A Perfect Spy Read Online Free PDF

Magnus does not resist. Her head rests affectionately on his shoulder as she whispers sweet nothings into the same ear Herr Wenzel employed to summon him to the telephone and she hopes that Bee will notice their lovey-doveyness. Under the porch light—Mary luminously youthful in her long blue dress, Magnus so distinguished in his dinner-jacket—we must have looked the picture of harmonious married life. The Lederers leave last and are the most effusive. “Dammit, Magnus, I don’t remember when I had such a good time,” says Grant, with his quaint, rather faggy indignation. They are followed by their bodyguard in a second car. Side by side the very English Pyms enjoy a moment of shared disdain for the American way.
    â€œBee and Grant are terrific fun, really,” says Mary. “But would you have a bodyguard if Jack offered you one?” There is more to her question than mere curiosity. She has been wondering recently about the odd people who seem to loiter outside the house with nothing to do.
    â€œNot bloody likely,” Pym retorts with a shudder. “Not unless he’ll promise to protect me from Grant.”
    Mary extracts her thumb, they turn and arm in arm go indoors. “Is everything all right?” she asks, thinking of the phone call. Everything is absolutely fine, he replies. “I want you,” Mary whispers boldly and lets her hand brush across his thighs. Smiling, Pym nods and pulls at his tie, loosening it apparently in preparation. In the kitchen the Wenzels are waiting to leave. Mary can smell cigarette smoke but decides to ignore it because they have worked so hard. On her deathbed she will remember that she took the conscious decision to ignore their cigarette smoke: that her life at that moment was so relaxed, Lesbos so far away, her sense of service so complete, that she was able to consider matters of such massive triviality. Pym has the Wenzels’ money ready for them in an envelope plus a handsome tip. Magnus will tip with his last fiver, thinks Mary indulgently. His generosity is something she has learned to love even when her more frugal upper-class approach tells her he overdoes it: Magnus is so seldom vulgar. Even when at times she wonders whether he is overspending and she should offer him some from her private income. The Wenzels leave. Tomorrow night they will do another party at another house. The Pyms in close harmony move to the drawing-room, hands linking and breaking and ranging freely for the ritual foreplay of a nightcap and a gossipy post-mortem. Pym pours a scotch for Mary and a vodka for himself but unusually does not remove his jacket. Mary is fondling him explicitly. Sometimes in these cases they don’t manage to get up the stairs.
    â€œSuper venison, Mabs,” says Pym. Which was what he always does first: congratulate her. Magnus congratulates everyone all the time.
    â€œThey all thought Frau Wenzel cooked it,” says Mary, feeling for the top of his zip.
    â€œThen sod them,” says Pym gallantly, rejecting the whole fatuous diplomatic world for her with a sweep of his forearm. For a moment Mary fears that Magnus has had one too many. She hopes not for she is not pretending: after the worries and fatuities of the evening she wants him very much. Handing Mary her glass, Magnus raises his own and drinks to her silently: well done, old girl. He is smiling straight down at her, his knees are almost touching hers and steady. Affected by the tension in him Mary wants him urgently here and now and gives him further clear evidence of this with her hands.
    â€œIf Grant Lederer is the third,” she asks, thinking again for a moment of that murderous look, “what on earth were the first two like?”
    â€œI’m free,” says Pym.
    Mary fails to understand. She thinks he is capping her joke in some way.
    â€œI don’t get it,” she says a little shamefacedly. I’m so slow for him, poor love. A sudden