. ‘Not many people realize that Turner could work to that degree of realism. That fly-speck, coming through the Arch, is Napoleon. Yes, you’ve got a collector’s piece there.’ From Sydney Garin, Shetland had acquired this curious manner of talking about such things as if they were already sold to the person viewing them.
‘I’ve seen it before,’ said Douglas.
‘Ah, what a memory you have,’ said Shetland. ‘It once belonged to the Tate Gallery but they have so little space, and it’s a shame to let a masterpiece like that moulder away in the Tate’s storage rooms.’
‘It’s for sale?’
‘All the museums have had to get rid of things,’ said Shetland with a shrug. ‘It’s just as well really. Let it find its market, I say.’
Douglas looked at the painting.
Shetland pulled at his long thin bony nose until he acquired a sorrowful look. ‘State subsidies are now reduced to almost nothing, and we can’t expect the German administration to finance our art museums, can we?’
‘Oh, my goodness, no,’ said Douglas energetically enough for Shetland to look at him to see if he was being sarcastic. Douglas Archer had a reputation for being sarcastic. ‘And you are the agents for the sale?’ added Douglas.
‘We’ve found it cleaner, better, and more businesslike to buy from the museums. Then we resell to clients in our own time.’
‘And more profitable too, I should imagine,’ said Douglas.
‘Not always,’ said Shetland airily.
‘I’m surprised,’ said Douglas.
‘You’ve got the mind of the policeman,’ said Shetland. He smiled.
‘I prefer to think of it as the mind of the accountant,’ said Douglas. Across the room he saw Garin introducing his seventeen-year-old son David to a German Colonel from the Legal Department.
Shetland drifted away with a smile on his face.
‘Attaboy! It’s good to find someone who answers back.’
Douglas turned to see Barbara Barga, in a magnificent long grey silk dress with a lace bodice. ‘Hello, Miss Barga. What a nice surprise.’
‘You might compliment me on the dress,’ she said. ‘It’s a Schiaparelli from Paris, and cost me three months’ salary. A compliment or two is not much to ask.’
‘It left me speechless.’
‘Nice recovery, Superintendent.’ She laughed. She was particularly beautiful when she laughed, Douglas noticed.
They turned to look to the ballroom, where a dozen or more couples were dancing to a skilfully orchestrated version of ‘Red River Valley’, muted saxophones modulating gently and lifting the melody away from the woodwinds.
‘Takes me back to my days in high school,’ she said.
‘In America?’
‘Wisconsin. My boyfriend was on the football team, and had the keys to his Dad’s new Chevvy. I had good grades, and knew no worries other than was I going to be a cheerleader.’
‘Would you care to dance?’
‘We could give it a try,’ she said.
Barbara Barga was not a very good dancer but she was light on her feet and happy, and ready to fall in love. ‘Say, you’re a good dancer, Superintendent!’
‘You mustn’t believe all you read about policemen’s feet. I used to dance a lot at one time.’
‘I heard about your wife, Superintendent. That’s a terrible thing. And you have a little boy too.’
‘I’m not alone in misfort
une,’ said Douglas. ‘So you’ve been making inquiries about me?’ He was flattered and he showed it.
‘That was dumb of me that day. I should have got your name and realized that you were Archer of the Yard. It was only afterwards…Do you mind not being recognized by aggressive newspaper women?’
‘Not being recognized is a part of the job.’
She smiled and whispered a few words of the lyric.
‘What happened to the footballer at the high school in Wisconsin?’ said Douglas.
‘I married him,’ she said. ‘Any progress on that murder case?’ Before Douglas could answer she said, ‘But what the hell…you didn’t ask me to dance in order to talk about murder cases, did you?’
‘Well, I…’
She put a hand to his mouth as they danced. ‘Now I’m going to be very offended if you say yes to that one, mister.’
‘Are you still married?’ said Douglas.
‘Now that’s more like it,’ she said, and snuggled closer so that her head touched his shoulder and he could smell her perfume. ‘I love this song, do you know that? No, I’m not married. Not any more I’m not.’
She hummed the melody and crooned a little of the lyric into his ear. ‘Never stray from my side if you love me. Do not hasten to bid me adieu. But remember the Red River Valley, and the girl who is waiting for you.’
Barbara Barga was a very attractive woman. That night, her soft young body, quick mind and easy smile awakened in Douglas Archer thoughts that might have been better dormant. Her freshly shampooed hair swung against his face and he held her a little tighter. She turned her head suddenly and gave him a shy smile. ‘Douglas,’ she said softly, ‘don’t go home without me, will you?’
‘No, I won’t,’ he replied and they went on dancing but now they talked not at all.
If Douglas thought that he might be able to spend the evening monopolizing one of the most attractive women present, these ideas evaporated soon after the music paused. Some newly arrived New York reporters recognized her from across the room, and Douglas relinquished her to their shop-talk, while he went to find two glasses of champagne.
He elbowed his way through a noisy group of Red Army officers who were suspiciously sniffing at the caviar but downing Scotch whisky by the tumblerful.
‘Two glasses of champagne! Now isn’t that rather overdoing it, Superintendent?’ It was the deep cheerful voice of George Mayhew.
‘One is for my mother, sir. She’s waiting outside in the street.’
‘I believe I saw her. Was she wearing the uniform of an SS-Gruppenführer?’
This cruel joke about the matronly physique of SS General Kellerman was one which Douglas hesitated to recognize, but he allowed himself a trace of a smile.
‘It’s good to see you, Archer.’ George Mayhew was a man who combined the grace of the natural athlete with the bearing of a professional soldier. His dinnersuit was tailored in a style that was conservative, not to say old-fashioned, and he wore a wing-collar rather than the turned-down style he said suited only men who led dance-bands. His hair was still dark and thick, and brushed back close to his head, and he still retained the blunt-ended moustache that he’d first grown in 1914 to make himself look old enough for the responsibilities of a company commander. That was before he wore the ribbons of the DSO, MC and bar.
Between the wars, Colonel George Mayhew had become an important figure in that twilight world in which the briefings of the police commissioner overlap with those of counter-intelligence. Mayhew was often seen in Whitehall: the staff of Scotland Yard, the Home Office, the Foreign Office and the House of Commons knew him as a regular visitor. More than once he’d played for the Metropolitan Police rugby team and even now he seldom missed seeing an important game, while his baritone rendering of ‘Old Man River’ was regarded as a mandatory feature of police concerts.
‘How’s Harry Woods these days?’ Mayhew asked. It had been Harry’s time on the rugby team that had first drawn Douglas Archer and George Mayhew into the same rugby club functions.
‘It’s difficult for Harry,’ said Douglas.
‘Difficult for all of us,’ said Mayhew, rubbing his hands together as if suddenly feeling cold. Mayhew had always had a special affection for Harry Woods and his outspoken ‘village copper’ philosophy. Mayhew eyed Douglas, took in the borrowed evening suit, and tried to calculate in what role this police Superintendent attended such a grand function. It was not simply a chance to have some caviar and champagne, no one who knew Douglas Archer, not even his criminal adversaries, would believe that.
‘Age is an important part of it,’ said Douglas. ‘At Harry’s age it’s not easy to go suddenly from being at the heart of Empire to being an outpost of an occupied colony.’
‘Poor old Harry,’ said Mayhew. ‘He’ll retire soon, I suppose?’
‘It’s not easy to live on a Sergeant’s pension.’
‘Things will get better,’ said Mayhew as if he had some special reason for saying so. He sipped some champagne. ‘But only if we make them better.’
‘And how do we do that, sir?’
‘Do you really want to know, Archer old lad?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Can we talk…later this evening?’
‘Of course.’
‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
Douglas nodded and looked to see what Barbara Barga was doing. Colonel Mayhew noticed this, and said, ‘You’ve made a hit there, old boy. Miss Barga thinks London policemen are wonderful.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘She’s a damned good sort, Archer…if I was a few years younger, I’d give you a run for your money.’ Douglas looked at him in surprise. Mayhew thought he’d offended the Superintendent and hurriedly added, ‘I meant nothing personal, Archer.’
‘I’ll look forward to seeing you later this evening, sir.’
For Douglas, the evening passed more quickly than any others he cared to remember. He danced with Barbara and they ate lobster and agreed that Manet was better than Rubens, champagne bubbles got up the nose and that London wasn’t what it had once been.
It was Bernard Staines who came to tell Douglas that Colonel Mayhew was looking for him. Bernard had been cox in the university boat when Douglas got his blue. Bernard Staines had the same birdlike physique that he’d had then, except that his more serious demeanour, hunched shoulders and spectacles had transformed the wagtail into a barn owl.
‘I never see you at the Oxford and Cambridge, Douglas.’ Bernard, unlike so many of Douglas’s Oxford friends, never called him Archer.
‘I feel out of place there, to tell you the truth. In these days, people want to be able to go to their club, and let their hair down, without worrying that there might be a policeman listening to them.’
‘Anyone who thinks there’s anywhere in this town he can relax without a policeman listening to him, is a fool,’ said Bernard in the same soft diffident voice that had betrayed so many into contradicting him, both in college and board room.
‘You’re right, Bernard,’ said Douglas. ‘And just make sure you never forget it.’ Bernard was pleased to have his friend’s approval. Like so many men who’d had his sort of success, Bernard continued to regret that he’d not used his learning in some more scientific way. Detective Superintendent Douglas Archer personified these vague unfulfilled ambitions, and although Douglas did not suspect it Bernard envied and admired his friend.
Like most of these grand eighteenth-century houses, hidden doors and narrow staircases provided a way for servants to move, silent and unseen, through the house. A liveried servant stood aside while another opened an unmarked door, cut into the panelling of the wall. Bernard led the way upstairs. There was another servant on the second floor, a tall man with the physique and bent nose that many associate with the professional fighter.
‘I understand there is a card game,’ said Bernard.
The man looked at Bernard and then at Douglas too before replying. ‘Yes,
sir. The other gentleman is there already.’ He stood back to reveal George Mayhew.
‘That’s all right, Jefferson,’ Mayhew told the servant. ‘These are my people.’
The three men walked down the shady corridor, past a large empty billiard room and other rooms in which dust covers hid the furniture. Douglas had no doubt that these rooms had for decades been used for the sort of unlawful high-stake gambling that was exceedingly difficult to locate or take action against. The room at the end of the corridor was lighted. Mayhew led the way into it.
There was only one light, an elegant brass angle-light with a green glass shade. It put a pool of yellow light on a card table, while making the rest of the room a mysterious jungle of verdant gloom out of which huge decapitated herbivores peered. Seated at the antique card table, his face awash with reflected light, was the unmistakable figure of Sir Robert Benson. Douglas knew him only by reputation; a powerful man in the corridors of Whitehall, shunning any sort of publicity, and winning every argument without raising his voice above a whisper. Recently Douglas had heard many people ask how the august Sir Robert could stomach his new position, where he was little more than a rubber stamp for the German Commissioner-General for Administration and Justice, which had absorbed the most vital departments of the Home Office. Perhaps, thought Douglas, this evening would provide an answer.
‘Bridge?’ said Colonel Mayhew, picking up the pack of cards. ‘Penny a point?’
‘Never thought I’d see the day when I’d have to start an evening like this with a pack of used cards,’ said Sir Robert. Then he laughed and said, ‘Archer. There’s no man I’d rather have with us this evening.’ He shook Douglas’s hand with a firm but brief grip.
‘Thank you, Sir Robert,’ said Douglas. ‘I’m pleased to be here.’
There was a cautiousness in the reply that the others did not miss. To Colonel Mayhew, Douglas said, ‘I think my bridge playing might try beyond endurance even Sir Robert’s renowned diplomatic skills. Particularly if he had me as a partner.’ Sir Robert – sitting opposite him – smiled grimly.