‘Pardon me,’ a voice whispered out of the shadows, ‘has this guy really won a hundred and forty thousand bucks?’
‘Yes, sir, I have won them,’ Dr Hasselbacher said firmly before Wormold could reply, ‘I have won them as certainly as you exist, my almost unseen friend. You would not exist if I didn’t believe you existed, nor would those dollars. I believe, therefore you are.’
‘What do you mean I wouldn’t exist?’
‘You exist only in my thoughts, my friend. If I left this room …’
‘You’re nuts.’
‘Prove you exist, then.’
‘What do you mean, prove? Of course I exist. I’ve got a first-class business in real estate: a wife and a couple of kids in Miami: I flew here this morning by Delta: I’m drinking this Scotch, aren’t I?’ The voice contained a hint of tears.
‘Poor fellow,’ Dr Hasselbacher said, ‘you deserve a more imaginative creator than I have been. Why didn’t I do better for you than Miami and real estate? Something of imagination. A name to be remembered.’
‘What’s wrong with my name?’
The parachutists at both ends of the bar were tense with disapproval; one shouldn’t show nerves before the jump.
‘Nothing that I cannot remedy by taking a little thought.’
‘You ask anyone in Miami about Harry Morgan …’
‘I really should have done better than that. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ Dr Hasselbacher said, ‘I’ll go out of the bar for a minute and eliminate you. Then I’ll come back with an improved version.’
‘What do you mean, an improved version?’
‘Now if my friend, Mr Wormold here, had invented you, you would have been a happier man. He would have given you an Oxford education, a name like Pennyfeather …’
‘What do you mean, Pennyfeather? You’ve been drinking.’
‘Of course I’ve been drinking. Drink blurs the imagination. That’s why I thought you up in so banal a way: Miami and real estate, flying Delta. Pennyfeather would have come from Europe by K.L.M., he would be drinking his national drink, a pink gin.’
‘I’m drinking Scotch and I like it.’
‘You think you’re drinking Scotch. Or rather, to be accurate, I have imagined you drinking Scotch. But we’re going to change all that,’ Dr Hasselbacher said cheerily. ‘I’ll just go out in the hall for a minute and think up some real improvements.’
‘You can’t monkey around with me,’ the man said with anxiety.
Dr Hasselbacher drained his drink, laid a dollar on the bar, and rose with uncertain dignity. ‘You’ll thank me for this,’ he said. ‘What shall it be? Trust me and Mr Wormold here. A painter, a poet – or would you prefer a life of adventure, a gunrunner, a Secret Service agent?’
He bowed from the doorway to the agitated shadow. ‘I apologize for the real estate.’
The voice said nervously, seeking reassurance, ‘He’s drunk or nuts,’ but the parachutists made no reply.
Wormold said, ‘Well, I’ll be saying good night, Hasselbacher. I’m late.’
‘The least I can do, Mr Wormold, is to accompany you and explain how I came to delay you. I’m sure when I tell your friend of my good fortune he will understand.’
‘It’s not necessary. It’s really not necessary,’ Wormold said. Hawthorne, he knew, would jump to conclusions. A reasonable Hawthorne, if such existed, was bad enough, but a suspicious Hawthorne … His mind boggled at the thought.
He made towards the lift with Dr Hasselbacher trailing behind. Ignoring a red signal light and a warning Mind the Step, Dr Hasselbacher stumbled. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘my ankle.’
‘Go home, Hasselbacher,’ Wormold said with desperation. He stepped into the lift, but Dr Hasselbacher, putting on a turn of speed, entered too. He said, ‘There’s no pain that money won’t cure. It’s a long time since I’ve had such a good evening.’
‘Sixth floor,’ Wormold said. ‘I want to be alone, Hasselbacher.’
‘Why? Excuse me. I have the hiccups.’
‘This is a private meeting.’
‘A lovely woman, Mr Wormold? You shall have some of my winnings to help you stoop to folly.’
‘Of course it isn’t a woman. It’s business, that’s all.’
‘Private business?’
‘I told you so.’
‘What can be so private about a vacuum cleaner, Mr Wormold?’
‘A new agency,’ Wormold said, and the liftman announced, ‘Sixth floor.’
Wormold was a length ahead and his brain was clearer than Hasselbacher’s. The rooms were built as prison-cells round a rectangular balcony; on the ground floor two bald heads gleamed upwards like traffic globes. He limped to the corner of the balcony where the stairs were, and Dr Hasselbacher limped after him but Wormold was practised in limping. ‘Mr Wormold,’ Dr Hasselbacher called, ‘Mr Wormold, I’d be happy to invest a hundred thousand of my dollars …’
Wormold got to the bottom of the stairs while Dr Hasselbacher was still manoeuvring the first step; 501 was close by. He unlocked the door. A small table-lamp showed him an empty sitting-room. He closed the door very softly – Dr Hasselbacher had not yet reached the bottom of the stairs. He stood listening and heard Dr Hasselbacher’s hop, skip and hiccup pass the door and recede. Wormold thought, I feel like a spy, I behave like a spy. This is absurd. What am I going to say to Hasselbacher in the morning?
The bedroom door was closed and he began to move towards it. Then he stopped. Let sleeping dogs lie. If Hawthorne wanted him, let Hawthorne find him without his stir, but a curiosity about Hawthorne induced him to make a parting examination of the room.
On the writing desk were two books – identical copies of Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare. A memo pad – on which perhaps Hawthorne had made notes for their meeting – read, ‘1. Salary. 2. Expenses. 3. Transmission. 4. Charles Lamb. 5. Ink.’ He was just about to open the Lamb when a voice said, ‘Put up your hands. Arriba los manos.’
‘Las manos,’ Wormold corrected him. He was relieved to see that it was Hawthorne.
‘Oh, it’s only you,’ Hawthorne said.
‘I’m a bit late. I’m sorry. I was out with Hasselbacher.’
Hawthorne was wearing mauve silk pyjamas with a monogram H.R.H. on the pocket. This gave him a royal air. He said, ‘I fell asleep and then I heard you moving around.’ It was as though he had been caught without his slang; he hadn’t yet had time to put it on with his clothes. He said, ‘You’ve moved the Lamb,’ accusingly as though he were in charge of a Salvation Army chapel.
‘I’m sorry. I was just looking round.’
‘Never mind. It shows you have the right instinct.’
‘You seem fond of that particular book.’
‘One copy is for you.’
‘But I’ve read it,’ Wormold said, ‘years ago, and I don’t like Lamb.’
‘It’s not meant for reading. Have you never heard of a book-code?’
‘As a matter of fact – no.’
‘In a minute I’ll show you how to work it. I keep one copy. All you have to do when you communicate with me is to indicate the page and line where you begin the coding. Of course it’s not so hard to break as a machine-code, but it’s hard enough for the mere Hasselbachers.’
‘I wish you’d get Dr Hasselbacher out of your head.’
‘When we have your office here properly organized with sufficient security – a combination-safe, radio, trained staff, all the gimmicks, then of course we can abandon a primitive code like this, but except for an expert cryptologist it’s damned hard to break without knowing the name and edition of the book.’
‘Why did you choose Lamb?’
‘It was the only book I could find in duplicate except Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I was in a hurry and had to get something at the C.T.S. bookshop in Kingston before I left. Oh, there was something too called The Lit Lamp: A Manual of Evening Devotion, but I thought somehow it might look conspicuous on your shelves if you weren’t a religious ma
n.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I brought you some ink as well. Have you got an electric kettle?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘For opening letters. We like our men to be equipped against an emergency.’
‘What’s the ink for? I’ve got plenty of ink at home.’
‘Secret ink of course. In case you have to send anything by the ordinary mail. Your daughter has a knitting needle, I suppose?’
‘She doesn’t knit.’
‘Then you’ll have to buy one. Plastic is best. Steel sometimes leaves a mark.’
‘Mark where?’
‘On the envelopes you open.’
‘Why on earth should I want to open envelopes?’
‘It might be necessary for you to examine Dr Hasselbacher’s mail. Of course, you’ll have to find a sub-agent in the post office.’
‘I absolutely refuse …’
‘Don’t be difficult. I’m having traces of him sent out from London. We’ll decide about his mail after we’ve read them. A good tip – if you run short of ink use bird shit, or am I going too fast?’
‘I haven’t even said I was willing …’
‘London agrees to $150 a month, with another hundred and fifty as expenses – you’ll have to justify those, of course. Payment of sub-agents, etc. Anything above that will have to be specially authorized.’
‘You are going much too fast.’
‘Free of income-tax, you know,’ Hawthorne said and winked slyly. The wink somehow didn’t go with the royal monogram.
‘You must give me time …’
‘Your code number is 59200 stroke 5.’ He added with pride, ‘Of course I am 59200. You’ll number your sub-agents 59200 stroke 5 stroke 1 and so on. Got the idea?’
‘I don’t see how I can possibly be of use to you.’
‘You are English, aren’t you?’ Hawthorne said briskly.
‘Of course I’m English.’
‘And you refuse to serve your country?’
‘I didn’t say that. But the vacuum cleaners take up a great deal of time.’
‘They are an excellent cover,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Very well thought out. Your profession has quite a natural air.’
‘But it is natural.’
‘Now if you don’t mind,’ Hawthorne said firmly, ‘we must get down to our Lamb.’
2
‘Milly,’ Wormold said, ‘you haven’t taken any cereals.’
‘I’ve given up cereals.’
‘You only took one lump of sugar in your coffee. You aren’t going on a diet, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Or doing a penance?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll be awfully hungry by lunch-time.’
‘I’ve thought of that. I’m going to eat a terrible lot of potatoes.’
‘Milly, what’s going on?’
‘I’m going to economize. Suddenly in the watches of the night I realized what an expense I was to you. It was like a voice speaking. I nearly said, “Who are you?” but I was afraid it would say, “Your Lord and your God.” I’m about the age, you know.’
‘Age for what?’
‘Voices. I’m older than St Therese was when she went into the convent.’
‘Now, Milly, don’t tell me you’re contemplating …’
‘No, I’m not. I think Captain Segura’s right. He said I wasn’t the right material for a convent.’
‘Milly, do you know what they call your Captain Segura?’
‘Yes. The Red Vulture. He tortures prisoners.’
‘Does he admit that?’
‘Oh, of course with me he’s on his best behaviour, but he has a cigarette-case made out of human skin. He pretends it’s calf – as if I didn’t know calf when I see it.’
‘You must drop him, Milly.’
‘I shall – slowly, but I have to arrange my stabling first. And that reminds me of the voice.’
‘What did the voice say?’
‘It said – only it sounded much more apocalyptic in the middle of the night – “You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, my girl. What about the Country Club?” ’
‘What about the Country Club?’
‘It’s the only place where I can get any real riding, and we aren’t members. What’s the good of a horse in a stable? Of course Captain Segura is a member, but I knew you wouldn’t want me to depend on him. So I thought perhaps if I could help you to cut the housekeeping by fasting …’
‘What good …?’
‘Well, then, you might be able to afford to take a family-membership. You ought to enter me as Seraphina. It somehow sounds more suitable than Milly.’
It seemed to Wormold that all she said had a quality of sense; it was Hawthorne who belonged to the cruel and inexplicable world of childhood.
INTERLUDE IN LONDON
In the basement of the big steel and concrete building near Maida Vale a light over a door changed from red to green, and Hawthorne entered. He had left his elegance behind in the Caribbean and wore a grey flannel suit which had seen better days. At home he didn’t have to keep up appearances; he was part of grey January London.
The Chief sat behind a desk on which an enormous green marble paper-weight held down a single sheet of paper. A half-drunk glass of milk, a bottle of grey pills and a packet of Kleenex stood by the black telephone. (The red one was for scrambling.) His black morning coat, black tie and black monocle hiding the left eye gave him the appearance of an undertaker, just as the basement room had the effect of a vault, a mausoleum, a grave.
‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘Just a gossip, Hawthorne. Just a gossip.’ It was as though a mute were gloomily giving tongue after the day’s burials were over. ‘When did you get back, Hawthorne?’
‘A week ago, sir. I’ll be returning to Jamaica on Friday.’
‘All going well?’
‘I think we’ve got the Caribbean sewn up now, sir,’ Hawthorne said.
‘Martinique?’
‘No difficulties there, sir. You remember at Fort de France we are working with the Deuxième Bureau.’
‘Only up to a point?’
‘Oh yes, of course, only up to a point. Haiti was more of a problem, but 59200 stroke 2 is proving energetic. I was more uncertain at first about 59200 stroke 5.’
‘Stroke five?’
‘Our man in Havana, sir. I didn’t have much choice there, and at first he didn’t seem very keen on the job. A bit stubborn.’
‘That kind sometimes develops best.’
‘Yes, sir. I was a little worried too by his contacts. (There’s a German called Hasselbacher, but we haven’t found any traces of him yet.) However he seems to be going ahead. We got a request for extra expenses just as I was leaving Kingston.’
‘Always a good sign.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Shows the imagination is working.’
‘Yes. He wanted to become a member of the Country Club. Haunt of the millionaires, you know. Best source for political and economic information. The subscription’s very high, about ten times the size of White’s, but I’ve allowed it.’
‘You did right. How are his reports?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, we haven’t had any yet, but of course it will take time for him to organize his contacts. Perhaps I rather over-emphasized the need of security.’
‘You can’t. No use having a live wire if it fuses.’
‘As it happens, he’s rather advantageously placed. Very good business contacts – a lot of them with Government officials and leading Ministers.’
‘Ah,’ the Chief said. He took off the black monocle and began to polish it with a piece of Kleenex. The eye that he disclosed was made of glass; pale blue and unconvincing, it might have come out of a doll which said ‘Mama’.
‘What’s his business?’
‘Oh, he imports, you know. Machinery, that sort of thing.’ It was always important to one’s own career to employ agents who were men of
good social standing. The petty details on the secret file dealing with the store in Lamparilla Street would never, in ordinary circumstances, reach this basement-room.
‘Why isn’t he already a member of the Country Club?’
‘Well, I think he’s been rather a recluse of recent years. Bit of domestic trouble.’
‘Doesn’t run after women, I hope?’
‘Oh, nothing of that sort, sir. His wife left him. Went off with an American.’
‘I suppose he’s not anti-American? Havana’s not the place for any prejudice like that. We have to work with them – only up to a point of course.’
‘Oh, he’s not at all that way, sir. He’s a very fair-minded man, very balanced. Took his divorce well and keeps his child in a Catholic school according to his wife’s wishes. I’m told he sends her greeting-telegrams at Christmas. I think we’ll find his reports when they do come in are a hundred per cent reliable.’
‘Rather touching that, about the child, Hawthorne. Well, give him a prod, so that we can judge his usefulness. If he’s all you say he is, we might consider enlarging his staff. Havana could be a key-spot. The Communists always go where there’s trouble. How does he communicate?’
‘I’ve arranged for him to send reports by the weekly bag to Kingston in duplicate. I keep one and send one to London. I’ve given him the book code for cables. He sends them through the Consulate.’
‘They won’t like that.’
‘I’ve told them it’s temporary.’
‘I would be in favour of establishing a radio-unit if he proves to be a good man. He could expand his office-staff, I suppose?’
‘Oh, of course. At least – you understand it’s not a big office, sir. Old-fashioned. You know how these merchant-adventurers make do.’
‘I know the type, Hawthorne. Small scrubby desk. Half a dozen men in an outer office meant to hold two. Out-of-date accounting machines. Woman-secretary who is completing forty years with the firm.’
Our Man in Havana Page 6
