Call For The Dead

Mendel a suggestive wink.

'Well, gosh, I should think so, he's her husband, isn't he?'

Mendel looked at her for a minute and then smiled: 'Couldn't we find a chair for Elizabeth?' he said.

'Gosh, thanks,' said the Virgin, and sat on the edge of an old gilt chair like the prompter's chair in the wings. She put her red, fat hands on her knees and leaned forward, smiling all the time, thrilled to be the centre of so much interest. Mrs. Oriel looked at her venomously.

'What makes you think he was her husband, Elizabeth?' There was an edge to his voice which had not been there before.

'Well, I know they arrive separately, but I thought that as they had seats apart from the rest of the club reservations, they must be husband and wife. And of course he always brings a music case too?'

'I see. What else can you remember about that evening, Elizabeth?'

'Oh, well, lots really because you see I felt awful about her leaving in such a pet and then later that night she rang up. Mrs. Fennan did, I mean. She said her name and said she'd left early and forgotten her music case. She'd lost the ticket for it, too, and was in a frightful state. It sounded as if she was crying. I heard someone's voice in the background, and then she said someone would drop in and get it if that would be all right without the ticket. I said of course and half an hour later the man came. He's rather super. Tall and fair.'

'I see' said Mendel; 'thank you very much, Elizabeth,, you've been very help fuI.'

'Gosh, that's O.K.' She got up.

'Incidentally', said Mendel. 'This man who collected her music case — he wasn’t by any chance the same man who sits beside her in the theatre, was he?'

'Rather. Gosh, sorry, I should have said that.'

'Did you talk to him?'

'Well, just to say here you are, sort of thing:

'What kind of voice had he?'

'Oh, foreign, like Mrs. Ferman's — she is foreign, isn't she? That's what I put it down to — all her fuss and state — foreign temperament.'

She smiled at Mendel, waited a moment then walked out like Alice.

'Cow,' said Mrs. Oriel, looking at the closed door. Her eyes turned to Mendel. 'Well, I hope you've got your five quids' worth.'

'I think so,' said Mendel.

XI The Unrespectable Club

Mendel found Smiley sitting in an armchair fully dressed. Peter Guillam was stretched luxuriously on the bed, a pale green folder held casually in his hand. Outside, the sky was black and menacing.

'Enter the third murderer,' said Guillam as Mendel walked in. Mendel sat down at the end of the bed and nodded happily to Smiley, who looked pale and depressed.

'Congratulations. Nice to see you on your feet.'

'Thank you. I'm afraid if you did see me on my feet you wouldn't congratulate me. I feel as weak as a kitten.'

'When are they letting you go?'

'I don't know when they expect me to go —'

'Haven't you asked?'

'No.'

'Well, you'd better. I've got news for you. I don't know what it means but it means something.'

'Well, well,' said Guillam; 'everyone's got news for everyone else. Isn't that exciting. George has been looking at my family snaps' — he raised the green folder a fraction of an inch — 'and recognises all his old chums.'

Mendel felt baffled and rather left out of things. Smiley intervened: 'I'll tell you all about it over dinner tomorrow evening. I'm getting out of here in the morning, whatever they say. I think we've found the murderer and a lot more besides. Now let's have your news:' There was no triumph in his eyes. Only anxiety.

Membership of the club to which Smiley belonged is not quoted among the respectable acquisitions of those who adorn the pages of 'Who's Who:' It was formed by a young renegade of the Junior Carlton named Steed- Asprey, who had been warned off by the Secretary for blaspheming within the hearing of a South African bishop. He persuaded his former Oxford landlady to leave her quiet house in Hollywell and take over two rooms and a cellar in Manchester Square which a monied relative put at his disposal. It had once had forty members who each paid fifty guineas a year. There were thirty-one left. There were no women and no rules, no secretary and no bishops. You could take sandwiches and buy a bottle of beer, you could take sandwiches and buy nothing at all. As long as you were reasonably sober and minded your own busi ness no one gave twopence what you wore, did or said, or whom you brought with you. Mrs. Sturgeon no longer devilled at the bar, or brought you your chop in front of the fire in the cellar, but presided in genial comfort over the ministrations of two retired sergeants from a small border regiment.

Naturally enough, most of the members were approximate contemporaries of Smiley at Oxford. It had always been agreed that the club was to serve one generation only, that it would grow old and die with its members. The war had taken its toll of Jebedee and others, but no one had ever suggested they should elect new members. Besides, the premises were now their own, Mrs. Sturgeon's future had been taken care of and the club was solvent.

It was a Saturday evening and only half a dozen people were there. Smiley had ordered their meal, and a table was set for them in the cellar, where a bright coal fire burned 1n. a brick hearth. They were alone, there was Sirloin and claret; outside the rain fell continuously For all three of them the world seemed an untroubled and decent place that night, despite the strange business that brought them together.

'To make sense of what I have to tell you,' began Smiley at last, addressing himself principally to Mendel, 'I shall have to talk at length about myself I'm an intelligence officer by trade as you know — I've been in the Service since the Flood, long before we were mixed up in power politics with Whitehall. In those days we were understaffed and underpaid. After the usual training and probation in South America and Central Europe, I took a job lecturing at a German University, talent spotting for young Germans with an agent potential.' He paused, smiled at Mendel and said: 'Forgive the jargon.' Mendel nodded solemnly and Smiley went on. He knew he was being pompous, and didn't know how to prevent himself.

'It was shortly before the last war, a terrible time in Germany then, intolerance run mad. I would have been a lunatic to approach anyone myself. My only chance was to be as nondescript as I could, politically and socially colourless, and to put forward candidates for recruitment by someone else. I tried to bring some back to England for short periods on students' tours. I made a point of having no contact at all with the Department when I came over because we hadn't any idea in those days of the efficiency of German Counter Intelligence. I never knew who was approached, and of course it was much better that way. In case I was blown, I mean.

'My story really begins in 1938. I was alone in my rooms one summer evening. It had been a beautiful day, warm and peaceful. Fascism might never have been heard of. I was working in my shirt sleeves at a desk by my window, not working very hard because it was such a wonderful evening.'’

He paused, embarrassed for some reason, and fussed a little with the port. Two pink spots appeared high on his cheeks. He felt slightly drunk though he had had very little wine.

'To resume;' he said, and felt an ass: 'I'm sorry, I feel a little inarticulate ... Anyway, as I sat there, there was a knock on the door and a young student came in. He was nineteen, in fact, but he looked younger. His name was Dieter Frey. He was a pupil of mine, an intelligent boy and remarkable to look at?' Smiley paused again, staring before him. Perhaps it was his illness, his weakness, which brought the memory so vividly before him.

'Dieter was a very handsome boy, with a high forehead and a lot of unruly black hair. The lower part of his body was deformed, I think by infantile paralysis. He carried a stick and leaned heavily upon it when he walked.