Len Deighton - The Spy Quartet - An Expensive Place to Die, Spy Story, Yesterday’s Spy, Twinkle Twinkle Little Spy

‘What time is it?’ I asked.

‘It’s past midnight,’ she said. ‘You’ve slept the clock round.’

‘Get this bed on the road. What’s wrong, have we run out of feathers?’

‘We ran out of bedclothes; they are all around you.’

‘Fill her up with bedclothes mister and if we forget to check the electric blanket you get a bolster free.’

‘I’m busy making coffee. I’ve no time to play your games.’

She made coffee and brought it. She waited for me to ask questions and then she answered deftly, telling me as much as she wished without seeming evasive.

‘I had a nightmare and awoke in a medieval dungeon.’

‘You did,’ said Maria.

‘You’d better tell me all about it,’ I said.

‘Datt was terrified that you were spying on him. He said you have documents he wants. He said you had been making inquiries so he had to know.’

‘What did he do to me?’

‘He injected you with Amytal and LSD (it’s the LSD that takes time to wear off). I questioned you. Then you went into a deep sleep and awoke in the cellars of the house. I brought you here.’

‘What did I say?’

‘Don’t worry. None of those people speak English. I’m the only one that does. Your secrets are safe with me. Datt usually thinks of everything, but he was disconcerted when you babbled away in English. I translated.’

So that was why I’d heard her say everything twice. ‘What did I say?’

‘Relax. It didn’t interest me but I satisfied Datt.’

I said, ‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, but why should you do that for me?’

‘Datt is a hateful man. I would never help him, and anyway, I took you to that house, I felt responsible for you.’

‘And …?’

‘If I had told him what you really said he would have undoubtedly used amphetamine on you, to discover more and more. Amphetamine is dangerous stuff, horrible. I wouldn’t have enjoyed watching that.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. I reached towards her, took her hand, and she lay down on the bed at my side. She did it without suspicion or arch looks, it was a friendly, rather than a sexual gesture. She lit a cigarette and gave me the packet and matches. ‘Light it yourself,’ she said. ‘It will give you something to do with your hands.’

‘What did I say?’ I asked casually. ‘What did I say that you didn’t translate into French for Datt?’

‘Nothing,’ Maria said immediately. ‘Not because you said nothing, but because I didn’t hear it. Understand? I’m not interested in what you are or how you earn your living. If you are doing something that’s illegal or dangerous, that’s your worry. Just for the moment I feel a little responsible for you, but I’ve nearly worked off that feeling. Tomorrow you can start telling your own lies and I’m sure you will do it remarkably well.’

‘Is that a brush-off?’

She turned to me. ‘No,’ she said. She leaned over and kissed me.

‘You smell delicious,’ I said. ‘What is it you’re wearing?’

‘Agony,’ she said. ‘It’s an expensive perfume, but there are few humans not attracted to it.’

I tried to decide whether she was geeing me up, but I couldn’t tell. She wasn’t the sort of girl who’d help you by smiling, either.

She got off the bed and smoothed her dress over her hips.

‘Do you like this dress?’ she asked.

‘It’s great,’ I said.

‘What sort of clothes do you like to see women in?’

‘Aprons,’ I said. ‘Fingers a-shine with those marks you get from handling hot dishes.’

‘Yes, I can imagine,’ she said. She stubbed out her cigarette.

‘I’ll help you if you want help but don’t ask too much, and remember that I am involved with these people and I have only one passport and it’s French.’

I wondered if that was a hint about what I’d revealed under the drugs, but I said nothing.

She looked at her wristwatch. ‘It’s very late,’ she said. She looked at me quizzically. ‘There’s only one bed and I need my sleep.’ I had been thinking of having a cigarette but I replaced them on the side table. I moved aside. ‘Share the bed,’ I invited, ‘but I can’t guarantee sleep.’

‘Don’t pull the Jean-Paul lover-boy stuff,’ she said, ‘it’s not your style.’ She grabbed at the cotton dress and pulled it over her head.

‘What is my style?’ I asked irritably.

‘Check with me in the morning,’ she said, and put the light out. She left only the radio on.

I stayed in Maria’s flat but the next afternoon Maria went back to my rooms to feed Joe. She got back before the storm. She came in blowing on her hands and complaining of the cold.

‘Did you change the water and put the cuttlefish bone in?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘It’s good for his beak,’ I said.

‘I know,’ she said. She stood by the window looking out over the fast-darkening boulevard. ‘It’s primitive,’ she said without turning away from the window. ‘The sky gets dark and the wind begins to lift hats and boxes and finally dustbin lids, and you start to think this is the way the world will end.’

‘I think politicians have other plans for ending the world,’ I said.

‘The rain is beginning. Huge spots, like rain for giants. Imagine being an ant hit by a …’

The phone rang. ‘ … raindrop like that.’ Maria finished the sentence hurriedly and picked up the phone.

She picked it up as though it was a gun that might explode by accident. ‘Yes,’ she said suspiciously. ‘He’s here.’ She listened, nodding, and saying ‘yes’. ‘The walk will do him good,’ she said. ‘We’ll be there in about an hour.’ She pulled an agonized face at me. ‘Yes,’ she said to the phone again. ‘Well you must just whisper to him and then I won’t hear your little secrets, will I?’ There was a little gabble of electronic indignation, then Maria said, ‘We’ll get ready now or we’ll be late,’ and firmly replaced the receiver. ‘Byrd,’ she said. ‘Your countryman Mr Martin Langley Byrd craves a word with you at the Café Blanc.’ The noise of rain was like a vast crowd applauding frantically.

‘Byrd,’ I explained, ‘is the man who was with me at the art gallery. The art people think a lot of him.’

‘So he was telling me,’ said Maria.

‘Oh, he’s all right,’ I said. ‘An ex-naval officer who becomes a bohemian is bound to be a little odd.’

‘Jean-Paul likes him,’ said Maria, as though it was the epitome of accolades. I climbed into my newly washed underwear and wrinkled suit. Maria discovered a tiny mauve razor and I shaved millimetre by millimetre and swamped the cuts with cologne. We left Maria’s just as the rain shower ended. The concierge was picking up the potted plants that had been standing on the pavement.

‘You are not taking a raincoat?’ she asked Maria.

‘No,’ said Maria.

‘Perhaps you’ll only be out for a few minutes,’ said the concierge. She pushed her glasses against the bridge of her nose and peered at me.

‘Perhaps,’ said Maria, and took my arm to walk away.

‘It will rain again,’ called the concierge.

‘Yes,’ said Maria.

‘Heavily,’ called the concierge. She picked up another pot and prodded the earth in it.

Summer rain is cleaner than winter rain. Winter rain strikes hard upon the granite, but summer rain is sibilant soft upon the leaves. This rainstorm pounced hastily like an inexperienced lover, and then as suddenly was gone. The leaves drooped wistfully and the air gleamed with green reflections. It’s easy to forgive the summer rain; like first love, white lies or blarney, there’s no malignity in it.

Byrd and Jean-Paul were already seated at the café. Jean-Paul was as immaculate as a shop-window dummy but Byrd was excited and dishevelled. His hair was awry and his eyebrows almost non-existent, as though he’d been too near a water-heater blow-back. They had chosen a seat near the side screens and Byrd was wagging a finger and talking excitedly. Jean-Paul waved to us and folded his ear with his fingers. Maria laughed. Byrd was wondering if Jean-Paul was making a joke against him, but deciding he wasn’t, continued to speak.