they did not extend to his talent for self-preservation or to his coffee. Chagga, from Mr Higgins’ new shop in Duke Street. Dicky sent motorcycle messengers to collect it. One day someone would ask what urgent secret dispatches were coming in aromatic brown packets from Mr Higgins two or three times a week.
‘Capital!’ said Dicky as his secretary brought in a polishedwooden tray with steaming glass jug, the Spode chinaware and creamer. The cups contained hot water: Dicky said warmed cups were a vital contribution to the flavour. He tipped the hot water into a bowl and poured out his own coffee first. When tasting it he frowned with eyes half-closed and jug held poised. ‘Even better than the last lot,’ he pronounced.
‘Is Stowe gunning for me?’
‘He’s gunning for someone,’ said Dicky.
Dicky looked out of his window while he drank. The weather system that had Berlin still gripped in winter temperatures had loosened its hold on England, where a succession of highs had provided enough warmth to coax the trees into bud and bathe the streets in a deceptively golden morning sunlight. It was a false summer, the sort of day when a man leaves home without an overcoat and comes back with pneumonia.
At ten-thirty I made my way to the room of the Deputy Europe. I remembered this room when it was decorated to the expensive and somewhat avant-garde taste of Bret Rensselaer – chrome, glass, black leather and deep carpet – but now all that was gone. To say it was bare would be a gross understatement. It was even without floor covering. The walls still had the coat of grey-green underpaint that marked Bret’s departure. Where once there had been an exquisite Dürer, now hung the standard portrait of the Queen. Stowe’s desk was a metal one of the sort used in the typing pool, and his chair was of the back-breaking design that the Ministry of Works used to discourage vis itors from sitting too long in the reception area downstairs.
Dicky Cruyer was already there. He’d put his jacket on over his bright red braces, which I interpreted as a gesture of deference. Possibly their meeting had started earlier. Dicky liked to arrange an opportunity for a confidential chat before the real business started. He was perched on a metal chair with uneven feet so that it moved a fraction of an inch whenhe shifted his weight. All three of the visitors’ chairs in this room had the same defect. I’d heard someone say the Deputy Controller had arranged for the chairs to be bent but I thought, it unlikely that Stowe required any such psychological devices for discomforting his visitors.
Augustus Stowe had jet-black hair. As well as supplying an abundant moustache, this same black hair grew from inside his ears and straggled from his nostrils; it appeared in tufts on his cheeks and great tangles of it covered the backs of his hands. Strange then that he was so bald. The carefully combed hair, and the sideburns, only emphasized the perfect shiny pink dome of his head.
‘No good sitting there scratching your arse, Dicky. Some bugger will have to go,’ said Stowe with the antipodean directness of manner that had earned him few friends in the Department. ‘You could go yourself,’ he suggested in a way that implied that this would be a last and desperate resort.
‘Leave it with me, Gus,’ said Dicky.
Although it wouldn’t be his style to comment on such a thing, I had the feeling that Stowe didn’t like being called Gus. I wondered if Dicky failed to realize this, or whether it was deliberate provocation. ‘No, Dicky,’ said Stowe. ‘When I leave things with you, they end up back in my tray six weeks later – flagged urgent.’
Dicky pressed his fingers against his thin bloodless lips, as if suppressing a temptation to smile at such a good joke. ‘Bernard could go,’ Dicky offered. ‘He could manage it.’
‘Manage it!’ scoffed Stowe in his flat Australian growl. ‘Of course. That’s just what I’ve been
‘Capital!’ said Dicky as his secretary brought in a polishedwooden tray with steaming glass jug, the Spode chinaware and creamer. The cups contained hot water: Dicky said warmed cups were a vital contribution to the flavour. He tipped the hot water into a bowl and poured out his own coffee first. When tasting it he frowned with eyes half-closed and jug held poised. ‘Even better than the last lot,’ he pronounced.
‘Is Stowe gunning for me?’
‘He’s gunning for someone,’ said Dicky.
Dicky looked out of his window while he drank. The weather system that had Berlin still gripped in winter temperatures had loosened its hold on England, where a succession of highs had provided enough warmth to coax the trees into bud and bathe the streets in a deceptively golden morning sunlight. It was a false summer, the sort of day when a man leaves home without an overcoat and comes back with pneumonia.
At ten-thirty I made my way to the room of the Deputy Europe. I remembered this room when it was decorated to the expensive and somewhat avant-garde taste of Bret Rensselaer – chrome, glass, black leather and deep carpet – but now all that was gone. To say it was bare would be a gross understatement. It was even without floor covering. The walls still had the coat of grey-green underpaint that marked Bret’s departure. Where once there had been an exquisite Dürer, now hung the standard portrait of the Queen. Stowe’s desk was a metal one of the sort used in the typing pool, and his chair was of the back-breaking design that the Ministry of Works used to discourage vis itors from sitting too long in the reception area downstairs.
Dicky Cruyer was already there. He’d put his jacket on over his bright red braces, which I interpreted as a gesture of deference. Possibly their meeting had started earlier. Dicky liked to arrange an opportunity for a confidential chat before the real business started. He was perched on a metal chair with uneven feet so that it moved a fraction of an inch whenhe shifted his weight. All three of the visitors’ chairs in this room had the same defect. I’d heard someone say the Deputy Controller had arranged for the chairs to be bent but I thought, it unlikely that Stowe required any such psychological devices for discomforting his visitors.
Augustus Stowe had jet-black hair. As well as supplying an abundant moustache, this same black hair grew from inside his ears and straggled from his nostrils; it appeared in tufts on his cheeks and great tangles of it covered the backs of his hands. Strange then that he was so bald. The carefully combed hair, and the sideburns, only emphasized the perfect shiny pink dome of his head.
‘No good sitting there scratching your arse, Dicky. Some bugger will have to go,’ said Stowe with the antipodean directness of manner that had earned him few friends in the Department. ‘You could go yourself,’ he suggested in a way that implied that this would be a last and desperate resort.
‘Leave it with me, Gus,’ said Dicky.
Although it wouldn’t be his style to comment on such a thing, I had the feeling that Stowe didn’t like being called Gus. I wondered if Dicky failed to realize this, or whether it was deliberate provocation. ‘No, Dicky,’ said Stowe. ‘When I leave things with you, they end up back in my tray six weeks later – flagged urgent.’
Dicky pressed his fingers against his thin bloodless lips, as if suppressing a temptation to smile at such a good joke. ‘Bernard could go,’ Dicky offered. ‘He could manage it.’
‘Manage it!’ scoffed Stowe in his flat Australian growl. ‘Of course. That’s just what I’ve been
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