Spy Story hp-5

by Len Deighton

  'I think we really should join the ladies,' said Ferdy.

  Coffee was sewed in the drawing-room. It was a fine room; tapestries, placed to absorb stray sounds, made its acoustics as good as any recital room. There were a dozen delicate gilt chairs placed equidistant upon the pale green Afghan carpet. The Bechstein grand piano had been stripped of family photos and cut flowers, and placed under the huge painting of Ferdy's grandfather's favourite horse.

  The pianist was a handsome youth with an evening shirt even frillier than those currently de rigueur at Oxford, and his tie was bright red and droopy. He found every note of one of the Beethoven Opus 10 Sonatas, and held many of them for exactly the right duration.

  Coffee was kept: hot in a large silver samovar — O.K., don't tell me, but it was Ferdy's samovar — and thimble-sized demi-tasses were positioned alongside it. Dawlish held his; cigar in one hand and the coffee cup and saucer in the other. He nodded his thanks as I operated the coffee tap for him.

  I held up the jug of hot milk and raised an. eyebrow.

  'Worcester,' said Dawlish, 'late eighteenth century, and damned nice too.'

  The old idiot knew that I was asking him if he wanted milk, but he was right. Holding a hundred pounds-worth of antiques in your hand to pour hot milk was part of the: miracle of the Foxwells' lifestyle.

  'Mozart next,' said Dawlish. He was wearing an old-fashioned dinner suit with a high wing collar and a stiff-fronted shirt. It was difficult to know if it was an heirloom or whether he had them made like that.

  'So I read on the programme,' I said.

  That's my car outside, that Black Hawk Stutz.'

  'Come along, you chaps,' called Toliver from behind us. 'Move along there. Can't stand milk in coffee — ruins the whole flavour. You might just as well have instant if you're going to put that stuff in it.'

  'I know you're interested in motors,' said Dawlish. On the far side of the room I heard the strident voice of the history professor proclaiming how much he liked cowboy films.

  'He's going to play the Mozart A Major in a minute,' said Dawlish.

  'I know,' I said, 'and I quite like that.'

  Well then…'

  'It better have a heater.'

  'Our friend wants to look at the motor,' he told Ferdy, who nodded silently and looked around to see if his wife Teresa was likely to see us abandon their protégé.

  'He's had more practice with the Mozart,' said Ferdy'.

  'It's a thirsty beast,' said Dawlish. 'Seven or eight miles to a gallon is good going.'

  'Where are you going?' said Marjorie.

  To see my motor,' said Dawlish, 'Overhead camshaft: eight cylinders. Do come, but put a coat on. They tell me it's, beginning to snow.'

  'No, thank you,' said Marjorie. 'Don't be long.'

  'Sensible girl, that,' said Dawlish. 'You're a lucky man.'

  I wondered what climatic conditions he'd have invented had she accepted his invitation. 'Yes, I am,' I said.

  * * *

  Dawlish put on his spectacles and looked at the instruments. He said, 'Black Hawk Stutz, nineteen twenty-eight.' He started the engine and so got the primitive heater to work. 'Straight eight: overhead camshaft. She'll go, I'll tell you that.' He struggled to open the ash tray. Then he inhaled on his cigar so that his rubicund face loomed out of the darkness. He smiled. 'Real hydraulic brakes — literally hydraulic, I mean. You fill them up with water.'

  'What's all this about?'

  'A chat,' he said. 'Just a chat.'

  He turned in order to tighten the already firmly closed window. I smiled to myself, knowing that Dawlish always liked to have a sheet of glass between himself and even the remotest chance of a parabolic microphone. The moon came out to help him find the handle. By its light I saw a movement in a grey Austin 2200 parked under the lime trees. 'Don't fret,' said Dawlish, 'a couple of my chaps.' A finger of cloud held the moon aloft and then closed upon it like a conjurer's dirty glove upon a white billiards ball.

  'What are they here for?' I asked. He didn't answer before switching on the car radio as another precaution against eavesdroppers. It was some inane request programme. There was a babble of names and addresses.

  'Things have changed a lot since the old days, Pat.' He smiled. 'It is Pat, isn't it? Pat Armstrong, it's a good name. Did you ever consider Louis to go with, it?'

  'Very droll,' I said.

  'New name, new job, the past gone forever. You're happy and I'm glad it all went so well. You deserved that. You deserved more than that, in fact, it was the least we could have done.' A fleck of snow hit the windscreen. It was big, and when the moonlight caught it it shone like a crystal. Dawlish put a finger out to touch the snowflake as if the glass was not there. 'But you can't wipe the slate clean. You can't forget half your life. You can't erase it and pretend it never happened.'

  'No?' I said. 'Well, I was doing all right until this evening.'

  I sniffed his cigar smoke enviously but I'd held out for about six weeks and I'd be damned if it was Dawlish who'd make me weaken my resolve. I said, 'Was this all arranged? Us both being invited tonight?'

  He didn't answer. Music began cm the radio. We watched the snowflake as the heat from his fingertip melted it. It slid down the glass in a dribble of water. But already another snowflake had taken its place, and another, and another after that.

  'And anyway there's Marjorie,' I said.

  'And what a beautiful girl she is. But good grief, I wouldn't think of asking you to get mixed up in the rough and tumble side of it.'

  'There was a time when you pretended that there was no rough and tumble side of it.'

  'A long time ago. Regrettably, the rough parts have become much rougher since then.' He didn't elaborate on the tumbles.

  'It's not just that,' I said. I paused. No point in hurting the old boy's feelings but already he had me on the defensive. 'It's simply that I don't want to become part of a big organization again. Especially not a government department. I don't want to be just another pawn.'

  'Being a pawn', said Dawlish, 'is just a state of mind.'

  He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a small multi-bladed device that I'd seen him use for everything from picking a despatch box lock to reaming his pipe. Now he used the pin of it to probe the vitals of his cigar. He puffed at it and nodded approval. He looked at the cigar as he began to talk. 'I remember this boy-young man perhaps I should say — phoning me one night… This is a long time ago now… public call box… he said there'd been an accident. I asked if he wanted an ambulance, and he said it was worse than that…' Dawlish puffed at the cigar and then held it up for us both to admire the improvement he'd wrought. 'Do you know what I told him?'

  'Yes, I know what you told him.'

  'I told him to do nothing, stay where he was until a car came for him… He was whisked away… a holiday in the country, and the whole business never got into the papers, never went into the police files… never even went on record with us.'

  'That bastard was trying to kill me.'

  'It's the sort of thing the department can do.' He gave the cigar a final adjustment and then admired it again, as proud as some old ferry-boat engineer putting an oily rag over nn ancient turbine.

  'And I admire the way you've done it all,' said Dawlish. 'Not a whisper anywhere. If I went back into that house and told Foxwell — one of your closest friends — to say nothing of your good lady, that you used to work in the department, they'd laugh at me.'

  I said nothing. It was typical of the sort of moronic compliment that they all exchanged at the Christmas party, just before that stage of inebriation when the cipher girls get chased round the locked filing cabinets.

  'It's not a cover,' I said. "Nothing to admire: I'm O.U.T.'

  'We'll need you for the Mason business, though,' he said.

  'You'll have to come and get me,' I said. From the radio came the voice of Frank Sinatra, change partners and dance with me.

  'Just an hour or so for the official
inquiry. After all, it was you and Foxwell they were impersonating.'

  'While we were away?'

  'Stupid, wasn't it? They should have chosen someone more remote, one of the radio-room clerks, perhaps.'

  'But it nearly came off,' I was fishing for information and he knew it.

  'It did indeed. It seemed so genuine. Your old flat, your address in the phone book and one of them even looking a bit like you.' He puffed smoke. 'Ninety thousand pounds they would have collected. Well worth the money spent on those retouched photos. Beautifully done, those photos, eh?' He gave the cigar another adjustment and then held it up for us both to look at it.

  'For what?

  'Oh not just the A.S.W. Task Force procedures. A whole lot of stuff — radio fuse diagrams, the latest sins modifications, lab reports from Lockheed. A rag-bag of stuff. But no one would have paid that sort of money for it if they hadn't set up all the pantomime of it coming from you and Foxwell.'

  'Very flattering.'

  Dawlish shook his head. There's a lot of dust still in the air. I was hoping to soft-soap your Colonel this evening but I judged it not opportune. He'll be angry, of course.' He tapped the polished wooden dashboard. 'They don't make them like that any more.'

  'Why should he be angry?'

  'Why indeed, but that's how it always is, you know that. They never thank us for getting onto these things… slack security, the change of directors, your trip, the empty flat, no proper coordination: it's the old story.'

  'And?'

  'There will probably be a trial, but their lawyers will do a deal if they have any sense. Don't want it all over the papers. Delicate situation at the moment.'

  'Schlegel asked me how I got the job at the Centre.'

  'What did you say?'

  'I said I bumped into Ferdy in a pub…'

  'Well, that's right isn't it?'

  'Can't you ever give a straight answer?' I said angrily. 'Does Ferdy know — must I pry every last syllable… Schlegel is quite likely to bring it up again.'

  Dawlish waved away his cigar smoke. 'Don't get so agitated. Why the devil should Foxwell know anything?' He smiled, 'Foxwell: our man at the Studies Centre, you mean?' He laughed very softly.

  'No, I didn't mean that exactly.'

  The front door of the house opened. In the rectangle of yellow light, Toliver swayed as he tied his scarf and buttoned his overcoat to the neck. I heard the voices of Toliver and Ferdy as the two men walked across to Toliver's shiny new two-door green Bentley. It was icy underfoot and Toliver grabbed Ferdy's arm to steady himself. In spite of the closed windows I heard Ferdy's 'Goodnight. Goodnight. Goodnight.'

  Dawlish had made it sound ridiculous. Why would Dawlish have an agent in the Studies Centre when he could have the analysis delivered every month merely for the asking.

  He said, 'Another extraordinary tiling, after all the procedures we've been through, we've gone right back to routing our phone connections through the local engineers into Federal exchange.'

  'Don't tell me, I don't want to hear about it,' I said. I opened the catch of the car door. It made a loud click but he gave no sign of noticing it.

  'Just in case you want to get in touch,' he said.

  Write in today for the Dawlish system: sent in a plain sealed envelope and it might change your life. But not for the better. I could see it all now. The Dawlish gambit — a piece sacrificed and then the real move. 'Not a chance,' I said. 'Not. A. Chance.'

  And Dawlish heard that new tone in my voice. He frowned. On his face there was bewilderment, hurt feelings, disappointment and a sincere attempt to understand my point of view. 'Forget it,' I said. 'Just forget it.' You may never want to change partners again, sang Sinatra, but he had an arranger and a big sobbing string section.

  Dawlish knew then that I'd slipped the hook. 'We'll have lunch one day,' he said. It was as near to admitting defeat as I'd ever seen him. At least, I thought so at the time. For a moment I didn't move. Toliver's car leaped forward, almost stalled and then swung round, missing the next car by only inches. It revved loudly as Toliver changed gear and then lumbered out through the gate. After only a few moments the Austin 2200 followed it.

  'Nothing's changed,' I said, as I got out. Dawlish continued smoking his cigar. I'd thought of all the things I'd rather have said by the time I got to the front door. It was ajar. From the end of the corridor there was the music of the piano: not Mozart but Noel Coward. It was Ferdy doing his fat-rich-boy-makes-good act. The Stately Homes of England…' sang Ferdy gaily.

  I helped myself to another cup of coffee. Dawlish hadn't followed me. I was glad of that. I didn't believe Dawlish's glib explanations specially designed so that I had to drag the lies out of him. But the fact that Dawlish was even interested made me nervous. First Stok and now Dawlish…

  'Shall I tell you something?' said Schlegel. He was rocking on the two rear legs of the delicate gilt chair and beating time to the music with his cigar. 'This is a whole new side of Foxwell. A whole new side of him.'

  I looked at Ferdy, who required all his concentration to play the piano and remember the words too. He fitted in a hasty smile as he came to the end of the line. Somewhere under that Savile Row evening suit with the silk collar there was a history graduate, farm owner, man about town and skilled amateur strategist, who could talk for an hour about the difference between digital and analog computers. No wonder the suit didn't fit very well.

  'To prove the upper classes always have the upper hand.' He sang it with all the astringent bravura of the maestro, and Helen Schlegel called encore so enthusiastically that he did a repeat performance.

  I went to sit next to Marjorie. She said, 'He wasn't trying to sell you that hideous car, was he?'

  'I've known him for ages. We were just chatting.'

  'Did that awful Toliver drive himself home?'

  'I don't know where he was headed, but he was sitting behind the wheel when he left here.'

  'It would serve him right if he was caught. He's always half-cut.'

  'How do you know?'

  'He's on the hospital board. He's constantly in and out of our place. He tries to recruit staff for his nursing home.'

  'He'd be a delight to work for.'

  'Good pay, they say.'

  'It would have to be.'

  As if by magic, when Ferdy's piano music stopped a servant came in with jugs of coffee and chocolate. It was a gracious way of telling your guests to go home. Schlegel was enthusiastic about Ferdy's piano playing. I formed the impression that Ferdy was going to spearhead Schlegel's attempt to squeeze more funds out of cinclant. I could imagine Ferdy being paraded through a schedule of Norfolk, Virginia, parties. With Schlegel announcing him like a fairground barker.

  I said that to Marjorie on the way home but she would have none of it. 'Give me the Schlegels every time,' she said. 'At present in my department there is a row going on about teaching payments — there's always a lot of teaching in the pathology departments — and the professor isn't speaking to the senior assistant and the staff have divided into two camps and no one will say honestly that it's all about money. They want to pretend they are arguing about the extension to the mortuary. Give me the Schlegels every time.'

  'Extension to the mortuary. It sounds like a title for a Hammer film. How can you like working in pathology?'

  'Pat, I've told you a thousand times, I hate working there. But it's the only department I can. get: into which gives me a normal nine to five day. And you know how unbearable you are about my shift work.'

  'That Toliver!' I said. 'Boy can he pack it away: second helpings of everything and always it's not quite salty enough, or not quite as good as he gets in the south of France.'

  'He looks ill,' said Marjorie, overtaken by professionalism.

  'He certainly does. I can understand him coming in the Path Lab. What I don't understand is how they let him out.'

  'Last week I heard him having a terrific row with my professor.'

  'My professor
now, is it? I thought he was the one you allied Jack the Ripper. Row about what?'

  'Oh, a death certificate or a post-mortem cm: something.'

  'Good old Toliver.'

  'They went into the office and closed the door but you could still hear them. Toliver was shouting about how important he was and he'd take the whole matter to the board of governors. I heard him say that he was doing this for "a certain department of state that shall remain nameless". Pompous old fool. Trying to pretend he was something to do with the Secret Service or something.'

  'He's been watching late-night television,' I said.

  'He's been watching the world through the bottoms of empty glasses,' said Marjorie. 'That's his problem, and everyone knows it.'

  'You're right,' I said. 'But just out of vulgar curiosity, could you find out exactly what Toliver wanted?'

  'Why?'

  'I'm just curious. He Wants Ferdy to go into business with him — a new clinic or something — I'd like to know what he gets up to.' It was a feeble improvisation, but Marjorie said she'd try to find out. I suppose she was curious about it too.

  'You haven't forgotten that tomorrow we're having lunch, darling.'

  'How could I, you've reminded me every hour on the hour.'

  'Poor darling. We don't have to talk — we can just eat.' She hugged me. 'You make me feel like a terrible shrew, Patrick, and I'm not. I'm really not. I can't help being possessive. I love you.'

  'We'll talk,' I said.

  Chapter Nine

  Chess. A pejorative term used of inexperienced players who assume that both sides make rational decisions when in fall possession of the facts. Any history book provides evidence that this is a fallacy and wargaming exists only because of this fallacy.

  'GLOSSARY FOR WARGAMERS'. STUDIES CENTRE. LONDON

  If the phone rings in the middle of the night it's always for Marjorie. That's why we keep it on that side of the bed. That night, full of wine and cognac and Dawlish, I came only half awake, snorted and turned over, 'It's for you,' said Marjorie.