will be a visit to Mr Pavelka’s factory. We have asked for that – in your name of course. Incidentally, your visa application is going through – we applied for it as soon as you brought your passport along – and we have been assured it will come through almost immediately. I expect we will have it tomorrow.’
There was a long pause while I thought this over.
Pavelka said moodily, ‘They have changed the name, the robbers. It is the Zapotocky Works now.’
‘Of course.’
‘Somebody will give me this formula?’ I asked at length.
‘It will be given to you. You won’t know anything about it.’
‘How?’
‘You must leave that to us. I will explain everything before you go. It is remarkably simple and you need not have the slightest fear.’
‘Well,’ I said, and stood up. ‘I’ll think it over.’
‘Of course,’ Cunliffe said. ‘You have several days. You will be leaving by plane at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning.’
Pavelka unfolded himself and grasped my hand in his again. ‘I am relying on you,’ he said with his great St Bernard face. ‘I only wish I could go myself.’
I wished he could, too. I was too full of worried care to speak.
‘You might telephone me on Sunday,’ Cunliffe said, slipping out of his seat to come to the door with me.
‘I’ll be in Bournemouth on Sunday.’ I had forgotten that I would be staying overnight until this moment.
‘Bournemouth?’ he said sharply. ‘Bournemouth? Ah, your mother. I’m not sure,’ he said slowly, ‘if that is a very good idea.’
‘Well, that’s too bad,’ I said, with a sudden idiot pleasure in crossing him. ‘She’s expecting me and I’m going.’
He looked at me consideringly. ‘You understand, don’t you, that the only possible danger to you is if you mention any of this to anyone? Anyone at all . I advise you to forget everything that has been said here. Put it out of your mind.’
‘Right away,’ I said, allowing my face to lengthen in a sardonicleer. God knows what I’d got to leer about. It seemed to worry little Cunliffe. He looked at me pensively.
‘Well, ring me when you get back. You can get me at this number,’ he said, writing it on a sheet of his diary. ‘You must be back on Sunday night. Ring me however late it is.’
2
When I was back in my room and lying on the divan, the situation was so awful I couldn’t think about it. I tried for a while, smoking one cigarette after another, but the entire scene, the extraordinary proposal, was so grotesque it didn’t seem to concern me at all. I was conscious only of three sharp impressions. One, there was no fortune; two, I couldn’t propose to Maura; three, the car didn’t belong to me. The crazy flow of incident in the last few days had anaesthetized me against the first two; most of the time they had seemed fantasies anyway. Number three, however, left me in such desolation that I looked distractedly round the room for something to break.
I thought of my session with Ratface, of the three new tyres, the new gearbox, the new battery, of the man on the phone I had put off so brusquely. I addressed myself to each wall of the room with savagely waving arms and voiceless imprecation. This bout of silent declamatory passion slipped me into a higher gear and with a mindless sense of action I went out, got into the car and drove decisively to town.
It was after one and Jack was busy serving sandwiches and beer. I ordered a Scotch and inquired if they still had the name of the man who wanted to buy a car.
‘I think we threw the bit of paper away,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll find out.’
The place was filling up. I finished the whisky slowly and the warmth of it and the buzz all round me and the masticating City jaws began to draw a veil of sanity over the bomb-lit areas of my mind left by the interview with Cunliffe. The idea of going to Prague to steal a secret formula seemed more grotesque than ever. Looking around me I decided suddenly, no
There was a long pause while I thought this over.
Pavelka said moodily, ‘They have changed the name, the robbers. It is the Zapotocky Works now.’
‘Of course.’
‘Somebody will give me this formula?’ I asked at length.
‘It will be given to you. You won’t know anything about it.’
‘How?’
‘You must leave that to us. I will explain everything before you go. It is remarkably simple and you need not have the slightest fear.’
‘Well,’ I said, and stood up. ‘I’ll think it over.’
‘Of course,’ Cunliffe said. ‘You have several days. You will be leaving by plane at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning.’
Pavelka unfolded himself and grasped my hand in his again. ‘I am relying on you,’ he said with his great St Bernard face. ‘I only wish I could go myself.’
I wished he could, too. I was too full of worried care to speak.
‘You might telephone me on Sunday,’ Cunliffe said, slipping out of his seat to come to the door with me.
‘I’ll be in Bournemouth on Sunday.’ I had forgotten that I would be staying overnight until this moment.
‘Bournemouth?’ he said sharply. ‘Bournemouth? Ah, your mother. I’m not sure,’ he said slowly, ‘if that is a very good idea.’
‘Well, that’s too bad,’ I said, with a sudden idiot pleasure in crossing him. ‘She’s expecting me and I’m going.’
He looked at me consideringly. ‘You understand, don’t you, that the only possible danger to you is if you mention any of this to anyone? Anyone at all . I advise you to forget everything that has been said here. Put it out of your mind.’
‘Right away,’ I said, allowing my face to lengthen in a sardonicleer. God knows what I’d got to leer about. It seemed to worry little Cunliffe. He looked at me pensively.
‘Well, ring me when you get back. You can get me at this number,’ he said, writing it on a sheet of his diary. ‘You must be back on Sunday night. Ring me however late it is.’
2
When I was back in my room and lying on the divan, the situation was so awful I couldn’t think about it. I tried for a while, smoking one cigarette after another, but the entire scene, the extraordinary proposal, was so grotesque it didn’t seem to concern me at all. I was conscious only of three sharp impressions. One, there was no fortune; two, I couldn’t propose to Maura; three, the car didn’t belong to me. The crazy flow of incident in the last few days had anaesthetized me against the first two; most of the time they had seemed fantasies anyway. Number three, however, left me in such desolation that I looked distractedly round the room for something to break.
I thought of my session with Ratface, of the three new tyres, the new gearbox, the new battery, of the man on the phone I had put off so brusquely. I addressed myself to each wall of the room with savagely waving arms and voiceless imprecation. This bout of silent declamatory passion slipped me into a higher gear and with a mindless sense of action I went out, got into the car and drove decisively to town.
It was after one and Jack was busy serving sandwiches and beer. I ordered a Scotch and inquired if they still had the name of the man who wanted to buy a car.
‘I think we threw the bit of paper away,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll find out.’
The place was filling up. I finished the whisky slowly and the warmth of it and the buzz all round me and the masticating City jaws began to draw a veil of sanity over the bomb-lit areas of my mind left by the interview with Cunliffe. The idea of going to Prague to steal a secret formula seemed more grotesque than ever. Looking around me I decided suddenly, no
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