‘It’s not my problem.’
‘But it is mine. Let me explain what happens. My colleagues are observant people. They look around, count heads and notice that somebody is missing. They make enquiries, question servants and friends perhaps, and they are told that he has disappeared. Immediately I am worried for him. So are my colleagues. My colleagues are compassionate people. They don’t like anyone to go astray. What could be more human? They are boys, some of them. Just boys. Harting has gone to England?’
The last question was spoken directly to Turner, but Bradfield took it on himself and Turner blessed him.
‘He has family problems. Clearly we cannot advertise them. I don’t propose to put a man’s private life upon the table in order to satisfy your files.’
‘That is a very excellent principle. And one we must all follow. Do you hear that, Mr Turner?’ His voice was remarkably emphatic. ‘What is the point of a paper chase? What is the point?’
‘Why on earth are you so bothered about Harting?’ Bradfield demanded, as if it were a joke of which he had tired. ‘I’m astonished you even know of his existence. Let’s go and get some coffee, shall we?’
He stood up; but Siebkron remained where he was.
‘But of course we know of his existence,’ he declared. ‘We admire his work. We admire it very much indeed. In a department such as mine, Mr Harting’s ingenuity finds many admirers. My colleagues speak of him constantly.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bradfield had coloured in anger. ‘What is all this? What work?’
‘He used to be with the Russians, you know,’ Siebkron explained to Turner. ‘In Berlin. That was a long time ago, of course, but I am sure that he learnt a great deal from them, don’t you think so, Mr Turner? A little technique, a little ideology perhaps? And grip. The Russians never let go.’
Bradfield had put the two decanters on a tray and was standing at the doorway waiting for them to go ahead of him.
‘What work was that?’ Turner asked gruffly, as Siebkron reluctantly rose from his chair.
‘Research. Just general research, Mr Turner. Like yourself, you see. It is nice to think that you and Harting have common interests. As a matter of fact that is why I asked whether you would replace him. My colleagues understand from Mr Allerton that you and Harting have many things in common.’ Hazel Bradfield looked up anxiously as they entered, and the glance she exchanged with Bradfield was eloquent of the emergency. Her four women guests sat on a single sofa. Mrs Vandelung was working at a sampler; Frau Siebkron in church black had laid her hands on her lap and was staring in private fascination at the open fire. The Gräfin, consoling herself for the untitled company she was obliged to keep, sipped morosely at a large brandy. Her parsimonious face was lit with small red flowers like poppies on a battlefield. Only little Frau Saab, her bosom freshly powdered, smiled to see them enter.
They were settled, resigned to boredom.
‘Bernhard,’ said Hazel Bradfield, patting the cushion beside her, ‘come and sit by me. I find you specially cosy this evening.’ With a foxy smile the old man took his place obediently beside her. ‘Now you’re to tell me all the horrors I am to expect on Friday.’ She was playing the spoilt beauty, and playing it well, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety in her voice which not even Bradfield’s tuition had taught her wholly to suppress.
At a separate table, Siebkron sat alone like a man who travelled by a better class. Bradfield talked to his wife. No, she conceded, she had not been to Brussels; she did not go often with her husband. ‘But you must insist!’ he declared and launched at once upon a description of a favourite Brussels hotel. The Amigo; one should stay at the Amigo; it had the best service he had ever encountered. Frau Siebkron did not care for large hotels; she took her holidays in the Black Forest; that was what the children liked best. Yes; Bradfield loved the Black Forest himself; he had close friends at Dornstetten.