Free Call for the Dead by John le Carré Page A

dear, the ghost at the feast," and they all looked at him and giggled. The woman spoke first: "Are you looking for someone, dear?" "Sorry to butt in. Wanted to talk about becoming a subscriber to the theatre. Join the club." "Have you seen our panto this year? 'Treasure Island.' Such a gratifying success. And so much more social content, don't you think, than those vulgar nursery tales?" Mendel said: "Yes, wasn't it," without the least idea of what she was talking about, when his eye caught a pile of bills rather neatly assembled and held together by a bull-dog clip. The top one was made out to Mrs. Ludo Oriel and was four months overdue. She was looking at him shrewdly through her glasses. She was small and dark, with lines on her neck and a great deal of make-up. The lines under her eyes had been levelled off with greasepaint but the effect had not lasted. She was wearing slacks and a chunky pullover liberally splashed with distemper. She smoked incessantly. Her mouth was very long, and as she held her cigarette in the middle of it in a direct line beneath her nose, her lips formed an exaggerated convex curve, distorting the lower half of her face and giving her an ill-tempered and impatient look. Mendel thought she would probably be difficult and clever. It was a relief to think she couldn't pay her bills. "You do want to join the club, don't you?" "No." She suddenly flew into a rage: "If you're another bloody tradesman you can get out. I've said I'll pay and I will, just don't pester me. If you let people think I'm finished I will be and you'll be the losers, not me." "Fm not a creditor, Mrs. Oriel. I've come to offer you money." She was waiting. "Fm a divorce agent. Rich client. Like to ask you a few questions. We're prepared to pay for your time." "Christ," she said with relief. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" They both laughed. Mendel put five pounds on top of the bills, counting them down. "Now," said Mendel; "how do you keep your club subscription list? What are the benefits of joining?" "Well, we have watery coffee on stage every morning at eleven sharp. Members of the club can mix with the cast during the break between rehearsals from 11.00 to 11.45. They pay for whatever they have, of course, but entry is strictly limited to club members." "Quite." "That's probably the part that interests you. We seem to get nothing but pansies and nymphos in the morning." "It may be. What else goes on?" "We put on a different show each fortnight. Members can reserve seats for a particular day of each run--the second Wednesday of each run, and so on. We always begin a run on the first and third Mondays of the month. The show begins at 7.30 and we hold the club reservations until 7.20. The girl at the box office has the seating plan and strikes off each seat as it's sold. Club reservations are marked in red and aren't sold off till last." "I see. So if one of your members doesn't take his usual seat, it would be marked off on the seating plan." "Only if it's sold." "Of course." "We're not often full after the first week. We're trying to do a show a week, you see, but it's not easy to get the--er--facilities. There isn't the support for two-week runs really." "No, no, quite. Do you keep old seating plans?" "Sometimes, for the accounts." "How about Tuesday the third of January?" She opened a cupboard and took out a sheaf of printed seating plans. "This is the second fortnight of our pantomime, of course. Tradition." "Quite," said Mendel. "Now who is it you're so interested in?" asked Mrs. Oriel, picking up a ledger from the desk. "Small blonde party, aged about forty-two or three. Name of Fennan, Eisa Fennan." "Name doesn't ring a bell. Where does she sit?" "No idea." "Oh, yes, here we are. Merridale Lane, Walliston. Merridale!--I ask you. Let's look. A rear stall at the end of a row. Very odd choice, don't you think? Seat number R2. But God knows whether she took it on 3rd January. I shouldn't think we've got the plan any