Such as a medicine bottle full of tablets, he thought, calming a little. Such as a box of matches.
One box Swan Vesta matches partly used, overcoat left, he remembered. A smoker’s match, note well.
And in the safe flat, he thought relentlessly – tantalizing himself, staving off the final insight – there on the table waiting for him, one packet of cigarettes, Vladimir’s favourite brand. And in Westbourne Terrace on the food safe, nine packets of Gauloises Caporal. Out of ten.
But no cigarettes in his pockets. None, as the good Superintendent would have said, on his person. Or not when they found him, that is to say.
So the premise, George? Smiley asked himself, mimicking Lacon – brandishing Lacon’s prefectorial finger accusingly in his own intact face – the premise? The premise is thus far, Oliver, that a smoker, a habitual smoker, in a state of high nervousness, sets off on a crucial clandestine meeting equipped with matches but not even so much as an empty packet of cigarettes, though he possesses quite demonstrably a whole stock of them. So that either the assassins found it, and removed it – the proof, or proofs, which Vladimir was speaking of, or – or what? Or Vladimir changed his stick from his right hand to his left in time. And put his right hand in his pocket in time. And took it out again, also in time, at the very spot where he could not be seen. And got rid of it, or them, according to Moscow Rules.
Having satisfied his own insistence upon a logical succession, George Smiley stepped cautiously into the long grass that led to the spinney, soaking his trousers from the knees down. For half an hour or more he searched, groping in the grass and among the foliage, retreading his tracks, cursing his own blundering, giving up, beginning again, answering the fatuous enquiries of passers-by which ranged from the obscene to the excessively attentive. There were even two Buddhist monks from a local seminary, complete with saffron robes and lace-up boots and knitted woollen caps, who offered their assistance. Smiley courteously declined it. He found two broken kites, a quantity of Coca-Cola tins. He found scraps of the female body, some in colour, some in black and white, ripped from magazines. He found an old running shoe, black, and shreds of an old burnt blanket. He found four beer bottles, empty, and four empty cigarette packets so sodden and old that after one glance he discounted them. And in a branch, slipped into the fork just where it joined its parent trunk, the fifth packet, or better perhaps the tenth of that was not even empty; a relatively dry packet of Gauloises Caporal, Filtre and Duty Free, high up. Smiley reached for it as if it were forbidden fruit but like forbidden fruit it stayed outside his grasp. He jumped for it and felt his back rip : a distinct and unnerving parting of tissue that smarted and dug at him for days afterwards. He said ‘damn’ out loud and rubbed the spot, much as Ostrakova might have done. Two typists, on their way to work, consoled him with their giggles. He found a stick, poked the packet free, opened it. Four cigarettes remained.
And behind those four cigarettes, half concealed, and protected by its own skin of cellophane, something he recognized but dared not even disturb with his wet and trembling fingers. Something he dared not even contemplate until he was free of this appalling place, where giggling typists and Buddhist monks innocently trampled the spot where Vladimir had died.
They have one, I have the other, he thought. I have shared the old man’s legacy with his murderers.
Braving the traffic, he followed the narrow pavement down the hill till he came to South End Green, where he hoped for a café that would give him tea. Finding none open so early, he sat on a bench across from a cinema instead, contemplating an old marble fountain and a pair of red telephone boxes, one filthier than the other. A warm drizzle was falling; a few shopkeepers had started lowering their awnings; a delicatessen store was taking delivery of bread. He sat with hunched shoulders, and the damp points of his mackintosh collar stabbed his unshaven cheeks whenever he turned his head. ‘For God’s sake mourn!’ Ann had flung at Smiley once, infuriated by his apparent composure after yet another friend had died. ‘If you won’t grieve for the dead, how can you love the living?’ Sitting on his bench, pondering his next step, Smiley now transmitted to her the answer he had failed to find at the time. ‘You are wrong,’ he told her distractedly. ‘I mourn the dead sincerely, and Vladimir, at this moment, deeply. It’s loving the living which is sometimes a bit of a problem.’