Free The Tailor of Panama by John le Carré

the opening, making a precautionary survey of the Sportsman’s Corner. He heard Osnard speaking again, but so close to his ear that the murmur made it buzz.
    â€œYou’re 906017 Pendel, convict and ex–juvenile delinquent, six years for arson, two and a half served. Taught himself his tailoring in the slammer. Left the country three days after he had paid his debt to society, staked by his paternal Uncle Benjamin, now deceased. Married to Louisa, daughter of Zonian roughneck and Bible-punching schoolteacher, who dogsbodies five days a week for the great and good Ernie Delgado over at the Panama Canal Commission. Two kids: Mark eight, Hannah ten. Insolvent, courtesy o’ the rice farm. Pendel & Braithwaite a load o’ bollocks. No such firm existed in Savile Row. There was never a liquidation because there was nothing to liquidate. Arthur Braithwaite one of the great characters o’ fiction. Adore a con. What life’s about. Don’t give me that swivel-eyed look. I’m bonus. Answer to your prayers. You hearing me?”
    Pendel heard nothing at all. He stood head down and feet together, numb all over, ears included. Rousing himself, he lifted Osnard’s arm until it was level with the shoulder. Folded it so that the hand rested flat against the chest. Pressed the end of the tape to the centre point of Osnard’s back. Led it round the elbow to the wristbone.
    â€œI asked you who else is in on it,” Osnard was saying.
    â€œIn on what?”
    â€œThe con. Mantle o’ Saint Arthur falling on the infant Pendel’s shoulders. P & B, tailor to the royals. Thousand years o’ history. All that crap. Apart from your wife, of course.”
    â€œShe isn’t in on it at all,” Pendel exclaimed in naked alarm. “Doesn’t know?”
    Pendel shook his head, mute again.
    â€œ Louisa doesn’t? You’re conning her too?”
    Keep shtum, Harry boy. Shtum ’s the word.
    â€œHow about your little local difficulty?”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œPrison.”
    Pendel whispered something he himself could barely hear.
    â€œIs that another no?”
    â€œYes. No.”
    â€œ She doesn’t know you did time? She doesn’t know about Uncle Arthur?
    Does she know the rice farm’s going down the tube?”
    The same measurement again. Centre back to wristbone, but with Osnard’s arms straight down. Passing the tape over his shoulder with wooden gestures.
    â€œNo again?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThought it was joint ownership.”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œBut she still doesn’t know.”
    â€œI look after the money matters, don’t I?”
    â€œI’ll say you do. How much are you in for?”
    â€œPushing a hundred grand.”
    â€œI heard it was nearer two hundred and rising.”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œInterest?”
    â€œTwo.”
    â€œTwo percent quarterly?”
    â€œMonthly.”
    â€œCompound?”
    â€œCould be.”
    â€œSet against this place. Hell d’you do that for?”
    â€œWe had something called the recession, I don’t know if it ever came your way,” said Pendel, incongruously recalling the days when, if he only had three customers, he would book them back-to-back at half-hour intervals in order to create an air of flurry.
    â€œWhat were you doing? Playing the stock exchange?”
    â€œWith the advice of my expert banker, yes.”
    â€œYour expert banker specialise in bankruptcy sales or something?”
    â€œI expect so.”
    â€œAnd it was Louisa’s lolly, right?”
    â€œHer dad’s. Half her dad’s. She’s got a sister, hasn’t she.”
    â€œWhat about the police?”
    â€œWhat police?”
    â€œPans. Local whoosies.”
    â€œWhat’s it to them?” Pendel’s voice had finally unlocked itself and was running free. “I pay my taxes. Social Security. I do my worksheets. I haven’t