‘I’d like to get my hook into her,’ Davis said.
The girl drank from a bottle of High and Dry suspended above the hammock on a string, and after every swallow she removed a piece of clothing with an air of ginny abandon. At long last they could see her naked buttocks outlined by the net like the rump of a chicken seen through a Soho housewife’s string bag. A party of businessmen from Birmingham applauded with some violence, and one man went so far as to wave a Diners Club card above his head, perhaps to show his financial standing.
‘What do you fish?’ Castle asked.
‘Mainly trout or grayling,’ Percival said.
‘Is there much difference?’
‘My dear fellow, ask a big-game hunter if there’s a difference between lion and tiger.’
‘Which do you prefer?’
‘It’s not really a question of preference. I just love fishing – any fly fishing. The grayling is less intelligent than the trout, but that doesn’t mean he’s always easier. He demands a different technique. And he’s a fighter – he fights until there’s no fight left in him.’
‘And the trout?’
‘Oh, he’s the king, all right. He scares easily – nail boots or a stick, any sound you make and he’s off. Then you must place your fly exactly, the first time. Otherwise . . .’ Percival made a gesture with his arm as though he were casting in the direction of yet another naked girl who was striped black and white by the lights like a zebra.
‘What a bottom!’ Davis said with awe. He sat with a glass of whisky half-way to his lips, watching the cheeks revolve with the same precision as the wheels of a Swiss watch: a diamond movement.
‘You aren’t doing your blood pressure any good,’ Percival told him.
‘Blood pressure?’
‘I told you it was high.’
‘You can’t bother me tonight,’ Davis said. ‘That’s the great Rita Rolls herself. The one and only Rita.’
‘You ought to have a more complete check-up if you are really thinking of going abroad.’
‘I feel all right, Percival. I’ve never felt better.’
‘That’s where the danger lies.’
‘You almost begin to scare me,’ Davis said. ‘Nail boots and a stick. I can see why a trout . . .’ He took a sip of whisky as though it were a disagreeable medicine and laid his glass down again.
Doctor Percival squeezed his arm and said, ‘I was only joking, Davis. You’re more the grayling type.’
‘You mean I’m a poor fish?’
‘You mustn’t underestimate the grayling. He has a very delicate nervous system. And he’s a fighter.’
‘Then I’m more of a cod,’ said Davis.
‘Don’t talk to me about cod. I don’t go in for that sort of fishing.’
The lights went up. It was the end of the show. Anything, the management had decided, would be an anticlimax after Rita Rolls. Davis lingered for a moment in the bar to try his luck with a fruit machine. He used up all the coins he had and took two off Castle. ‘It’s not my evening,’ he said, his gloom returning. Obviously Doctor Percival had upset him.
‘What about a nightcap at my place?’ Doctor Percival asked.
‘I thought you were warning me off the drink.’
‘My dear chap, I was exaggerating. Anyway whisky’s the safest drink there is.’
‘All the same I begin to feel like bed now.’
In Great Windmill Street prostitutes stood inside the doorways under red shades and asked, ‘Coming up, darling?’
‘I suppose you’d warn me off that too?’ Davis said.
‘Well, the regularity of marriage is safer. Less strain on the blood pressure.’
The night porter was scrubbing the steps of Albany as Doctor Percival left them. His chambers in Albany were designated by a letter and a figure – D.6 – as though it were one more section of the old firm. Castle and Davis watched him pick his way carefully towards the Ropewalk so as not to wet his shoes – an odd precaution for someone accustomed to wading knee-deep in cold streams.
‘I’m sorry he came,’ Davis said. ‘We could have had a good evening without him.’
‘I thought you liked him.’
‘I did, but he got on my nerves tonight with his damned fishing stories. And all his talk about my blood pressure. What’s my blood pressure to do with him? Is he really a doctor?’
‘I don’t think he’s practised much for years,’ Castle said. ‘He’s C’s liaison officer with the bacteriological warfare people – I suppose someone with a medical degree comes in handy there.’
‘That place Porton gives me the shivers. People talk so much about the atom bomb, but they quite forget our little country establishment. Nobody has ever bothered to march there. Nobody wears an anti-bacterial button, but if the bomb were abolished, there’d still be that little deadly test-tube . . .’
They turned the corner by Claridge’s. A tall lean woman in a long dress climbed into a Rolls-Royce followed by a sullen man in a white tie who looked furtively at his watch – they looked like actors from an Edwardian play: it was two in the morning. There was a yellow lino worn into holes like a gruyère cheese on the steep stairs up to Davis’s flat. With W1 on the notepaper no one bothered about small details like that. The kitchen door was open, and Castle saw a stack of dirty dishes in the sink. Davis opened a cupboard door; the shelves were stacked with almost empty bottles – the protection of the environment did not begin at home. Davis tried to find a whisky bottle containing enough for two glasses. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘we’ll mix them. They’re all blends anyway.’ He combined what remained of a Johnnie Walker with a White Horse, and obtained a quarter bottle.
‘Does no one here ever wash up?’ Castle asked.
‘A woman comes in twice a week, and we save it all for her.’
Davis opened a door. ‘Here’s your room. I’m afraid the bed’s not made. She’s due tomorrow.’ He picked a dirty handkerchief off the floor and stuffed it in a drawer for tidiness sake. Then he led Castle back into the sitting-room and cleared some magazines off a chair on to the floor.
‘I’m thinking of changing my name by deed poll,’ Davis said.
‘What to?’
‘Davis with an e. Davies of Davies Street has a certain classy ring.’ He put his feet up on the sofa. ‘You know, this blend of mine tastes quite good. I shall call it a White Walker. There might be a fortune in the idea – you could advertise it with the picture of a beautiful female ghost. What did you really think of Doctor Percival?’
‘He seemed friendly enough. But I couldn’t help wondering . . .’
‘What?’
‘Why he bothered to spend the evening with us. What he wanted.’
‘An evening out with people he could talk to. Why look further? Don’t you get tired of keeping your mouth closed in mixed company?’
‘He didn’t open his very far. Even with us.’
‘He did before you came.’
‘What about?’
‘That establishment at Porton. Apparently we are far ahead of the Americans in one range of goods and they’ve asked us to concentrate on a deadly little fellow suitable for employment at a certain altitude which at the same time can survive desert conditions . . . All the details, temperature and the like, point to China. Or perhaps Africa.’
‘Why did he tell you all that?’
‘Well, we are supposed to know a bit about the Chinese through our African contacts. Ever since that report from Zanzibar our reputation stands quite high.’
‘That was two years ago and the report’s still unconfirmed.’
‘He said we mustn’t take any overt action. No questionnaires to agents. Too secret for that. Just keep our eyes open for any hint in any report that the Chinese are interested in Hell’s Parlour and then report direct to him.’
‘Why did he speak to you and not to me?’
‘Oh, I suppose he would have spoken to you, but you were late.’
‘Daintry kept me. Perciv
al could have come to the office if he wanted to talk.’
‘What’s troubling you?’
‘I’m just wondering if he was telling you the truth.’
‘What earthly reason . . .?’
‘He might want to plant a false rumour.’
‘Not with us. We aren’t exactly gossips, you and I and Watson.’
‘Has he spoken to Watson?’
‘No – as a matter of fact – he gave the usual patter about watertight boxes. Top Secret, he said – but that can’t apply to you, can it?’
‘Better not let them know you told me all the same.’
‘Old man, you’ve caught the disease of the profession, suspicion.’
‘Yes. It’s a bad infection. That’s why I’m thinking of getting out.’
‘To grow vegetables?’
‘To do anything non-secret and unimportant and relatively harmless. I nearly joined an advertising agency once.’
‘Be careful. They have secrets too – trade secrets.’
The telephone rang at the head of the stairs. ‘At this hour,’ Davis complained. ‘It’s anti-social. Who can it be?’ He struggled off the sofa.
‘Rita Rolls,’ Castle suggested.
‘Give yourself another White Walker.’
Castle hadn’t time to pour it out before Davis called to him. ‘It’s Sarah, Castle.’
The hour was nearly half-past two and fear touched him. Were there complications which a child might get so late in quarantine as this?
‘Sarah?’ he asked. ‘What is it? Is it Sam?’
‘Darling, I’m sorry. You weren’t in bed, were you?’
‘No. What’s the matter?’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Sam?’
‘No, it’s not Sam. But the telephone’s rung twice since midnight and no one answers.’
‘The wrong number,’ he said with relief. ‘It’s always happening.’
‘Somebody knows you’re not in the house. I’m frightened, Maurice.’
‘What could possibly happen in King’s Road? Why, there’s a police station two hundred yards away. And Buller? Buller’s there, isn’t he?’
‘He’s fast asleep, snoring.’
‘I’d come back if I could, but there are no trains. And no taxi would take me at this hour.’
‘I’ll drive you down,’ Davis said.
‘No, no, of course not.’
‘Not what?’ Sarah said.
‘I was talking to Davis. He said he’d drive me down.’
‘Oh no, I don’t want that. I feel better now I’ve talked to you. I’ll wake Buller up.’
‘Sam’s all right?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘You’ve got the police number. They’d be with you in two minutes.’
‘I’m a fool, aren’t I? Just a fool.’
‘A beloved fool.’
‘Say sorry to Davis. Have a good drink.’
‘Good night, darling.’
‘Good night, Maurice.’
The use of his name was a sign of love – when they were together it was an invitation to love. Endearments – dear and darling – were everyday currency to be employed in company, but a name was strictly private, never to be betrayed to a stranger outside the tribe. At the height of love she would cry aloud his secret tribal name. He heard her ring off, but he stayed a moment with the receiver pressed against his ear.
‘Nothing really wrong?’ Davis asked.
‘Not with Sarah, no.’
He came back into the sitting-room and poured himself a whisky. He said, ‘I think your telephone’s tapped.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t. I have an instinct, that’s all. I’m trying to remember what gave me the idea.’
‘We aren’t in the Stone Age. Nobody can tell nowadays when a phone’s tapped.’
‘Unless they’re careless. Or unless they want you to know.’
‘Why should they want me to know?’
‘To scare you perhaps. Who can tell?’
‘Anyway, why tap me?’
‘A question of security. They don’t trust anyone. Especially people in our position. We are the most dangerous. We are supposed to know those damned Top Secrets.’
‘I don’t feel dangerous.’
‘Put on the gramophone,’ Castle said.
Davis had a collection of pop music which was kept more carefully than anything else in the apartment. It was catalogued as meticulously as the British Museum library, and the top of the pops for any given year came as readily to Davis’s memory as a Derby winner. He said, ‘You like something really old-fashioned and classical, don’t you?’ and put on A Hard Day’s Night.
‘Turn it louder.’
‘It shouldn’t be louder.’
‘Turn it up all the same.’
‘It’s awful this way.’
‘I feel more private,’ Castle said.
‘You think they bug us too?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘You certainly have caught the disease,’ Davis said.
‘Percival’s conversation with you – it worries me – I simply can’t believe it . . . it smells to heaven. I think they are on to a leak and are trying to check up.’
‘OK by me. It’s their duty, isn’t it? But it doesn’t seem very clever if one can spot the dodge so easily.’
‘Yes – but Percival’s story might be true just the same. True and already blown. An agent, whatever he suspected, would feel bound to pass it on in case . . .’
‘And you think they think we are the leaks?’
‘Yes. One of us or perhaps both.’
‘But as we aren’t who cares?’ Davis said. ‘It’s long past bedtime, Castle. If there’s a mike under the pillow, they’ll only hear my snores.’ He turned the music off. ‘We aren’t the stuff of double agents, you and me.’
Castle undressed and put out the light. It was stuffy in the small disordered room. He tried to raise the window, but the sash cord was broken. He stared down into the early morning street. No one went by: not even a policeman. Only a single taxi remained on a rank a little way down Davies Street in the direction of Claridge’s. A burglar alarm sent up a futile ringing from somewhere in the Bond Street area, and a light rain had begun to fall. It gave a black glitter to the pavement like a policeman’s raincoat. He drew the curtains close and got into bed, but he didn’t sleep. A question mark kept him awake for a long while: had there always been a taxi rank so close to Davis’s flat? Surely once he had to walk to the other side of Claridge’s to find one? Before he fell asleep another question troubled him. Could they possibly, he wondered, be using Davis to watch him? Or were they using an innocent Davis to pass him on a marked bank note? He had small belief in Doctor Percival’s story of Porton, and yet, as he had told Davis, it might be true.
CHAPTER IV
1
CASTLE had begun to be really worried about Davis. True, Davis made a joke of his own melancholy, but all the same the melancholy was deeply there, and it seemed a bad sign to Castle that Davis no longer chaffed Cynthia. His spoken thoughts too were becoming increasingly irrelevant to any work they had in hand. Once when Castle asked him, ‘69300/4, who’s that?’ Davis said, ‘A double room at the Polana looking out to sea.’ All the same there could be nothing seriously wrong with his health – he had been given his check-up recently by Doctor Percival.
‘As usual we are waiting for a cable from Zaire,’ Davis said. ‘59800 never thinks of us, as he sits there on a hot evening swilling his sundowners without a care in the world.’
‘We’d better send him a reminder,’ Castle said. He wrote out on a slip of paper ‘Our 185 no repeat no answer received,’ and put it in a tray for Cynthia to fetch.
Davis today had a regatta air. A new scarlet silk handkerchief with yellow dice dangled from his pocket like a flag on a still day, and his tie was bottle-green with a scarlet pattern. Even the handkerchief he kept for use which protruded from
his sleeve looked new – a peacock blue. He had certainly dressed ship.
‘Had a good week-end?’ Castle asked.
‘Yes, oh yes. In a way. Very quiet. The pollution boys were away smelling factory smoke in Gloucester. A gum factory.’
A girl called Patricia (who had always refused to be known as Pat) came in from the secretaries’ pool and collected their one cable. Like Cynthia she was army offspring, the niece of Brigadier Tomlinson: to employ close relations of men already in the department was considered good for security, and perhaps it eased the work of tracing, since many contacts would naturally be duplicated.
‘Is this all?’ the girl asked as though she were accustomed to work for more important sections than 6A.
‘I’m afraid that’s all we can manage, Pat,’ Castle told her, and she slammed the door behind her.
‘You shouldn’t have angered her,’ Davis said. ‘She may speak to Watson and we’ll all be kept in after school writing telegrams.’
‘Where’s Cynthia?’
‘It’s her day off.’
Davis cleared his throat explosively – like a signal for the regatta to begin – and ran up a Red Ensign all over his face.
‘I was going to ask you . . . would you mind if I slipped away at eleven? I’ll be back at one, I promise, and there’s nothing doing. If anyone wants me just say that I’ve gone to the dentist.’
‘You ought to be wearing black,’ Castle said, ‘to convince Daintry. Those glad rags of yours don’t go with dentists.’
‘Of course I’m not really going to the dentist. The fact of the matter is Cynthia said she’d meet me at the Zoo to see the giant pandas. Do you think she’s beginning to weaken?’
‘You really are in love, aren’t you, Davis?’
‘All I want, Castle, is a serious adventure. An adventure indefinite in length. A month, a year, a decade. I’m tired of one-night stands. Home from the King’s Road after a party at four with a bloody hangover. Next morning – I think oh, that was fine, the girl was wonderful, I wish I’d done better though, if only I hadn’t mixed the drinks . . . and then I think how it would have been with Cynthia in Lourenço Marques. I could really talk to Cynthia. It helps John Thomas when you can talk a bit about your work. Those Chelsea birds, directly the fun’s over, they want to find out things. What do I do? Where’s my office? I used to pretend I was still at Aldermaston, but everyone now knows the bloody place is closed down. What am I to say?’
The Human Factor Page 7
