Call for the Dead Read Online Free PDF

more sombre cares. It was one of the subtler landmarks of middle age, perhaps, that he could no longer thus subdue his mind. It needed sterner measures now: he even tried on occasion to plan in his head a walk through a European city--to record the shops and buildings he would pass, for instance, in Bern on a walk from the Munster to the University. But despite such energetic mental exercise, the ghosts of time present would intrude and drive his dreams away. It was Ann who had robbed him of his peace, Ann who had once made the present so important and taught him the habit of reality, and when she went there was nothing. But who could tell? What did Hesse write? "Strange to wander in the mist, each is alone. No tree knows his neighbour. Each is alone." We know nothing of one another, nothing, Smiley mused. However closely we live together, at whatever time of day or night we sound the deepest thoughts in one another, we know nothing. How am I judging Eisa Fennan? I think I understand her suffering and her frightened lies, but what do I know of her? Nothing. Mendel was pointing at a sign-post. "... That's where I live. Mitcham. Not a bad spot really. Got sick of bachelor quarters. Bought a decent ''" little semi-detached down here. For my retirement." "Retirement? That's a long way off." "Yes. Three days. That's why I got this job. Nothing to it; no complications. Give it to old Mendel, he'll muck it up." "Well, well. I expect we shall both be out of a job by Monday." He drove Mendel to Scotland Yard and went on to Cambridge Circus. He realised as he walked into the building that everyone knew. It was the way they looked; some shade of difference in their glance, their attitude. He made straight for Maston's room. Maston's secretary was at her desk and she looked up quickly as he entered. "Adviser in?" "Yes. He's expecting you. He's alone. I should knock and go in." But Maston had opened the door and was already calling him. He was wearing a black coat and pinstripe trousers. Here goes the cabaret, thought Smiley. "I've been trying to get in touch with you. Did you not receive my message?" said Maston. "I did, but I couldn't possibly have spoken to you." "I don't quite follow?" "Well, I don't believe Fennan committed suicide--I think he was murdered. I couldn't say that on the telephone." Maston took off his spectacles and looked at Smiley in blank astonishment. "Murdered? Why?" "Well, Fennan wrote his letter at 10.30 last night, if we are to accept the time on his letter as correct." "Well?" "Well, at 7.55 he rang up the exchange and asked to be called at 8.30 the next morning." "How on earth do you know that?" "I was there this morning when the exchange rang. I took the call thinking it might be from the Department." "How can you possibly say that it Was Fennan who ordered the call?" "I had enquiries made. The girl at the exchange knew Fennan's voice well; she was sure it was he, and that he rang at five to eight last night." "Fennan and the girl knew each other, did they?" "Good heavens no. They just exchanged pleasantries occasionally." "And how do you conclude from this that he was murdered?" "Well, I asked his wife about this call..." "And?" "She lied. Said she ordered it herself. She claimed to be frightfully absent-minded--she gets the exchange to ring her occasionally, like tying a knot in a handkerchief, when she has an important appointment. And another thing--just before shooting himself he made some cocoa. He never drank it." Maston listened in silence. At last he smiled and got up. "We seem to be at cross purposes," he said. "I send you down to discover why Fennan shot himself. You come back and say he didn't. We're not policemen, Smiley." "No. I sometimes wonder what we are." "Did you hear of anything that affects our position here--anything that explains his action at all? Anything to substantiate the suicide letter?" Smiley hesitated before replying. He had seen it coming. "Yes. I understood from Mrs. Fennan