Mallory removed his spectacles and leaned back in his chair. 'The fact is that I've nothing to offer you at all, not any more. You see, the psychiatrist's report didn't make any better reading than this little lot. It seems your nerves are shot to pieces. He even thinks you need treatment.'
'At ten guineas a time he would,' Chavasse said. 'You must be joking. He couldn't psychoanalyse his way out of a wet paper bag.'
Mallory straightened in his chair and slammed a hand hard down on the desk. 'For God's sake, Paul, face facts. What about your practical earlier this evening? You went in after Jorgensen like an amateur. In the field, you'd have been dead, don't you understand that?'
'I understand only one thing,' Chavasse said bitterly. 'That I'm being slung out on my ear. That about sums it up, doesn't it?'
'No one asked you to get mixed up in that Albanian affair,' Mallory said angrily. 'You went in of your own accord.'
'Believing in the word of a member of this organisation,' Chavasse said. 'Someone you appointed yourself, so I understand.'
There was a moment of heavy dangerous silence as they challenged each other across the desk and then Mallory sat down heavily. When he spoke, he was completely in control again.
'You'll get the usual pension, Paul, we owe you that at least.' He opened a red file and took out a letter. 'I've been in touch with an old friend of mine, Hans Muller. He has the chair in Modern Languages at one of the new universities in the Midlands. He'll be glad to have you on his staff.'
Chavasse laughed once and it had an ugly sound. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. 'It's been fun, Mr. Mallory. As our American friends say, a real ball.'
He started for the door and Mallory jumped to his feet. 'For God's sake, Paul, don't be a fool.'
Chavasse paused, one hand on the door knob and grinned crookedly. 'I remember reading somewhere once about a French abbe who'd come through the revolution. Someone asked him what he'd done during the Terror. 'I survived,' he said. 'I survived.' I suppose I could say the same. Something to be grateful for at least.'
He opened the door quickly before Mallory could reply and went out.
2
Somewhere in the distance Big Ben struck midnight, the sound curiously muffled by the fog and then there was silence. It was raining heavily and Chavasse paused on a corner to button the collar of his trenchcoat up around his neck.
Since leaving Jean Frazer's flat, he had walked aimlessly, turning from one street into another until he had come to the river again. He wasn't too sure where he was, probably Wapping from the look of it. Not that it mattered very much. He walked across the road past towering warehouses and paused beneath a street lamp, leaning on the stone parapet above the river.
He unbuttoned his coat, sliding his hand inside searching for his cigarette case and his fingers touched the butt of the Walther. He pulled it out and examined it quickly, a slight frown on his face. Technically speaking he would be committing an offence from now on simply by continuing to keep it without a permit.
He held it out over the dark water for a moment and then changed his mind and slipped it back into its pocket. When he found his cigarette case, it was empty and he continued along the wet pavement, turning the corner into an old square surrounded by decaying Georgian houses.
There was a Chinese restaurant on the other side, a ten-foot dragon in red neon glittering through the rain and he crossed towards it, opened the door and went in.
It was a long, rather narrow room obviously constructed from the ground floor of the house with the internal walls taken out. It was scrupulously clean and decorated in a vaguely Eastern manner, probably to please the clientele.
There was only one customer, a Chinese of at least sixty with a bald head and round, enigmatic face. He couldn't have been more than five feet in height, but was incredibly fat and, in spite of his immaculate tan gaberdine suit, bore a distinct resemblance to a small bronze statue of Buddha which stood in a niche at the back of the room, an incense candle burning before it. He was consuming a large plate of chopped raw fish and vegetables with the aid of a very Western fork and ignored Chavasse completely.
The Chinese girl behind the bar had a flower in her dark hair and wore a
'I'm sorry, sir, we close at midnight.'
'Any chance of a quick drink?'
'I'm afraid we only have a table licence.'
She was very beautiful. Her skin had that creamy look peculiar to Asian women and her lips an extra fullness that gave her a distinctly sensual air. For some strange reason Chavasse felt like reaching out to touch her. He took a grip on himself, started to turn away and then the red dragon seemed to come alive, writhing across the dark dress like some living thing and the walls moved in on him. He lurched against the bar and was aware of her voice faintly in his ear.
Once in the Aegean, diving from a sponge boat off Kyros he had run out of air at sixty feet and, surfacing, had experienced that same sensation of drifting up from the dark places into light, struggling to draw air into tortured lungs.
The fat man was at his side, supporting him effortlessly with a grip of surprising strength. Chavasse sank into a chair. Again, there was that strange sensation of not being able to draw enough air into his lungs. He took several deep breaths and managed a smile.
'Sorry about this. I've been ill for rather a long time. I haven't been up for long. Probably walked too far.'
The expression on the fat man's face didn't alter and the woman said quickly in Chinese. 'All right, uncle, I'll handle this. Finish your meal.'
'Do you think they will come now?' the fat man said.
She shrugged. 'I don't know. I'll leave the door open for a little while longer. We will see.' The fat man moved away and she smiled down at Chavasse. 'You must excuse my uncle. He speaks little English.'
'That's all right. If I could just sit here for a minute.'
'Coffee?' the girl said. 'Black coffee and perhaps a double brandy?'
'Just try me.'
She went behind the bar and took down a bottle of brandy and a glass. At that moment a car drew up outside. She paused, frowning slightly, and peered through the window. Steps sounded on the pavement. She turned and nodded quickly to the fat man.
'They are here,' she said simply in Chinese.
As she came round the end of the bar the door opened and four men entered. The leader was at least six feet tall with a hard raw-boned face and restless blue eyes. He wore a three-quarter length car coat in cavalry twill, the fur collar pulled up around his neck.
He grinned pleasantly. 'Here we are again then,' he said in a soft Irish voice. 'Got it ready for me, dear?'
'You are wasting your time, Mr. McGuire,' the girl said. 'There is nothing for you here.'
His three companions were typical young layabouts dressed in the height of current fashion, hair carefully curled over their collars. One of them was an albino with transparent eyelashes that gave him an unpleasant, tainted look.
'Now don't give us any trouble, darlin',' he said. 'We've been good to you. Twenty quid a week for a place like this? I think you're getting off lightly.'
She shook her head. 'Not one penny.'
McGuire sighed heavily and plucked the bottle of brandy from her hand in a sudden quick gesture, tossing it over his shoulder to splinter the mirror at the back of the bar.
