* * *
The secretary of the Cosmo was a vapid Rumanian royalist called Anka who wept unaccountably in lectures. She was gangly and wild and walked with her wrists turned inside out, and when Pym stopped her in the corridor she scowled at him with red eyes and told him to go away because she had a headache. But Pym was on spy’s business and brooked no rejection.
“I’m thinking of starting a Cosmo newsletter,” he announced. “I thought we might include a contribution from each group.”
“The Cosmo don’t got no groups. The Cosmo don’t want no newsletter. You are stupid. Go away.”
Pym pursued Anka to the tiny office that was her lair.
“All I need is a list of members,” he said. “If I have a list of members I can send out a circular and find out who is interested.”
“Why don’t you come to next meeting and ask them?” Anka said, sitting down and putting her head in her hands as if she were about to be sick.
“Not everyone comes to meetings. I want to test all shades. It’s more democratic.”
“Nothing is democratic,” said Anka. “Is all illusion.”
“He is an English,” she explained to herself aloud as she hauled open a drawer and began to pick through its chaotic contents. “What does an English know about illusion?” she demanded of some private confessor. “He is mad.” She handed him a grimy sheet of names and addresses. Most of them, it turned out later, were misspelt.
“Dearest Father”— wrote Pym excitedly—“I am having one or two amazing successes here despite my youth, and I gather the Swissies are considering offering me some kind of academic honour.”
“I love you”—he wrote to Belinda—“I’ve never written that to anyone before.”
* * *
It is night. It is Bern’s darkest winter. The city will never see day again. A smothering brown fog rolls down the wet cobble of the Herrengasse and the good Swiss hurry dutifully through it like reservists headed for the front. But Pym and Jack Brotherhood sit snugly in a corner of their little restaurant and Sandy has sent his extra-special love, together with his absolutely warmest congratulations. It is the first time agent and controller have eaten together in public in their target city. An ingenious cover story has been agreed in the event of a chance encounter. Jack has appointed himself secretary of the Embassy’s Anglo-Swiss Christian Society and wishes to attract elements of the university. What more natural than he should turn to Magnus whom he knows from the English church? For deeper cover still he has brought the lovely Wendy who works in Chancery and is honey-haired and well-born, and has a slight but prominent protrusion of the upper lip as if she is permanently blowing out a candle just below her chin. Wendy loves both men equally; she is a natural and spontaneous toucher, with shallow, unfrightening breasts. When Pym has finished describing how he landed his great coup, Wendy cannot resist laying a hand along his cheek and saying, “God, Magnus, that was so brave. I mean marvellous. Wouldn’t Jemima be proud if she was allowed to know. Don’t you think so, Jack?” But all very quietly, in the soft-fall voice that even the horsiest must learn before they are let out of the paddock. And going very near to Jack with her hair to speak to him.
“You did a damn good job,” says Brotherhood with his military smile. “Church should be proud of you,” he adds, straight at his agent. They drink to Pym’s good job for the church.
It is coffee time and Brotherhood has taken an envelope from one jacket pocket and from the other a pair of steel-framed half-moon spectacles which give a mysteriously finite authority to his British-brave face. Not alimony this time, for alimony comes in a white unwatermarked envelope, not a mousy-brown one like this. He does not hand it to Pym but opens it himself in full view of everyone who cares to watch, and asks Wendy for a pencil, dear, your flashy gold one, don’t tell me how you earned that. And Wendy says, “For you, darling, anything,” and drops it into his cupped hands, which close on hers. Jack spreads the paper out before him.
“Just want to check on a few of these addresses,” he says. “Don’t want to start sending out literature till we’re sure. Okay?”
“Okay” meaning: Have you decoded this brilliant double entendre?
Pym says absolutely fine and Wendy trails a loving fingernail down the list, stopping at one or two lucky names that are marked with ticks and crosses.
“Only it seems that one or two members of our choir have been quite unduly modest about their personal particulars. Almost as if they wanted to hide their lights under a bushel,” says Brotherhood.
“I didn’t really look,” says Pym.
Brotherhood’s voice drops. “Nor should you. That’s our job.”
“We couldn’t find your lovely Maria anywhere,” says Wendy, frightfully disappointed. “What have you done with her?”
“I’m afraid she has gone back to Italy,” says Pym.
“Not looking for a replacement, Magnus, are you, darling?” says Wendy, and all laugh uproariously, Pym loudest, though he would have given the rest of his life just for the sight of one of her breasts.
Brotherhood mentions names that have no addresses. Pym can help with none of them, cannot put faces to them, cannot supply character descriptions. In other circumstances, he would gladly have made some up but Brotherhood has an uncomfortab — le way of knowing answers before he asks questions and Pym is getting wise to this. Wendy refills the men’s glasses and keeps the dregs for herself. Brotherhood passes to addresses that have no names.
“A.H.,” he says carelessly. “Ring a bell? A.—H.?”
Pym confesses it does not. “I really haven’t been to enough meetings yet,” he says apologetically. “I’ve been having rather a hard slog at my work before exams.”
Brotherhood is still smiling, still perfectly relaxed. Does he know that Pym is sitting no exams? Pym notices that Wendy’s pencil has nearly vanished inside his closed fist. Its sharp end peeks out of it like a tiny gun barrel.
“Think a bit,” Brotherhood suggests. And says it again, mouthing it slowly like a password: “A.—H.”
“Perhaps it’s A.H. somebody else,” says Pym. “A. H. Smith. Schmidt. I could find a way of asking if you like. It’s all quite open really.”
Wendy has frozen in the way you freeze in party games when the music stops. Her smile has frozen with her. Wendy has the private secretary’s art of suspending her personality until it is required and something has told her it is not required at present. The waiter is clearing plates. Brotherhood’s fist is covering the paper so that quite by accident no names are visible to the passer-by.
“Would it help if I told you that A.H., whoever he is — or she is — shares a certain address in the Länggasse. Or says he does. Care of Ollinger. That’s your place too, isn’t it?”
“Oh you mean Axel,” says Pym.
* * *
Somewhere a cock was crowing but Pym didn’t hear it. His ears were full of a kind of waterfall, his heart was bursting with a sense of righteous duty. He was in Rick’s dressing-room, looking for a way of stealing back the love he had given to a wrong cause. He was in the staff lavatory, doing a knife job on the classiest boy in the school. There were the stories Axel had told him when he was delirious and spilling his drinking water with both hands. There were the stories he had told him in Davos when they went to visit Thomas Mann’s sanatorium. There were the crumbs he had gleaned for himself on his occasional precautionary inspections of Axel’s room. And there was Brotherhood’s clever prompting that dragged things out of him he hadn’t realised he knew. Axel’s father had fought with the Thälmann brigade in Spain, he said. He was an old-style Social Democrat, so he was lucky to die before the Nazis could arrest him.