Faith. Len Deighton

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СКАЧАТЬ man was not using the wrong entrance.

      ‘Are you all right?’ said the kid, looking at me strangely.

      ‘You’ve been here before?’

      ‘They always leave the front door unlocked. It’s all right.’ As if to demonstrate this familiarity he pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside. I followed him. The house was in darkness, and only silky moonlight through the fanlight enabled us to see. A wide staircase with a carved wooden rail descended to a grand hall tiled with large black and white squares. Against one wall a longcase clock stood still and silent, its lifeless hands clasping the number twelve. Occupying the greater part of the opposite wall hung a towering oil-painting: a life-size depiction of a Prussian general stared serenely at the artist, while smoking cannon roared and a bloody mayhem of men and mounts provided a colourful background. The overall effect – of the family home of some nineteenth-century nobleman – was marred only slightly by a pungent smell of carbolic and scented polish that intruded an institutional dimension.

      I heard the sound of the kid clicking the light switches, but no light came. ‘Power failure,’ he pronounced after several tries. ‘Or maybe it’s switched off at the main supply.’

      For a moment I thought he was just going to stand there until something else happened, but he gathered himself together and went to the door of one of the front rooms and opened it slowly, as if half-expecting a shouted objection from inside.

      I followed him. The moonlight coming through the tall windows revealed a big room with over-stuffed armchairs and sofas, and some antique furniture that had seen better days. There was an ornate stove and a large mirror that made the room seem double its size.

      ‘Look!’ said the kid.

      But I’d already seen him: a man sitting on the sofa and toppled slightly to one side, canted at an impossible angle like some discarded doll. The kid directed his torch at the figure.

      ‘Douse the light. It might be seen through the windows.’ I went to the sofa. The man was dead. It was obvious just from the awkward posture. The moonlight made everything colourless, but the big dark patch on his chest was blood and there was more of it on the sofa and on the carpet too. His head was thrown back and his face was a horrific mess: his skull cracked open like the shell of an egg. ‘Keep still a minute,’ I said.

      ‘Where did you get the Makarov?’

      ‘Keep still. It’s just a toy,’ I explained, but the long silencer made the damn thing as conspicuous as a frontier Colt.

      I quickly went through the dead man’s pockets. The body was still warm. The blood was wet and becoming tacky. I sniffed the air but there were none of the smells of oil and burned powder that gunfire leaves. Still it was obvious that the shooting had taken place just before we arrived. I was no expert, but it would be foolhardy to think the killer must have left the vicinity.

      ‘From the guy at the bar,’ said the kid, as the explanation of where I got the gun occurred to him. ‘I should have guessed you didn’t want cigarettes … He gave it …’

      ‘Shut up,’ I said. It was the sort of stupid carelessness that got good men into trouble. ‘Pull yourself together. Check the windows and the hallway.’

      He must have realized what he’d blurted out, for he looked around as if he might spot a microphone or wires. It was his nervousness about being overheard that caused him to spot the broken window. ‘The shot came from outside,’ he said. He was holding the window curtain aside and pointing at a large round hole in the glass pane. It was at about the right level for a prowler to shoot a man sitting on the sofa.

      ‘Get away from the window – pull the curtain closed. Can the power be switched off from outside?’

      ‘Yes. The fuses are on the cellar steps.’

      ‘Close the curtain.’ The kid was still at the window looking at the garden. Then without warning I heard him retch deeply, and then came long and splashy vomiting. Oh boy, that’s all I needed. ‘Let’s go, Kinkypoo,’ I said bitterly as he coughed, spat, and wiped his face with a handkerchief. I could hear him follow me as I went to the hallway and opened the front door. I looked around the garden. There was no sign of movement, but enough big dark shadows for a battalion to be concealed.

      ‘Run for the car. I’ll cover you as best I can. Get into the back seat: I’ll drive.’ I suppose it was my way of ensuring he didn’t depart without me, but by now I had the nasty feeling that a reception party would be waiting by the car.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. I didn’t reply.

      ‘Go,’ I said.

      He ran across the grass, dragged open the wrought-iron gate and dashed out into the dark street. I followed him, flattening myself against the wall as I got outside. The trees were being shaken by the wind and making shadows on the cobbles. There was no one to be seen in any direction: just silent parked cars. Reassured, I climbed into the driver’s seat, closed my door and started the engine. The kid slammed his door with all the force he could muster, making a noise that could be heard for two or three blocks.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked anxiously.

      I was covering my face with both hands, seeking a moment of darkness to gather my wits. I understood the anxiety I heard in his voice. When I was young I’d seen some of the old wartime field agents resorting to that sort of gesture, and I’d written them off as burned out and useless. ‘I’m okay,’ I said.

      Gently I revved up and pulled away. I swung my head to get a look at him in the back. The kid had stains and marks down the front of his coat. He looked at me and wiped his mouth self-consciously. He smelled strongly of sour vomit.

      ‘What a foul-up. Poor VERDI. Are we going to be all right?’ he asked.

      ‘You stay there in the back seat and watch the road behind us. They’ll probably tail us and arrest us at the Checkpoint. It’s the way they like to work. They’ll want to see what we do.’

      ‘What’s the score?’ he said. ‘Who killed him?’

      ‘How do you know VERDI lives there?’

      ‘As opposed to meeting me there? I don’t know. I just assumed it.’

      ‘Always in that same room?’

      ‘Yes, always in that room. I guess they were on to him. They let him go to the rendezvous and then killed him.’

      ‘Maybe.’

      ‘Maybe they spotted me last time,’ said the kid. Then in a sharper voice: ‘There is a car …’

      ‘I can see it.’

      ‘A big dark Mercedes. He turned when we did at the signal.’

      ‘Keep an eye on him.’

      I didn’t want to make a mistake. It’s easy to think you’re being followed. What percentage of the cars driving through the middle of the city were heading towards the Autobahn ramp? A lot of them I would say.

      ‘Go around the block,’ suggested the kid.

      ‘That will tip them off that we’ve spotted them, and it makes it СКАЧАТЬ