very psychological. I mean, it couldn’t really happen.’
He was sober, even grave. ‘Something like it happened to me. My brother Chris went to prison. Robbery with violence. It killed our mother.’
‘Go on.’ Her mouth was agape. ‘You never told me. Where was that?’
‘In Canada. I left home when I was sixteen. Cut myself off.’
‘You don’t have any accent.’
‘It was a long time ago. I’ve often thought that was the thing that made me go into the Service. I’ve been alone ever since.’
‘E, you’ve got me.’ Joan threw herself into his arms. She had been making coffee, and the milk boiled over.
In bed later on he said, ‘Sometimes I read about Chris. Not Chris Mellon, that was just a name I took. He’s always in and out of prison. And I know I’ve got the same thing in me. Violence. I could be violent.’
She shivered delicately. ‘Well, you have been. That man you shot with the harpoon in Iceland.’
‘That was in the way of work. I meant personally. If it came to the point I’d use violence.’
She shivered again and held him close. He thought it was a conversation she would remember.
On the following day Major Easonby Mellon visited Weybridge. He wore a green tweed suit which contrasted markedly with his hair. He ate lunch at a good hotel, where he made himself unpopular by loud unfavourable comments on the food and service and then by questioning his bill. He asked the hotel porter, as he had already asked two publicans, if he could recommend a really discreet place. Such a hotel is not easily found in the respectable commuter land of Weybridge but eventually he was told that the Embassy, by the river, might be the sort of place he was looking for. The reception clerk proved to be a bored young man who booked without question a double room for the following Wednesday.
‘Just the one night, sir?’
‘Not sure we shall stay the night. I’ll pay for it, of course. May have to get back to London in the evening.’ The clerk nodded. He hammered the point home. ‘Been meeting elsewhere, you understand. Had to change because of damned snoopers. Must have discretion.’
‘I understand.’
He paid for the room in advance and returned to London well satisfied.
The most difficult part of this phase in the operation remained, and he proposed to take the daring step of using Pat Parker to help in it. When Parker came in to the office he broached the matter. Parker was not in a good temper. The names they had taken from the files had almost all proved to be duds. One of the elderly gentlemen with an independent income had proved to be a retired dustman, and another was a widower at Bournemouth who was anxious to see something of London’s famous night life. Others had written mere filth. There was only one possible mark, Parker said indignantly.
The Major shrugged. ‘You chose the names.’
‘You mean you’d have picked different ones.’
‘Perhaps. After a time you get to know who’s serious.’
‘You’d better find a few serious ones. Otherwise we’ll go back to the twenty a week, you wouldn’t like that, would you?’
‘How would Pat like to earn twenty-five pounds next Wednesday?’
Parker was smoking one of his cheroots. He took it from his mouth. ‘For what?’ When he was told he said suspiciously, ‘What’s the game?’
The Major hesitated, as though reluctant to confide. He saw Parker now with new eyes, a man of narrow vision who aspired to be nothing more than a petty crook living grubbily off a woman. In his new-found confidence he admitted that Pat would indirectly be helping him to nail a mark of his own. He did not go into details.
Parker was at sea. ‘It’s worth fifty.’
In the end they settled for forty, to be paid when the job had been done on the following Wednesday. Arthur Brownjohn travelled home in the train to Fraycut that Friday well pleased. In his briefcase were letters in Easonby Mellon’s erratic, dashing hand.
23 March
My
He was sober, even grave. ‘Something like it happened to me. My brother Chris went to prison. Robbery with violence. It killed our mother.’
‘Go on.’ Her mouth was agape. ‘You never told me. Where was that?’
‘In Canada. I left home when I was sixteen. Cut myself off.’
‘You don’t have any accent.’
‘It was a long time ago. I’ve often thought that was the thing that made me go into the Service. I’ve been alone ever since.’
‘E, you’ve got me.’ Joan threw herself into his arms. She had been making coffee, and the milk boiled over.
In bed later on he said, ‘Sometimes I read about Chris. Not Chris Mellon, that was just a name I took. He’s always in and out of prison. And I know I’ve got the same thing in me. Violence. I could be violent.’
She shivered delicately. ‘Well, you have been. That man you shot with the harpoon in Iceland.’
‘That was in the way of work. I meant personally. If it came to the point I’d use violence.’
She shivered again and held him close. He thought it was a conversation she would remember.
On the following day Major Easonby Mellon visited Weybridge. He wore a green tweed suit which contrasted markedly with his hair. He ate lunch at a good hotel, where he made himself unpopular by loud unfavourable comments on the food and service and then by questioning his bill. He asked the hotel porter, as he had already asked two publicans, if he could recommend a really discreet place. Such a hotel is not easily found in the respectable commuter land of Weybridge but eventually he was told that the Embassy, by the river, might be the sort of place he was looking for. The reception clerk proved to be a bored young man who booked without question a double room for the following Wednesday.
‘Just the one night, sir?’
‘Not sure we shall stay the night. I’ll pay for it, of course. May have to get back to London in the evening.’ The clerk nodded. He hammered the point home. ‘Been meeting elsewhere, you understand. Had to change because of damned snoopers. Must have discretion.’
‘I understand.’
He paid for the room in advance and returned to London well satisfied.
The most difficult part of this phase in the operation remained, and he proposed to take the daring step of using Pat Parker to help in it. When Parker came in to the office he broached the matter. Parker was not in a good temper. The names they had taken from the files had almost all proved to be duds. One of the elderly gentlemen with an independent income had proved to be a retired dustman, and another was a widower at Bournemouth who was anxious to see something of London’s famous night life. Others had written mere filth. There was only one possible mark, Parker said indignantly.
The Major shrugged. ‘You chose the names.’
‘You mean you’d have picked different ones.’
‘Perhaps. After a time you get to know who’s serious.’
‘You’d better find a few serious ones. Otherwise we’ll go back to the twenty a week, you wouldn’t like that, would you?’
‘How would Pat like to earn twenty-five pounds next Wednesday?’
Parker was smoking one of his cheroots. He took it from his mouth. ‘For what?’ When he was told he said suspiciously, ‘What’s the game?’
The Major hesitated, as though reluctant to confide. He saw Parker now with new eyes, a man of narrow vision who aspired to be nothing more than a petty crook living grubbily off a woman. In his new-found confidence he admitted that Pat would indirectly be helping him to nail a mark of his own. He did not go into details.
Parker was at sea. ‘It’s worth fifty.’
In the end they settled for forty, to be paid when the job had been done on the following Wednesday. Arthur Brownjohn travelled home in the train to Fraycut that Friday well pleased. In his briefcase were letters in Easonby Mellon’s erratic, dashing hand.
23 March
My
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