“Good evening,” said Haldane. “Forgive me. I’m looking for an old acquaintance; a friend. We knew one another long ago. A Mr. Leiser. Fred Leiser. I wondered if you had any idea…”
“I’ll get him,” the boy said, and disappeared.
Haldane waited patiently, looking at the calendars and wondering whether it was the boy or Leiser who had hung them there. The door opened a second time. It was Leiser. Haldane recognized him from his photograph. There was really very little change. The twenty years were not drawn in forceful lines but in tiny webs beside each eye, in marks of discipline around the mouth. The light above him was diffuse and cast no shadow. It was a face which at first sight recorded nothing but loneliness. Its complexion was pale.
“What can I do for you?” Leiser asked. He stood almost at attention.
“Hullo, I wonder if you remember me?”
Leiser looked at him as if he were being asked to name a price, blank but wary.
“Sure it was me?”
“Yes.”
“It must have been a long time ago,” he said at last. “I don’t often forget a face.”
“Twenty years.” Haldane coughed apologetically.
“In the war then, was it?”
He was a short man, very straight; in build he was not unlike Leclerc. He might have been a waiter. His sleeves were rolled up a little way, there was a lot of hair on the forearms. His shirt was white and expensive; a monogram on the pocket. He looked like a man who spent a good deal on his clothes. He wore a gold ring; a golden wristband to his watch. He took great care of his appearance; Haldane could smell the lotion on his skin. His long brown hair was full, the line along the forehead straight. Bulging a little at the sides, the hair was combed backwards. He wore no parting; the effect was definitely Slav. Though very upright he had about him a certain swagger, a looseness of the hips and shoulders, which suggested a familiarity with the sea. It was here that any comparison with Leclerc abruptly ceased. He looked, despite himself, a practical man, handy in the house or starting the car on a cold day; and he looked an innocent man, but traveled. He wore a tartan tie.
“Surely you remember me?” Haldane pleaded.
Leiser stared at the thin cheeks, touched with points of high color, at the hanging, restless body and the gently stirring hands, and there passed across his face a look of painful recognition, as if he were identifying the remains of a friend.
“You’re not Captain Hawkins, are you?”
“That’s right.”
“God Christ,” said Leiser, without moving. “You’re the people who’ve been asking about me.”
“We’re looking for someone with your experience, a man like you.”
“What do you want him for, sir?”
He still hadn’t moved. It was very hard to tell what he was thinking. His eyes were fixed on Haldane.
“To do a job, one job.”
Leiser smiled, as if it all came back to him. He nodded his head toward the window. “Over there?” He meant somewhere beyond the rain.
“Yes.”
“What about getting back?”
“The usual rules. It’s up to the man in the field. The war rules.”
He pushed his hands into his pockets, discovered cigarettes and a lighter. The budgerigar was singing.
“The war rules. You smoke?” He gave himself a cigarette and lit it, his hands cupped around the flame as if there were a high wind. He dropped the match on the floor for someone else to pick up.
“God Christ,” he repeated, “twenty years. I was a kid in those days, just a kid.”
Haldane said, “You don’t regret it, I trust. Shall we go and have a drink?” He handed Leiser a card. It was neatly printed: Captain A. Hawkins. Written underneath was a telephone number.
Leiser read it and shrugged. “I don’t mind,” he said and fetched his coat. Another smile, incredulous this time. “But you’re wasting your time, Captain.”
“Perhaps you know someone. Someone else from the war who might take it on.”
“I don’t know a lot of people,” Leiser replied. He took a jacket from the peg and a nylon raincoat of dark blue. Going ahead of Haldane to the door, he opened it elaborately as if he valued formality. His hair was laid carefully upon itself like the wings of a bird.