The Confidential Agent

  The carpet began. He walked gently, he had no wish to advertise his departure to the manageress. But he couldn’t escape without seeing her. She was there in her masculine room, sitting at the table with the door open, the same musty black dress of his nightmare. He paused at the door and said, ‘I’m off now.’

  She said, ‘You know best why you haven’t obeyed instructions.’

  ‘I shall be back here in a few hours. I shan’t be staying another night.’

  She looked at him with complete indifference. It startled him. It was as if she knew more of his plans than he knew himself, as if everything had been provided for, a long time ago, in her capacious brain. ‘I imagine,’ he said, ‘that you have been paid for my room.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What isn’t provided for – in my expenses – is a week’s wages for the maid. I’ll pay that myself.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Else is leaving, too. You’ve given the child a fright. I don’t know what motive . . .’

  Her face became positively interested – not angry at all. It was almost as though he had given her an idea for which she was grateful. ‘You mean, you are taking the girl away?’ He was touched by uneasiness: it hadn’t been necessary to tell her that. Somebody seemed to be warning him, ‘Be careful.’ He looked round. Of course there was nobody there; in the distance a door closed: it was like a premonition. He said unguardedly, ‘Be careful how you frighten that child again.’ He found it hard to tear himself away. He had the papers safe in his pocket, but he felt that he was leaving something else behind which needed his care. It was absurd: there could be no danger. He stared belligerently back at the square spotty veined face. He said, ‘I’ll be back very soon. I shall ask her if you . . .’

  He hadn’t noticed last night how big her thumbs were. She sat placidly there with them hidden in the large pasty fists – it was said to be a mark of neurosis – she wore no rings. She said firmly and rather loudly, ‘I still don’t understand,’ and at the same time her face contorted – a lid dropped, she gave him an enormous crude wink full of an inexplicable amusement. He had an impression that she wasn’t worried now any more, that she was mistress of the situation. He turned away, his heart still knocking in its cage, as if it were trying to transmit a message, a warning, in a code he didn’t understand. It was the fault of the intellectual, he thought, always to talk too much. He could have told her all that when he returned. Suppose he didn’t return? Well, the girl wasn’t a slave, she couldn’t be made to suffer. This was the best policed city in the world.

  As he came down into the hall a rather too-humble voice said, ‘Would you do me the greatest favour . . . ?’ It was an Indian with large brown impervious eyes, an expression of docility, he wore a shiny blue suit with rather orange shoes, it must be Mr Muckerji. He said, ‘If you would answer me just one question? How do you save money?’

  Was he mad? He said, ‘I never save money.’ Mr Muckerji had a large open soft face which fell in deep folds around the mouth. He said anxiously, ‘Literally not? I mean, that there are those who put aside all their copper coins – or Victorian pennies. There are the building societies and national savings.’

  ‘I never save.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mr Muckerji said, ‘that is exactly what I wished to know,’ and began to write something in a notebook. Behind Mr Muckerji Else appeared, watching him go. Again he felt irrationally glad, even for the presence of Mr Muckerji. He wasn’t leaving her alone with the manageress. He smiled at her across Mr Muckerji’s bent studious back, and gave her a small wave of the hand. She smiled in return uncertainly. It might have been a railway station full of good-byes and curiosities, of curtailed intimacies, the embarrassments of lovers and parents, the chance for strangers, like Mr Muckerji, to see, as it were, into the interior of private houses. Mr Muckerji looked up and said a little too warmly, ‘Perhaps we may meet again for another interesting talk.’ He put forward a hand and then too quickly withdrew it, as if he were afraid of a rebuff; then he stood gently, humbly smiling, as D. walked out into the fog.

  Nobody ever knows how long a parting is for, otherwise we would pay more attention to the smile and the formal words. The fog came up all round him: the train had left the station: people would wait no longer on the platform: an arch will cut off the most patient waving hand.

  He walked quickly, listening hard. A girl carrying an attaché case passed him, and a postman zigzagged off the pavement into obscurity. He felt like an Atlantic flier who is still over the traffic of the coast before the plunge. . . . It couldn’t take more than half an hour. Everything would have to be decided soon. It never occurred to him that he might not come to terms with Benditch: they were ready to go to almost any price for coal. The fog clouded everything; he listened for footsteps and heard only his own feet tapping on stone. The silence was not reassuring. He overtook people and only became aware of them when their figures broke the fog ahead. If he was followed he would never be aware of it, but could they follow him in this blanketed city? Somehow, somewhere, they would have to strike.

  A taxi drew slowly alongside him. The driver said, ‘Taxi, sir?’ keeping pace with him along the pavement. He forgot his decision to take a taxi only from the rank. He said, ‘Gwyn Cottage, Chatham Terrace,’ and got in. They slid away into impenetrable mist; backed, turned. He thought with sudden uneasiness, ‘This isn’t the way. What a fool I’ve been.’ He said, ‘Stop!’ but the taxi went on. He couldn’t see where they were: only the big back of the driver and the fog all around. He hammered on the glass, ‘Let me out,’ and the taxi stopped. He thrust a shilling into the man’s hand and dived on to the pavement. He heard an astonished voice say, ‘What the bloody hell?’ – the man had probably been quite honest. His nerve was horribly shaken. He ran into a policeman. ‘Russell Square Station?’

  ‘You are going the wrong way.’ He said, ‘Turn round, take the first to the left along the railings.’

  He came, after what seemed a long while, to the station.

  He waited for the lift and suddenly realised that this needed more nerve than he had thought – this going underground. He had never been below the surface of a street since the house had caved in on him – now he watched air raids from a roof. He would rather die quickly than slowly suffocate with a dead cat beside him. Before the lift doors closed he stood tensely – he wanted to bolt for the entrance. It was a strain his nerves could hardly stand; he sat down on the only bench and the walls sailed up all round him. He put his head between his hands and tried not to see or feel the descent. It stopped. He was underground.

  A voice said, ‘Like a hand? Give the gentleman your hand, Conway.’ He found himself urged to his feet by a small, horribly sticky fist. A woman with a bit of fur round a scrawny neck said, ‘Conway used to be taken that way in the lifts, didn’t you, duck?’ A pasty child of about seven held his hand glumly. He said, ‘Oh, I think I shall be all right now,’ still tense at the white below-ground passage, the dry stale wind and the rumble of a distant train.

  The woman said, ‘You going west? We’ll put you off at the right station. You’re a foreigner, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve nothing against foreigners.’

  He found himself led down the long passage. The child was clothed hideously in corduroy shorts, a lemon-yellow jumper and a school cap, all chocolate and mauve stripes. The woman said, ‘I got quite worried about Conway. The doctor said it was just his age, but his father had duodenal ulcers.’ There was no escape; they herded him on to the train between them. She said, ‘All that’s wrong with him now’s he snuffles. Shut your mouth, Conway. The gentleman doesn’t want to see your tonsils.’

  There were not many people in the carriage. He certainly hadn’t been followed into the train. Would something happen at Hyde Park Corner? or was he exaggerating the whole thing? This was England. But he remembered the chauffeur coming at him with a look of greedy pleasure on the Dover road, the bulle
t in the mews. The woman said, ‘The trouble with Conway is he won’t touch greens.’

  An idea struck him. He said, ‘Are you going far west?’

  ‘High Street, Kensington. We got to go to Barkers. That boy wears out clothes so quick . . .’

  ‘Perhaps you would let me give you a lift in a taxi from Hyde Park Corner . . .’

  ‘Oh, we wouldn’t bother you. It’s quicker by underground.’

  They pulled in and out of Piccadilly and he sat tense as they roared again into a tunnel. It was the same sound that reached you blowing back from where a high-explosive bomb had fallen, a wind full of death and the noise of pain.

  He said, ‘I thought perhaps the boy . . . Conway . . .’

  ‘It’s a funny name, isn’t it? but we were at the pictures seeing Conway Tearle just before he came. My husband fancied the name. More than I did. He said, “That’s the one if it’s a boy.” And when it happened that night it seemed – well, an omen.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he perhaps like the ride?’

  ‘Oh, a taxi makes him sick. He’s funny that way. A bus is all right – and a tube. Though there were times when I’d be ashamed to be with him in a lift. It wasn’t nice for the others. He’d look at you and then – before you could say Jack Robinson – it was like a conjuring trick.’

  It was hopeless. Anyway, what could happen? They had shot their bolt. You couldn’t go further than attempted murder. Except, of course, a murder which succeeded. He couldn’t imagine L. being concerned in that, but then he would have a marvellous facility for disengaging himself from the unpleasant fact. ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘This is your station. It’s been pleasant having a chat. Give the gentleman your hand, Conway.’ He shook perfunctorily the sticky fingers and went up into the yellow morning.

  There were cheers in the air: everyone was cheering: it might have been a great victory. The Knightsbridge pavement was crowded; over the road the tops of the Hyde Park gates appeared above the low fog: in another direction a chariot spurred behind four tossing horses above the dingy clouds. All round St George’s Hospital the buses were held up, vanishing gradually like alligators into the marshy air. Somebody was blowing on a whistle; a Bath-chair slowly emerged trundled by its invalid while with the other hand he played a pipe, a painful progress along the gutter. The tune never got properly going; it whistled out, like the air from a rubber pig, and then started again with an effort. On a blackboard the man had written, ‘Gassed in 1917. One lung gone.’ The yellow air fumed round him and people were cheering.

  A Daimler drew out of the traffic block, women squealed, several men took off their hats. D. was at a loss; he had seen religious processions in the old days, but nobody here seemed to be kneeling. The car moved slowly in front of him: two very small girls stiffly dressed in tailored coats and wearing gloves peered through the pane with pasty indifference. A woman screamed, ‘Oh, the darlings. They’re going to shop at Harrods.’ It was an extraordinary sight: the passage of a totem in a Daimler. A voice D. knew said sharply, ‘Take off your hat, sir.’

  It was Currie.

  For a moment he thought: he’s followed me. But the embarrassment when Currie recognised him was too genuine. He grunted and sidled and swung his monocle. ‘Oh, sorry. Foreigner.’ D. might have been a woman with whom he had had shameful relations. You couldn’t cut her, but you tried to pass on.

  ‘I wonder,’ D. said, ‘if you’d mind telling me the way to Chatham Terrace.’

  Currie flushed. ‘You going there – to Lord Benditch’s?’

  ‘Yes.’ The piper in the gutter began again brokenly. The buses moved ponderously on, and everybody scattered.

  ‘Look here,’ Currie said, ‘I seem to have made a fool of myself the other night. Apologise.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Thought you were one of these confidence men. Stupid of me. But I’ve been caught that way myself, and Miss Cullen’s a fine girl.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I bought a sunken Spanish galleon once. One of the Armada fleet, you know. Paid a hundred pounds in cash. Of course, there wasn’t a galleon.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look here. I’d like to show there’s no ill-feeling. I’ll walk you along to Chatham Terrace. Always glad to be of use to foreigners. Expect you’d do the same if I came to your country. Of course, that’s not likely.’

  ‘It’s very good of you,’ D. said. He meant it: it was a great relief. This was the end of the battle. If they had planned a last desperate throw in the fog, they had been out-fortuned – he could hardly call it outwitted. He put his hand up to his breast and felt through the overcoat the comforting bulge of his credentials.

  ‘Of course,’ Captain Currie went on, explaining too much, ‘an experience like that – well, it makes you chary.’

  ‘Experience?’

  ‘The Spanish galleon. The fellow was so plausible – gave me fifty pounds to hold while he cashed my cheque. I wouldn’t hear of it, but he insisted. Said he had to insist on cash, so it was only fair.’

  ‘So you were only fifty pounds down?’

  ‘Oh, they were dud notes. I suppose he saw I was a romantic. Of course, it gave me an idea. You learn by your mistakes.’

  ‘Yes?’ It was an immense pleasure to have this man prattling at his elbow down Knightsbridge.

  ‘You’ve heard of the Spanish Galleon?’

  ‘No – I don’t think so.’

  ‘It was my first roadhouse. Near Maidenhead. But I had to sell out in the end. You know – the west – it’s losing caste a bit. Kent’s better – or Essex even. On the west you get a rather – popular – element, on the way to the Cotswolds, you know.’ Violence seemed more than ever out of place in this country of complicated distinctions and odd taboos. Violence was too simple. It was a breach of taste. They turned to the left out of the main road: fantastic red towers and castellations emerged from the fog. Captain Currie said, ‘Seen any good shows?’

  ‘I have been rather busy.’

  ‘Mustn’t overdo it.’

  ‘And I’ve been learning Entrenationo.’

  ‘Good God, what for?’

  ‘An international language.’

  ‘When you get down to it,’ Captain Currie said, ‘most people talk a bit of English.’ He said, ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Do you know whom we just passed?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘That chauffeur – what’s his name? The one you had the bout with.’

  ‘I never saw him.’

  ‘He was in a doorway. The car was there, too. What do you say we go back and have a word with him?’ He laid his unmaimed hand on D.’s sleeve. ‘There’s heaps of time. Chatham Terrace is just ahead.’

  ‘No. No time.’ He felt panic. Was this a trap after all? The hand was urging him gently, remorselessly. . . .

  ‘I have an appointment with Lord Benditch.’

  ‘Won’t take a moment. After all, it was fair fight and no favour. Ought to shake hands and show there’s no ill-feeling. Customary. It was my mistake, you know.’ He babbled breezily into D.’s ear, tugging at his sleeve: there was a slight smell of whisky.

  ‘Afterwards,’ D. said. ‘After I’ve seen Lord Benditch.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to think there was any bad blood. My fault.’

  ‘No,’ D. said, ‘no.’

  ‘When’s your appointment?’

  ‘Noon.’

  ‘It’s not five to. Shake hands all round and have a drink.’

  ‘No.’ He shook off the strong persistent hand. Somebody whistled just behind him. He turned desperately at bay with his fists up. It was only a postman. He said, ‘Could you show me Gwyn Cottage?’

  ‘You’re almost on the doorstep,’ the postman said. ‘This way.’ He had a glimpse of Captain Currie’s astonished and rather angry face. Afterwards he thought that he had probably been wrong – Captain Currie was merely anxious that everything should be smoothed away.

  It was like an all-clear signal,
seeing the big Edwardian door swing open upon the fantastic hall. He was able to smile again at a mine-owner’s fondness for the mistresses of kings. There was a huge expanse of fake panelling, and all round the walls reproductions of famous paintings – Nell Gwyn sported in the place of honour above the staircase, among a number of cherubs who had all been granted peerages. What a lot of noble blood was based on the sale of oranges. He detected the Pompadour and Mme de Maintenon; there was also – startlingly pre-war in black silk stockings and black gloves – Mlle Gaby Deslys. It was an odd taste.

  ‘Coat, sir?’

  He let the manservant take his overcoat. There was an appalling mixture of Chinoiserie, Louis Seize and Stuart in the furniture – he was fascinated. An odd haven of safety for a confidential agent. He said, ‘I’m afraid I’m a little early.’

  ‘His Lordship gave orders that you were to go straight in.’

  Most curious of all was the thought that somehow Rose had been produced among these surroundings – this vicarious sensuality. Did they represent the daydreams of an ambitious working-man’s son? Money meant women. The manservant, too, was unbelievably exaggerated: very tall with a crease that seemed to begin at the waist and to be maintained unimpaired only by an odd stance, by leaning back like the Tower of Pisa. He had always felt a faint distaste for menservants – they were so conservative, so established, such parasites – but this man made him want to laugh. He was a caricature. He was reminded of an actor-manager’s house he had once dined in; there had been liveried footmen there.

  The man swept open a door. ‘Mr D.’ He found himself in an enormous parqueted room. It seemed to be hung with portraits – they could hardly be family ones. Some arm-chairs were grouped round a big log fire. They had high backs. It was difficult to see whether they were occupied. He advanced tentatively. The room would have been more effective, he thought, if he were someone else. It was meant to make you aware of the frayed sleeve, the shabbiness, the insecurity of your life, but, as it happened, he had been born without the sense of snobbery. He simply didn’t mind his shabbiness. He hummed gently to himself, proceeding at a leisurely pace across the parquet. He was far too happy to be here at all to care about anything.