The Confidential Agent by Graham Greene Page A

child-like picture on rollers – a family sat eating in front of what looked like a Swiss chalet. The father had a gun, and one lady an umbrella; there were mountains, a forest, a waterfall; the table was crammed with an odd mixture of food – apples, an uncooked cabbage, a chicken, pears, oranges and raw potatoes, a joint of meat. A child played with a hoop, and a baby sat up in a pram drinking out of a bottle. On the other wall was a clockface with movable hands. Mr K. said, ‘Tablo’ and rapped on the table. He sat down with emphasis on one of the two chairs, and said, ‘Essehgo.’ D. followed suit. Mr K. said, ‘El timo es . . .’ he pointed at the clock, ‘neuvo.’ He began to take a lot of little boxes out of his pocket. He said, ‘Attentio.’
    D. said, ‘I’m sorry. There must be some mistake . . .’
    Mr K. piled the little boxes one on top of the other, counting as he did so, ‘Una, Da, Trea, Kwara, Vif.’ He added in a low voice, ‘We are forbidden by the rules to talk anything but Entrenationo. I am fined one shilling if I am caught. So please speak low except in Entrenationo.’
    â€˜Somebody arranged a lesson for me . . .’
    â€˜That is quite right. I have had instructions.’ He said, ‘Que son la?’ pointing at the boxes and replied to his own question, ‘La son castes.’ He lowered his voice again and said, ‘What were you doing last night?’
    â€˜Of course I want to see your authority.’
    Mr K. took a card from his pocket and laid it in front of D. He said, ‘Your boat was only two hours late and yet you were not in London last night.’
    â€˜First I missed my train – delay at the passport control – then a woman offered me a lift: the tyre burst, and I was delayed at a roadhouse. L. was there.’
    â€˜Did he speak to you?’
    â€˜He sent me a note offering me two thousand pounds.’
    An odd expression came into the little man’s eyes – it was like envy or hunger. He said, ‘What did you do?’
    â€˜Nothing, of course.’
    Mr K. took off the old steel-rimmed spectacles and wiped the lenses. He said, ‘Was the girl connected with L?’
    â€˜I think it’s unlikely.’
    â€˜What else happened?’ He said suddenly, pointing at the picture, ‘La es un famil. Un famil gentilbono.’ The door opened and Dr Bellows looked in. ‘Excellente, excellente,’ he said, smiling gently and closed the door again. Mr K. said, ‘Go on.’
    â€˜I took her car. She was drunk and wouldn’t go on. The manager of the roadhouse – a Captain Currie – followed me in his car. I was beaten up by L.’s chauffeur. I forgot to tell you he tried to rob me in the lavatory – the chauffeur, I mean. They searched my coat, but of course found nothing. I had to walk. It was a long time before I got a lift.’
    â€˜Is Captain Currie . . . ?’
    â€˜Oh no. Just a fool, I think.’
    â€˜It’s an extraordinary story.’
    D. allowed himself to smile. ‘It seemed quite natural at the time. If you disbelieve me – there’s my face. Yesterday I was not quite so battered.’
    The little man said, ‘To offer so much money . . . Did he say what – exactly – for?’
    â€˜No.’ It suddenly occurred to D. that the man didn’t know what he had come to London to do – it would be just like the people at home to send him on a confidential mission and set other people whom they didn’t trust with a knowledge of his object to watch him. Distrust in civil war went to fantastic lengths: it made wild complications; who could wonder if it sometimes broke down more seriously than trust? It needs a strong man to bear distrust: weak men live up to the character they are allotted. It seemed to D. that Mr K. was a weak man. He said,