Spy Story

don't make them like that any more.'

'Why should he be angry?'

'Why indeed, but that's how it always is, you know that. They never thank us for getting onto these things… slack security, the change of directors, your trip, the empty flat, no proper coordination: it's the old story.'

'And?'

'There will probably be a trial, but their lawyers will do a deal if they have any sense. Don't want it all over the papers. Delicate situation at the moment.'

'Schlegel asked me how I got the job at the Centre.'

'What did you say?'

'I said I bumped into Ferdy in a pub…'

'Well, that's right isn't it?'

'Can't you ever give a straight answer?' I said angrily. 'Does Ferdy know — must I pry every last syllable… Schlegel is quite likely to bring it up again.'

Dawlish waved away his cigar smoke. 'Don't get so agitated. Why the devil should Foxwell know anything?' He smiled, 'Foxwell: our man at the Studies Centre, you mean?' He laughed very softly.

'No, I didn't mean that exactly.'

The front door of the house opened. In the rectangle of yellow light, Toliver swayed as he tied his scarf and buttoned his overcoat to the neck. I heard the voices of Toliver and Ferdy as the two men walked across to Toliver's shiny new two-door green Bentley. It was icy underfoot and Toliver grabbed Ferdy's arm to steady himself. In spite of the closed windows I heard Ferdy's 'Goodnight. Goodnight. Goodnight.'

Dawlish had made it sound ridiculous. Why would Dawlish have an agent in the Studies Centre when he could have the analysis delivered every month merely for the asking.

He said, 'Another extraordinary tiling, after all the procedures we've been through, we've gone right back to routing our phone connections through the local engineers into Federal exchange.'

'Don't tell me, I don't want to hear about it,' I said. I opened the catch of the car door. It made a loud click but he gave no sign of noticing it.

'Just in case you want to get in touch,' he said.

Write in today for the Dawlish system: sent in a plain sealed envelope and it might change your life. But not for the better. I could see it all now. The Dawlish gambit — a piece sacrificed and then the real move. 'Not a chance,' I said. 'Not. A. Chance.'

And Dawlish heard that new tone in my voice. He frowned. On his face there was bewilderment, hurt feelings, disappointment and a sincere attempt to understand my point of view. 'Forget it,' I said. 'Just forget it.' You may never want to change partners again, sang Sinatra, but he had an arranger and a big sobbing string section.

Dawlish knew then that I'd slipped the hook. 'We'll have lunch one day,' he said. It was as near to admitting defeat as I'd ever seen him. At least, I thought so at the time. For a moment I didn't move. Toliver's car leaped forward, almost stalled and then swung round, missing the next car by only inches. It revved loudly as Toliver changed gear and then lumbered out through the gate. After only a few moments the Austin 2200 followed it.

'Nothing's changed,' I said, as I got out. Dawlish continued smoking his cigar. I'd thought of all the things I'd rather have said by the time I got to the front door. It was ajar. From the end of the corridor there was the music of the piano: not Mozart but Noel Coward. It was Ferdy doing his fat-rich-boy-makes-good act. The Stately Homes of England…' sang Ferdy gaily.

I helped myself to another cup of coffee. Dawlish hadn't followed me. I was glad of that. I didn't believe Dawlish's glib explanations specially designed so that I had to drag the lies out of him. But the fact that Dawlish was even interested made me nervous. First Stok and now Dawlish…

'Shall I tell you something?' said Schlegel. He was rocking on the two rear legs of the delicate gilt chair and beating time to the music with his cigar. 'This is a whole new side of Foxwell. A whole new side of him.'

I looked at Ferdy, who required all his concentration to play the piano and remember the words too. He fitted in a hasty smile as he came to the end of the line. Somewhere under that Savile Row evening suit with the silk collar there was a history graduate, farm owner, man about town and skilled amateur strategist, who could talk for an hour about the difference between digital and analog computers. No wonder the suit didn't fit very well.

'To prove the upper classes always have the upper hand.' He sang it with all the astringent bravura of the maestro, and Helen Schlegel called encore so enthusiastically that he did a repeat performance.

I went to sit next to Marjorie. She said, 'He wasn't trying to sell you that hideous car, was he?'

'I've known him for ages. We were just chatting.'

'Did that awful Toliver drive himself home?'

'I don't know where he was headed, but he was sitting behind the wheel when he left here.'

'It would serve him right if he was caught. He's always half-cut.'

'How do you know?'

'He's on the hospital board. He's constantly in and out of our place. He tries to recruit staff for his nursing home.'

'He'd be a delight to work for.'

'Good pay, they say.'

'It would have to be.'

As if by magic, when Ferdy's piano music stopped a servant came in with jugs of coffee and chocolate. It was a gracious way of telling your guests to go home. Schlegel was enthusiastic about Ferdy's piano playing. I formed the impression that Ferdy was going to spearhead Schlegel's attempt to squeeze more funds out of cinclant. I could imagine Ferdy being paraded through a schedule of Norfolk, Virginia, parties. With Schlegel announcing him like a fairground barker.

I said that to Marjorie on the way home but she would have none of it. 'Give me the Schlegels every time,' she said. 'At present in my department there is a row going on about teaching payments — there's always a lot of teaching in the pathology departments — and the professor isn't speaking to the senior assistant and the staff have divided into two camps and no one will say honestly that it's all about money. They want to pretend they are arguing about the extension to the mortuary. Give me the Schlegels every time.'

'Extension to the mortuary. It sounds like a title for a Hammer film. How can you like working in pathology?'

'Pat, I've told you a thousand times, I hate working there. But it's the only department I can. get: into which gives me a normal nine to five day. And you know how unbearable you are about my shift work.'

'That Toliver!' I said. 'Boy can he pack it away: second helpings of everything and always it's not quite salty enough, or not quite as good as he gets in the south of France.'

'He looks ill,' said Marjorie, overtaken by professionalism.

'He certainly does. I can understand him coming in the Path Lab. What I don't understand is how they let him out.'

'Last week I heard him having a terrific row with my professor.'

'My professor now, is it? I thought he was the one you allied Jack the Ripper. Row about what?'

'Oh, a death certificate or a post-mortem cm: something.'

'Good old Toliver.'

'They went into the office and closed the door but you could still hear them. Toliver was shouting about how important he was and he'd take the whole matter to the board of governors. I heard him say that he was doing this for 'a certain department of state that shall remain nameless'. Pompous old fool. Trying to pretend he was something to do with the Secret Service or something.'

'He's been watching late-night television,' I said.

'He's been watching the world through the bottoms of empty glasses,' said Marjorie. 'That's his problem, and everyone knows it.'

'You're right,' I said. 'But just out of vulgar curiosity, could you find out exactly what Toliver wanted?'

'Why?'

'I'm just curious. He Wants Ferdy to go into business with him — a new clinic or something — I'd like to know what he gets up to.' It was a feeble improvisation, but Marjorie said she'd try to find out. I suppose she was curious