The Confidential Agent by Graham Greene Page A

instructions are so vague. A lot is left to our discretion. Perhaps you would show us the papers.’ The woman didn’t talk any more – she let the weak ones have their rope.
    â€˜No.’
    He looked from one to the other – it seemed to him that at last the initiative was passing into his hands; he wished he had more vitality to take it, but he was exhausted. England was full of tiresome memories which made him remember that this wasn’t really his job: he should be at the Museum now reading Romance Literature. He said, ‘I accept the fact that we have the same employers. But I have no reason to trust you.’ The little grey man sat as if condemned with his eyes on his own bitten finger-tips; the woman faced him with that square dominant face which had nothing to dominate except a shady hotel. He had seen many people shot on both sides of the line for treachery: he knew you couldn’t recognise them by their manners or faces: there was no Ganelon type. He said, ‘Are you anxious to see that you get your cut out of the sale? But there won’t be a cut – or a sale.’
    â€˜Perhaps, then, you’ll read this letter,’ the woman suddenly said: they had used up their rope.
    He read it slowly. There was no doubt at all of its genuineness; he knew the signature and the notepaper of the ministry too well to be deceived. This, apparently, was the end of his mission – the woman was empowered to take over from him the necessary papers – for what purpose wasn’t said.
    â€˜You see,’ the woman said, ‘they don’t trust you.’
    â€˜Why not have shown me this when I arrived?’
    â€˜It was left to my discretion. To trust you or not.’
    The position was fantastic. He had been entrusted with the papers as far as London: Mr K. was told to check up on his movements before he reached the hotel but was not trusted with the secret of his mission: this woman seemed to have been trusted with both the secret and the papers – but only as a last resort – if his conduct were suspicious. He said suddenly, ‘Of course you know what these papers are.’
    She said stubbornly, ‘Naturally.’ But he was sure that, after all, she didn’t – he could read that in her face – the obstinate poker features. There was no end to the complicated work of half-trust and half-deceit. Suppose the ministry had made a mistake . . . suppose, if he handed the papers over, they should sell them to L. He knew he could trust himself. He knew nothing else. There was a horrid smell of cheap scent in the room – it was apparently her only female characteristic – and it was disturbing like scent on a man.
    â€˜You see,’ she said, ‘you can go home now. Your job is finished.’
    It was all too easy and too dubious. The ministry didn’t trust him or them or anybody. They didn’t trust each other. Only each individual knew that one person was true or false. Mr K. knew what Mr K. meant to do with those papers. The manageress knew what she intended. You couldn’t answer for anybody but yourself. He said, ‘Those orders were not given to me. I shall keep the papers.’
    Mr K.’s voice became shrill. He said, ‘If you go behind our backs . . .’ His underpaid jumpy Entrenationo eyes gave away unguardedly secrets of greed and envy. . . . What could you expect on that salary? How much treachery is always nourished in little overworked centres of somebody else’s idealism. The manageress said, ‘You are a sentimental man. A bourgeois. A professor. Probably romantic. If you cheat us you’ll find – oh, I can think up things.’ He couldn’t face her; it was really like looking into the pit – she had imagination. The impetigo was like the relic of some shameful act from which she had never recovered. He remembered Else saying, ‘She acts like