‘Who’s Henry?’ he asked.
‘59200,’ she said. He felt an odd jealousy, for in spite of security rules she had only once called him Jim.
The house was empty as usual when they came in; he was aware that he no longer missed Milly, and he felt the sad relief of a man who realizes that there is one love at least that no longer hurts him.
‘Rudy’s out,’ Beatrice said. ‘Buying sweets, I suppose. He eats too many. He must consume an awful lot of energy, because he gets no fatter, but I don’t see how.’
‘We’d better get down to work. There’s a cable to send. Segura gave some valuable information about Communist infiltration in the police. You’d hardly believe …’
‘I can believe almost anything. Look at this. I’ve just discovered something fascinating in the code-book. Did you know there was a group for “eunuch”? Do you think it crops up often in cables?’
‘I expect they need it in the Istanbul office.’
‘I wish we could use it. Can’t we?’
‘Are you ever going to marry again?’
Beatrice said, ‘Your free associations are rather obvious sometimes. Do you think Rudy has a secret life? He can’t consume all that energy in the office.’
‘What’s the drill for a secret life? Do you have to ask permission from London before you start one?’
‘Well, of course, you would have to get traces before going very far. London prefers to keep sex inside the department.’
CHAPTER 2
1
‘I MUST BE getting important,’ Wormold said. ‘I’ve been invited to make a speech.’
‘Where?’ Milly asked, looking politely up from the Horsewoman’s Year Book. It was the evening hour when work was over and the last gold light lay flat across the roofs and touched the honey-coloured hair and the whisky in his glass.
‘At the annual lunch of the European Traders’ Association. Dr Braun, the President, has asked me to make one – as the oldest member. The guest of honour is the American Consul-General,’ he added with pride. It seemed such a short time ago that he had come to Havana and met with her family in the Floridita bar the girl who was Milly’s mother; now he was the oldest trader there. Many had retired: some had gone home to fight in the last war – English, German, French – but he had been rejected because of his bad leg. None of these had returned to Cuba.
‘What will you talk about?’
He said sadly, ‘I shan’t. I wouldn’t know what to say.’
‘I bet you’d speak better than any of them.’
‘Oh no. I may be the oldest member, Milly, but I’m the smallest too. The rum-exporters and the cigar-men – they are the really important people.’
‘You are you.’
‘I wish you had chosen a cleverer father.’
‘Captain Segura says you are pretty good at checkers.’
‘But not as good as he is.’
‘Please accept, Father,’ she said. ‘I’d be so proud of you.’
‘I’d make a fool of myself.’
‘You wouldn’t. For my sake.’
‘For your sake I’d turn cartwheels. All right. I’ll accept.’
Rudy knocked at the door. This was the hour when he listened in for the last time; it would be midnight in London.
He said, ‘There’s an urgent cable from Kingston. Shall I fetch Beatrice?’
‘No, I can manage it myself. She’s going to a movie.’
‘Business does seem brisk,’ Milly said.
‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t seem to sell any more cleaners.’
‘It’s all long-term promotion,’ Wormold said.
He went into his bedroom and deciphered the cable. It was from Hawthorne. Wormold was to come by the first possible plane to Kingston and report. He thought: So they know at last.
2
The rendezvous was the Myrtle Bank Hotel. Wormold had not been to Jamaica for many years, and he was appalled by the dirt and the heat. What accounted for the squalor of British possessions? The Spanish, the French and the Portuguese built cities where they settled, but the English just allowed cities to grow. The poorest street in Havana had dignity compared with the shanty-life of Kingston – huts built out of old petrol-tins roofed with scrap-metal purloined from some cemetery of abandoned cars.
Hawthorne sat in a long chair in the veranda of Myrtle Bank drinking a planter’s punch through a straw. His suit was just as immaculate as when Wormold had met him first; the only sign of the great heat was a little powder caked under his left ear. He said, ‘Take a pew.’ Even the slang was back.
‘Thanks.’
‘Had a good trip?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I expect you’re glad to be at home.’
‘Home?’
‘I mean here – having a holiday from the dagoes. Back in British territory.’ Wormold thought of the huts he had seen along the harbour and a hopeless old man asleep in a patch of shade and a ragged child nursing a piece of driftwood. He said, ‘Havana’s not so bad.’
‘Have a planter’s punch. They are good here.’
‘Thanks.’
Hawthorne said, ‘I asked you to come over because there’s a spot of trouble.’
‘Yes?’ He supposed that the truth was coming out. Could he be arrested now that he was on British territory? What would the charge be? Obtaining money on false pretences perhaps or some obscurer charge heard in camera under the Official Secrets Act.
‘About these constructions.’
He wanted to explain that Beatrice knew nothing of all this; he had no accomplice except the credulity of other men.
‘What about them?’ he asked.
‘I wish you’d been able to get photographs.’
‘I tried. You know what happened.’
‘Yes. The drawings are a bit confusing.’
‘They are not by a skilled draughtsman.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, old man. You’ve done wonders, but, you know, there was a time when I was – almost suspicious.’
‘What of?’
‘Well, some of them sort of reminded me – to be frank, they reminded me of parts of a vacuum cleaner.’
‘Yes, that struck me too.’
‘And then, you see, I remembered all the thingummies in your shop.’
‘You thought I’d pulled the leg of the Secret Service?’
‘Of course it sounds fantastic now, I know. All the same, in a way I was relieved when I found that the others have made up their minds to murder you.’
‘Murder me?’
‘You see, that really proves the drawings are genuine.’
‘What others?’
‘The other side. Of course I’d luckily kept these absurd suspicions to myself.’
‘How are they going to murder me?’
‘Oh, we’ll come to that – a matter of poisoning. What I mean is that next to having photographs one can’t have a better confirmation of your reports. We had been rather sitting on them, but we’ve circulated them now to all the Service Departments. We sent them to Atomic Research as well. They weren’t helpful. Said they had no connection with nuclear fission. The trouble is we’ve been bemused by the atom-boys and have quite forgotten that there may be other forms of scientific warfare just as dangerous.’
‘How are they going to poison me?’
‘First things first, old man. One mustn’t forget the economics of warfare. Cuba can’t afford to start making H-bombs, but have they found something equally effective at short range and cheap! That’s the important word – cheap.’
‘Please would you mind telling me how they are going to murder me? You see, it interests me personally.’
‘Of course I’m going to tell you. I just wanted to give you the background first and to tell you how pleased we all are – at the confirmation of your reports, I mean. They plan to poison you at some sort of business lunch.’
‘The European Traders’ Association?’
�
��I think that’s the name.’
‘How do you know?’
‘We’ve penetrated their organization here. You’d be surprised how much we know of what goes on in your territory. I can tell you for instance that the death of stroke four was an accident. They just wanted to scare him as they scared stroke three by shooting at him. You are the first one they’ve really decided to murder.’
‘That’s comforting.’
‘In a way, you know, it’s a compliment. You are dangerous now.’ Hawthorne made a long sucking noise, draining up the last liquid between the layers of ice and orange and pineapple and the cherry on top.
‘I suppose,’ Wormold said, ‘I’d better not go.’ He felt a surprising disappointment. ‘It will be the first lunch I’ve missed in ten years. They’d even asked me to speak. The firm always expects me to attend. Like showing the flag.’
‘But of course you’ve got to go.’
‘And be poisoned?’
‘You needn’t eat anything, need you?’
‘Have you ever tried going to a public lunch and not eating anything? There’s also the question of drink.’
‘They can’t very well poison a bottle of wine. You could give the impression of being an alcoholic, somebody who doesn’t eat but only drinks.’
‘Thank you. That would certainly be good for business.’
‘People have a soft spot in their hearts for alcoholics,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Besides, if you don’t go they’ll suspect something. It puts my source in danger. We have to protect our sources.’
‘That’s the drill, I suppose.’
‘Exactly, old man. Another point: we know the plot, but we don’t know the plotters, except their symbols. If we discover who they are, we can insist on having them locked up. We’ll disrupt the organization.’
‘Yes, there aren’t any perfect murders, are there? I dare say there’ll be a clue at the post-mortem on which you can persuade Segura to act.’
‘You aren’t afraid, are you? This is a dangerous job. You shouldn’t have taken it unless you were prepared …’
‘You’re like a Spartan mother, Hawthorne. Come back victorious or stay beneath the table.’
‘That’s quite an idea, you know. You could slip under the table at the right moment. The murderers would think you were dead and the others would just think you were drunk.’
‘This is not a meeting of the Big Four at Moscow. The European Traders don’t fall under the table.’
‘Never?’
‘Never. You think I’m unduly concerned, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think there’s any need for you to worry yet. They don’t serve you, after all. You help yourself.’
‘Of course. Except that there’s always a Morro crab to start with at the Nacional. That’s prepared in advance.’
‘You mustn’t eat that. Lots of people don’t eat crab. When they serve the other courses never take the portion next to you. It’s like a conjuror forcing a card on you. You just have to reject it.’
‘But the conjuror usually manages to force the card just the same.’
‘I tell you what – did you say the lunch was at the Nacional?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why can’t you use stroke seven?’
‘Who’s stroke seven?’
‘Don’t you remember your own agents? Surely he’s the head waiter at the Nacional? He can help to see your plate isn’t tampered with. It’s time he did something for his money. I don’t remember you sending a single report from him.’
‘Can’t you give me any idea who the man at the lunch will be? I mean the man who plans to …’ he boggled at the word ‘kill’ … ‘to do it.’
‘Not a clue, old man. Just be careful of everyone. Have another planter’s punch.’
3
The plane back to Cuba had few passengers: a Spanish woman with a pack of children – some of them screamed and some of them were air-sick as soon as they left the ground; a negress with a live cock wrapped in her shawl; a Cuban cigar-exporter with whom Wormold had a nodding acquaintance, and an Englishman in a tweed jacket who smoked a pipe until the air-hostess told him to put it out. Then he sucked the empty pipe ostentatiously for the rest of the journey and sweated heavily into the tweed. He had the ill-humoured face of a man who is always in the right.
When lunch was served he moved back several places and sat down beside Wormold. He said, ‘Can’t stand those screaming brats. Do you mind?’ He looked at the papers on Wormold’s knee. ‘You with Phastkleaners?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m with Nucleaners. The name’s Carter.’
‘Oh.’
‘This is only my second trip to Cuba. Gay spot, they tell me,’ he said, blowing down his pipe and laying it aside for lunch.
‘It can be,’ Wormold said, ‘if you like roulette or brothels.’
Carter patted his tobacco-pouch as though it were a dog’s head – ‘my faithful hound shall bear me company’. ‘I didn’t exactly mean … though I’m not a Puritan, mind. I suppose it would be interesting. Do as the Romans do.’ He changed the subject. ‘Sell many of your machines?’
‘Trade’s not so bad.’
‘We’ve got a new model that’s going to wipe the market.’ He took a large mouthful of sweet mauve cake and then cut himself a piece of chicken.
‘Really.’
‘Runs on a motor like a lawn-mower. No effort by the little woman. No tubes trailing all over the place.’
‘Noisy?’
‘Special silencer. Less noise than your model. We are calling it the Whisper-Wife.’ After taking a swig of turtle soup he began to eat his fruit salad, crunching the grape stones between his teeth. He said, ‘We are opening an agency in Cuba soon. Know Dr Braun?’
‘I’ve met him. At the European. Traders’ Association. He’s our President. Imports precision-instruments from Geneva.’
‘That’s the man. He’s given us very useful advice. In fact I’m going to your bean-feast as his guest. Do they give you a good lunch?’
‘You know what hotel-lunches are like.’
‘Better than this anyway,’ he said, spitting out a grapeskin. He had overlooked the asparagus in mayonnaise and now began on that. Afterwards he fumbled in his pocket. ‘Here’s my card.’ The card read: ‘William Carter B. Tech (Nottwich)’ and in the corner, ‘Nucleaners Ltd.’ He said, ‘I’m staying at the Seville-Biltmore for a week.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t a card on me. My name’s Wormold.’
‘Met a fellow called Davis?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Shared digs with him at college. He went into Gripfix and came out to this part of the world. It’s funny – you find Nottwich men everywhere. You weren’t there yourself, were you?’
‘No.’
‘Reading?’
‘I wasn’t at a University.’
‘I couldn’t have told it,’ Carter told him kindly. ‘I’d have gone to Oxford, you know, but they are very backward in technology. All right for schoolmasters, I suppose.’ He began to suck again at his empty pipe like a child at a comforter, till it whistled between his teeth. Suddenly he spoke again, as though some remains of tannin had touched his tongue with a bitter flavour. ‘Outdated,’ he said, ‘relics, living on the past. I’d abolish them.’
‘Abolish what?’
‘Oxford and Cambridge.’ He took the only food that was left in the tray, a roll of bread, and crumbled it like age or ivy crumbling a stone.
At the Customs Wormold lost him. He was having trouble with his sample Nucleaner, and Wormold saw no reason why the representative of Phastkleaners should assist him to enter. Beatrice was there to meet him with the Hillman. It was many years since he had been met by a woman.
‘Everything all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Oh yes. They seem pleased with me.’ He watched her hands on the wheel; she wore no gloves in the hot afternoon; they were beautiful and competent hands. He said, ‘You aren’t
wearing your ring.’
She said, ‘I didn’t think anyone would notice. Milly did too. You are an observant family.’
‘You haven’t lost it?’
‘I took it off yesterday to wash and I forgot to put it back. There’s no point, is there, wearing a ring you forget?’
It was then he told her about the lunch.
‘You won’t go?’ she said.
‘Hawthorne expects me to. To protect his source.’
‘Damn his source.’
‘There’s a better reason. Something that Dr Hasselbacher said to me. They like to strike at what you love. If I don’t go, they’ll think up something else. Something worse. And we shan’t know what. Next time it mightn’t be me – I don’t think I love myself enough to satisfy them – it might be Milly. Or you.’ He didn’t realize the implication of what he had said until she had dropped him at his door and driven on.
CHAPTER 3
1
MILLY SAID, ‘YOU’VE had a cup of coffee, and that’s all. Not even a piece of toast.’
‘I’m just not in the mood.’
‘You’ll go and over-eat at the Trader’s lunch today, and you know perfectly well that Morro crab doesn’t agree with your stomach.’
‘I promise you I’ll be very very careful.’
‘You’d do much better to have a proper breakfast. You need a cereal to mop up all the liquor you’ll be drinking.’ It was one of her duenna days.
‘I’m sorry, Milly, I just can’t. I’ve got things on my mind. Please don’t pester me. Not today.’
‘Have you prepared your speech?’
‘I’ve done my best, but I’m no speaker, Milly. I don’t know why they asked me.’ But he was uneasily conscious that perhaps he did know why. Somebody must have brought influence to bear on Dr Braun, somebody who had to be identified at any cost. He thought, I am the cost.
‘I bet you’ll be a sensation.’
‘I’m trying hard not to be a sensation at this lunch.’
Milly went to school and he sat on at the table. The cereal company which Milly patronized had printed on the carton of Weatbrix the latest adventure of Little Dwarf Doodoo. Little Dwarf Doodoo in a rather brief instalment encountered a rat the size of a St Bernard dog and he frightened the rat away by pretending to be a cat and saying miaou. It was a very simple story. You could hardly call it a preparation for life. The company also gave away an air-gun in return for twelve lids. As the packet was almost empty Wormold began to cut off the lid, driving his knife carefully along the dotted line. He was turning the last corner when Beatrice entered. She said, ‘What are you doing?’
Our Man in Havana Page 17
