Spy hook: a novel by Len Deighton Page B

passionate concern for gardens, or wealth.
    On the small secluded front terrace there was a selection of garden furniture: some fancy metal chairs arranged around a large glass-topped table and a couple of recliners. But despite the sunshine, it was not really a day for sitting outside. The wind was unrelenting, and here on the hill even the tall conifers whipped with each gust of it. Gloria turned up her collar as we stood waiting for someone to respond to the jangling bell. The woman who answered the door was about forty years old. She was attractive looking in that honest way that country people sometimes are, a strong big-boned woman with quick intelligent eyes and greying hair that she’d done nothing to darken. “Frau Winter?” I said.
    “My name is Winter,” she said. “But I am Ingrid.” She opened the door to us and, as if needing something to say, added, “It is confusing that I have the same initial as my mother.” Having noted our cheap rented car, she gave all her attention to Gloria and was no doubt trying to guess our relationship. “You want Mama:. Are you Mr. Samson?” Her English was excellent, with an edge of accent that was more German than French. Her dress was a green, floral-patterned Liberty fabric cut to an oldfashioned design with lacy white high collar and cuffs. It was hard to know whether she was poor and out of style, or whether she was following the trendy ideas that are de rigueur at smart dinner parties in big towns.
    “That’s right,” I said. I’d written to say that I was an old friend of Lisl, a writer, researching for a book that was to be set in Berlin before the war. Since I would be in the neighbourhood, I wondered if she would allow me to visit her and perhaps share some of her memories. There had been no reply to the letter. Perhaps they were hoping that I wouldn’t show up. “Let me take your coats. It’s so cold today. Usually at this time of year we are lunching outside.” Her nails were short and cared for but her hands were reddened as if with housework. There was an expensive-looking wristwatch and some gold rings and a bracelet but no wedding ring.
    I murmured some banalities about the winters getting colder each year, while she got a better look at us. So there was a daughter. She didn’t look anything like Lisl, but I remembered seeing an old photo of Lisl’s mother in a large hat and a long dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves: she was a big woman too. “How is your mother?” I asked while Gloria took the opportunity to look at herself in the hall mirror and tease her hair out with her fingertips.
    “She goes up and down, Mr. Samson. Today is one of her better days. But I must ask you not to stay too long. She gets tired.”
    “Of course.”
    We went into the large drawing room. Several big radiators kept the room warm despite large windows that provided a view of the front lawn. The floor was of the red tile that is common in this region; here and there some patterned carpets were arranged. On the wall there was one big painting that dominated the room. It was a typical eighteenth-century battle scene; handsome officers in bright uniforms sat on prancing chargers and waved swords, while far away serried ranks of stunted anonymous figures were killing each other in the smoke. Two white sofas and a couple of matching armchairs were arranged at one end of the room and an old woman in a plain black dress sat in the ugly sort of high chair from which people with stiff joints find it possible to get up.
    “How do you do, Mr. Samson” she said as her daughter went through the formalities with us, and studied Gloria carefully before nodding to her. Lisl’s sister was not at all like Lisl. She was a slight, shrivelled figure, with skin like speckled yellow parchment and thinning white hair that looked as if it might have been specially washed and set for this visit. I looked at her with interest: she was even older than Lisl, goodness knows how old that would