Len Deighton - Harry Palmer 02 by Horse Under Water

Author:Horse Under Water [Water, Horse Under]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

33 Jean when I find her

I got back to my flat about five thirty. I fixed coffee and started a large coal fire. Outside, lines of mud-spattered cars moved southward out of the city through a gauze of diesel fumes. The weather forecaster was worried about snow and I’ll bet the six o’clock news didn’t relax him any.

I erected a card table in the bedroom, dusted off the Nikon F and clipped it into the holder after loading it with fine resolution film. Over the baseboard four photoflood holders were directed downwards. I flipped the switch and a glare of tungsten light splashed around the walls. I left the bedroom and locked the door behind me.

I was drinking a second cup of Blue Mountain as Jean arrived. Her mouth was cold. We touched noses and exchanged hellos and ‘isn’t-it-turning-colds’ and ‘snow-before-Christmas-I-wouldn’t-be-surpriseds’, then I put her into the Ivor Butcher picture. Jean said, ‘Buy it’, but I didn’t want to do that. If I showed any interest it would reveal more than I wanted to reveal, especially to Ivor Butcher. Jean said I was a paranoiac, but she hadn’t been in the business long enough to develop that sixth sense that I was always telling myself I had.

Ivor Butcher sat in his blue Jag across the road for some time before coming to the front door. It was very professionally done. I took his coat and poured him a drink. We hung around waiting for my fictional man from the P.O. for twenty minutes. Ivor Butcher had the diary in a sealed manilla envelope. When the tension had built up a little I asked him if I could look at it He passed the envelope across my desk and I tore the top off quickly and extracted a leather diary with gold-edged pages. The surface was scuffed and it didn’t look any too new. Ivor Butcher was about to open his mouth to protest, but I kept the diary tightly shut and he kept his mouth the same way. I put it back into the envelope.

‘Looks O.K.,’ I said. Ivor Butcher nodded. I turned the envelope slowly around, passing it between fingers and thumbs. His eyes watched the envelope. I got up, walked across to him. I folded the torn envelope top and pushed it into the pocket of his shiny, synthetic fibre suit. He smiled sheepishly. ‘I’ll phone the P.O. man’s office,’ I said, and went to the extension phone in the bedroom.

It had been simple to drop the diary out of the torn end of the envelope into my lap and not too difficult to substitute an object of approximately the correct shape and size. Luckily Ivor Butcher’s description of the dimensions had been fairly accurate, but I had two variations handy had it not been.

I clipped it on to the baseboard and switched on the bright lights. I pushed the shutter. Kerlick - the roller blind moved gently across the film. I turned the page and photoed the next one.

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