The Night Manager

by John le Carré

  “Corky, hi, how’s tricks?” drawled one.

  “Darlings,” said Corkoran.

  They approached a pair of high doors of burnished bronze. Before them sat Frisky in a porter’s chair. A matronly woman emerged, carrying a shorthand pad. Frisky shoved out his foot at her, pretending to trip her up.

  “Oh, you silly boy,” said the matronly woman happily.

  The doors closed again.

  “Why it’s the Major,” Frisky cried facetiously, affecting not to have noticed their arrival till the last minute. “How are we today, sir? Hullo there, Tommy. That’s the way, then.”

  “Tit,” said Corkoran

  Frisky unhooked a house telephone from the wall and touched a number. The doors opened to reveal a room so large, so intricate in its furnishings, so bathed with sunlight and blackened by shadow, that Jonathan had a sensation not of arriving but ascending. Through a wall of tinted windows lay a terrace of strangely formed white tables, each shaded by a white umbrella. Beyond them lay an emerald lagoon bordered by a narrow sandbar and black reefs. Beyond the reefs lay the open sea in lakes of jagged blues.

  The splendor of the room was at first all Jonathan could take in. Its occupants, if there were any, were lost between the brilliance and the dark. Then, as Corkoran ushered him forward, he made out a swirling golden desk in tortoiseshell and brass, and behind it a scrolled throne covered in rich tapestry frayed with age. And beside the desk, in a bamboo sun chair with wide arms and a foot-stool, reclined the worst man in the world, dressed in white sailing ducks and espadrilles and a short-sleeved navy blue shirt with a monogram on the pocket. He had his legs crossed and was wearing his half-lens spectacles, and he was reading something from a leather-backed folder that bore the same monogram as his shirt, and he was smiling while he read it, because he smiled a great deal. A woman secretary stood behind him, and she could have been the twin sister of the first.

  “No disturbances, Frisky,” an alarmingly familiar voice ordered, snapping the leather folder shut and shoving it at the secretary. “Nobody on the terrace. Who’s the ass running an outboard in my bay?”

  “That’s Talbot, fixin’ it, Chief,” said Isaac from the back.

  “Tell him to unfix it. Corks, shampoo. Well, I’m damned. Pine. Come here. Well done. Well done indeed.”

  He was clambering to his feet, his spectacles perched comically on the tip of his nose. Grasping Jonathan’s hand, he drew him forward until, as at Meister’s, they had entered each other’s private space. And examined him, frowning through his spectacles. And while he did so, he slowly raised his palms to Jonathan’s cheeks as if he meant to trap them in a double slap. And kept them there, so close that Jonathan could feel their heat, while Roper posed his head at different angles, peering at him from a few inches’ distance until he was satisfied.

  “Bloody marvelous,” he pronounced finally. “Well done, Pine; well done, Marti; well done, money. What it’s for. Sorry not to be around when you arrived. Had a couple of firms to flog. When was the worst?” Disconcertingly, he had turned to Corkoran, who was advancing across the marble floor bearing a tray with three frosted silver goblets of Dom Pérignon. “Here he is. Thought we were running a dry ship. Well?”

  “After the operation, I suppose,” said Jonathan. “Coming round. It was like the dentist multiplied by ten.”

  “Hang on. Here’s the best bit.”

  Confused by Roper’s scattershot-method talking, Jonathan had failed to hear the music. But as Roper’s hand reached out to order silence, he recognized the dying strains of Pavarotti singing “La donna è mobile.” All three stood motionless until the music ended. Then Roper lifted his goblet and drank.

  “God, he’s marvelous. Always play it on Sundays. Never miss, do I, Corks? Bloody good luck. Thanks.”

  “Good luck,” said Jonathan, and drank too. As he did so, the sound of the distant outboard cut off, leaving a deep silence. Roper’s gaze dropped to the scar on Jonathan’s right wrist.

  “How many for lunch, Corks?”

  “Eighteen, rising twenty, Chief.”

  “Vincettis coming? Didn’t hear their plane yet. That Czech twin-engined thing they fly.”

  “Coming when last heard of, Chief.”

  “Tell Jed, name cards. And decent napkins. None of that red loo paper. And track down the Vincettis, yes or no. Pauli come through about those 130s yet?”

  “Still waiting, Chief.”

  “Well, he better be bloody quick, or never. Here you are, Pine. Sit down. Not there. Here, where I can see you. And the Sancerre, tell Isaac. Cold, for once. Apo fixed the draft amendment yet?”

  “In your in-tray.”

  “Marvelous chap,” Roper commented as Corkoran departed.

  “I’m sure he is,” Jonathan agreed politely.

  “Loves to serve,” said Roper, with the glance that heterosexuals share.

  Roper was swirling the champagne in his goblet, smiling while he watched it go round and round. “Mind telling me what you want?” he asked.

  “Well, I’d like to get back to Low’s if I could. As soon as it’s convenient, really. Just a plane to Nassau would be fine. I’ll make my way from there.”

  “Not what I mean at all. Bigger question altogether. In life. What do you want? What’s your plan?”

  “I haven’t got a plan. Not at the moment. I’m drifting. Taking time out.”

  “Balls, frankly. Don’t believe you. You’ve never relaxed in your life, my view. Not sure I have either. I try. Play a bit of golf, do the boat, bit of this and that, swim, screw. But my engine’s going all the time. So’s yours. What I like about you. No neutral gear.”

  He was still smiling. So was Jonathan, even though he wondered on what evidence Roper was able to base his judgment.

  “If you say so,” he said.

  “Cooking. Climbing. Boating. Painting. Soldiering. Marrying.

  Languages. Divorcing. Some girl in Cairo, girl in Cornwall, girl in Canada. Some Australian doper you killed. Never trust a chap who tells me he’s not after something. Why’d you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  Roper’s charm was something Jonathan had not allowed himself to remember. Man-to-man, Roper let you know that you could tell him anything, and he would still be smiling at the end of it.

  “Go out on a limb for old Daniel. Break a fellow’s neck one day, save my boy’s the next. You robbed Meister, why don’t you rob me? Why don’t you ask me for money?” He sounded almost deprived. “I’d pay you. I don’t care what you’ve done; you saved my kid. No limit to my bounty where the boy’s concerned.”

  “I didn’t do it for money. You’ve patched me up. Looked after me. Been good to me. I’ll just go.”

  “What languages y’got, anyway?” Roper asked, reaching for a sheet of paper, looking it over and tossing it aside.

  “French. German. Spanish.”

  “Fools, most linguists. Damn all to say in one language, so they learn another and say damn all in that. Arabic?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? You were there long enough.”

  “Well, just scraps. Elementary stuff.”

  “Should have got yourself an Arab woman. Perhaps you did. Did you know old Freddie Hamid while you were there, chum of mine? Bit of a wild chap? Must have done. Family owns the pub you worked in. Got some horses.”

  “He was on the board of management of the hotel.”

  “Total monk, you are, according to Freddie. Asked him. Model of discreet behavior. Why did you go there?”

  “It was chance. The job was advertised on the notice board at hotel school the day I graduated. I’d always wanted to see the Middle East, so I applied.”

  “Freddie had a girlfriend. Older woman. Bright. Too good for him, really. Lot of heart. Used to hang around the race-course and the yacht club with him. Sophie. Ever meet her?”

  “She was killed,” Jonathan said.

  “That’s right. Just before you left. Ever meet her?”


  “She had an apartment at the top of the hotel. Everyone knew her. She was Hamid’s woman.”

  “Was she yours?”

  The clear, clever eyes did not threaten. They appraised. They offered companionship and understanding.

  “Of course not.”

  “Why of course?”

  “It would have been madness. Even if she’d wanted it.”

  “Why shouldn’t she? Hot-blooded Arab, forty if a day, loves a tumble. Personable young chap. God knows, Freddie’s no oil painting. Who killed her?”

  “It was still being investigated as I left. I never heard whether they arrested anyone. Some intruder, they thought. She surprised him, so he knifed her.”

  “Wasn’t you, anyway?” The clear, clever eyes inviting him to share the joke. The dolphin smile.

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “There was a rumor Freddie did it.”

  “Was there, though? Why’d he do a thing like that?”

  “Or had it done, anyway. She was said to have betrayed him in some way.”

  Roper was amused. “Not with you, though?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The smile still there. So was Jonathan’s.

  “Corky can’t make you out, you see. Suspicious chap, Corks.

  Got bad vibes about you. Record’s one man, you’re another, he says. What else have you been up to? Got any more skeletons in your cupboard? Tricks you’ve pulled that we don’t know about? Police don’t? More chaps you’ve topped?”

  “I don’t pull tricks. Things happen to me and I react. That’s how its always been.”

  “Well, Christ, you certainly react. They tell me you had to identify Sophie’s corpse, cope with the coppers. That right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty foul assignment, wasn’t it?”

  “Someone had to do it.”

  “Freddie was grateful. Said, if I ever saw you, tell you thanks. Off the record, of course, He was a bit worried he’d have to go himself. Could have been tricky.”

  Was hate within Jonathan’s reach at last? Nothing had altered in Roper’s face. The half-smile was neither more nor less. Out of focus, Corkoran tiptoed back into the room and lowered himself onto a sofa. Indefinably, Roper’s style altered and he began playing to an audience.

  “The boat you came to Canada on,” he resumed in his confiding way. “Got a name at all?”

  “The Star of Bethel.”

  “Registered?”

  “South Shields.”

  “How’d you get the berth? Not easy, is it? Bum a berth on a dirty little boat?”

  “I cooked.”

  Seated in the wings, Corkoran was unable to restrain himself. “With one hand?” he demanded.

  “I wore rubber gloves.”

  “How’d you get the berth?” Roper repeated.

  “I bribed the ship’s cook, and the captain took me on as a super-numerary.”

  “Name?”

  “Greville.”

  “Your agent chap, Billy Bourne. Crewing agent, Newport, Rhode Island,” Roper continued. “How did you bump into Bourne?”

  “Everyone knows him. Ask any of us.”

  “Us?”

  “Crew. Catering staff.”

  “Got that fax from Billy there, Corks? Likes him, doesn’t he? Full of balm, far as I remember?”

  “Oh, Billy Bourne adores him,” Corkoran confirmed sourly. “Lamont can do no wrong. Cooks, pleases, doesn’t pinch the silver or the guests, there when you want him, fades away when you don’t, sun shines out of his fundament.”

  “But didn’t we check some of the other references? They weren’t all that clever, were they?”

  “A tad fanciful, Chief,” Corkoran conceded. “Moonshine, in fact.”

  “Fake ’em, Pine?”

  “Yes.”

  “That fellow whose arm you smashed up. Ever see him before that night?”

  “No.”

  “Not eating at Low’s some other evening?”

  “No.”

  “Never sailed a boat for him? Cooked for him? Run dope for him?”

  There was no apparent menace to these questions, no quickening of the flow. Roper’s friendly smile remained unruffled, even if Corkoran was scowling and pulling at his ear.

  “No,” said Jonathan.

  “Killed for him, stole with him?”

  “No.”

  “How about his mate?”

  “No.”

  “Occurred to us you could have started out as their inside man and decided to switch sides halfway through. Wondered whether that was the reason you gave him such a working over. Show you’re holier than the Pope, get my meaning?”

  “That’s idiotic,” said Jonathan sharply. He gathered strength. “Actually, that’s just bloody insulting.” And on a more literary note. “I think you should take that back. Why should I put up with this?”

  Play the plucky loser, Burr had said. Never crawl. It makes him sick.

  But Roper appeared not to hear Jonathan’s protests. “Form like yours, on the run, funny name, you might not be looking for another brush with the law. Better to earn favor with the rich Brit instead of kidnapping his boy. See our point?”

  “I had nothing to do with either of them. I told you. I’d never seen them or heard of them or spoken to them before that night. I got your boy back, didn’t I? I don’t even want a reward. I want out. That’s all. Just let me go.”

  “How did you know they were heading for the cookhouse? Could have been heading anywhere.”

  “They knew the layout. They knew where the cash was kept. They’d obviously done their reconnaissance. For God’s sake.”

  “With a little help from you?”

  “No!”

  “You could have hidden yourself away. Why didn’t you? Kept out of trouble. That’s what most chaps on the run would have done, wouldn’t they? Never been on the run myself.”

  Jonathan let a long silence pass, sighed and appeared to resign himself to the madness of his hosts. “I’m beginning to wish I had,” he said, and let his body slump in frustration.

  “Corks, what’s happened to that bottle? Haven’t drunk it, have you?”

  “Right here, Chief.”

  Back to Jonathan: “I want you to stick around, enjoy yourself, make yourself useful, swim, get your strength back, see what we’ll do with you. May even find a job for you, something a bit special. Depends.” The smile widened. “Cook us a few carrot cakes. What’s the matter?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not doing that,” Jonathan said. “It’s not what I want.”

  “Balls. Course it is.”

  “Where else have you got to go?” Corkoran asked. “Carlyle in New York? Ritz-Carlton in Boston?”

  “I’ll just go my own way,” Jonathan said, politely but resolutely.

  He had had enough. Acting and being had become one for him. He no longer knew the difference. I need my own space, my own agenda, he was telling himself. I’m sick of being someone’s creature. He was standing, ready to leave.

  “Hell are you talking about?” Roper complained, mystified. “I’ll pay you. Not mean. Pay you top whack. Nice little house, other side of the island. He can have Woody’s place, Corky. Horses. Swimming. Borrow a boat. Right up your street. Anyway, what’re you going to use for a passport?”

  “Mine,” said Jonathan. “Lamont. Thomas Lamont.” He appealed to Corkoran. “It was among my things.”

  A cloud moved across the sun, making a brief, unnatural evening in the room.

  “Corky, sock him the bad news,” Roper ordered, one arm outstretched as if Pavarotti had started singing again.

  Corkoran shrugged and pulled an apologetic grin. “Yes, well, it’s about this Canadian passport of ours, old love,” he said. “Thing of the past, I’m afraid. Popped it in the shredder. Seemed the right thing to do at the time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Corkoran was working the palm of one hand with the thumb of th
e other.

  “No good getting in a paddy, heart. Doing you a favor. Your cover’s blown sky-high. As of a few days ago, T. Lamont is on every watch list in the Western whatnot. Interpol, Salvation Army, you name it. Show you the evidence if you like. Blue chip. Sorry about that. Fact.”

  “That was my passport!”

  It was the anger that had seized him in the kitchen at Mama Low’s, unfeigned, unbridled, blind—or almost. That was my name, my woman, my betrayal, my shadow! I lied for that passport! I cheated for it! I cooked and skivvied and ate dirt for it, left warm bodies on my trail for it!

  “We’re getting you a new one, something clean,” Roper said. “Least we can do for you. Corky, get your Polaroid, take his mug shot. Has to be color these days. Somebody better touch out the bruises. Nobody else knows, understand? Crushers, gardeners, maids, grooms, nobody.” A deliberate break. “Jed, nothing. Jed keeps out of all this.” He did not say all what. “What did you do with that motorbike you owned—the one in Cornwall?”

  “Ditched it outside Bristol,” Jonathan said.

  “So why didn’t you flog it?” Corkoran demanded vindictively. “Or take it to France? You could have done, couldn’t you?”

  “It was an albatross. Everyone knew I rode a bike.”

  “One more thing.” Roper’s back was turned to the terrace, and his pistol finger was pointing at Jonathan’s skull. “I run a tight ship here. We thieve a little, but we play straight with each other. You saved my boy. But if you step out of line, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  Hearing footsteps on the terrace, Roper swung around, prepared to be angry that his order had been flouted, and saw Jed setting out name cards in silver stands on the tables spread about the terrace. Her chestnut hair fell over her shoulders. Her body was hidden demurely in a wrap.

  “Jeds! Come over here a minute! Got a spot of good news for you. Name of Thomas. Joining the family for a bit. Better tell Daniel; he’ll be tickled pink.”

  She allowed a beat. She raised her head and turned it, favoring the cameras with her best smile.

  “Oh, gosh. Thomas. Super.” Eyebrows up. Registers misty pleasure. “That’s terribly good news. Roper, shouldn’t we celebrate or something?”

  It was the next morning, soon after seven, but in the Miami headquarters it could have been midnight. The same neon lights glowed on the same green-painted brick walls. Sick of his art deco hotel, Burr had made the building his solitary home.