Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Spy

sticks — and there was a picture of that in one of my children's books too.

'I'm innocent, goddamn it,' said Dean. He hammered his mighty fist down upon the table so that the crockery jumped high into the air and landed with a rattle.

'Then co-operate,' shouted Mann.

'What do you want me to do?' yelled Dean. 'Dream up some fairy stories for you?'

'It might be a step in the right direction,' Mann growled.

I held up my hands in a gesture of peace-making. 'Now boys, you know the rules,' I said. 'No butting, no kicking, no gouging, and nobody slugs the referee. We've had a skinful of Hank's wine, and he knows he can't get very far, with or without his passport. There's no phone here and by now he probably guesses that we have immobilized his car and ours…'

'And I don't mean removing the distributor arm,' said Mann.

'So let's get some shut-eye,' I suggested. I looked to the end of the table where stood the three wine bottles we'd emptied. 'In the morning we can talk some more, and perhaps to better purpose.'

Hank Dean's cottage was built in the three-level style typical of rural buildings in this part of France. The ground floor was a cellar that Hank had converted into a storeroom and a primitive sort of bathroom and shower. Stone steps led up to the front door and the living-room-kitchen-dining-room that opened from it. A creaking old wooden staircase led to the top floor where there were four cell-like bedrooms, with tiny dormer windows, fitted with the sort of bubbly glass that made it look as if the landscape was melting.

No matter what the scientists say, when the moon is full and low upon the horizon it is gigantic. This night, coloured by the earth's dust, the great golden orb looked as if it was about to collide with our planet. From the upstairs window I could see the snow on the hills that faced us across the valley. St Paul Chauvrac is a hamlet of a couple of dozen families, dominated by the houses and out-buildings of two middle-sized farms. Two cottages have fallen into ruin. One of them still has the pink lettering of a boulangerie, but that faded many years ago, and now the baker visits three times a week in a corrugated van. There was also a large house, which some hopefuls back in the 'thirties had converted to a hotel and restaurant. But nowadays the Hostellerie du Chateau provided no more than a clean bed and a wholesome meal. Its management did not strive for stars in the guidebooks they sold in Paris, or for the bright enamel plaques that promise elegance in three languages, but it was popular with travelling salesmen. There were still lights burning at the Hostellerie when we all retired to our respective bedrooms. They were the only lights in the village. I heard a rusty catch being unfastened, and the creak as the next room's window opened. I knew that a man of Hank Dean's girth could not get through it.

I didn't go to sleep. It was cold and I took a blanket from the bed and draped it round my shoulders. I heard the bed in Dean's room creak. He would not sleep; he would think things over and, if Mann's plan came to fruition, he would sit down to breakfast singing like a bird. Or perhaps that wasn't Mann's plan; perhaps that was simply the cosy piece of self-deception that had enabled Mann to jump so heavily upon his old friend's neck.

My eyes must have closed for a few minutes, for I looked at my watch after hearing the noise, and saw it was after 3 a.m. There were no lights in the Hostellerie du Chateau. The hamlet was in darkness and so was the whole landscape, for by now the moon was down. Again I heard the sound. This time it was not the creak of ancient woodwork but a metallic sound. No more than the slightest of vibrations, it was a deep chime, like that of an artillery shell being loaded into the breach of a siege gun.

I waited for a minute, wondering if it was the striking of some antique clock that I had not noticed in the house. I wondered if Mann had heard the sounds too. I even wondered whether Mann had made the sounds, and what sort of reaction he'd have if I made the wrong move — or no move at all. Finally I was prompted as much by my own curiosity as by reasoning. I had wedged the door with a piece of paper, instead of using the door-catch, and now I was able to get to the top of the stairs without a sound. But the staircase would, defeat me. Dean would know each creaky step, and how to negotiate them but such an obstacle will always betray a stranger. I bent low, and tried to see into the room below. The room was dark but I could just make out the figure of a man standing with his backside resting against the edge of the table. There was a flicker of light from the stove and it lit Hank Dean's face. It was a haggard face and deeply drawn. He was bending low over the stove, as he had been last night cooking the omelette. Again there was a flicker of flame. This time he replaced the circular metal top of the stove so that the flame was fanned by the draught from the chimney. That was the metallic sound that had awakened me.

I jumped down most of the short staircase, and stepped across the tiny room. Dean turned and raised his fist. He was a giant, and now he rose above me like the Statue of Liberty. I took the blow of his fist upon my arm. It hurt but it didn't prevent me wrenching the metal top from the stove. I stuck my right hand into the flames and found the stove filled with papers. There were bundles of paper tied so tight that they would not burn. I smelled paraffin, and, as I started to pull the great handfuls of paper from the stove, it all ignited. There was a 'woof of flame that licked up round the saucepans and utensils hanging inside the chimney piece. I dropped the flaming bundle, and beat at the flames that were coming from my sleeve.

'You stupid bastard, Hank! Why didn't you tell me?' It was Mann's voice. He switched on the electric light, to help us see the gun he was holding. I beat out the flames on my sleeve, and stamped upon the last remains of the burning papers.

'Don't worry about rescuing that stuff,' Mann said. 'This whole goddamned house is full of it.' I could see now what I was stamping upon. The floor was covered in paper money. There were French francs, Swiss francs, German marks, U.S. bills, sterling and even Lebanese and Australian money. Some of the notes were charred along the edges, some almost completely destroyed, some were crisp, new and undamaged, some were old and dog-eared But all of them were of high denomination. There must have been one hundred thousand dollars' worth of currency on the floor of that kitchen, and we found at least as much again when we took up the floorboards.

'Get nothing out of a guy within three hours and you'll get nothing for three weeks.'

'If there's anything to get.' I reminded him. It was early.

A couple of starlings were pecking at last night's breadcrumbs, and the cows in the next field were moving over to the gate ready to go to the milking shed.

'Do you believe the money arrived by parcel post two days ago?' Mann asked.

'Hank was poor — broke, in fact — naturally he'd try to hang on to it, and hope we'd go away.'

'I would have called C.I.A. Langley within the hour,' said Mann with simple truth.

'You're not natural, and neither am I. And that's why we're investigating Dean, instead of him investigating us.'

'Yeah, well I was wondering about that,' said Mann, and was able to smile at the absurdity of having principles that might cost so much.

'Don't worry,' I said. There's no one in Moscow planning to send us a quarter of a million dollars in used paper money.'

'I'm more worried by the chance that Hank Dean will…'

'Try to do a deal with the French,' I completed it.

'He wants to stay here,' said Mann. 'And he wants that desperately.'

'Not much in it for the French,''! said. 'A probe into our way of working, a bit of I told you so, but they'd have to give it to us in the end.'

'In the end,' said Mann. 'Yeah, that's the place they'd give it to us. What's it going to cost them — one French passport.'

'And American goodwill.'

Mann made his tobacco noise. 'I hate leaving him down there with those French cops talking to him.'

'Well, let's take another look round this place,' I said. I moved the corner cupboard that was filled with Hank Dean's classical gramophone records. 'The C.I.A. guy from the embassy should be here soon. Then we can go, and take Hank Dean with us, if that's the way you want to play it.'

Mann paced up and down. 'This is a guy who stays in all the time. We can guess that from the mileage clock in the car. He's not running round Europe like a courier.'

'At least not in that car,' I corrected him gently.

'Not in any car,' said Mann tartly. 'Look at him — face fungus, all that hair — he'd stand out like a sore thumb, any place he stopped.'

'I agree,' I said. Mann moved his thinking on a stage. 'So they come here. Same guy or different guy?'

'Same guy — no one knocking on doors asking for Dr Dean in a foreign accent late at night.'