Letters for a Spy

by Stephen Benatar

  This artless enquiry produced an odd effect. It brought back a memory of my childhood. Of how, after a long period of having dared myself, I had finally dived off the second highest board, and become so pleased with myself that I had straightaway graduated to the highest. I had forgotten to go home for lunch, and Gretchen, my stepmother, had been obliged to come to the baths in order to fetch me. (Had done so with her usual mien of bubbling good humour.) That evening, in celebration, my father had opened a bottle of sherry.

  I replied, “Yes, I think so. Bristol Cream. And I told Mr Martin that—as it happened—I myself was in need of a solicitor. He recommended you without reservation. Said his son was also a client of the firm and was always more than satisfied with the way you managed his affairs.”

  “That was kind of him. Yes. William,” he said. “Major William Martin. Of the Royal Marines.” He still spoke slowly but now I got the impression he was feeling less shy of me and that his hesitancy had more to do with his concerns over how much he could ethically divulge. “For many years we have been privileged to handle the business of the entire family.”

  “Oh, really? You make it sound as though it’s a large one. I never pictured it like that.”

  I thought for a moment he seemed taken aback by what I’d said but then he mumbled something about Mr Martin’s deceased father. “Which was all a bit before my time…” Again his thin and protuberantly veined hands embarked upon a mission of introducing order to the world of stationery. He straightened his blotter and placed two fountain pens in careful alignment, as well as a propelling pencil, a stick of red sealing wax and a bottle of Parker’s Navy-Blue Quink.

  “Look, I’ll tell you what we can do,” he offered, at last. “If you give me the thirty shillings and a short covering note I’ll see that they’re sent off to him this afternoon. Registered.”

  “But the thing is—I’m afraid I shan’t have an address until tonight and I was particularly wanting to ask him something.”

  “Oh?”

  “The name of a hotel which he mentioned in Mold in North Wales.”

  “Ah well. As it happens, I can help you there.” He now spent a moment settling back in his revolving chair and swivelling slightly—perhaps he, too, would soon erect a steeple? “It’s called the Black Lion. And its address, quite simply, would be the High Street, Mold. Yes, I know he’d recommend it. He’s stayed there often and has always spoken of it in the very highest terms.”

  But I somehow think that the receptionist, a woman who has worked there for eleven years and who in addition has a very sound memory, might really need to be convinced of that.

  I wished I could have said it. And seen what would result.

  Then something wholly unexpected happened.

  The solicitor laughed.

  Admittedly, he hastily suppressed the sound, as though it were something which was neither quite appropriate nor even quite natural, but the fact that it had happened at all provided me with a new angle on him. I wondered if this sudden spurt of amusement could have been occasioned by the thought of Mr Martin’s being a compulsive recommender (whereas up to now I might have thought of him as being more of a compulsive bellyacher) or whether there could indeed follow some much funnier explanation.

  (Also, I wondered if Mr Gwatkin were married and had children. For an irrelevant second or two I tried to envisage him at home.)

  But if there was some other explanation it appeared I wasn’t going to hear it. My look of enquiry was ignored.

  At first, that is. After a while, the solicitor relented.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was reminded of a recent practical joke which Mr Martin had played on his son. Concerning that hotel. I’m not sure I ought to tell you.”

  “A joke?”

  “Completely harmless, of course, but I suppose it’s just the idea of Mr Martin playing any sort of joke on anyone! You see, he wanted William to believe he was putting up at the Black Lion because … Well, because if he’d told him where he was actually staying, it would have spoilt a little surprise he was planning for the boy’s next homecoming…”

  The rush of words halted. So—for the time being—did that perceptibly easier manner. Mr Gwatkin had remembered something. When he spoke again his tone had lost its energy.

  “But in fact, Mr Andrews, there isn’t going to be any next homecoming. Not now; not ever. William was on his way to North Africa when his aeroplane crash-landed in the sea.”

  “Oh God!” I stared at him. “Poor man!” He would probably have supposed I was meaning William, but for once I was thinking more of the father. Of the father devising some little surprise for the son who would never return to enjoy it. Or appreciate it. I had been forced to acknowledge—yet again—just how judgmental I was capable of being. “I’d imagined I would be sending my thanks—not my condolences.”

  He nodded.

  I asked if William had had brothers or sisters. No; none. And I learned that his mother had died more than twenty years before.

  For some ten seconds I hesitated.

  “You say you were surprised by his being a practical joker? The father.”

  “Yes, I was,” he answered.

  “Me—much as I liked him—I should never in a hundred years have taken him for that.”

  “He was a complex individual.”

  “Was?”

  “Is.”

  “Complex in what way?”

  The solicitor paused—evidently deliberating. He took out his handkerchief again and wiped his brow.

  “Oh, I feel certain he wouldn’t mind my telling you. You see, in so many respects, Mr Martin presents the image of a typical old fogey. But I have to confess to something. In one area I’ve been guilty of misleading you. More than that—of telling you a barefaced lie. The Black Lion in Mold? I’m sure it is very good. But Mr Martin’s never stayed there in his life!”

  “What!”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “But…?” I was suddenly experiencing a sense of disorientation which—almost literally—was rendering me a bit woozy. “Then I just don’t understand. Why did he…? Why did you…?”

  “Do you happen to know The Importance of Being Earnest?”

  “I’ve mostly forgotten it,” I replied—in a voice that sounded suddenly and alarmingly disembodied.

  “Well, one of its protagonists, Algernon, claims he has a perennially sick friend who is constantly summoning him to his bedside. But Mr Bunbury is pure invention: just a convenient alibi to escape social entanglements with—for example—Algernon’s Aunt Augusta. The Black Lion, of course, is neither a person nor an invention but it provides Mr Martin with a very similar sort of cover.”

  I still felt numbed; my voice, apparently, still originating from somewhere across the room.

  “A cover for what?”

  “Well, in the main—and I suppose there simply isn’t any way of my disguising this—for a succession of lady friends.”

  Oddly, it gave me no satisfaction to learn that my theory of the day before hadn’t been so very far removed from the truth.

  “And also,” said the solicitor, “Mr Martin suffers from frequent bouts of depression.” For a moment I imagined there might be some connection here with Mr Martin’s pretence of a hideaway in Mold. Then I realized it referred back only to that statement about his complexity.

  “Bouts of depression?” I repeated. “Dear Lord! And now he has to deal with the death of his son!”

  Again we were silent.

  “And what makes matters even worse,” said Mr Gwatkin presently, “William had recently become engaged. The last time I saw him—would you believe it?—I had just drawn up a marriage settlement.”

  I nodded in sympathy but said nothing.

  “And if we’re talking about irony,” he added, “it doesn’t even stop there.” He leant towards me, confidentially. “William had finally got around to making out his will! How’s that for a nice, neat, tidying-up sort of touch? Special
timing or what?”

  “Well, it just seems so … so monstrously unfair,” I answered. Lamely.

  And I shook my head in expected disbelief—although in fact I already knew about the will. Presumably William had seen to it because he had so recently become engaged. I didn’t argue the point but I actually thought the timing of the will was less ironic than that of the engagement.

  Because I remembered the letter:

  “Dear Sir,

  “Re your affairs

  “We thank you for your letter of yesterday’s date returning the draft of your will approved. We will insert the legacy of £50 to your batman and our Mr Gwatkin will bring the fair copy with him when he meets you at lunch on the 21st inst. so that you can sign it there.

  “The inspector of taxes has asked us for particulars of your service pay and allowances during 1941/2 before he will finally agree to the amount of reliefs due to you for that year. We cannot find that we have ever had these particulars and shall, therefore, be grateful if you will let us have them.

  “Yours faithfully,

  McKENNA & Co.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” said Mr Gwatkins. “Monstrously unfair! And shall I tell you something still more unfair? The Inland Revenue! Quibbling to the last over what’s deductible! It hardly matters whether people have just become engaged or made out wills or are off to sacrifice their lives for King and country … just so long as, first, they’ve shown their hearts to be truly in the right place—by way of filing their income tax returns! Now, doesn’t that make you meditate for a while on some of life’s priorities?”

  Gracious! Was this the man I had started out by thinking timid? From reticence to rhetoric, from shyness to superfluity! He was like someone called upon to give an after-dinner speech, suffering initially from nerves but growing garrulous as he became emboldened. I might like and respect him all the more for this abrupt outpouring of humanity; yet even so … quite suddenly I’d had enough.

  It was time for me to go.

  And he must have sensed my discomfiture. Greek tragedy reverted to something a little more sedate—possibly something set in a drawing room, a drawing room with French windows. The Importance of Being Earnest? Mr Gwatkin took a single sheet of notepaper from one of his desk drawers and offered me a fountain pen. I preferred to use my own. He then provided a file for me to rest my paper on; and whilst I considered what to write he made out a receipt. (I had wanted to include the cost of postage but he was adamant in not allowing this.)

  I finally wrote:

  “Dear Mr Martin, we’ve never met but I wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about William. If there’s to be a memorial service may I ask you to buy some flowers with the enclosed or—if not—to forward the money to a favourite charity? Both you and William are greatly in my thoughts.”

  There seemed no point in saying more. I simply signed it, folded the sheet over—having visibly inserted the three ten-shilling notes—and watched Mr Gwatkin place the paper in an envelope. He licked the flap; then sealed it with the red wax.

  Obviously he would already have sent his own condolences. Therefore, with any luck, it could be some time before he again needed to get in touch with Mr Martin. If such were the case, would it be possible—even probable—that whenever the two of them next got into contact they might have forgotten about myself? Dear God. Oh, yes!

  I stood up. Mr Gwatkin came around the desk.

  “Are you in town on leave, Mr Andrews?”

  I nodded.

  “Which branch, may one enquire…?”

  “R.A.F.”

  “It seems to have been a long leave.”

  “Convalescence. Unfortunately, they had to whip out my appendix.”

  “And then—how unfortunately again—you had to have your pocket picked! Were you in uniform when that happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t think any Englishman could ever be so vile.”

  I smiled. “Couldn’t it as easily have been a Welshman or a Scot? A Canadian or American or Pole?”

  “No. I wouldn’t believe that. Not in wartime. The only kind you could really believe capable of such despicable behaviour would be a Kraut—one of your filthy, lowdown, nauseating Krauts.”

  I felt a hot surge of anger but managed to keep my answer cool.

  “Oh, I don’t suppose there’d be too many of that kind over here right now.”

  “Well, you mustn’t sound so sure! The bastards could be anywhere. I know what you mean, though. You’d think you’d be able to smell them, wouldn’t you, like rotten eggs or sewage?”

  There was a pause. I knew I had to get away.

  “I wonder what you’d have done if you hadn’t met Mr Martin?” he went on.

  “Gone to the police,” I said, abruptly.

  “Didn’t you do that, anyway?”

  “What? For the sake of just thirty bob?”

  “You know … I’m really surprised Mr Martin didn’t mention it when he arrived at the Carlton Grill.”

  “Sometimes a person doesn’t like to advertise his good deeds.”

  It was inane: for a split second I considered this as yet another point in favour of Bill Martin’s father.

  “By the way,” asked Mr Gwatkin, “why were you wanting a solicitor?”

  For a moment I was caught off guard.

  “Oh … for something which eventually blew over, thank heaven.”

  “Good. Well, let me show you out, then.” Mr Gwatkin opened the door and preceded me through it.

  “No—please. I know the way and I’ve already taken up enough of your time.” I held out my hand. “Or is there a rear exit? That could suit me even better.”

  But Mr Gwatkin—now resolutely heading down my original route, back to the reception area—punctiliously ignored this. As we walked along the corridor, the firebreak door we’d just come through was pushed open again, somewhat jerkily. We continued our journey to the rattling accompaniment of teacups on a large tin tray.

  10

  Obviously I didn’t need to go back to the Carlton Grill. I tried to ring the Theatre Royal but the number was persistently engaged. I gave up. Yet when I pressed Button B for the final time, returned the pennies to my pocket and left the current kiosk—it was the fourth I had been into—I happened to see a scrawny individual whose hat looked grease-stained and whose dirty raincoat couldn’t hide the fact that his trousers were too short, revealing holey grey socks above brown, unpolished brogues.

  In fact, it wasn’t the first time I had noticed him. He had caught my eye some forty minutes earlier, when I was re-emerging into sunlight, after leaving the solicitor.

  Then the man had been chatting to a newspaper vendor. Now he was looking into a shop window.

  But all right, I told myself—all right! Don’t start imagining things. From Waterloo Place I had descended the steps to the Mall, turned left towards Trafalgar Square and then gone right, past Charing Cross and along the Strand. Owing to those abortive phone calls I hadn’t come any great distance—hadn’t realized, until much later, that I had been almost within hailing distance of the wretched Theatre Royal—so why was it remarkable that someone else should have been heading gently in the same direction: someone who might have started out either a short time or a long time after I had? Of course, if I had been weaving my way through a labyrinthine network of side streets and alleys … well then, yes, okay. But this was clearly a main route.

  Besides, why the hell should anyone be following me?

  However, I surreptitiously kept him under surveillance; and before long I saw him turn to the right and head towards Waterloo Bridge. (Waterloo Place to Waterloo Bridge? There seemed a symmetry about his journey.) Afterwards, I was endlessly scanning the crowds in search of a replacement.

  Until at last I told myself—told myself again—to stop being so imaginative. I carried on to Fleet Street, attempting not to look back. (I looked back only three times; it could have been much worse.) Halfway down Fleet Stre
et, on the left-hand side, I came to the shiny black wall of the Express building. All glass and chrome and black reflection.

  I had chosen the Express for reasons that weren’t perhaps the most scientific but seemed at least as good as any other: it was the newspaper my grandparents had always read and therefore the only one in this country for which I felt affection—Rupert Bear had played a major part in my development.

  Now I walked into the paper’s spacious lobby and learnt that I shouldn’t, after all, be in need of its back-numbers department. Not for any date as recent as last month. I was shown a couple of enormous binders that sat side-by-side on a display stand.

  My search began with the issue dated Sunday April 25th. There was no report in it of any Allied aircraft being lost in the Atlantic but I should have felt surprised if there had been. Supposing the crash had happened on the 24th it would surely have been too new for even the stop press. Particularly if it had happened late on the 24th.

  But after skimming the actual news I started to read an article purporting to be about my boss at the Abwehr. Yet it was all so ridiculous I could barely make myself continue. The piece had been headed: ‘MAN WHO WAS AFRAID TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED. Hitler’s Number 1 Spy.’

  “Only half a dozen men outside Germany have ever met Admiral Canaris, the mysterious chief of the German Secret Service, who is reported from Stockholm to have been dismissed at the demand of Himmler, head of the Gestapo…”

  Well, now, who’d have thought it? The admiral dismissed, indeed … and at Himmler’s instigation! How strange that no word of this had yet filtered through to Berlin—or, anyway, hadn’t done so by the time that I’d departed. And all the more remarkable, of course, when London’s Sunday Express had known about it for practically a fortnight. My, my! How remiss of Stockholm! Such laxity in keeping us abreast!

  “In the years leading up to the war Canaris began to work on undermining the countries scheduled as the future victims of Hitler’s and Germany’s world-conquering ambitions.

  “To Canaris was entrusted the work of infiltration, corruption and demoralization. He marked down the future quislings of Europe. He sent hundreds of his handsomest agents, men and women, to corrupt some of the most influential figures—social, political and financial—in the lands to be invaded…”