Call For The Dead

are Fennan's possessions — wallet, diary and so forth? Stuff they found on the body?'

'Probably still at the Station,' said Mendel;

'until after the inquest.'

Guillam stood looking at Smiley for a moment, wondering what to say.

'Anything you want, George?'

'No thanks — Oh, there is one thing?'

'Yes?'

'Could you get the C.I.D. off my back? They've visited me three times now and of course they've got nowhere locally. Could you make this an Intelligence matter for the time being? Be mysterious and soothing?'

'Yes, I should think so?'

'I know it's difficult, Peter, because I'm not —'

'Oh another thing just to cheer you up. I had that comparison made between Fennan's suicide note and the anonymous letter. They were done by different people on the same machine. Different pressures and spacing but identical type face. So long, old dear. Tuck into the grapes.'

Guillam closed the door behind him. They heard his footsteps echoing crisply down the bare corridor.

Mendel rolled himself a cigarette.

'Lord,' said Smiley; 'does nothing frighten you? Haven't you seen the Sister here?'

Mendel grinned and shook his head.

'You can only die once,' he said, putting the cigarette between his thin lips. Smiley watched him light it. He produced his lighter, took the hood off it and rotated the wheel with his stained thumb, swiftly cupping both hands around it and nursing the flame towards the cigarette. There might have been a hurricane blowing.

'Well, you're the crime expert,' said Smiley.

'How are we doing?'

'Messy,' said Mendel. 'Untidy'

'Why?'

'Loose ends everywhere. No police work. Nothing checked. Like algebra?'

'What's algebra got to do with it?'

'You've got to prove what can be proved, first. Find the constants. Did she really go to the theatre? Was she alone? Did the neighbours hear her come back? If so, what time? Was Fennan really late Tuesdays? Did his Missus go to the theatre regular every fortnight like she said?'

'And the 8.30 call. Can you tidy that for me?'

'You've got that call on the brain, haven't you?' 'Yes. Of all the loose ends, that's the loosest. I brood over it, you know, and there just isn't any sense in it. I've been through his train timetable. He was a punctual man — often got to the F.O. before anyone else, unlocked his own cupboard. He would have caught the 8.45, the 9.08 or at worst the 9.14. The 8.45 got him in at 9.38 — he liked to be at his office by a quarter to ten. He couldn't possibly want to be woken at 8.30?'

'Perhaps he just liked bells,' said Mendel, getting up.

'And the letters,' Smiley continued. 'Different typists but the same machine. Discounting the murderer two people had access to that machine: Fennan and his wife. If we accept that Fennan typed the suicide note — and he certainly signed it — we must accept that it was Elsa who typed the denunciation. Why did she do that?'

Smiley was tired out, relieved that Mendel was going.

'Off to tidy up. Find the constants?'

'You'll need money,' said Smiley, and offered him some from the wallet beside his bed. Mendel took it without ceremony, and left.

Smiley lay back. His head was throbbing madly, burning hot. He thought of calling the nurse and .cowardice prevented him. Gradually the throbbing eased. He heard from outside the ringing of an ambulance bell as it turned off Prince of Wales Drive into the hospital yard. 'Perhaps he just liked bells,' he muttered, and fell asleep.

He was woken by the sound of argument in the corridor — he heard the Sister's voice raised in protest; he heard footsteps and Mendel's voice, urgent in contradiction. The door opened suddenly and someone put the light on. He blinked and sat up, glancing at his watch. It was a quarter to six. Mendel was talking to him, almost shouting. What was he trying to say? Something about Battersea Bridge . the river police ... missing since yesterday . He was wide awake. Adam Scarr was dead.

X The Virgin's Story

Mendel drove very well, with a kind of school ma'amish pedantry that Smiley would have found comic. The Weybridge road was packed with traffic as usual. Mendel hated motorists. Give a man a car of his own and he leaves humility and common sense behind him in the garage. He didn't care who it was — he'd seen bishops in purple doing seventy in a built-up area, frightening pedestrians out of their wits. He liked Smiley's car. He liked the fussy way it had been maintained, the sensible extras, wing mirrors and reversing light. It was a decent little car.

He liked people who looked after things, who finished what they began. He liked thoroughness and precision. No skimping. Like this murderer. What had Scarr said? 'Young, mind, but cool. Cool as charity.' He knew that look, and Scarr had known it too ... the look of complete negation that reposes in the eyes of a young killer. Not the look of a wild beast, not the grinning savagery of a maniac, but the look born of supreme efficiency, tried and proven. It was a stage beyond the experience of war. The witnessing of death in war brings a sophistication of its own; but beyond that, far beyond, is the conviction of supremacy in the heart of the professional killer. Yes, Mendel had seen it before: the one that stood apart from the gang, pale eyed, expressionless, the one the girls went after, spoke of without smiling. Yes, he was a cool one all right.

Scarr's death had frightened Mendel. He made Smiley promise not to go back to Bywater Street when he was released from hospital. With any luck they'd think he was dead, anyway. Scarr's death proved one thing, of course: the murderer was still in England, still anxious to tidy up. 'When I get up,' Smiley had said last night, 'we must get him out of his hole again. Put out bits of cheese.' Mendel knew who the cheese would be: Smiley. Of course if they were right about the motive there would be other cheese too: Fennan's wife. In fact, Mendel thought grimly, it doesn't say much for her that she hasn't been murdered. He felt ashamed of himself and turned his mind to other things. Such as Smiley again.

Odd little beggar, Smiley was. Reminded Mendel of a fat boy he'd played football with at school. Couldn't run, couldn't kick, blind as a bat but played like hell, never satisfied till he'd got himself torn to bits. Used to box, too. Came in wide open, swinging his arms about: got himself half killed before the referee stopped it. Clever bloke, too.

Mendel stopped at a roadside cafe for a cup of tea and a bun, then drove into Weybridge. The Repertory Theatre was in a one way street leading off the High Street where parking was impossible. Finally he left the car at the railway station and walked back into the town.

The front doors of the theatre were locked. Mendel walked around to the side of the building under a brick archway. A green door was propped open. It had push bars on the inside and the words 'stage door' scribbled in chalk. There was no bell; a faint smell of coffee issued from the dark green corridor within. Mendel stepped through the doorway and walked down the corridor, at the end of which he found a stone staircase with a metal handrail leading upwards to another green door. The smell of coffee was stronger, and he heard the sound of voices.

'Oh rot, darling, frankly. If the culture vultures of blissful Surrey want Barrie three months running let them have it, say I. It's either Barrie or 'A Cuckoo in the Nest' for the third year running and for me Barrie gets it by a short head' — this from a middle-aged female voice.

A querulous male replied: 'Well, Ludo can always do Peter Pan, can't you Ludo?'

'Bitchie, bitchie,' said a third voice, also male, and Mendel opened the door.

He was standing in the wings of the stage. On his left was a piece of thick hardboard with about a dozen switches mounted on a wooden panel. An absurd rococo chair in gilt and embroidery stood beneath it for the