Eberlin sprawled in the back of the taxi, wet and breathless, and noticed for the first time that he was drunk, and the driver, an elderly man with the eyes of a marionette, was saying:
“Where to, sir?”
* * *
The small white card pinned inelegantly to the board read in petite lettering of no great charm:
EXPERT: ERECTION AND DEMOLITION PHONE MISS SHARON. PARK 4169
Eberlin, standing in the pouring August rain of Queensway, regretting the absence of his hat, collar turned up, took mental note of the number, turned quickly away and hurried through the babel of strangers constantly stirring in this cockpit of mannered sordidity, past the late night steak houses and tasteless coffee bars, on until he reached a phone booth, solitary in a side street, the permanent light inside proclaiming it like an altar lamp. He entered and dialed the number. The dialing tone rang on seemingly for an eternity, then a sharp, bored female voice answered with all the femininity of a battery hen.
“Park 4169. Hang on a minute.”
Eberlin did for two minutes and then the voice returned with: “Yes?”
“Is that Miss Sharon?”
“What did you want, dear?”
“I gather oilskin is still fashionable, is it not?” There was a fractional hesitation.
“It depends if you’re regular.”
“As a dormouse.”
“Did you want to see me tonight, love?”
“Now.”
“Anything particular you had in mind?”
“I’ll see you in five minutes.”
Pause.
“You are a regular, aren’t you, dear?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Oh–if you pass a milk machine can you bring some milk for me. I haven’t had much chance–”
“I’ll be there.”
There was a milk machine on the corner by the Underground station, and Eberlin lost two sixpences in it because it had been broken earlier by vandals who made a habit of it. He arrived at the house in Cornwall Crescent twenty minutes later, having walked all the way, and pressing the fourth bell, walked up the staircase slowly to the third floor. A sliver of light shone out from under a door and he knocked twice. The door was opened six inches by a young girl of about twenty, blond dry hair piled up over her head, charcoal-sketch eyes, a small mouth but attractive, and a thin, bone-protruding body wrapped in a pink and yellow housecoat. She squinted out into the hallway, seeing only the shape of Eberlin in the shadow.
“Did you bring the milk?” she asked, unsure of herself, trying to see the face. There was a smell of joss sticks from the room and Eberlin could see a framed photo of Michelangelo’s David (of all things), on a far wall, with a faded charity poppy stuck in the corner of the glass.
“The machine was empty,” he said quickly and pushed his way into the room and locked the door. Ignoring the girl, clutching the housecoat around her as if her immodesty was at stake, he glanced around the room, peered through a hanging curtain divide into a small kitchen, and said quietly:
“I want to contact Pavel. Where is he?”
It was a small room, ten by ten at the most, and unusually clean despite the horror of the décor. It contained only a bed and a sink and a chair, two chairs, and a small gas fire. A wardrobe and a table piled with papers, cheap makeup, old copies of True Romances and cans of soup. Two cups. On the back of the door was tacked a magazine photo of Marilyn Monroe in a white shirt, a picture postcard of some abysmal ruin in Italy, and a girl’s telephone number followed by a question mark. There was an attempt at creative invention in the lampshade which was white and round and had been made by the tenant, squat-legged on the floor one Sunday afternoon, tongue between teeth, as she pasted squares of tissue paper onto a greased balloon. Then laboriously, hurrying to complete it before dark, she pasted more squares till the balloon had a skin of paper and her bottom, sitting naked as she did, since it was hot and she possessed few casual clothes, was patterned red with the rush matting and her neck ached. But the shade was completed and in two days, dry and free from its foundation like a sucked eggshell, was hung around the light bulb, dispersing the light, and became a cynosure for the girl as she lay on her back, drawn to it like a moth, and a source of part-time work as other girls, calling in to borrow stockings and sugar, said, “What’s that?” and asked for one for themselves. It was a pleasant way to spend the leisure hours.
The girl’s eyebrows were drawn tightly together in a W of bewilderment and she didn’t reply.
“I haven’t much time,” said Eberlin. “Where’s Pavel?”
“I don’t know.”
Eberlin leaned over the bed and looked out of the small white-painted, uncleaned window at the gray yard and empty washing lines outside.
“They broke contact with me two days ago,” he said quietly, running his finger across the moist inside of the glass. “Do you know why?”
There was still no answer. He turned and looked at her, standing body hunched, arms clutched to her, a smear of faded pink, eyes wide, her shape seeminly disproportioned under the light, like a neglected puppet.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Eberlin asked. She shook her head and walked to the table and took the phone off the hook.
“They’re angry with you for giving them orders,” she said, not looking at him.
“Damn children,” he said and lit a cigarette. “When did you last hear?”
“Not for a week.”
“From Pavel?”
“No, from Rotopkin. I’ve never met Pavel.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Rotopkin?”
“No. Pavel.”
“No.”
“What about Rotopkin? Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Eberlin sighed and stood up and stared at the David. What a sordid little room, all broken and overcharged and pathetic. A baby crying upstairs suddenly. A toilet flushing.
“Where’s Rotopkin?”
“I don’t know. I–”
Eberlin grabbed her arm tightly and pulled her around toward him.
“I don’t know what is happening here but I’ve got to see Pavel.
They know about him. They have his picture.”
Her eyes opened wider for a second, then she tugged at her arm. “I’m not sure where Rotopkin is.”
“Where was he last?”
“I’m not sure. My contact hasn’t–”
“In London?”
“Yes.”
“Where? The Gallery?”
“No.”
“Where then?”
“I don’t know.”
“If Pavel doesn’t leave London, they’ll kill him.”
The rain had stopped. Eberlin released the girl, hesitated, then turned away toward the door, buttoning up his coat.
“I could try to phone Rotopkin,” she said, her voice nervous and breathy.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Well, do it. Find out where Pavel is.”
“He might not tell me.”
“Pick up the phone.”
“I’m not really supposed–”
“For Godsakes pick up the phone.”
The girl, frightened now, moved back to the table and picked up the phone, the housecoat falling aside like a theatre curtain to reveal a gray scrawny stomach and chocolate-button nipples. Eberlin stared at her cold, ribby body and said, quietly, pointing at the lampshade:
“Did you make that yourself?”
* * *
Pavel was in bed but not asleep when Eberlin arrived two hours later, creeping up the emergency stairs of the council apartments like a prospective burglar. The back-street, hushed-voice, nightprowling codified pantomime of undercover contact always irritated Eberlin’s sense of style. To him, it was all unnaturally vulgar and clichéic, and it was for that reason he preferred his own role as assassin, independent of the groups and the intermediae, living a life of his own choosing for most of the
time, and only going to ground on those rare occasions of accidental mismanagement.
The thirteenth floor of the Estate was predictably deserted at this time of the night. Nevertheless, Eberlin paused on the concrete passage, listening for any sound, then walked quietly to 137. He had known plebeian associates of the K.G.B., like Rotopkin, to revel in the pseudo-glamour of back-street rendezvous, exultant in the whole façade of counter-espionage–a word he never used–and then reaching retirement age, dream of beach cottages and fat wives. Eberlin rarely concerned himself with the inherent politics involved in his profession, though he respected the motives of his own side, and was rarely asked to pass information to Moscow, though he had done so once or twice with obvious disdain. That was not his job. He left that to the unfortunate majority and was intensely disliked by them. Working alone, in solitude, was his preference, at least until recently when he desired nothing more but to get out, give it up, return to Russia, anywhere for Godsakes, and live in ease with his personality intact. The only thing he feared, a recurrent nagging, was that the character of Eberlin, not the ministerial and social environment of the man, but the essence of Eberlin himself, had slowly along the way become much, much more attractive. He had to get out
The lock of the door was a standard Yale fixture and consequently easily opened, and Eberlin stepped into the dark stillness of the flat, listening cautiously to discover if Pavel was alone. There was no sound. Pausing only to adjust his eyes to the gloom, he noticed a faint haze of light under the door on his left and crossed the thick pile carpet to it moving silently and reaching for the handle of the door with both hands. Holding his breath he turned the handle and found the door moving inward noiselessly on its hinges, and he stepped into the blue painted bedroom as a Browning .38 automatic was rammed under his jaw, knocking his head back, and Pavel said quietly:
“Stand just exactly as you are.”
Eberlin did. Pavel’s arm was straight as a ramrod holding the gun, as he glanced out into the hallway and then with a forceful jab in the jaw, he gestured Eberlin into the center of the room and closed the door behind him. There was a momentary pause and the sound of heavy breathing as Pavel moved behind him, ran his hand quickly over Eberlin’s clothes and then said:
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you’d like some coffee.”
With a soft thud the Browning dropped onto the clean linen, pink-white-and-blue-striped pillow on the bed.
“Let me take your coat.”
“I can’t stay,” replied Eberlin and perched on the edge of the bed and looked up at the thin, balding Pavel standing in white pajamas near the door, his face flushed and his eyes seemingly myopic.
Eberlin noticed that the room was as hot as hell, though without the charm, and yet its occupant seemed disturbingly unaware of it.
“Do you mind if I open the window?” He smiled. “Yes I do mind,” was Pavel’s curt reply.
“Well, may I turn off the fire?”
“No.”
“Hot for this time of the year isn’t it?”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Understatement of the year.”
But Eberlin didn’t grin. He sat and gazed at a copy of Pnin lying without its jacket (damn the heat) on the bedside table. He had read the book himself with quiet enthusiasm a year ago. Eberlin picked it up, measured its weight in his hand and then said:
“How are you?”
Pavel didn’t answer but crouched before the fire chewing a large piece of chocolate.
“I find electricity dearer than gas,” he said finally. “So I understand.”
“I’m thinking of getting rid of it and buying a gas fire but there isn’t a point.”
“To the decision?”
“No, to the gas.”
“Too high up?”
“You mean the apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Could be. Never thought about it.”
“I’m being sent to Berlin to kill Krasnevin.”
“I know. Did you say you wanted some coffee?”
Eberlin looked up startled at Pavel, but the other man had his back to him and was lighting a cigarette.
“How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
“That I was going to Berlin?”
“Why? Is it supposed to be a secret?” He turned and smiled back at Eberlin. “What are you going to do about it?”
“There is a solution.”
“Good. But if you go to Berlin, you’ll stay in the West, won’t you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“They don’t want you in the East. Remember that. Even the boys in St. Antonius know about you.”
Eberlin shrugged and stood up. He glanced at Pavel puzzled. The man looked ill, sick. What did he need the bloody fire on for? It was already stifling with central heating. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“You don’t look well, Pavel.”
“I think you’d better get out of here.”
“Don’t you care what I do?”
“Not particularly. I’m sure your plans are perfectly adequate as always.”
“Don’t be so damned supercilious. They want me to kill myself.”
“How amusing. I must get some sleep, so do you mind–”
“Oh go to hell.”
Eberlin crossed to the door. He was about to shout something, then changed his mind and said, “Did you search my rooms tonight?”
There was no answer. Pavel had lain down on the bed, facing away from the door, and was humming to himself, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed. Fingers hovering over the carpet. A cigarette lying neglected in an ashtray.
“Did you have my rooms searched?” repeated Eberlin, controlling his voice.
“No,” was the answer. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, dear boy.”
“Then it must have been the British.”
“Of course it must have been the British by the simple reason that you discovered that fact.”
Eberlin gave a cynical grunt and moved nearer to the bed.
“Oh really? I suppose if you had searched the rooms, I would never have noticed?”
“That’s right.”
“So positive?”
“Well, we searched your rooms three days ago while you were at the V and A. But perhaps you were too drunk to notice.”
“Good God.”
“Oh dear, Eberlin, you’re getting awfully irritating. Are we about to have a brawl or something? A pathetic duel at dawn on Wimbledon Common. You and your histrionics. You’re nothing more than a stand-up tragedian.”
And Pavel laughed, Eberlin swore to himself and picked up the Browning automatic from the pillow by Pavel’s feet. He held it in his hand and pointed it toward its owner, squinting up at him and humming to himself some unrecognizable tune.
“It’s loaded, dear boy.”
“You amaze me,” remarked Eberlin disdainfully, and thrust the gun under the pillow out of sight. There was a light chink of metal against metal. Puzzled, Eberlin moved aside the pillow and revealed the long, disturbing shape of a hypodermic needle pushed hastily in this cache, resting next to the gun. Eberlin glanced at Pavel with contempt and walked away from the bed. There was a gurgling laugh from behind him and Pavel said:
“Well now you know the reason for my odd manner. It ought to teach you not to go bursting in everywhere unannounced.”
“They have a film of the man they think is Krasnevin,” Eberlin said quietly.
“Obviously not of you.”
“No.”
“Why that’s excellent,” cried Pavel, sitting up. “I never knew that. All you have to do now is find the man in the film and kill him, then announce him to the British as Krasnevin. Couldn’t be better.”
Eberlin didn’t reply. Pavel smiled broadly and added:
“Did you know the man in the film at all? Recognize his
face?”
There was a pause, then: “Yes. It was you.”
Pavel’s jaw dropped in cold parody of Marley’s ghost, then he gave a machine-gun burst of laughter and said: “You’re not serious?”
“Perfectly. They think you’re Krasnevin. It was you in the film.”
“But–oh, God!”
A frightening stillness entered the room and observed the two men frozen like waxworks in a pageant, and then Pavel looked unsteadily at Eberlin and asked quietly:
“What–what are you going to do about it?”
“What would you do, Pavel?”
“I’d kill you.”
“You’d have to.”
“Yes. Yes I would, I’d have to kill you. After all, it’s your life or mine.”
“Something like that.”
“That’s why you came here. To …”
“Yes.”
“Funny. I was going to go away for a couple of days as well.”
“Oh really?” asked Eberlin. “Where exactly?”
“A little place I know in the Cotswolds.”
“It’s very pretty around there.”
“Yes I think so. The hills. Oh God!” Pavel suddenly began to shake as if in a fever.
“You are ill, aren’t you?” said Eberlin.
“Yes. For the last three days. That’s why I–”
“Didn’t go away.”
“Yes….”
Eberlin picked up the Browning and held it in his hand.
“I wouldn’t use that,” said Pavel. “The man upstairs complains bitterly if you make a noise after midnight.”
For a full minute Eberlin stood there, holding the gun, and then suddenly he threw it on the bed, turned on his heel and walked to the door.
“Get out,” he snapped to Pavel. “Get out of the country. Do it now.”
“You’re a fool,” said Pavel.
“I’ll find another way, but you’ve got to get out of sight.”
He opened the door, glancing back at the other man for a moment.
“Thanks,” said Pavel self-consciously.
“Don’t be so damn melodramatic,” shouted Eberlin, and added, “You make me sick.”
He closed the door behind him and was hurrying silently down the stone corridor and darkened stone stairs of the building, down to the courtyard below. He walked rapidly toward the dimly lit street by the railway line, almost colliding into a black Buick that emerged suddenly from the depths of the bridge, lights out, and turned into the Estate car park.
A Dandy in Aspic Page 9
