In the bustle that followed, Major Dell took Woodford gently by the arm and guided him to the other end of the bar.
“Woodie, is it true about old Wilf Taylor? Has he really bought it?”
Woodford nodded, his face grave. “He was on a job. We think someone’s been a little bit naughty.”
Major Dell was all solicitude. “I haven’t told the boys. It would only worry them. Who’s caring for the Missus?”
“The Boss is taking that up now. It looks pretty hopeful.”
“Good,” said the Major. “Good.” He nodded, patting Woodford’s arm in a gesture of consolation. “We’ll keep it from the boys, shall we?”
“Of course.”
“He had one or two bills. Nothing very big. He liked to drop in Friday nights.” The Major’s accent slipped from time to time like a made-up tie.
“Send them along. We’ll take care of those.”
“There was a kid, wasn’t there? A little girl?” They were moving back to the bar. “How old was she?”
“Eightish. Maybe more.”
“He talked about her a lot,” said the Major.
Somebody called, “Hey, Bruce, when are you chaps going to take another crack at the Jerries? They’re all over the bloody place. Took the wife to Italy in the summer—full of arrogant Germans.”
Woodford smiled. “Sooner than you think. Now let’s try this one.” The conversation died. Woodford was real. He still did the job.
“There was an unarmed combat man, a staff sergeant; a Welshman. He was short too.”
“Sounds like Sandy Lowe,” the florid man suggested.
“Sandy, that’s him!” They all turned to the florid man in admiration. “He was a Taffy. Randy Sandy we called him.”
“Of course,” said Woodford contentedly. “Now didn’t he go off to some public school as a boxing instructor?” He was looking at them narrowly, holding a good deal back, playing it long because it was so secret.
“That’s him, that’s Sandy!”
Woodford wrote it down, taking care because he had learned from experience that he tended to forget things which he entrusted to memory.
As he was going, the Major asked, “How’s Clarkie?”
“Busy,” Woodford said. “Working himself to death, as always.”
“The boys talk about him a lot, you know. I wish he’d come here now and then, give them a hell of a boost, you know. Perk them up.”
“Tell me,” said Woodford. They were by the door. “Do you remember a fellow called Leiser? Fred Leiser, a Pole? Used to be with our lot. He was in the Holland show.”
“Still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry,” said the Major vaguely. “The foreigners have stopped coming; I don’t know why. I don’t discuss it with the boys.”
Closing the door behind him, Woodford stepped into the London night. He looked about him, loving all he saw—the Mother city in his rugged care. He walked slowly, an old athlete on an old track.
Eight
Avery, on the other hand, walked fast. He was afraid. There is no terror so consistent, so elusive to describe, as that which haunts a spy in a strange country. The glance of a taxi driver, the density of people in the street, the variety of official uniforms— was he a policeman or a postman?—the obscurity of custom and language, and the very noises which comprised the world into which Avery had moved contributed to the state of constant anxiety, which, like a nervous pain, became virulent now that he was alone. In the shortest time his spirit ranged between panic and cringing love, responding with unnatural gratitude to a kind glance or word. It was part of an effeminate dependence upon those whom he deceived. Avery needed desperately to win from the uncaring faces around him the absolution of a trusting smile. It was no help that he told himself: you do them no harm, you are their protector. He moved among them like a hunted man in search of rest and food.
He took a cab to the hotel and asked for a room with a bath. They gave him the register to sign. He had actually put his pen to the page when he saw, not ten lines above, done in a laborious hand, the name Malherbe, broken in the middle as if the writer could not spell it. His eye followed the entry along the line: Address, London; Profession, Major (retired); Destination, London. His last vanity, Avery thought, a false profession, a false rank, but little English Taylor had stolen a moment’s glory. Why not Colonel? Or Admiral? Why not give himself a peerage and an address in Park Lane? Even when he dreamed, Taylor had known his limits.