Читать книгу The Harry Palmer Quartet - Len Deighton - Страница 38

[Aquarius (Jan 20–Feb 19) If you are a stick-in-the-mud you’ll get nowhere. Widen your social horizons. Go somewhere gay and relaxing.]

I heard the operator asking Charlie if he’d accept a reversed charge call. He said OK. ‘This is a friend of Reg,’ I said.

‘I recognize the voice.’

‘I’m in quite a bit of trouble, Mr Cavendish.’

‘That’s right,’ said Charlie. ‘You got it?’ He was referring to the cable I’d had in Tokwe.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘’s OK. What can I do for you, my boy?’

‘Could you meet me? Now?’

‘Sure. Where?’

‘Thanks.’

‘’s OK,’ said Charlie. ‘Where?’

I paused. I’d prepared the next bit: ‘“A dungeon horrible, on all sides round …”’ I paused and Charlie completed it for me.

‘“As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames

No light, but rather darkness visible.”’

That may not appeal to you, but to Milton and Charlie it was just the thing. ‘That’s it,’ I said.

‘OK. I’ve got you. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. I’ll go in first and pay for you. Anything special you want?’

‘Yes, a job.’

Charlie gave a squeaky little laugh and rang off.

There are no lights inside but through the huge windows that form one wall of the little chamber two lights that wouldn’t have chagrined a medium flak battery, stare relentlessly. The view through the glass is impressionist; the world outside muted by the constant dribble and trickle of hot water across the glass. The endless crash of sheets of water hitting the red stone floor provided a banshee background to the sudatory heat. Through the dense vapour Charlie’s pale pink and white blotchy body wrapped in a small gingham towel could just be seen.

‘Good idea,’ Charlie said. He was six inches shorter than me and he stared up with bright myopic eyes, now more shiny than ever. ‘Good idea this.’ I was flattered at Charlie’s enthusiasm. ‘I brought you some clothes. A white shirt – one of Reg’s. I thought you’d take about the same size as Reg. Socks and a pair of old canvas shoes size ten. Too big for me.’

There was a crash as someone leapt into the cold plunge.

‘Turkish baths,’ said Charlie, ‘and sleep here too if you want.’

The pain was beginning to trickle out of my pores. I said, ‘You see, Mr Cavendish …’ the wet heat struck the back of my lungs as I opened my mouth ‘… I had no one else to go to.’

‘’s OK. I would have been furious if you hadn’t come to your Uncle Charlie.’ It was a joke we had between us, like the joke of Charlie reciting those stanzas of Paradise Lost here in the steam room on previous occasions. Charlie was looking at the cuts on my face and my bruised cheek. The steam had probably made them much more visible. ‘You look like you got caught in a combine harvester,’ Charlie said gently.

‘Yes, and now they’ve sent me a bill for the damages.’

‘Go on. What a sauce,’ said Charlie seriously, then he did his squeaky laugh. Charlie wouldn’t hear of me going anywhere but back to his place. Although the Turkish bath was very therapeutic I was still as weak as a half-drowned kitten. I let him put me into his 1947 Hillman that was parked right outside the door in Jermyn Street.

When I woke up on Saturday morning it was in Charlie’s bed – Charlie had spent the night on the sofa. There was a smell of freshly ground coffee, a spitting of grilling bacon, and a big coal fire that had reached that state of perfection that the manufacturers of plastic fronts for electric ones seek to emulate.

I’m not good at guessing numbers, so it would be the roughest possible estimate if I said that Charlie’s little apartment contained three thousand books. Enough to say perhaps that in no room was there much wall to be glimpsed. And I wouldn’t like you to think that they were paperbacks of the Bushwacker of Deadman’s Gulch genre either. No, these wonderful books were the reason Charlie Cavendish hadn’t got past 1947 with his motor-cars.

‘You’re up,’ said Charlie, coming into the living-room with a big white coffee-pot. ‘Continental roast. OK?’ I hoped I wasn’t becoming that sort of fanatic that people had to check blends with before they could offer me a cup of coffee. ‘Great,’ I said.

‘Would music bother you?’

‘No, it would do me good,’ I answered. Charlie went across to the hi-fi. It was a mass of valves and assorted components strung together with loops of wire, sticking-plaster and slivers of matchstick. He laid a huge shiny LP on the heavy turntable and delicately applied the diamond head. Strange that he should have chosen Mozart’s 41st; for the second movement took me directly back to that evening I sat with Adem listening to the song of the blackcap. How long ago was that?

After breakfast Charlie settled down with Encounters and I tuned in to the Saturday morning concert and began to wish I hadn’t eaten, I was feeling pretty sick. I walked into the bedroom and took the weight off my feet. I had to think. I’d told Charlie as much as he need know, and ideally I should get away from here. Implicating a personal friend was bad enough, implicating someone employed within the framework of the service was unforgivable.

I had got as far as this merely because K.K. and Co had divided their anxieties between recapturing me and packing up their confidential stuff and clearing out quickly. But that did not mean that they were a set of amateurs, nor that they were going to take the heat off me in any way. What to do now?

Dalby seemed out of the question, so did anyone who worked for him. Ross wasn’t even on my list. I could go to the CIGS but I really wasn’t under Army jurisdiction any longer. Anyway that was out because Dalby would hear about my application for an interview before the ink on it was dry. If I gave a false name they would look me up in the List and arrest me when they found it wasn’t there. If I gave someone else’s name? No, of the Military Police and secretaries at the War House there was too many that know me by sight. Anyway, the CIGS probably wouldn’t believe me. Ripley is probably the only one that will believe it, I thought.

The PM? I toyed with this idea for thirty seconds. What would the Prime Minister do? He’d have to ask advice from the next responsible security authority. Who was that? In this particular case it was Dalby. Even if it wasn’t Dalby it would be someone closely associated with Dalby. It was a maze and Dalby stood at the only exit.

Then perhaps the only way was to go directly to Dalby and sort out this muddle with him. After all, I knew I wasn’t working for anyone else. There must be a way of proving it. On the other hand there wasn’t a government in the world who’d have any compunction about killing an operator who knew as much as I did, if there were any doubts about loyalty. In a way this cheered me up. Whatever else, I wasn’t dead yet, and killing someone isn’t difficult.

I suddenly remembered Barney on the generator truck. I wondered if it was true. It had a terrible ring of truth somehow, but if Barney was killed for warning me, what did I deserve? Perhaps the Americans who held me weren’t genuine. After all, the Hungarians hadn’t been. No, that was out of the question.

Those interrogations had been as American as shoo-fly pie and hominy grits. The ‘Hungarians’; where did they fit into all this? Who was K.K.? Naturally he would be keeping out of the way. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t in British Government pay.

Did the Al Gumhuria file that I’d declined to buy from Ross have anything to do with it? Things seemed to go wrong for me soon after that.

I must have dozed off with my problem still unresolved. Charlie woke me with tea and biscuits and said I had been shouting in my sleep. ‘Nothing that I could understand,’ said Charlie hastily. All day Saturday and all day Sunday I did nothing. Charlie fed me bouillon and steak while I hung around and felt sorry for myself. Sunday evening found me listening to Alistair Cooke on the radio and staring at a piece of blank paper upon which I’d resolved to write my plan of action.

I was better after the food and rest. I was still no Steve Reeves but I was moving into the Sir Cedric Hardwicke class. The paper I was doodling on stared back at me. Dalby’s name I’d underlined. Connected to it in one direction: Alice; in the other: Ross, because if Dalby was going to crucify me there’s no one to give him a more willing hand than Ross and the military boys. Murray and Carswell I’d linked together as the two unknowns. Chances were that by now Dalby had detached them back into some long-lost dust-covered office in the War House. Then there was Chico. He had the mind of a child of four, and the last time I’d heard from him was on the phone from Grantham. Jean? That was another big query. She’d risked a lot to help me in Tokwe, but just how long do you stick your neck out in this business? I was probably in a very good position to find out. Any way I worked it out the answer seemed to be: see Dalby. I resolved to do so. But there was something that must be done first.

By 9.30 P.M. I decided that I’d have to ask Charlie yet another favour. By 10 P.M. he was out of the house. Everything depended on Charlie then, or so it seemed at the time. I looked at the sepia photo of Reg Cavendish,* Charlie’s son. He looked down from the top of the writing cabinet in one of those large boat-shaped forage caps that we’d all looked so silly in. I remembered coming to tell his father of his death when, after four years of unscathed combat action, Reg was killed by a truck in Brussels four days before VE day.

I had told Charlie that his son had been killed in a traffic accident just as simply as I’d heard it on the phone. He went into the kitchen and began to make coffee. I sat with the smell of my best uniform wet with the spring rain, and looked around at the shelves of books and gramophone records. At Balzac and Byron, Ben Jonson and Proust, Beethoven, Bach, and Sidney and Beatrice Webb.

I remember that when Charlie Cavendish had come back with coffee we talked about the weather and the wartime Cup Final and the subjects people talk about when they want to think about something else.

I remember thinking the coffee rather strange, it was as black as coal and almost as solid. It was only after two or three subsequent visits that I realized that Charlie had stood in the kitchen that night, ladling spoonful after spoonful of coffee into his white porcelain coffee-pot while his mind refused to function.

And now here I was again, sitting alone among Charlie’s books; again I was waiting for Charlie to come back.

By 11.25 P.M. I heard his footsteps on the creaking winding staircase. I brought him coffee in that same white German porcelain coffee-pot that I had remembered from 1945. I went to the FM and switched ‘Music at Night’ down in volume.

Charlie spoke. ‘A cipher,’ he said, ‘nothing nowhere, no trace, not ever.’

‘You’re joking,’ I said. ‘You must have got the Indian Army stuff.’

‘No,’ said Charlie, ‘I even did a repeat request under “Calcutta Stats Office”. There’s no Carswell with the initials J.F. and the only one with anything possible is P. J. Carswell, aged 26.’

‘No, that’s nowhere near him,’ I said.

‘Are you sure of the spelling? Want me to try Carwell?’

‘No, no,’ I said, ‘I’m sure of the spelling as much as I’m sure of anything. Anyway, you’ve taken enough chances already.’

‘A pleasure,’ said Charlie simply and sincerely. He continued with his coffee. ‘French drip. I used to make it vacuum. Another time I had one of those upside-down Neapolitan things. French drip is best.’

‘I’ll tell you the whole story if you like, Charlie,’ I offered. I always find it difficult to use his first name, having been a friend of his son before I met him.

‘Rather not. I know too many secrets already,’ he said. It was a magnificent understatement. ‘I’m turning in now. If you get inspired, let me know. It wouldn’t be unusual me popping into “tracing” in the middle of the night.’

‘Good night, Charlie,’ I said. ‘I’ll work something out.’ But I was no longer sure that I would.