Philip Kerr - The Other Side of Silence

“Of course I haven’t. A deal is a deal. I’m surprised you need to ask.”

She shrugged. “But don’t tell me if you don’t want to. I shan’t mind in the slightest. Really. I was only making conversation.” She smiled thinly and looked into the distance.

“It’s just that things up at the villa are getting serious now. Maybe even dangerous. Not just for him. Perhaps me, too. And anyone close to me.” I paused to allow that one to sink in. “Meaning you, of course.”

“The plot thickens. Tell me more.”

“I’m serious.”

“I can see you are. But you needn’t worry about me, Walter. I can look after myself.”

“I do worry about you. I’ve just realized that. Maybe more than I should.”

“No one knows about us, do they?”

“No.”

“Well then.” She sounded calm-so calm that I felt there was something she had nailed down very tightly indeed, like the escape hatch on her one-man lifeboat. “There’s nothing to worry about, is there?”

“There is when there are men with guns on the scene. Up at the villa. Muscle types. Ex-army probably. The kind that shoot people and think of questions later. If they think at all.”

“But why are there men with guns? Somerset Maugham doesn’t strike me as the dangerous sort.”

“I’m not so sure about that. I thought I had a past. He’s had several. And all of them secret. You’ll have a hell of a book on your hands when you’ve finished it. What happened tonight would make a very long chapter on its own.”

Then I told her about the two spymasters from London and how, as a result of listening to the Guy Burgess tape, they thought they’d identified yet another spy working for the Soviets at the heart of the British intelligence services.

“I take it you don’t mean Somerset Maugham.”

“No, not him. Someone else.”

She laughed. “Jesus Christ, not another one. This is more than a scandal. It’s an epidemic. Who’s the spook this time?”

“Someone called Roger Hollis.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You’re not supposed to have heard of him if he’s a spy.”

“God, is he queer, too? Like the other two?”

“I don’t think so. He’s been married for almost twenty years.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It used to mean that you liked women enough to want to spend your life with one. That’s how it always was for me, at any rate.”

“You surprise me. Anyway, not in England. Lots of queers get married just for show. Look at Somerset Maugham. He was married for a lot longer than twenty years.”

“Yes, I’d forgotten about his wife.”

“He didn’t. He couldn’t. Although he did his level best to forget her. Poor Syrie. I think she must have had an awful time with that miserable old bastard. I feel so, so sorry for her.” She sighed crossly. “Christ, I hate men.”

“Leaving that aside for a moment-on account of the fact I happen to be a man myself, last time I looked-I thought you admired the old buzzard.”

“As a writer, yes. But as a human being? No. Not for a minute. At least, that’s the conclusion I’ve come to. Where are they now? The two English spymasters.”

“At the Belle Aurore Hotel. In Villefranche.”

“They’re not staying at the Villa Mauresque?”

“No. Lucky them.”

“Why not? I thought he asked them to come here from London.”

“He did, but they insisted on bringing their own personal security with them. The men with guns I was telling you about. Two thugs from Portsmouth. I expect they’re just nervous travelers. French waiters can be quite intimidating.”

“How long are they here for?”

“A couple of days, I’d have thought. Until this affair is concluded. Frankly, Patrick Reilly seemed rather more interested in a cricket match.”

“England versus Australia.”

“That’s something else I don’t understand. England is about to send troops into Egypt and everyone who’s English is more interested in a cricket match.”

“What’s the other thing you don’t understand?”

“You, of course. I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Oh?”

“And I suspect that when you finally get around to it I’m going to find it just as hard to comprehend as a game of cricket. Perhaps harder.”

“Cricket’s really not that hard to understand. And nor am I.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’m just tired, I guess.”

She went to bed, or so I thought. I stayed downstairs for a while longer to empty the ashtrays and fetch a couple of bottles of cold mineral water, and a little vase in which I’d placed a single flower from the garden. As I entered the bedroom she came out of the bathroom, still dressed and now avoiding my eye, rather ominously.

“Room service,” I said, and placed the bottle and the flower on her bedside table. “I’d have brought a chocolate for your pillow but you’re all out of chocolate. You’re out of a lot of things actually. There’s almost nothing in your cupboards. Like you’re going away somewhere.” I turned down her bed. “You know, anyone looking at me now could get the very wrong idea that I liked you a lot. That and the fact that I’ve had extensive hotel experience. Did I ever tell you I used to own a hotel? It was a dump in Dachau. Yes, that’s right. Dachau. It’s no place for a hotel. Not anymore. But that was all a long time ago.”

“Leave that,” she said.

“And risk losing my job? I don’t think so.” I smiled. “Would you like fresh towels?” I was talking too much because I didn’t want her to say anything that might be something I wouldn’t like. I was right, too.

She didn’t undress. She sat beside me on the bed, with her knees drawn up underneath her chin and looked thoughtful and then very awkward. She reminded me of an unhappy schoolgirl.

“Stop fussing, please. Sit down. Listen.”

I dropped down on the bed and found my stomach had beaten me to it. Suddenly the scent of Mystikum made me feel sick and I had the sense that for me, from now on, it was always going to be the scent of disaster.

“What is it?”

“You’re right. There is something I’m not telling you. Please forgive me.”

“That’s easily done.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you tonight but since you’ve raised it, perhaps now is best. Well, it’s like this. I’m sorry. But I just can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Be with you, Walter. Sleep with you. Fuck you. Be your lover.”

I stiffened. “I’m sorry to hear that, Anne.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

“Look, I’ve decided to go back to London.”

“I’ll take that as a no. What about your book?”

“I’m going to give the advance back.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve decided it’s not-it’s not what I want to write anymore. I don’t think it ever was. Anyway, it’s not working for me. None of this. So, I’m leaving here. Soon. The sooner the better. Tomorrow. Probably first thing.”

I made a fist and bit my knuckle; it felt a little kinder than punching my own thick head. “Then I guess my usefulness is at an end,” I said. “Yes, I can see how that might work.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“No?”

“No.”

“If you say so.” I paused, trying to shepherd my thoughts, but it was no good, they were now scattered like so many lost sheep across the barren hillside I called my life.

“Yes?”

“Forgive me, but it’s a little hard to talk right now with all my teeth kicked out.”

“I’m sorry. Really I am.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“I think it might be best, don’t you? To avoid any awkward scenes in the morning.”