began jotting down figures on the Superintendent's pad. He stiffened abruptly and leaned forward on the desk.
'Oh yes:' His voice was casual, in contrast to his attitude; 'I wonder when she asked for that?' Another pause ... '19.55 hours ... a man, eh? The girl's sure of that, is she? ... Oh, I see, oh, well, that fixes that. Thanks very much indeed all the same. Well, at least we know where we stand ... not at all, you've been very helpful ... just a theory, that's all ... have to think again, won't we? Well, thanks very much. Very kind, keep it under your hat ... Cheerio,' He rang off; tore the page from the pad and put it in his pocket.
Smiley spoke quickly: 'There's a beastly cafe down the road. I need some breakfast. Come and have a cup of coffee:' The telephone was ringing; Smiley could almost feel Maston the other end. Mendel looked at him for a moment and seemed to understand. They left it ringing and walked quickly out of the police station towards the High Street.
The Fountain Cafe (Proprietor Miss Gloria Adam) was all Tudor and horse brasses and local honey at sixpence more than anywhere else. Miss Adam herself dispensed the nastiest coffee south of Manchester and spoke of her customers as 'My Friends:' Miss Adam did not do business with friends, but simply robbed them, which somehow added to the illusion of genteel amateurism which Miss Adam was so anxious to preserve. Her origin was obscure, but she often spoke of her late father as 'The Colonel.' It was rumoured among those of Miss Adam's friends who had paid particularly dearly for their friendship that the colonelcy in question had been granted by the Salvation Army.
Mendel and Smiley sat at a corner table near the fire, waiting for their order. Mendel looked at Smiley oddly: 'The girl remembers the call clearly; it came right at the end of her shift — five to eight last night. A request for an 8.30 call this morning. It was made by Fennan himself — the girl is positive of that.'
'How?'
'Apparently this Fennan had rung the exchange on Christmas Day and the same girl was on duty. Wanted to wish them all a Happy Christmas. She was rather bucked. They had quite a chat. She's sure it was the same voice yesterday, asking for the call. 'Very cultured gentleman; she said?'
'But it doesn't make sense. He wrote a suicide letter at 10.30. What happened between 8 and 10.30?'
Mendel picked up a battered old briefcase. It had no lock — more like a music case, thought Smiley. He took from it a plain buff folder and handed it to Smiley. 'Facsimile of the letter. Super said to give you a copy. They're sending the original to the F.0. and another copy straight to Marlene Dietrich.'
'Who the devil's she?'
'Sorry, sir. What we call your Adviser, sir. Pretty general in the Branch, sir. Very sorry, sir?'
How beautiful, thought Smiley, how absolutely beautiful. He opened the folder and looked at the facsimile. Mendel went on talking: 'First suicide letter I've ever seen that was typed. First one I've seen with the time on it, for that matter. Signature looks O.K., though. Checked it at the station against a receipt he once signed for lost property. Right as rain.'
The letter was typed, probably a portable. Like the anonymous denunciation; that was a portable too. This one was signed with Fennan's neat, legible signature. Beneath the printed address at the head of the page was typed the date, and beneath that the time: 10.30 P.M.:
'Dear Sir David, After some hesitation I have decided to take my life. I cannot spend my remaining years under a cloud of disloyalty and suspicion. I realise that my career is ruined, that I am the victim of paid informers. Yours sincerely, Samuel Fennan.'
Smiley read it through several times, his mouth pursed in concentration, his eyebrows raised a little as if in surprise. Mendel was asking him something:
'How d'you get on to it?'
'On to what?'
'This early call business?'
'Oh, I took the call. Thought it was for me. I 47
It wasn't — it was the exchange with this thing. Even then the penny didn't drop. I assumed it was for her, you see. Went down and told her:'
'Down?'
'Yes. They keep the telephone in the bedroom. It's a sort of bed-sitter, really ... she used to be an invalid, you know, and they've left the room as it was then, I suppose. It's like a study, one end; books, typewriter, desk and so forth:'
'Typewriter ?'
'Yes. A portable. I imagine he did this letter on it. But you see when I took that call I'd forgotten it couldn't possibly be Mrs. Fennan who'd asked for it.'
'Why not?'
'She's an insomniac — she told me. Made a sort of joke of it. I told her to get some rest and she just said: 'My body and I must put up with one another twenty hours a day. We have lived longer than most people already: There was more of it — something about not enjoying the luxury of sleep. So why should she want a call at 8.30?'
'Why should her husband — why should anyone? It's damn nearly lunch time. God help the Civil Service:'
'Exactly. That puzzles me too. The Foreign Office admittedly starts late — ten o'clock, I think. But even then Fennan would be pushed to dress, shave, breakfast and catch the train on time if he didn't wake til 8.30. Besides, his wife could call him.'
'She might have been shooting a line about not sleeping,' said Mendel. 'Women do, about insomnia and migraine and stuff. Makes people think they're nervous and temperamental. Cock, most of it.'
Smiley shook his head: 'No, she couldn't have made the call, could she? She wasn't home till 10.45. But even supposing she made a mistake about the time she got back, she couldn't have gone to the telephone without seeing her husband's body first. And you're not going to tell me that her reaction on finding her husband dead was to go upstairs and ask for an early call?'
They drank their coffee in silence for a while.
'Another thing,' said Mendel.
'Yes?'
'His wife got back from the theatre at quarter to eleven, right?'
'That's what she says:'
'Did she go alone?'
'No idea:'
'Bet she didn't. I'll bet she
Smiley's mind went back to Elsa Fennan, her anger, her submission. It seemed ridiculous to talk about her in this way. No: not Elsa Fennan. No.
'Where was the body found?' Smiley asked.
'Bottom of the stairs?'
'Bottom of the stairs?'
'True. Sprawled across the hall floor. Revolver underneath him?'
'And the note. Where was that?'
'Beside him on the floor?'
'Anything else?'
'Yes. A mug of cocoa in the drawing-room?'
'I see. Fennan decides to commit suicide. He asks the exchange to ring him at 8.30. He makes himself some cocoa and puts it in the drawing-room. He goes upstairs and types his last letter. He comes down again to shoot himself, leaving the cocoa undrunk. It all hangs together nicely.'
'Yes, doesn't it. Incidentally, hadn't you better ring your office?'
He looked at Mendel equivocally. 'That's the end of a beautiful friendship,' he said. As he walked towards the coin box beside a door marked 'Private' he heard Mendel saying: 'I bet you say that to all the boys.' He was actually smiling as he asked for Maston's number.
Maston wanted to see him at once.
He went back to their table. Mendel was stirring another cup of coffee as if it required all his concentration.
