“Sampson with a ‘p’?” the boy yelled impertinently through the window, then shoved open the back door from inside. Smiley climbed in. A smell of aftershave mingled with stale cigarette smoke. He held a ten-pound note in his hand and he let it show.
“Will you please switch off the engine?” Smiley asked.
The boy obeyed, watching him all the time in the mirror. He had brown Afro hair. White hands, carefully manicured.
“I’m a private detective,” Smiley explained. “I’m sure you get a lot of us and we’re a nuisance but I would be happy to pay for a little bit of information. You signed a receipt yesterday for thirteen pounds. Do you remember who your fare was?”
“Tall party. Foreign. White moustache and a limp.”
“Old?”
“Very. Walking-stick and all.”
“Where did you pick him up?” Smiley asked.
“Cosmo Restaurant, Praed Street, ten-thirty, morning,” the boy said, gabbling deliberately.
Praed Street was five minutes’ walk from Westbourne Terrace.
“And where did you take him, please?”
“Charlton.”
“Charlton in South-East London?”
“Saint Somebody’s Church off of Battle-of-the-Nile Street. Ask for a pub called The Defeated Frog.”
“Frog?”
“Frenchman.”
“Did you leave him there?”
“One hour wait, then back to Praed Street.”
“Did you make any other stops?”
“Once at a toy-shop going, once at a phone-box coming back. Party bought a wooden duck on wheels.” He turned and, resting his chin on the back of the seat, insolently held his hands apart, indicating size. “Yellow job,” he said. “The phone call was local.”
“How do you know?”
“I lent him twopence, didn’t I? Then he come back and borrows himself two ten p’s, for in-case.”
I asked him where he was calling from but he just said he had plenty of change,
Mostyn had said.
Passing the boy the ten-pound note, Smiley reached for the door handle.
“You can tell your firm I didn’t turn up,” he said.
“Tell ’em what I bloody like, can’t I?”
Smiley climbed quickly out, just managing to close the door before the boy drove away at the same frightful speed. Standing on the pavement, he completed his second reading of the letter, and by then he had it in his memory for good. A woman, he thought, trusting his first instinct. And she thinks she’s going to die. Well, so do we all, and we’re right. He was feigning lightheadedness to himself, indifference. Each man has only a quantum of compassion, he argued, and mine is used up for the day. But the letter scared him all the same, and recharged his sense of urgency.
General, I do not wish to be dramatic but some men are watching my house and I do not think they are your friends or mine. This morning I had an impression that they were trying to kill me. Will you not send me your magic friend once more?
He had things to hide. To
cache,
as they insisted on saying at Sarratt. He took busses, changing several times, watching his back, dozing. The black motor cycle with its side-car had not reappeared; he could discern no other surveillance. At a stationer’s shop in Baker Street he bought a large cardboard box, some daily newspapers, some wrapping paper, and a reel of Scotch tape. He hailed a taxi, then crouched in the back making up his parcel. He put Vladimir’s packet of cigarettes into the box, together with Ostrakova’s letter, and he padded out the rest of the space with newspaper. He wrapped the box and got his fingers tangled in the Scotch tape. Scotch tape had always defeated him. He wrote his own name on the lid, “To be called for.” He paid off the cab at the Savoy Hotel, where he consigned the box to the men’s-cloakroom attendant, together with a pound note.
“Not heavy enough for a bomb, is it, sir?” the attendant asked, and facetiously held the parcel to his ear.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Smiley, and they shared a good laugh together.
Tell Max that it concerns the Sandman,
he thought. Vladimir, he wondered wistfully, what was your other proof?
9
T
he low skyline was filled with cranes and gasometers; lazy chimneys spouted ochre smoke into the rainclouds. If it had not been Saturday, Smiley would have used public transport but on Saturdays he was prepared to drive, though he lived on terms of mutual hatred with the combustion engine. He had crossed the river at Vauxhall Bridge. Greenwich lay behind him. He had entered the flat dismembered hinterland of the docks. While the wiper blades shuddered, large raindrops crept through the bodywork of his unhappy little English car. Glum children, sheltering in a bus-stop, said “Keep straight on, guv.” He had shaved and bathed, but he had not slept. He had sent Vladimir’s telephone bill to Lacon, requesting a breakdown of all traceable calls as a matter of urgency. His mind, as he drove, was clear, but prey to anarchic changes of mood. He was wearing a brown tweed overcoat, the one he used for travelling. He navigated a roundabout, mounted a rise, and suddenly a fine Edwardian pub stood before him, under the sign of a red-faced warrior. Battle-of-the-Nile Street rose away from it towards an island of worn grass, and on the island stood St. Saviour’s Church, built of stone and flint, proclaiming God’s message to the crumbling Victorian warehouses. Next Sunday’s preacher, said the poster, was a female major in the Salvation Army, and in front of the poster stood the lorry: a sixty-foot giant trailer, crimson, its side windows fringed with football pennants and a motley of foreign registration stickers covering one door. It was the biggest thing in sight, bigger even than the church. Somewhere in the background he heard a motor-bike engine slow down and then start up again, but he didn’t even bother to look back. The familiar escort had followed him since Chelsea; but fear, as he used to preach at Sarratt, is always a matter of selection.
Following the footpath, Smiley entered a graveyard with no graves. Lines of headstones made up the perimeter, a climbing frame and three standard-pattern new houses occupied the central ground. The first house was called Zion, the second had no name at all, the third was called Number Three. Each had wide windows but Number Three had lace curtains, and when he pushed the gate all he saw was one shadow upstairs. He saw it stationary, then he saw it sink and vanish as if it had been sucked into the floor, and for a second he wondered, in a quite dreadful way, whether he had just witnessed another murder. He rang the bell and angel chimes exploded inside the house. The door was made of rippled glass. Pressing his eye to it, he made out brown stair carpet and what looked like a perambulator. He rang the bell again and heard a scream. It started low and grew louder and at first he thought it was a child, then a cat, then a whistling kettle. It reached its zenith, held it, then suddenly stopped, either because someone had taken the kettle off the boil or because it had blown its nozzle off. He walked round to the back of the house. It was the same as the front, except for the drain-pipes and a vegetable patch, and a tiny goldfish pond made of pre-cast slab. There was no water in the pond, and consequently no goldfish either; but in the concrete bowl lay a yellow wooden duck on its side. It lay with its beak open and its staring eye turned to Heaven and two of its wheels were still going round.
“Party bought a wooden duck on wheels,” the minicab driver had said, turning to illustrate with his white hands. “Yellow job.”
The back door had a knocker. He gave a light tap with it and tried the door handle, which yielded. He stepped inside and closed the door carefully behind him. He was standing in a scullery that led to a kitchen and the first thing he noticed in the kitchen was the kettle off the gas with a thin line of steam curling from its silent whistle. And two cups and a milk jug and a teapot on a tray.
“Mrs. Craven?” he called softly. “Stella?”
He crossed the dining-room and stood in the hall, on the brown carpet beside the perambulator, and in his mind he was making pacts with God: just no more deaths, no more Vladimirs, and I will worship You for the rest of our respective lives.
“Stella? It’s me. Max,” he said.
He pushed open the drawing-room door and she was sitting in the corner on an easy chair between the piano and window, watching him with cold determination. She was not scared, but she looked as if she hated him. She was wearing a long Asian dress and no make-up. She was holding the child to her, boy or girl he couldn’t tell and couldn’t remember. She had its tousled head pressed against her shoulder and her hand over its mouth to stop it making a noise, and she was watching him over the top of its head, challenging and defying him.
“Where’s Villem?” he asked.
Slowly she took her hand away and Smiley expected the child to scream but instead it stared at him in salute.
“His name’s William,” she said quietly. “Get that straight, Max. That’s his choice. William Craven. British to the core. Not Estonian, not Russian. British.” She was a beautiful woman, black-haired and still. Seated in the corner holding her child, she seemed permanently painted against the dark background.
“I want to talk to him, Stella. I’m not asking him to do anything. I may even be able to help him.”
“I’ve heard that before, haven’t I? He’s out. Gone to work where he belongs.”
Smiley digested this.
“Then what’s his lorry doing outside?” he objected gently.
“He’s gone to the depot. They sent a car for him.”
Smiley digested this also.
“Then who’s the second cup for in the kitchen?”
“He’s got nothing to do with it,” she said.
He went upstairs and she let him. There was a door straight ahead of him and there were doors to his left and right, both open, one to the child’s room, one to the main bedroom. The door ahead of him was closed and when he knocked there was no answer.
“Villem, it’s Max,” he said. “I have to talk to you, please. Then I’ll go and leave you in peace, I promise.”
He repeated this word for word, then went down the steep stairs again to the drawing-room. The child had begun crying loudly.
“Perhaps if you made that tea,” he suggested between the child’s sobs.
“You’re not talking to him alone, Max. I’m not having you charm him off the tree again.”
“I never did that. That was not my job.”
“He still thinks the world of you. That’s enough for me.”
“It’s about Vladimir,” Smiley said.
“I know what it’s about. They’ve been ringing half the night, haven’t they?”
“Who have?”
“‘Where’s Vladimir? Where’s Vladi?’ What do they think William is? Jack the Ripper? He hasn’t had sound nor sight of Vladi for God knows how long. Oh, Beckie, darling,
do
be quiet!” Striding across the room, she found a tin of biscuits under a heap of washing and shoved one forcibly into the child’s mouth. “I’m not usually like this,” she said.
“Who’s
been asking for him?” Smiley insisted gently.
“Mikhel, who else? Remember Mikhel, our Freedom Radio ace, Prime Minister designate of Estonia, betting tout? Three o’clock this morning while Beckie’s cutting a tooth, the bloody phone goes. It’s Mikhel doing his heavy-breathing act. ‘Where’s Vladi, Stella? Where’s our leader?’ I said to him: ‘You’re daft, aren’t you? You think it’s harder to tap the phone when people only whisper? You’re barking mad,’ I said to him. ‘Stick to racehorses and get out of politics,’ I told him.”
“Why was he so worried?” Smiley asked.
“Vladi owed him money, that’s why. Fifty quid. Probably lost it on a horse together, one of their many losers. He’d promised to bring it round to Mikhel’s place and have a game of chess with him. In the middle of the night, mark you. They’re insomniacs, apparently, as well as patriots. Our leader hadn’t shown up. Drama. ‘Why the hell should William know where he is?’ I ask him. ‘Go to sleep.’ An hour later who’s back on the line? Breathing as before? Our Major Mikhel once more, hero of the Royal Estonian Cavalry, clicking our heels and apologising. He’s been round to Vladi’s pad, banged on the door, rung the bell. There’s nobody at home. ‘Look, Mikhel,’ I said. ‘He’s not here, we’re not hiding him in the attic, we haven’t seen him since Beckie’s christening, we haven’t heard from him. Right? William’s just in from Hamburg, he needs sleep, and I’m not waking him.’”
“So he rang off again,” Smiley suggested.
“Did he, hell! He’s a leech. ‘Villem is Vladi’s favourite,’ he says. ‘What for?’ I say. ‘The three-thirty at Ascot? Look, go to bloody sleep!’ ‘Vladimir always said to me, if ever anything went wrong, I should go to Villem,’ he said. ‘So what do you want him to do?’ I said. ‘Drive up to town in the trailer and bang on Vladi’s door as well?’ Jesus!”
She sat the child on a chair. Where she stayed, contentedly cropping her biscuit.
There was the sound of a door slammed violently, followed by fast footsteps coming down the stairs.
“William’s right out of it, Max,” Stella warned, staring straight at Smiley. “He’s not political and he’s not slimy, and he’s got over his dad being a martyr. He’s a big boy now and he’s going to stand on his own feet. Right? I said ‘Right?’”
Smiley had moved to the far end of the room to give himself distance from the door. Villem strode in purposefully, still wearing his track suit and running shoes, about ten years Stella’s junior and somehow too slight for his own safety. He perched himself on the sofa, at the edge, his intense gaze switching between his wife and Smiley as if wondering which of them would spring first. His high forehead looked strangely white under his dark, swept-back hair. He had shaved, and shaving had filled out his face, making him even younger. His eyes, red-rimmed from driving, were brown and passionate.
“Hullo, Villem,” Smiley said.
“William,” Stella corrected him.
Villem nodded tautly, acknowledging both forms.
“Hullo, Max,” said Villem. On his lap, his hands found and held each other. “How you doing, Max? That’s the way, huh?”