Funeral in Berlin by Len Deighton Page B

for miles. I was here for the Victory procession too. Quite lovely.’
    ‘We’d better start…’
    ‘Would you like to come up here on Armistice Sunday?’ Hallam asked. ‘It’s a most impressive sight.’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. Now about…’
    ‘A moment,’ said Hallam. He went across to the desk and spoke into his bright-green telephone.
    ‘We’d like a nice cup of creamy coffee, Phyllis. Will you tell Mrs Meynard? The nice china, Phyllis, I have a visitor.’
    Hallam’s office was on the top floor. There was a great view along Whitehall, and under us the Cenotaph was dotted with lines of starlings. The office was well furnished, as Whitehall offices go;it had rush matting over the Ministry of Works lino and there were blue curtains, two Cézanne prints and a basketwork chair that had gone to seed. Hallam sorted through his files to find two manilla dossiers and a booklet. The booklet was a Ministry of Agriculture publication called Chemicals for the Gardener. Hallam opened one of the dossiers. It said ‘Special Import Licences’ in a Roman typeface and under that, neatly biro’d, was the name ‘Mr Semitsa’.
    ‘We call all official requests for false documents “import licences”,’ Hallam explained. He tapped the other dossier with a sharp bony finger. ‘And this is a report from—’ he read, ‘Advisory Committee on Poisonous Substances.’
    ‘You are the most poisonous man I know,’ I said cheerfully.
    ‘You’re being naughty,’ said Hallam, ‘I thought we’d agreed to get along nicely together. It will be to the advantage of both of us in the long run, you know.’ He smiled what he thought was a winning smile. He was dressed in Home Office uniform today—black jacket, pin-stripe trousers, stiff white collar and an Old Mill Hillian tie.
    ‘Gehlen’s people told me that Semitsa should come into Berlin two weeks from today,’ I said.
    ‘Oh, we know all about that,’ said Hallam airily.
    ‘How?’ I asked.
    ‘Oh, you people from Charlotte Street. You’re all secrecy and bad manners. Grannie Dawlish is the worst of all.’ I nodded.
    ‘We call him Grannie Dawlish here, you know.’
    ‘You just did,’ I said.
    ‘Semitsa isn’t a secret agent, my dear chap. He is giving a talk at Humboldt University on “Synthetic Insecticides—the development of resistance in Pests to DDT”. He gives the talk on Tuesday the 29th, so he’ll arrive some time the previous weekend. I got all that from ADN. 1 It isn’t secret. What’s more, I would wager you he’ll stay at the Hotel Adlon.’
    ‘Now you are guessing,’ I said.
    ‘Not at all,’ said Hallam. ‘That’s where Humboldt usually put their top-rank guest lecturers.’ He produced his cigarette holder. ‘Can you let me have a cigarette?’ he asked. I brought out a pack of Gauloises, tore the corner and offered them.
    ‘French?’ Hallam said. ‘They’re rather coarse, aren’t they?’ As he was lighting it there was a tap at the door. An aged crone in a floral apron limped painfully across the carpet.
    ‘Put it down there, Mrs Meynard, that’s lovely: and chocolate digestives too. My goodness, we don’t deserve it.’ Hallam moved a large jug of cut flowers to make room for the coffee tray.
    The aged crone smiled a big smile and locked an errant forelock into a curler in embarrassment.
    ‘How’s your back today, Mrs Meynard?’ Hallam asked.
    ‘I think it will rain, sir,’ she said.
    ‘Never wrong, our Mrs Meynard,’ Hallam said to me proudly.
    ‘Really?’ I said. ‘She should be on the Air Ministry roof.’
    Mrs Meynard grinned, picked up three cups and saucers from the window sill and said to Hallam, ‘You owe me two weeks’ coffee money, Mr Hallam sir.’
    ‘ Two weeks?’ asked Hallam. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said Mrs Meynard very shortly.
    Hallam produced a small leather purse, undid the flap with great care and shook coins into his hand like they were segments of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
    ‘ Two?