The Deadly Affair Page #7

Where the hell has Mrs Bird put my mail?

All right, what's odd?

What's odd, Charlie, is the subscription list

to Foreign Office files.

I was there on a routine visit this morning.

It suddenly hit me that I might as well check

on what Fennan had taken home

in the way of files during the six months

since his promotion.

Do you know, during the first five months

he took home quite a heap of policy files

and other secret stuff,

but during the last month

he took away nothing but low-grade,

non-secret digests of foreign policy

that anyone could have read

two days later in Time Magazine.

- It fits.

- It could fit.

All right. Mendel's right.

It could fit. It could mean one of two things.

Elsa told me this morning that her husband

was a communist and a spy,

and that because she loved him

she consented to be his courier to Harek.

All right! Either she was telling the truth,

in which case Fennan was a spy.

Or Elsa was lying. She was the spy.

Fennan got wind of it. He couldn't endure it.

He cut off her source of information

and denounced himself in a letter,

which he typed on his own typewriter.

- Now, why on Earth...

- To attract the attention of somebody,

anybody, in Security

without burning his boats

by going through official channels.

Perhaps somebody

that he could personally trust

enough to be able to get

private advice from,

instead of a pair of handcuffs and

a life sentence for the wife that he loved.

- Who typed the suicide note?

- Oh, it can only have been Harek

when he committed the murder

while Elsa was out at the theatre.

And signed it?

You're not going to tell me

that Harek couldn't have obtained

a specimen signature through Elsa.

Are you suggesting that Elsa may have

connived at her husband's murder?

That's rather a ghoulish thought, Charlie.

She's had rather a ghoulish life.

It's quite possible, of course,

she didn't know

what Harek wanted the signature for,

but even if she did know, look,

as a young Jewish girl gets broken

on the Nazi wheel like a bloody butterfly,

they pull off her wings,

and when she can only crawl

they break her legs.

But she survives.

Crippled in mind as well as in body.

She grows older, she looks around

and what does she see?

She sees that all her suffering

has been futile.

She sees her persecutors prospering.

Is she a communist?

I don't think she likes labels.

I think she wants to help build one society

which can live without conflict.

I think she wants peace.

The communists have a way

of using people like that.

I want to find the communist

who's using her.

Mendel, would you be prepared... Oh.

Mendel, would you be prepared to wake up?

Sonntag!

That's our Mendel. He only likes facts.

That's right. Sonntag is a fact.

Who the hell's Sonntag?

Sonntag is the cover name for the man

that Elsa said was operating her husband.

She said she'd never seen him,

but I think she was lying.

Excuse me, it's from Ann.

I think she was lying.

I think that Sonntag was operating her.

Could we bluff them

into meeting each other?

Sonntag and Elsa?

Come with me.

I want you to type something.

Mrs Elsa Fennan,

Wish you were here.

Signed, S.

It's an emergency rendezvous signal.

How can you be sure you're using

the right conventions, the right phrase?

The postcard itself is the signal,

irrespective of what's written on it.

Now when Elsa gets that tomorrow morning,

she's supposed to send

a completely innocent and unrelated reply

to a prearranged accommodation address.

And the ideal reply would be a ticket

to something that's bound to happen

at a certain place at a certain time.

Like a seat for a concert,

or a reserved place on a train.

She's an unusual colour.

- I'm not sure she's going to have puppies.

- Really? Well, if you'll excuse me.

- Of course.

- Goodbye.

Dobbs? She's bitten!

She's taking the 10:42 bus to Victoria.

I shall be right ahead of her.

That'll be 2, 10 shillings, please.

Thank you very much.

Do you have two gangway stalls

for tomorrow's matinee, please?

Yes, we have F-12 and 13.

- Did you see the envelope?

- Yes.

- Could you read it?

- Short of indecently assaulting her, no.

But as she posted it

in the "London and Abroad" box,

and as the theatre tickets were booked

for tomorrow's matinee,

I assumed she wasn't mailing it abroad.

Cor, that's the first time

I've ever known you sink to an assumption.

Yeah, it was sustained by the sight

of a four-penny stamp on the envelope.

Then Sonntag's in London.

He'll get the ticket

first post tomorrow morning.

I took the liberty of buying us

three tickets for tomorrow's matinee.

Here.

Me in N-18, on the gangway,

six rows behind Elsa and Sonntag.

A-1 and 2, front row of the dress circle

for you and Bill,

with a view of row F in the stalls.

Is as Elysium to a newcome soul:

Not that I love the city or the men,

But that it harbours him I hold so dear,

The King, upon whose bosom let me lie,

And with the world be still at enmity.

What need the arctic people love starlight,

To whom the sun shines

both by day and night?

Farewell base stooping to the lordly peers,

My knee shall bow to none but to the King.

As for the multitude, that are but sparks,

Raked up in embers of their poverty...

These are not men for me,

I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits,

Musicians, that with touching of a string

May draw the pliant King

which way I choose.

Music and poetry is his delight,

Therefore I'll have Italian masks by night,

Sweet speeches, comedies

and pleasing shows,

And in the day, when he shall walk abroad...

She's here, he isn't.

Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad,

My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns,

Shall with their goat feet dance an antic hay.

Sometime a lovely boy in Dian's shape,

With hair that gilds the water as it glides,

Crownets of pearl about his naked arms,

And in his sportful hands an olive tree,

To hide those parts

which men delight to see...

Give us a kiss.

Shall bathe him in a spring.

Such things as these

best please his majesty,

My dearest Lord...

Here comes my Lord the King

and the nobles from the Parliament.

I'll stand aside.

Why's he so bloody late?

Lancaster!

My liege.

- Excuse me.

- Thank you.

Course, there's no reason

why he shouldn't be late.

He's not here for the fun of the thing.

- Have you seen Mendel?

- Yes.

If they split up when they leave,

I'm to follow her,

and Mendel will follow him.

You're to go home and stay put

by the phone, Charlie. She knows you.

And you can't follow Sonntag

all over London

waving that thing

like a luminous Indian club.

All this supposing that he turns up at all.

Ladies and gentlemen,

Act two is about to commence.

And art thou resolute to kill the King?

Ay, ay, and none shall know

which way he died.

Then do it bravely, Lightborn,

and be secret.

You shall not need to give instructions,

'Tis not the first time I have killed a man:

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