A Small Town in Germany

She closed her eyes.

'He was so little,' she burst out. 'You could hurt him so easily. I'd already accused him of opening my letters. I loved him... I swear I've never loved anyone...' Gradually her crying stopped.

'So you gave him the keys? The whole bunch? That's room keys, safe keys -'

'Keys to all desks and steel cupboards; to the front and rear doors of the building and the key to turn off the alarm in Chancery Registry.'

'Lift keys?'

'The lift wasn't bolted by then... the grilles weren't up... They did that the next weekend.'

'How long did he have them for?'

'Five minutes. Maybe less. It's not long enough, is it?' She had seized his arm beseeching him. 'Say it's not long enough.'

'To take an impression? He could take fifty impressions if he knew what he was about.'

'He'd need wax or plasticine or something: I asked. I looked it up.'

'He'd have had it ready in his room,' Turner said indifferently. 'He lived on the ground floor.

Don't worry,' he added gently. 'He may just have been letting in the choir. Don't let your imagination run a way with you.'

She had stopped crying. Her voice calmed. She spoke with a sense of private recognition: 'It wasn't choir practice night. Choir practice is on Fridays. This was Thursday.'

'You found out, did you? Asked the Chancery Guard?'

'I knew already! I knew when I handed him the keys! I tell myself I didn't, but I did. But I had to trust him. It was an act of giving. Don't you see? An act of giving, an act of love. How can I expect a man to understand that?'

'And after you'd given,' Turner said, getting up, 'he didn't want you any more, did he?'

'That's like all men, isn't it?'

'Did he ring you Saturday?'

'You know he didn't.' Her face was still buried in her forearm. He closed the notebook. 'Can you hear me?'

'Yes.'

'Did he ever mention a woman to you; a Margaret Aickman? He was engaged to her. She knew Harry Praschko as well.'

'No.' 'No other woman?' 'No.' 'Did he ever talk politics?' 'No.' 'Did he ever give you any cause to suppose he was a person of strong left-wing leanings?'

'No.' 'Ever see him in the company of suspicious persons?'

'No.' 'Did he talk about his childhood? His uncle? An uncle who lived in Hampstead. A Communist who brought him up?' 'No.' 'Uncle Otto?' 'No.' 'Did he ever mention Praschko?

Well, did he? Did he ever mention Praschko, do you hear?' 'He said Praschko was the only friend he'd ever had.' She broke down again, and again he waited.

'Did he mention Praschko's politics?'

'No.' 'Did he say they were still friends?'

She shook her head. 'Somebody had lunch with Harting last Thursday. The day before he left. At the Maternus. Was that you?' 'I told you! I swear to you!' 'Was it?' 'No!' 'He's marked it down as you. It's marked P. That's how he wrote you down other times.' 'It wasn't me!' 'Then it was Praschko, was it?' 'How should I know?' 'Because you had an affair with him! You told me half and not the rest! You were sleeping with him up to the day he left!'

'It's not true!'

'Why did Bradfield protect him? He hated Leo's guts; why did he look after him like that? Give him jobs? Keep him on the payroll?'

'Please go,' she said. 'Pleasego. Never come back.'

'Why?'

She sat up.

'Get out,' she said.

'You had dinner with him Friday night. The night he left. You were sleeping with him and you won't admit it!'

'No!' 'He asked you about the Green File! He made you get the despatch box for him!'

'He didn't! He didn't! Get out!' 'I want a cab.' He waited while she telephoned.

'Sofort,' she said, 'Sofort,' come at once and take him a way.

He was at the door. 'What will you do when you find him?' she asked with that slack voice that follows passion.

'Not my business.'

'Don't you care?'

'We never will find him, so what does it matter?'

'Then why look for him?'

'Why not? That's how we spend our lives, isn't it? Looking for people we'll never find.'

He walked slowly down the stairs to the hall. From another flat came the growl of a cocktail party. A group of Arabs, very drunk, swept past him pulling off their coats and shouting. He waited on the doorstep. Across the river, the narrow lights of Chamberlain's Petersberg hung like a necklace in the warm dark.

A new block stood directly before him. It seemed to have been built from the top, beginning with the crane and working downwards. He thought he had seen it before from a different angle. A railway bridge straddled the end of the avenue. As the express thundered over it, he saw the silent diners grazing at their food.

'The Embassy,' he said. 'British Embassy.'

'Englische Botschaft?'

'Not English. British. I'm in a hurry.'

The driver swore at him, shouting about diplomats. They drove extremely fast and once they nearly hit a tram.

'Get a bloody move on, can't you?'

He demanded a receipt. The driver kept a rubber stamp and a pad in his glove tray, and he hit the paper so hard that it crumpled. The Embassy was a ship, all its windows blazing. Black figures moved in the lobby with the slow coupling of a ballroom dance. The car park was full. He threw away the receipt. Lumley didn't countenance taxi fares. It was a new rule since the last cut. There was no one he could claim from. Except Harting, whose debts appeared to be accumulating.

Bradfield was in conference, Miss Peate said. He would probably be flying to Brussels with the Ambassador before morning. She had put a way her papers and was fiddling with a blue leather placement tray, fitting the names round a dinner table in order of precedence, and she spoke to him as if it were her duty to frustrate him. And de Lisle was at the Bundestag, listening to the debate on Emergency Legislation.

'I want to see the Duty Officer's keys.'

'I'm afraid you can only have them with Mr Bradfield's consent.'

He fought with her and that was what she wanted. He overcame her and that was what she wanted too. She gave him a written authority signed by Administration Section and countersigned by the Minister (Political). He took it to the front desk where Macmullen was on duty. Macmullen was a big, steady man, some time sergeant of Edinburgh constabulary, and whatever he had heard about Turner had given him no pleasure.