Call for the Dead (5 page)

IX

TIDYING UP

Mendel showed Peter Guillam into the ward, grinning hugely. "Got him," he said. The conversation was awkward; strained for Guillam at least, by the recollection of Smiley's abrupt resignation and the incongruity of meeting in a hospital ward. Smiley was wearing a blue bedjacket, his hair was spiky and untidy above the bandages and he still had the trace of a heavy bruise on his left temple. After a particularly awkward pause, Smiley said: "Look, Peter, Mendel's told you what happened to me. You're the expert--what do we know about the East German Steel Mission?" "Pure as the driven snow', dear boy, except for their sudden departure. Only about three men and a dog in the thing. They hung out in Hampstead somewhere. No one quite knew why they were here when they first came but they've done quite a decent job in the last four years." "What are their terms of reference?" "Who were they?" "Oh--couple of technicians--Professor Doktor someone and Doktor someone else--couple of girls and a general dogsbody." "Who was the dogsbody?" "Don't know. Some young diplomat to iron out the wrinkles. We have them recorded at the Department. I can send you details, I suppose." "If you don't mind." "No, of course not." There was another awkward pause. Smiley said: "Photographs would be a help, Peter. Could you manage that?" "Yes, yes, of course." Guillam looked away from Smiley in some embarrassment. "We don't know much about the East Germans really, you know. We get odd bits here and there, but on the whole they're something of a mystery. If they operate at all they don't do it under Trade or Diplomatic cover--that's why, if you're right about this chap, it's so odd him coming from the Steel Mission." "Oh," said Smiley, flatly. "How do they operate?" asked Mendel. "It's hard to generalise from the very few isolated cases we do know of. My impression is that they run their agents direct from Germany with no contact between controller and agent in the operational zone." "But that must limit them terribly," cried Smiley. "You may have to wait months before your agent can travel to a meeting place outside his own country. He may not have the necessary cover to make the journey at all." Smiley was listening now. "As a matter of fact," Guillam went on, "the Americans intercepted a courier quite recently, which is where we learnt the little we do know about G. D. R. technique." "Such as what?" "Oh well, never waiting at a rendezvous, never meeting at the stated time but twenty minutes before; recognition signals--all the usual conjuring tricks that give a gloss to low grade information. They muck about with names, too. A courier may have to contact three or four agents--a controller may run as many as fifteen. They never invent cover names for themselves." "What do you mean? Surely they must." "They get the agent to do it for them. The agent chooses a name, any name he likes, and the controller adopts it. A gimmick really--" he stopped, looking at Mendel in surprise. Mendel had leapt to his feet. Guillam sat back in his chair and wondered if he were allowed to smoke. He decided reluctantly that he wasn't. He could have done with a cigarette. "Well?" said Smiley. Mendel had described to Guillam his interview with Mr. Scarr. "It fits," said Guillam. "Obviously it fits with what we know. But then we don't know all that much. If Blondie was a courier, it is exceptional--in my experience at least--that he should use a trade delegation as a staging post." "You said the Mission had been here four years," said Mendel. "Blondie first came to Scarr four years ago." "Well, of course, if they were on to something really big they might." "Meaning if they had a highly placed resident agent in play?" "Yes, roughly." "And assuming they had such an agent, a Maclean or Fuchs, it is conceivable that they would establish a station here under trade cover with no operational function except to hold the agent's hand?" "Yes, it's conceivable. But it's a tall order, George. What you're suggesting is that the agent is run from abroad, serviced by courier and the courier is serviced by the Mission, which is also the agent's personal guardian angel. He'd have to be some agent." "I'm not suggesting quite that--but near enough. And I accept that the system demands a high-grade - agent. Don't forget we only have Blondie's word for it that he came from abroad." Mendel chipped in: "This agent--would he be in touch with the Mission direct?" "Good lord, no," said Guillam. "He'd probably have an emergency procedure for getting in touch with them--a telephone code or something of the sort." "How does that work?" asked Mendel. "Varies. Might be on the wrong number system. You dial the number from a call box and ask to speak to George Brown. You're told George Brown doesn't live there so you apologise and ring off. The time and the rendezvous are prearranged--the emergency signal is contained in the name you ask for. Someone will be there." "What else would the Mission do?" asked Smiley. There was another silence. Smiley looked at Guillam and then at Mendel, then blinked and said: "Blondie didn't come to Scarr in January and February, did he?" "No," said Mendel; "this was the first year." "Fennan always went skiing in January and February. This was the first time in four years he'd missed." "I wonder," said Smiley; "whether I ought to go and see Maston again." Guillam stretched luxuriously and smiled: "You can always try. He'll be thrilled to hear you've been brained. I've a sneaking feeling he'll think Battersea's on the coast, but not to worry. Tell him you were attacked while wandering about in someone's private yard--he'll understand. Tell him about your assailant, too, George. You've never seen him, mind, and you don't know his name, but he's a courier of the East German Intelligence Service. Maston will back you up; he always does. Specially when he's got to report to the Minister." Smiley looked at Guillam and said nothing. "After your bang on the head, too," Guillam added; -"he'll understand." "But, Peter--" "I know, George, I know." "Well, let me tell you another thing. Blondie collected his car on the first Tuesday of each month." "So?" "Those were the nights Eisa Fennan went to the Weybridge Rep. Fennan worked late on Tuesdays, she said." "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 Eisa 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 contradic-.

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. 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 caf'or 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. "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 querlous 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 prompter and factotum. In the middle of the stage two men and a woman sat on barrels smoking and drinking coffee. The d'r represented the deck of a ship. A mast with rigging and rope ladders occupied the centre of the stage, and a large cardboard cannon pointed disconsolately towards a backcloth of sea and sky. The conversation stopped abruptly as Mendel appeared on the stage. Someone murmured: "My dear, the ghost at the feast," and they all looked at him and giggled. The woman spoke first: "Are you looking for someone, dear?" "Sorry to butt in. Wanted to talk about becoming a subscriber to the theatre. Join the club." "Have you seen our panto this year? 'Treasure Island.' Such a gratifying success. And so much more social content, don't you think, than those vulgar nursery tales?" Mendel said: "Yes, wasn't it," without the least idea of what she was talking about, when his eye caught a pile of bills rather neatly assembled and held together by a bull-dog clip. The top one was made out to Mrs. Ludo Oriel and was four months overdue. She was looking at him shrewdly through her glasses. She was small and dark, with lines on her neck and a great deal of make-up. The lines under her eyes had been levelled off with greasepaint but the effect had not lasted. She was wearing slacks and a chunky pullover liberally splashed with distemper. She smoked incessantly. Her mouth was very long, and as she held her cigarette in the middle of it in a direct line beneath her nose, her lips formed an exaggerated convex curve, distorting the lower half of her face and giving her an ill-tempered and impatient look. Mendel thought she would probably be difficult and clever. It was a relief to think she couldn't pay her bills. "You do want to join the club, don't you?" "No." She suddenly flew into a rage: "If you're another bloody tradesman you can get out. I've said I'll pay and I will, just don't pester me. If you let people think I'm finished I will be and you'll be the losers, not me." "Fm not a creditor, Mrs. Oriel. I've come to offer you money." She was waiting. "Fm a divorce agent. Rich client. Like to ask you a few questions. We're prepared to pay for your time." "Christ," she said with relief. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" They both laughed. Mendel put five pounds on top of the bills, counting them down. "Now," said Mendel; "how do you keep your club subscription list? What are the benefits of joining?" "Well, we have watery coffee on stage every morning at eleven sharp. Members of the club can mix with the cast during the break between rehearsals from 11.00 to 11.45. They pay for whatever they have, of course, but entry is strictly limited to club members." "Quite." "That's probably the part that interests you. We seem to get nothing but pansies and nymphos in the morning." "It may be. What else goes on?" "We put on a different show each fortnight. Members can reserve seats for a particular day of each run--the second Wednesday of each run, and so on. We always begin a run on the first and third Mondays of the month. The show begins at 7.30 and we hold the club reservations until 7.20. The girl at the box office has the seating plan and strikes off each seat as it's sold. Club reservations are marked in red and aren't sold off till last." "I see. So if one of your members doesn't take his usual seat, it would be marked off on the seating plan." "Only if it's sold." "Of course." "We're not often full after the first week. We're trying to do a show a week, you see, but it's not easy to get the--er--facilities. There isn't the support for two-week runs really." "No, no, quite. Do you keep old seating plans?" "Sometimes, for the accounts." "How about Tuesday the third of January?" She opened a cupboard and took out a sheaf of printed seating plans. "This is the second fortnight of our pantomime, of course. Tradition." "Quite," said Mendel. "Now who is it you're so interested in?" asked Mrs. Oriel, picking up a ledger from the desk. "Small blonde party, aged about forty-two or three. Name of Fennan, Eisa Fennan." "Name doesn't ring a bell. Where does she sit?" "No idea." "Oh, yes, here we are. Merridale Lane, Walliston. Merridale!--I ask you. Let's look. A rear stall at the end of a row. Very odd choice, don't you think? Seat number R2. But God knows whether she took it on 3rd January. I shouldn't think we've got the plan any more, though I've never thrown anything away in my life. Things just evaporate, don't they?" She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, wondering whether she'd earned her five pounds. "Tell you what, we'll ask the Virgin." She got up and walked to the door; "Fennan... Fennan...." she said. "Half a sec, that does ring a bell. I wonder why. Well I'm damned--of course--the music case." She opened the door. "Where's the Virgin?" she said, talking to someone on the stage. "God knows." "Helpful pig," said Mrs. Oriel, and closed the door again. She turned to Mendel: "The Virgin's our white hope. English rose, local solicitor's stage-struck daughter, all lisle stockings and get-me-if-you-can. We loathe her. She gets a part occasionally because her father pays tuition fees. She does seating in the evenings sometimes when there's a rush--she and Mrs. Torr, the cleaner, who does cloaks. When things are quiet, Mrs. Torr does the whole thing and the Virgin mopes about in the wings hoping the female lead will drop dead." She paused. "I'm damned sure I remember 'Fennan.' Damn sure I do. I wonder where that cow is." She disappeared for a couple of minutes and returned with a tall and rather pretty girl with fuzzy blonde hair and pink cheeks--good at tennis and swimming. "This is Elizabeth Pidgeon. She may be able to help. Darling, we want to find out a Mrs. Fennan, a club member. Didn't you tell me something about her?" "Oh, yes, Ludo." She must have thought she sounded sweet. She smiled vapidly at Mendel, put her head on one side and twined her fingers together. Mendel jerked his head towards her. "Do you know her?" asked Mrs. Oriel. "Oh yes, Ludo. She's madly musical; at least I think she must be because she always brings her music. She's madly thin and odd. She's foreign, isn't she, Ludo?" "Why odd?" asked Mendel. "Oh, well, last time she came she got in a frightful pet about the seat next to her. It was a club reservation you see and simply hours after twenty past. We'd just started the panto season and there were millions of people wanting seats so I let it go. She kept on saying she was sure the person would come because he always did." "Did he?" asked Mendel. "No. I let the seat go. She must have been in an awful pet because she left after the second act, and forgot to collect her music case." "This person she was so sure would turn up," said Mendel; "is he friendly with Mrs. Fennan?" Ludo Oriel gave 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. "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 helpful." "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. Fennan'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.