'He happens to be a friend of mine.'
'Has he a security rating?'
'You read the letter, Colonel. I'll worry about where it came from.'
Butler noted the slight lift of the big man's chin and the sudden coolness of his manner. So this German was one of those friends, one of that private network of strategically placed people Audley had charmed or bullied (the man could do either as he chose) into keeping their eyes and ears open for him. Young Roskill had spoken of it half ruefully, half admiringly.
He lowered his eyes to the letter again.
. .. I have held my hand (if not my tongue) during these last months. But now something has occurred which makes action imperative.
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I have heard this day of the death of one of my former pupils, Neil Smith, a graduate of the college who was awarded the Mitchell research fellowship at Cumbria last summer.
Smith was apparently killed in a road accident after he had lost control of his motor-cycle. I have been informed— unofficially—that although only evidence of identification was taken at the preliminary inquest the final verdict will undoubtedly be 'accidental death'.
As it happens, however, I am in possession of information which casts doubt not only on this expected verdict, but also on the finding of the preliminary hearing.
On the night of Smith's death, shortly after dinner I was informed of a long distance telephone call which the Porter had finally decided could not be kept from me. The line was poor (as it often is) and I confess that I was irritated at having to leave my guests, the more so because the butler informed me that it was an importunate Mr Zoshchenko who was asking for me. I was not aware of knowing anyone of that name.
Also, I speedily formed the opinion that Mr Zoshchenko was drunk, for he insisted on declaiming passages from Plato—mostly from the Apology and the Phaedo—interspersed with parts of what I took to be the American Declaration of Independence. It was most confusing; he was confused and so was I.
And then he said, with perfect clarity: 'Master, you think I'm Neil Smith, but I'm not—I'm Paul Zoshchenko. But if I've got to die I'm damn well going to die Neil Smith, not bloody Paul Zoshchenko. I don't even like bloody Paul Zoschenko, even if I have to die for him.'
Now, having taught Smith I recognised his voice as soon as I heard his name—I had no doubt about that either, slurred though it was. So I naturally tried to dissuade him when he said that he was coming to see me that very night, for he was clearly in no position to be abroad. But he took not the slightest notice of me.
Then the pips went—he had put additional coins in twice before—and he said: 'No more money, Master,no more time. If I don't get wet on the way I'll be with you for breakfast —'
'Wet!' whispered Butler. 'God Almighty!' 'Finish the letter,' Audley commanded.
'—but if I don't make it, Master, pay the cock to Aesculapius for me.'
So there you have it, my dear Freisler: if this call was from Smith, then Smith was not what he seemed.
And his references to death and wetness clearly suggest suicide, rather than accident.
As to paying the cock, I do not believe he intended me simply to deliver these facts to the coroner.
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Therefore I am taking the liberty once more of passing on this information to you to act on (as I know you will) in the interests of those to whom we owe our obligation.
'God Almighty!' repeated Butler. 'Wet! Do you think that's really what he said?'
Audley shrugged. 'We've no reason to doubt it. Old Sir Geoffrey was pretty well oiled himself that night
—that's what he means by all that detail about his guests—they do themselves well at King's and Sir Geoffrey enjoys his port and brandy. But there's nothing wrong with his memory. He just didn't know what he was remembering. But then you wouldn't expect him to know KGB slang.'
Butler nodded. That was the whole thing in a nutshell. The Master of King's College, Oxford, would know Ancient Greek and how the Court of the Star Chamber worked—but he wouldn't know that the Russian slang for Spetsburo Thirteen was Mokryye Dela—'The department of wet affairs'. Only 'wet'
in their context meant 'blood-sodden', and to get wet was the feared, inevitable fate of traitors pursued by the special bureau.
The irony, if that had been Zoshchenko/Smith's fate, was that he had got wet literally as well as metaphorically, and the Master had added two and two to get five.
'What was all that about paying a cock?' said Butler.
'Ah—that was another bit from the Phaeda, the last words of Socrates as he was being executed. You see, Aesculapius was the god of healing, and people who were sick used to sacrifice a cock to him before they went to sleep in the hope of waking up in good health again—or sometimes simply as a thank- offering for having recovered. As Socrates was dying he asked his friend Crito to make such an offering.'
'As he was dying? Wasn't that a bit late?'
Audley smiled sadly, as though Socrates had been a friend of his too. 'It was a sort of a joke—a typical Socratic joke. It's rather complicated, but he thought the soul mattered more than the body, so maybe he meant that by killing his body they were curing his soul.'
