Call For The Dead

'They'll ring back in an hour,' he said.

'Come on. I'll show you round the estate.

Know anything about bees, do you?'

'Well, a very little, yes. I got bitten with the natural history bug at Oxford.' He was going to tell Mendel how he had wrestled with Goethe's metamorphoses of plants and animals in the hope of discovering, like Faust, 'what sustains the world at its inmost point.' He wanted to explain why it was impossible to understand nineteenth- century Europe without a working knowledge of the naturalistic sciences, he felt earnest and full of important thoughts, and knew secretly that this was because his brain was wrestling with the day's events, that he was in a state of nervous excitement. The palms of his hands were moist.

Mendel led him out of the back door: three neat beehives stood against the low brick wall which ran along the end of the garden. Mendel spoke as they stood in the fine rain:

'Always wanted to keep them, see what it's all about. Been reading it all up — frightens me stiff, I can tell you. Odd little beggars.' He nodded a couple of times in support of this statement, and Smiley looked at him again with interest. His face was thin but muscular, its expression entirely uncommunicative; his iron grey hair was cut very short and spiky. He seemed quite indifferent to the weather, and the weather to him. Smiley knew exactly the life that lay behind Mendel, had seen in policemen all over the world the same leathery skin, the same reserves of patience, bitterness and anger. He could guess the long, fruitless hours of surveillance in every kind of weather, waiting for someone who might never come ... or come and go too quickly. And he knew how much Mendel and the rest of them were at the mercy of personalities — capricious and bullying, nervous and changeful, occasionally wise and sympathetic. He knew how intelligent men could be broken by the stupidity of their superiors, how weeks of patient work night and day could be cast aside by such a man.

Mendel led him up the precarious path laid with broken stone to the beehives and, still oblivious of the rain, began taking one to pieces, demonstrating and explaining. He spoke in jerks, with quite long pauses between phrases, indicating precisely and slowly with his slim fingers.

At last they went indoors again, and Mendel showed him the two downstairs rooms. The drawing-room was all flowers: flowered curtains and carpet, flowered covers on the furniture. In a small cabinet in one corner were some Toby jugs and a pair of very handsome pistols beside a cup for target shooting.

Smiley followed him upstairs. There was a smell of paraffin from the stove on the landing, and a surly bubbling from the cistern in the lavatory.

Mendel showed him his own bedroom.

'Bridal chamber. Bought the bed at a sale for a quid. Box spring mattress. Amazing what you can pick up. Carpets are ex-Queen Elizabeth. They change them every year. Bought them at a store in Watford.'

Smiley stood in the doorway, somehow rather embarrassed. Mendel turned back and passed him to open the other bedroom door.

'And that's your room. If you want it.' He turned to Smiley. 'I wouldn't stay at your place tonight if I were you. You never know, do you? Besides, you'll sIeep better here. Air’s better. ' Smiley began to protest.

'Up to you. You do what you like.' Mendel grew surly and embarrassed. 'Don't understand your job, to be honest, any more than you know police work. You do what you like. From what I've seen of you, you can look after yourself.' They went downstairs again. Mendel had lit the gas fire in the drawing-room.

'Well, at least you must let me give you dinner tonight,' said Smiley.

The telephone rang in the hall. It was Mendell's secretary about the car numbers.

Mendel came back. He handed Smiley a list of seven names and addresses. Four of the seven could be discounted; the registered addresses were in Bywater Street. Three remained: a hired car from the firm of Adam Scarr and Sons of Battersea, a trade van belonging to the Severn Tile Company, Eastbourne; and the third was listed specially as the property of the Panamanian Ambassador.

'I've got a man on the Panamanian job now. There'll be no difficulty there — they've only got three cars on the Embassy strength.

'Battersea's not far;' Mendel continued. 'We could pop over there tonight. In your car?'

'By all means, by all means;' Smiley said quickly; 'and we can go in to Kensington for dinner. I'll book a table at the 'Entrechat','

It was four o'clock. They sat for a while talking in a rather desultory way about bees and house-keeping, Mendel quite at ease and Smiley still bothered and awkward, trying to find a way of talking, trying not to be clever. He could guess what Ann would have said about Mendel. She would have loved him, made a person of him, had a special voice and face for imitating him, would have made a story of him until he fitted into their lives and wasn't a mystery any more: 'Darling, who'd have thought he could be so cosy! The last man I'd ever thought would tell me where to buy cheap fish. And what a darling little house — no bother — he must know Toby jugs are hell and he just doesn't care. I think he's a pet. Toad, do ask him to dinner. You must. Not to giggle at but to like.' He wouldn't have asked him, of course, but Ann would be content — she'd found a way to like him. And having done so, forgotten him.

That was what Smiley wanted, really — a way to like Mendel. He was not as quick as Ann at finding one. But Ann was Ann — she practically murdered an Etonian nephew once for drinking claret with fish, but if Mendel had lit a pipe over her crepe suzette, she probably would not have noticed.

Mendel made more tea and they drank it. At about a quarter past five they set off for Battersea in Smiley's car. On the way Mendel bought an evening paper. He read it with difficulty, catching the light from the street lamps. After a few minutes he spoke with sudden venom:

'Krauts. Bloody Krauts. God, I hate them!'

'Krauts?'

'Krauts. Huns, Jerries. Bloody Germans.

Wouldn't give you sixpence for the lot of them. Carnivorous ruddy sheep. Kicking Jews about again. Us all over. Knock 'em down, set 'em up. Forgive and forget. Why bloody well forget, I'd like to know? Why forget theft, murder and rape just because millions committed it? Christ, one poor little sod of a bank clerk pinches ten bob and the whole of the Metropolitan's on to him. But Krupp and all that mob — oh no. Christ, if I was a Jew in Germany I'd ..'

Smiley was suddenly wide awake: 'What would you do? What would you do, Mendel?'

'Oh, I suppose I'd sit down under it. It's statistics now, politics. It isn't sense to give them H-bombs so it's politics. And there's the Yanks — millions of ruddy Jews in America. What do they do? Damn all: give the Krauts more bombs. All chums together — blow each other up.'

Mendel was trembling with rage, and Smiley was silent for a while, thinking of Elsa Fennan.

'What's the answer?' he asked, just for something to say.

'Christ knows,' said Mendel savagely.

They turned into Battersea Bridge Road and drew up beside a constable standing on the pavement. Mendel showed his Police card.

'Scarr's garage? Well it isn't hardly a garage, sir, just a yard. Scrap metal he handles mostly, and second- hand cars. If they won't do for one they'll do for the other, that's what Adam says. You want to go down Prince of Wales Drive till you come to the hospital. It's tucked in there between a couple of pre-fabs. Bomb site it is really. Old Adam straightened it out with some cinders and no one's ever moved him.'

'You seem to know a lot about him,' said Mendel.

'I should do, I've run him in a few times. There's not much in the book that Adam hasn't been up to. He's one of our hardy perennials, Scarr is.'

'Well, well. Anything on him at present?'

'Couldn't say, sir. But you can have him any time for illegal betting. And Adam's practically under the Act already.'

They drove towards Battersea Hospital. The park on their right looked black and hostile behind the street lamps.

'What's under the Act?' asked Smiley.

'Oh, he's only joking. It means your record's so long you're eligible for Preventive Detention — years of it. He sounds like my type,' Mendel continued. 'Leave him to me?'

They found the yard as the constable had described, between two dilapidated pre-fabs in an uncertain row of hutments erected on the bomb site. Rubble, clinker and refuse lay everywhere. Bits of asbestos, timber and old