left the best until the end. "What did you make of him, then? Why are you laughing?"
"He was amusing."
"What else is he?"
"The gofer, as you say. The major-domo. He signs."
Burr leapt on the word as if it were the one he had been waiting for all lunch. "What does he sign?"
"Registration forms. Bills."
"Bills, letters, contracts, waivers, guarantees, company accounts, bills of lading, checks," said Burr excitedly. "Waybills, freight certificates, and a very large number of documents saying that everything his employer ever did wrong wasn't done by Richard Onslow Roper but by his loyal servant Major Corkoran. Very rich man Major Corkoran. Hundreds of millions to his name, except he's signed them all away to Mr. Roper. There's not a dirty deal the Roper does but Corky puts his signature to it. 'Corks, come over here! You don't have to read it, Corks old boy, sign it, there's a good lad. You've just earned yourself another ten years in Sing Sing.' "
The force with which Burr delivered this image, combined with the jagged edge to his voice as he imitated Roper's, gave a jolt to the easy rhythm of their conversation.
"There's not a paper trail worth a damn," Burr confided, his pale face close to Jonathan's. "You can go back twenty years, I don't care, you'll not find Roper's name on anything worse than a church donation. All right, I hate him. I'll admit it. So should you, after what he did to Sophie."
"Oh, I have no problem about that."
"You don't, eh?"
"No. I don't."
"Well, keep it that way. I'll be right back. Hold everything."
Fastening the waistband of his trousers, Burr went off for a pee, leaving Jonathan mysteriously elated. Hate him? Hate was not an emotion he had so far indulged. He could do anger; certainly he could mourn. But hate, like desire, seemed a lowly thing until it had a noble context, and Roper with his Sotheby's catalogue and his beautiful mistress had not yet provided one.
Nevertheless, the idea of hate, dignified by Sophie's murder--of hate turned perhaps to revenge--began to appeal to Jonathan. It was like the promise of a distant great love, and Burr had appointed himself its procurer.
"So why?" Burr continued cosily, settling back into his chair. "That's what I kept asking myself. Why's he doing it? Why does Mr. Jonathan Pine the distinguished hotelier risk his career pinching faxes and snitching on a valued client? First Cairo, now again in Zürich. 'Specially after you were cross with us. Quite right. I was cross with us too."
Jonathan pretended to address the question for the first time.
"You just do it," he said.
"No, you don't. You're not an animal, all instinct. You decide to do it. What drove you?"
"Something stirred, I suppose."
"What stirred? How does it stop stirring? What would stir it again?"
Jonathan took a breath but for a moment did not speak. He had discovered that he was angry, and didn't know why. "If a man's peddling a private arsenal to an Egyptian crook... and he's English... and you're English... and there's a war brewing... and the English are going to be fighting on the other side--"
"And you've been a soldier yourself..."
"--you just do it," Jonathan repeated, feeling his throat clog.
Burr pushed aside his empty plate and leaned forward across the table. " 'Feeding the rat'--isn't that the climbers' expression? The rat that gnaws inside us, telling us to take the risk? It's quite a big rat, yours is, I suppose, with that father of yours to live up to. He was undercover too, wasn't he? Well, you knew that."
"No, I'm afraid I didn't," said Jonathan politely as his stomach turned.
"They had to put him back into uniform after he was shot. They didn't tell you?"
Jonathan's hotelier smile, cast iron from cheek to cheek. His hotelier voice, iron soft. "No. They didn't. Really not. How strange. You'd think they would, wouldn't you?"
Burr shook his head at the enigmatic ways of civil servants.
"I mean, you did retire quite early, when you work it out," Burr
"He was amusing."
"What else is he?"
"The gofer, as you say. The major-domo. He signs."
Burr leapt on the word as if it were the one he had been waiting for all lunch. "What does he sign?"
"Registration forms. Bills."
"Bills, letters, contracts, waivers, guarantees, company accounts, bills of lading, checks," said Burr excitedly. "Waybills, freight certificates, and a very large number of documents saying that everything his employer ever did wrong wasn't done by Richard Onslow Roper but by his loyal servant Major Corkoran. Very rich man Major Corkoran. Hundreds of millions to his name, except he's signed them all away to Mr. Roper. There's not a dirty deal the Roper does but Corky puts his signature to it. 'Corks, come over here! You don't have to read it, Corks old boy, sign it, there's a good lad. You've just earned yourself another ten years in Sing Sing.' "
The force with which Burr delivered this image, combined with the jagged edge to his voice as he imitated Roper's, gave a jolt to the easy rhythm of their conversation.
"There's not a paper trail worth a damn," Burr confided, his pale face close to Jonathan's. "You can go back twenty years, I don't care, you'll not find Roper's name on anything worse than a church donation. All right, I hate him. I'll admit it. So should you, after what he did to Sophie."
"Oh, I have no problem about that."
"You don't, eh?"
"No. I don't."
"Well, keep it that way. I'll be right back. Hold everything."
Fastening the waistband of his trousers, Burr went off for a pee, leaving Jonathan mysteriously elated. Hate him? Hate was not an emotion he had so far indulged. He could do anger; certainly he could mourn. But hate, like desire, seemed a lowly thing until it had a noble context, and Roper with his Sotheby's catalogue and his beautiful mistress had not yet provided one.
Nevertheless, the idea of hate, dignified by Sophie's murder--of hate turned perhaps to revenge--began to appeal to Jonathan. It was like the promise of a distant great love, and Burr had appointed himself its procurer.
"So why?" Burr continued cosily, settling back into his chair. "That's what I kept asking myself. Why's he doing it? Why does Mr. Jonathan Pine the distinguished hotelier risk his career pinching faxes and snitching on a valued client? First Cairo, now again in Zürich. 'Specially after you were cross with us. Quite right. I was cross with us too."
Jonathan pretended to address the question for the first time.
"You just do it," he said.
"No, you don't. You're not an animal, all instinct. You decide to do it. What drove you?"
"Something stirred, I suppose."
"What stirred? How does it stop stirring? What would stir it again?"
Jonathan took a breath but for a moment did not speak. He had discovered that he was angry, and didn't know why. "If a man's peddling a private arsenal to an Egyptian crook... and he's English... and you're English... and there's a war brewing... and the English are going to be fighting on the other side--"
"And you've been a soldier yourself..."
"--you just do it," Jonathan repeated, feeling his throat clog.
Burr pushed aside his empty plate and leaned forward across the table. " 'Feeding the rat'--isn't that the climbers' expression? The rat that gnaws inside us, telling us to take the risk? It's quite a big rat, yours is, I suppose, with that father of yours to live up to. He was undercover too, wasn't he? Well, you knew that."
"No, I'm afraid I didn't," said Jonathan politely as his stomach turned.
"They had to put him back into uniform after he was shot. They didn't tell you?"
Jonathan's hotelier smile, cast iron from cheek to cheek. His hotelier voice, iron soft. "No. They didn't. Really not. How strange. You'd think they would, wouldn't you?"
Burr shook his head at the enigmatic ways of civil servants.
"I mean, you did retire quite early, when you work it out," Burr
Similar Books
