by Len Deighton
‘Where the Inland Revenue interim analysis shows over £10,000 in the last fiscal year. We’ll process any new firms afterwards. It has to show up there somewhere, it’s just a matter of keeping at it. Put them on the machine later, Alice, it makes such a terrible noise.’
Alice walked across to Dawlish’s desk and carefully folded up the tobacco ash into a neat envelope and put it into the waste basket. Then she straightened the pen set and went out. Dawlish said, ‘“Variations for wind band”, eh? Very nice. Very nice.’
I said, ‘You know Harvey Newbegin—State Department. Been in Prague for a few years now?’
Dawlish said ‘Newbegin’ softly to himself over and over again putting the emphasis on every syllable I could have thought of and a couple of syllables that didn’t exist. Dawlish produced a shiny plastic pouch and began to pound fresh golden tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Trouble,’ said Dawlish quietly like that was another name that someone had asked him if he remembered. ‘Trouble with a girl in…’ He looked up and, raising his voice and the stem of his pipe in unison, he said ‘Prague’ quite loudly.
‘That’s what I said,’ I said. ‘Prague. I’ve just told you that.’
‘Told me what?’ said Dawlish vaguely.
‘Newbegin—State Department in Prague.’
‘It’s not worth arguing about,’ said Dawlish. ‘Why, we could have got it from the records in a minute or two. There’s no need to take such a childish delight in remembering trivia.’
‘I think we should employ him,’ I said.
‘No,’ said Dawlish, ‘I can’t agree.’
‘Why?’
‘Four years with the US Defence Department before going to State Department. They will be as paranoiac as anything if we give him a contract.’ I realized that Dawlish knew about Harvey being fired and had been giving our dossier on Newbegin a careful going over in spite of all that vagueness about his name. ‘I think it’s worth chancing it,’ I said. ‘He’s a first-rate man.’
‘What sort of money would he want?’ said Dawlish cautiously.
‘He’s an FSO 3. I’d say he’s making fourteen thousand dollars a year. On top of that he’ll be getting Post differential, quarters, and whisky allowance…’
‘Good grief, man,’ said Dawlish. ‘I know all that. That sort of money is out of the question.’
‘But there is one thing that we can offer him that won’t cost a bean,’ I said, ‘a British passport for his future wife—this Czech girl.’
‘You mean naturalize Newbegin so that his wife will become British by marriage.’
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ I said. ‘Let Newbegin keep his US passport and give the girl a British one. It gives us slightly more control.’
‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ said Dawlish.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Do you think Czech intelligence have got a hold on the girl?’ asked Dawlish.
‘We would have to assume that,’ I said. Dawlish pursed his lips and nodded. ‘The State Department,’ I said sardonically. ‘They make me…’
‘They have their own way of working,’ said Dawlish.
‘Finding out about things by not going near them?’ I said.
Dawlish smiled.
‘It’s such a waste when they have such good people,’ I said. ‘Harvey Newbegin speaks Russian like a native.’
‘Not surprising. His mother and father were Russian,’ said Dawlish.
‘You’d think the State Department would pay him a bonus for marrying a Czech girl. All they ever seem to do is order everyone to stand up and chant loyalty oaths.’
‘It’s a young country,’ said Dawlish. ‘Don’t go on about it—what are you doing with that New York Herald Tribune?’
‘It’s a ladder,’ I said.
‘Good gracious, man, they have to go downstairs to be filed, don’t tear them up—are you completely irresponsible? Suppose we wanted to refer to a new item for that date—by George, it’s very long, isn’t it?’
‘It will go right from here to the window.’
‘No,’ said Dawlish.
‘If you hold it there and pull the paper gently.’
‘Remarkable,’ said Dawlish. ‘You must show me how to do it. My children would find that awfully good fun.’
‘You need—keep going, there’s lots more—you need one of these American newspapers really.’
‘Look at that, it’s remarkable,’ said Dawlish. ‘Open the office door and we’ll see how far it will go down the corridor. Get Sunday’s New York Times from my desk. That’s even thicker.’
I opened the door only to find Alice standing in the corridor with an arm full of engineering companies’ file cards.
‘Don’t drop your end,’ Dawlish shouted. Then he looked up and saw Alice too.
* * *
1 BDC: an archive of Nazi Party Membership records saved from a paper mill at the end of the war.
2 In continental trials the first stage consists of the judge examining the accused about his work, his health, his general ambition and demeanour in order to build a picture of the accused before hearing about the crime. In England the exact contrary happens. Any evidence about previous crimes or anything which might influence the jury against the accused is expressly forbidden. While the English system is clung to on the grounds of ‘fair play’, the continental system can in its way be more humane.
Chapter 37
A committed piece is one given a specific
duty. It often becomes the focal point of an
opponent’s attack.
Saturday, October 26th
It was a good thing that Jean had booked a table at Chez Solange because it was packed tight. The tables were garnished with tomato salads, slices of pâté and bowls of fruit. Grenade made his way through the wild French menu handwriting and kept patting his face with his table napkin.
‘…tool box in the Stroudly position,’ he was saying. ‘There probably aren’t more than half a dozen of them on the whole of British Railways, but we are boring Miss Jean.’
‘No,’ said Jean, equally gallantly. ‘It’s interesting when you talk about it.’
Grenade dabbed his lips again before finishing the sole. ‘That girl claimed to be an American citizen,’ he said. Jean pretended not to hear.
‘I told you she might,’ I said.
‘Said you had stolen her passport and wanted to phone the American consul.’
‘Made a fuss, eh?’ I said. I dipped a piece of bread into the sauce—it’s something I feel free to do in bourgeois French restaurants.
‘She wanted me to have a road patrol stop you and search you.’
‘Waste of time,’ I said.
‘That’s exactly what I told her,’ said Grenade cheerfully. ‘I said if it’s not true he has stolen your passport, then we will find nothing. If, on the other hand, it is true, he won’t be walking around with it in his pocket.’
‘She was happy about that?’ I said. I poured the last of the wine. ‘A lot of people like a fragrant hock with fish,’ I said to Grenade, ‘but I prefer something really dry.’
‘This Pouilly-Fuissé is perfect with sole,’ said Grenade. ‘Happy? No, she was demented with rage. She broke a heel kicking Albert’s shin.’
‘You should have let her have a go at your central heating,’ I said. ‘Where is she now?’
‘She told us that she wanted to go to New York, so we gave Pan-American airways a letter to say that if she was refused entry at Idlewild we would take her back. We never heard of her again.’
‘By the way,’ said Grenade. He searched in every pocket of his serge suit. It had many pockets. He finally found a wallet crammed with tickets, cuttings, money and letters; from it he drew a photograph. ‘Look at that,’ he said, ‘took it out of your friend Vulkan’s pocket. Forgot to give it back to him.’
It was a photograph of eight men. One man wore the uniform of an SS major. He wore metalrimmed spectacles and stood with arms a
kimbo, thumbs tucked into a shiny leather belt. He was smiling. The other seven men wore the wide-striped pyjama-like uniform of concentration-camp inmates. They were not smiling. Behind the group there were two cattle trucks and a lot of railway lines.
‘Mohr,’ said Grenade, tapping the SS officer, ‘owns a lot of villas near San Sebastian. Terribly nice fellow, they say.’
‘Really,’ I said.
‘One of those others looks a lot like your friend Vulkan, don’t you think?’ Grenade asked.
‘These sort of old smudgy photos look like everyone,’ I said. ‘The man on the end looks a bit like you.’ Grenade smiled and I smiled but we both knew that neither of us was being fooled.
‘Well I’m glad it all worked out OK,’ I said. ‘I’ve just remembered something I must do this afternoon. Why don’t you two go off and look at trains and I’ll meet you for tea?’
‘Miss Jean doesn’t want to look at a lot of trains,’ said Grenade with irrefutable truth.
‘Nonsense,’ said Jean. ‘I’d love to come but I must get a warm coat from the office.’ I smiled at her and, because Grenade was looking at her, all she could do was smile back.
Straight from lunch I went down into Leicester Square Underground station. There was a group of children sitting on the stairs with painted faces and rattling tin cans. ‘Penny for the guy, mister,’ they repeated dully to each passer-by. I bought a threepenny piece from them and phoned the office. The Charlotte Street number gave the usual out-of-order sound before clearing automatically and ringing GHOST exchange. I gave the operator the week’s code: ‘I want the latest cricket scores.’ The operator said, ‘Are you a subscriber to the service?’ and I said, ‘I have country membership of two years’ standing—Mr Dawlish please.’
The operator was careless with the key and I heard him say to Dawlish, ‘He’s on an open line, sir, please remember.’ I made a note of the time in order to report the operator. Then Dawlish said, ‘Hello, you’ve finished lunch early, it’s only a quarter to three.’
‘They have phones on each table at the Caprice now,’ I said, and there was a silence while Dawlish tried to decide whether I was really at the Caprice or sending him up. ‘What is it?’ he said finally.
‘Gas and electricity at Samantha Steel’s old flat.’
‘Why?’
‘Just a hunch,’ I said.
‘Well, since the Home Office are in on this there can’t be any repercussions, so go ahead. I’ll tell Hallam.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Dawlish. He was never enthusiastic.
Sam’s white Alpine car was parked outside. I turned in at the gate and crunched my way up the path through damp brown leaves. There was a small panel just inside the Gothic porch—it said ‘Flats 1-5’. Against the bell-push of number four it said ‘Steel’ in typewritten characters. At the foot of the metal plate it said ‘Caretaker—side entrance’. I pushed flat four’s bell and waited, watching the curtains. There was no movement. I went down the side of the house to where a cat was asleep on a crate of dirty milk bottles. I rang the caretaker’s bell. A man in a Fair-Isle pullover came to the door. In his bright red face was a small cheap cheroot.
‘I’ve gone out,’ he said. He sucked in his cheeks theatrically a couple of times. I got my matches. Stepping forward into the protection of the door I lit one and held it up. The red-faced man reached out and held my wrist steady using a little more pressure than was needed as he pushed his big red face forward towards the match. He sucked the flame into the open end of the cheroot and without removing it from his mouth exhaled.
‘Can I do for you?’
‘Flat four,’ I said. ‘I want the key.’
‘Do yer?’ he said. He grinned. He put one hand on the frame of the door and crossed one foot over the other resting it toe down on the floor. ‘And who are you—exactly?’ He was still looking at his toe.
‘Electricity Emergency Service’ I produced a small red printed notice which said, ‘Under the Gas and Electricity Boards Act 1954, the undersigned officer is legally entitled to enter any premises to which gas and/or electricity is or has been supplied to operate, service or disconnect equipment.’ From somewhere inside I could hear the gentle lowing of cattle.
The Fair-Isle pullover read this through. ‘You are holding it upside down,’ I said.
‘Regular joker, ain’t yer.’ He folded the card with his long dirty fingernails and handed it back. ‘Got no keys,’ he said.
‘Well that’s OK,’ I said. I flicked the hollow door with my finger. ‘It shouldn’t be difficult to bore a hole through this jerry-built jungle. It’ll just be another repair for you to add to the list. I’ll get you to sign here to say you know the entry has been forced.’
‘I’ll sign nothin’,’ he said. He uncrossed his feet and moved his shoulder up behind the door. The door moved slowly.
‘How would you like me to come in and disconnect your telly-palace?’ I said moving in through his doorway, taking the initial weight of the door on my arm. ‘I’ll…’
‘Nar then,’ said Fair-Isle pullover. ‘Don’t throw your weight about. I’ll get the keys to number four.’ He went off mumbling into the deep, dark Augean confines of his flat. The speculator’s facelift had been more perfunctory here in the basement. Cobwebbed into a dark corner was an ancient house phone, a dusty pantry shelf and a shallow mahogany box with striped indicator flags marked, ‘1st bedroom, 2nd bedroom, dining-room, study and front door’. On the right was a room lit by the glow of a cocktail cabinet, the floor was bare boards and the only other furniture was a plastic covered armchair with a box of Black Magic chocolates on the arm and a twenty-one inch TV that was saying, ‘Making it one of the beauty spots of Shropshire,’ to the accompaniment of English documentary-film music and a picture of a flying buttress.
Fair-Isle pullover came jingling his way up the passage. ‘Don’t snoop in there,’ he said, ‘’sall paid for.’ He prodded me in the back and I walked along the side path and up the carpeted stairs to flat four. He pushed the chiming door-bell and twisted the key twice in the lock. I walked straight to the kitchen; but not so straight to it that it looked like I’d been there before. I looked at the big modern stove and sighed a long deep sigh. ‘We might have guessed it,’ I said. ‘We’ve had a lot of trouble with these.’ I turned to Fair-Isle pullover. ‘You’d better get a big spanner, or I can let you have one, I suppose, and you’d better have overalls on or you’ll get properly messed up. They look spotless these things—’ I leaned close to him ‘—underneath they are crawling.’ It had a good effect so I said it again—‘crawling’. That put him off his Black Magic chocolates for the afternoon. I told him that it was the caretaker’s job to help, but he wouldn’t stay. He had to go downstairs to do something that couldn’t wait.
I started again. I went through each room very carefully. I didn’t take the furnishings to pieces but I lifted everything up and put everything down. The scientific equipment was missing. A woman had been in the flat fairly recently—there was still perfume on the sheets and towels. There was a tin in the kitchen that wasn’t quite rusty enough. In the front room there were some flowers that just weren’t old enough and the water tank just wasn’t hot enough. I looked in the mail-box behind the door. There was a small yellow telegram envelope that was unopened; inside the telegram said, ‘Confirming Monday. Have enough money with you. John.’ It was all so circumstantial even if Monday next was the day we were expecting to get Semitsa. This telegram could refer to any Monday and there were hundreds of Johns in Berlin.
I went to the back window and looked down. It was a fine example of a London garden: luxuriant concrete lawn. A gay section of trellis hid the dustbins. It was being tied into position with a length of string by Fair-Isle pullover who stood on a heap of sand and spent more time watching the back window than putting his finger on knots. I moved back from the window and jarred against the phone; when I looked into the garden again he had
gone. I sat down in the only comfortable armchair. Outside, an ice-cream van chimed a twentieth-century carillon. Just suppose that no one had used the flat since the last time I had seen Samantha Steel? What else? A red-faced man in a Fair-Isle pullover doesn’t like me coming up into this flat. When I am here he doesn’t watch the front of the house—he watches the back of it. In any case he drags himself away from an afternoon of telly. Suddenly he goes back into the house.
Fool. Of course. I went back across to the telephone and followed the wire back to the junction box. I found a small freshly bored hole in the skirting board and as I stood up I took a Morley stretch Bri-nylon (11/12 fitting) full of wet sand across the side of the head. I knew what it was because the torn stocking and the sand were underneath me when I recovered consciousness.
It was a very well polished toecap that I saw first. It was prodding me not very gently in the chest. In an out-of-focus zone beyond I put together an image of a helmeted policeman and two men in belted raincoats. The shiny toecap said, ‘He’s coming round now—who did they say he was?’
I couldn’t make out what the other voice said but Toecap said, ‘Oh is he—I’ll electricity him,’ so I closed my eyes again. It was Keightley, the military liaison officer at Scotland Yard, who had them ‘yessiring’ and ‘threebagsfulling’ around. Jean had phoned Dawlish when I didn’t turn up for tea. Dawlish had told the Yard to come and sort me out.
Two of the Special Branch people broke in the door of the caretaker’s flat while I rubbed my sore head. On the TV, the quizmaster was saying, ‘And now, for a streamlined washing machine that will make every washday a pleasure. What is a secretaire?’
There was enough blue light for me to find a hard centre in the box of Black Magic. The two back rooms were papered with wallpaper that had a motif of motor cars and crash-helmets and contained some dark-stained furniture with coloured plastic handles, dirty underwear, three packets of cheap cheroots, two bottles of Dimple Haig, one sticky glass, an opened packet of Kraft cheese slices, half a pound of margarine and a packet of soft white bread slices with Wonderloaf printed on the wax paper. The tiny kitchen was almost empty, except for an enamel bowl full of dirty underwear and two large family-size packets of Tide. Three quart bottles of brown ale were standing in the sink among the tea-leaves. On the draining-board was a stack of books, some of them about enzymes.