He glanced at his watch, then at Fawn. The coinbox stood next to the lavatory. But when Smiley asked the proprietor for change, he refused it on the grounds that he was too busy.
'Hand it over, you awkward bastard!' shouted a long-distance driver all in leather. The proprietor briskly obliged.
'How did it go?' Guillam asked, taking the call on the direct line.
'Good background,' Smiley replied.
'Hooray,' said Guillam.
Another of the charges later levelled against Smiley was that he wasted time on menial matters, instead of delegating them to his subordinates.
There are blocks of flats near the Town and Country Golf Course on the northern fringes of London that are like the superstructure of permanently sinking ships. They lie at the end of long lawns where the flowers are never quite in flower, the husbands man the lifeboats all in a flurry at about eight-thirty in the morning and the women and children spend the day keeping afloat until their menfolk return too tired to sail anywhere. These buildings were built in the thirties and have stayed a grubby white ever since. Their oblong, steelframed windows look on to the lush billows of the links, where weekday women in eyeshades wander like lost souls. One such block is called Arcady Mansions, and the Pellings lived in number seven, with a cramped view of the ninth green which vanished when the beeches were in leaf. When Smiley rang the bell he heard nothing except the thin electric tinkle: no footsteps, no dog, no music. The door opened and a man's cracked voice said 'Yes?' from the darkness, but it belonged to a woman. She was tall and stooping. A cigarette hung from her hand.
'My name is Oates,' Smiley said, offering a big green card encased in cellophane. To a different cover belongs a different name.
'Oh it's you is it? Come in. Dine, see the show. You sounded younger on the telephone,' she boomed in a curdled voice striving for refinement. 'He's in here. He thinks you're a spy,' she said, squinting at the green card. 'You're not, are you?'
'No,' said Smiley. 'I'm afraid not. Just a snooper.'
The flat was all corridors. She led the way, leaving a vapour trail of gin. One leg slurred as she walked, and her right arm was stiff. Smiley guessed she had had a stroke. She dressed as if nobody had ever admired her height or sex. And as if she didn't care. She wore flat shoes and a mannish pullover with a belt that made her shoulders broad.
'He says he's never heard of you. He says he's looked you up in the telephone directory and you don't exist.'
'We like to be discreet,' Smiley said.
She pushed open a door. 'He exists,' she reported loudly, ahead of her into the room. 'And he's not a spy, he's a snooper.'
In a far chair, a man was reading the Daily Telegraph, holding it in front of his face so that Smiley only saw the bald head, and the dressing gown, and the short crossed legs ending in leather bedroom slippers; but somehow he knew at once that Mr Pelling was the kind of small man who would only ever marry tall women. The room carried everything he could need in order to survive alone. His television, his bed, his gas fire, a table to eat at and an easel for painting by numbers. On the wall hung an over-coloured portrait photograph of a very beautiful girl with an inscription scribbled diagonally across one corner, in the way that film stars wish love to the unglamorous. Smiley recognised it as Elizabeth Worthington. He had seen a lot of photographs already.
'Mr Oates, meet Nunc,' she said, and all but curtsied.
The Daily Telegraph came down with the slowness of a garrison flag, revealing an aggressive, glittering little face with thick brows and managerial spectacles.
'Yes. Well just who are you precisely?' said Mr Pelling. 'Are you Secret Service or aren't you? Don't shilly shally, out with it and be done. I don't hold with snooping you see. What's that?' he demanded.
'His card,' said Mrs Pelling, offering it. 'Green in hue.'
'Oh, we're exchanging notes are we? I need a card too, then, Cess, don't I? Better get some printed, my dear. Slip down to Smith's, will you?'
'Do you like tea?' Mrs Pelling asked, peering down at Smiley with her head on one side.
'What are you giving him tea for?' Mr Pelling demanded, watching her plug in the kettle. 'He doesn't need tea. He's not a guest. He's not even Intelligence. I didn't ask him. Stay the week,' he said to Smiley. 'Move in if you like. Have her bed. Bullion Universal Security Advisers, my Aunt Fanny.'
'He wants to talk about Lizzie, darling,' said Mrs Pelling, setting a tray for her husband. 'Now be a father for a change.'
'Fat lot of good her bed would do you, mind,' said Mr Pelling, taking up his Telegraph again.
'For those kind words,' said Mrs Pelling and gave a laugh. It consisted of two notes, like a birdcall, and was not meant to be funny. A disjointed silence followed.
Mrs Pelling handed Smiley a cup of tea. Accepting it, he addressed himself to the back of Mr Pelling's newspaper. 'Sir, your daughter Elizabeth is being considered for an important appointment with a major overseas corporation. My organisation has been asked in confidence — as a normal but very necessary formality these days — to approach friends and relations in this country and obtain character references.'
'That's us, dear,' Mrs Pelling explained, in case her husband hadn't understood.
The newspaper came down with a snap. 'Are you suggesting my daughter is of bad character? Is that what you're sitting here, drinking my tea, suggesting?'
'No, sir,' said Smiley.
'No, sir,' said Mrs Pelling, unhelpfully.
A long silence followed, which Smiley was at no great pains to end. 'Mr Pelling,' he said finally, in a firm and patient voice. 'I understand that you spent many years in the Post Office, and rose to a high position.'
'Many, many years,' Mrs Pelling agreed.
'I worked,' said Mr Pelling from behind his newspaper once more. 'There's too much talk in the world. Not enough work done.'
'Did you employ criminals in your department?'
The newspaper rattled, then held still.
'Or Communists?' said Smiley, equally gently.
'If we did we damn soon got rid of them,' said Mr Pelling, and this time the newspaper stayed down.
Mrs Pelling snapped her fingers. 'Like that,' she said.
'Mr Pelling,' Smiley continued, in the same bedside manner, 'the position for which your daughter is being considered is with one of the major eastern companies. She will be specialising in air transport and her work will give her advance knowledge of large gold shipments to and from this country, as well as the movement of diplomatic couriers and classified mails. It carries an extremely high remuneration. I don't think it unreasonable — and I don't think you do — that your daughter should be subject to the same procedures as any other candidate for such a responsible — and desirable — post.'
'Who employs you?' said Mr Pelling. 'That's what I'm getting at. Who says you're responsible?'
'Nunc,' Mrs Pelling pleaded. 'Who says anyone is?'
'Don't Nunc me! Give him some more tea. You're hostess, aren't you? Well act like one. It's high time Lizzie was rewarded and I'm frankly displeased that it hasn't occurred before now, seeing what they owe her.'
Mr Pelling resumed his reading of Smiley's impressive green card. ' Correspondents in Asia, USA and Middle East. Pen friends I suppose they are. Head Office in South Molton Street. Any enquiries telephone bla bla bla. Who do I get then? Your partner in crime, I suppose.'
'If it's South Molton Street he must be all right,' said Mrs Pelling.
'Authority without responsibility,' Mr Pelling said, dialling the number. He spoke as if someone were holding his nostrils. 'I don't hold with it I'm afraid.'
'With responsibility,' Smiley corrected him. 'We, as a company, are pledged to indemnify our customers against any dishonesty on the part of staff we recommend. We are insured accordingly.'