Free Letters for a Spy by Stephen Benatar Page A

Oh, yes !
    I stood up. Mr Gwatkin came around the desk.
    “Are you in town on leave, Mr Andrews?”
    I nodded.
    “Which branch, may one enquire…?”
    “R.A.F.”
    “It seems to have been a long leave.”
    “Convalescence. Unfortunately, they had to whip out my appendix.”
    “And then—how unfortunately again—you had to have your pocket picked! Were you in uniform when that happened?”
    “Yes.”
    “You wouldn’t think any Englishman could ever be so vile.”
    I smiled. “Couldn’t it as easily have been a Welshman or a Scot? A Canadian or American or Pole?”
    “No. I wouldn’t believe that. Not in wartime. The only kind you could really believe capable of such despicable behaviour would be a Kraut—one of your filthy, low-down, nauseating Krauts.”
    I felt a hot surge of anger but managed to keep my answer cool.
    “Oh, I don’t suppose there’d be too many of that kind over here right now.”
    “Well, you mustn’t sound so sure! The bastards could be anywhere. I know what you mean, though. You’d think you’d be able to smell them, wouldn’t you, like rotten eggs or sewage?”
    There was a pause. I knew I had to get away.
    “I wonder what you’d have done if you hadn’t met Mr Martin?” he went on.
    “Gone to the police,” I said, abruptly.
    “Didn’t you do that, anyway?”
    “What? For the sake of just thirty bob?”
    “You know … I’m really surprised Mr Martin didn’t mention it when he arrived at the Carlton Grill.”
    “Sometimes a person doesn’t like to advertise his good deeds.”
    It was inane: for a split second I considered this as yet another point in favour of Bill Martin’s father.
    “By the way,” asked Mr Gwatkin, “why were you wanting a solicitor?”
    For a moment I was caught off guard.
    “Oh … for something which eventually blew over, thank heaven.”
    “Good. Well, let me show you out, then.” Mr Gwatkin opened the door and preceded me through it.
    “No—please. I know the way and I’ve already taken up enough of your time.” I held out my hand. “Or is there a rear exit? That could suit me even better.”
    But Mr Gwatkin—now resolutely heading down my original route, back to the reception area—punctiliously ignored this. As we walked along the corridor, the firebreak door we’d just come through was pushed open again, somewhat jerkily. We continued our journey to the rattling accompaniment of teacups on a large tin tray.

10
    Obviously I didn’t need to go back to the Carlton Grill. I tried to ring the Theatre Royal but the number was persistently engaged. I gave up. Yet when I pressed Button B for the final time, returned the pennies to my pocket and left the current kiosk—it was the fourth I had been into—I happened to see a scrawny individual whose hat looked grease-stained and whose dirty raincoat couldn’t hide the fact that his trousers were too short, revealing holey grey socks above brown, unpolished brogues.
    In fact, it wasn’t the first time I had noticed him. He had caught my eye some forty minutes earlier, when I was re-emerging into sunlight, after leaving the solicitor.
    Then the man had been chatting to a newspaper vendor. Now he was looking into a shop window.
    But all right, I told myself—all right! Don’t start imagining things. From Waterloo Place I had descended the steps to the Mall, turned left towards Trafalgar Square and then gone right, past Charing Cross and along the Strand. Owing to those abortive phone calls I hadn’t come any great distance—hadn’t realized, until much later, that I had been almost within hailing distance of the wretched Theatre Royal—so why was it remarkable that someone else should have been heading gently in the same direction: someone who might have started out either a short time or a long time after I had? Of course, if I had been weaving my way through a labyrinthine network of side streets and alleys … well then, yes, okay. But this was clearly a main