The Confidential Agent by Graham Greene Page B

‘Do they pay you much here?’
    â€˜Two shillings an hour.’
    â€˜It isn’t much.’
    Mr K. said, ‘Luckily I do not have to live on it.’ But from his suit, his tired evasive eyes, it wasn’t probable that he had much more to live on from another source. Looking down at his fingers – the nails bitten close to the quick – he said, ‘I hope you have everything arranged?’ One nail didn’t meet with his approval; he began to bite it down to match the rest.
    â€˜Yes. Everything.’
    â€˜Everyone you want is in town?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    He was fishing, of course, for information, but his attempts were pathetically inefficient. They were probably right not to trust Mr K. on the salary they paid him.
    â€˜I have to send in a report,’ Mr K. said. ‘I will say you have arrived safely, that your delay seems to have been accounted for . . .’ It was ignominious to have your movements checked up by a man of Mr K.’s calibre. ‘When will you be through ?’
    â€˜A few days at most.’
    â€˜I understand that you should be leaving London at latest on Monday night.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜If anything delays you, you must let me know. If nothing does, you must leave not later than the eleven-thirty train.’
    â€˜So I understand.’
    â€˜Well,’ Mr K. said wearily, ‘you can’t leave this place before ten o’clock. We had better go on with the lesson.’ He stood up beside the wall-picture, a little weedy and undernourished figure – what had made them choose him? Did he conceal somewhere under his disguise a living passion for his party? He said, ‘Un famil tray gentilbono,’ and pointing to the joint, ‘Vici el carnor.’ Time went slowly by. Once D. thought he heard Dr Bellows pass down the passage on rubber-soled shoes. There wasn’t much trust even in the centre of internationalism.
    In the waiting-room he fixed another appointment for Monday and paid for a course of lessons. The elderly lady said, ‘I expect you found it a teeny bit hard?’
    â€˜Oh, I feel I made progress,’ D. said.
    â€˜I am so glad. For advanced students, you know, Dr Bellows runs little soirées. Most interesting. On Saturday evenings at eight. They give you an opportunity to meet people of all countries – Spanish, German, Siamese – and exchange ideas. Dr Bellows doesn’t charge – you only have to pay for coffee and cake.’
    â€˜I feel sure it is very good cake,’ D. said, bowing courteously.
    He went out into Oxford Street: there was no hurry now: nothing to be done until he saw Lord Benditch. He walked, enjoying the sense of unreality – the shop windows full of goods, no ruined houses anywhere, women going into Buzzard’s for coffee. It was like one of his own dreams of peace. He stopped in front of a bookshop and stared in – people had time to read books – new books. There was one called A Lady in Waiting at the Court of King Edward , with a photograph on the paper jacket of a stout woman in white silk with ostrich feathers. It was incredible. And there was Safari Days , with a man in a sun helmet standing on a dead lioness. What a country, he thought again with affection. He went on. He couldn’t help noticing how well clothed everybody was. A pale winter sun shone, and the scarlet buses stood motionless all down Oxford Street: there was a traffic block. What a mark, he thought, for enemy planes. It was always about this time that they came over. But the sky was empty – or nearly empty. One winking glittering little plane turned and dived on the pale clear sky, drawing in little puffy clouds, a slogan: ‘Keep Warm with Ovo.’ He reached Bloomsbury – it occurred to him that he had spent a very quiet morning. It was almost as if his infection had met a match in this peaceful and preoccupied city. The great