The Confidential Agent Read Online Free PDF Page A

find out, sir.’
    â€˜You play it fine,’ she said, ‘fine. The mystery man.’ It occurred to him that she’d been drinking too much again. He said, ‘We’ll never get up to London if you do not go carefully.’
    The waiter came back and said, ‘That’s his chauffeur, sir.’
    â€˜A left-handed man?’
    â€˜Oh, stop it,’ she said, ‘stop it.’
    He said gently, ‘I’m not showing off. This has nothing to do with you. Things are going so fast – I had to be sure.’ He gave the waiter a tip. ‘Give the gentleman back his note.’
    â€˜Any reply, sir?’
    â€˜No reply.’
    â€˜Why not be a gentleman,’ she said, ‘and write “Thank you for the offer”?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t want to give him a specimen of my handwriting. He might forge it.’
    â€˜I give up,’ she said. ‘You win.’
    â€˜Better not drink any more.’ The singing woman had shut down – like a wireless set the last sound was a wail and a vibration; a few couples began to dance. He said, ‘We have a long drive in front.’
    â€˜What’s the hurry? We can always stay the night here.’
    â€˜Of course,’ he said. ‘You can – but I must get to London somehow.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜My employers,’ he said, ‘wouldn’t understand the delay.’ They would have time-tabled his movements, he knew for certain, with exactly this kind of situation in mind – the meeting with L. and the offer of money. No amount of service would ever convince them that he hadn’t got, at some level, a price. After all, he recognised sadly, they had their price: the people had been sold out over and over again by their leaders. But if the only philosophy you had left was a sense of duty, that knowledge didn’t prevent you going on. . . .
    The manager was swinging his monocle at Rose Cullen and inviting her to dance; this, he thought gloomily, was going on all night – he would never get her away. They moved slowly round the room to the sad stiff tune; the manager held her firmly with one large hand splayed out on her spine, the other was thrust, with rather insulting insouciance, it seemed to D., in his pocket. He was talking earnestly, and looking every now and then in D.’s direction. Once they came into earshot and D. caught the word ‘careful’. The girl listened attentively, but her feet were awkward. She must be more drunk than he had imagined.
    D. wondered whether anybody had changed that tyre. If the car was ready, perhaps after this dance he could persuade her. . . . He got up and left the restaurant; L. sat over a piece of veal, he didn’t look up, he was cutting the meat up into tiny pieces – his digestion must be rotten. D. felt less nervous; it was as if the refusal of the money had put him into a stronger position than his opponent. As for the chauffeur, it was unlikely that he’d start anything now.
    The fog was lifting a little; he could see the cars in the courtyard – half a dozen of them – a Daimler, a Mercédès, a couple of Morrises, their old Packard and a little scarlet cad car. The tyre had been fixed.
    He thought, if only we could leave now, at once, while L. is at his dinner, and then heard a voice which could only be L.’s speaking to him in his own language. He was saying, ‘Excuse me. If we could have a few words together . . .’
    D. felt a little envious of him as he stood there in the yard among the cars – he looked established. Five hundred years of inbreeding had produced him, set him against an exact background, made him at home, and at the same time haunted – by the vices of ancestors and the tastes of the past. D. said, ‘I don’t think there’s much to talk about.’ But he recognised the man’s charm: it was like being picked out of a party