Free England Made Me by Graham Greene Page B

gates, somebody coughed, a sea bird mewed outside the window, and the tiredness flowed out of him as if at a séance, restless with the shaking of tambourine, the creak of table.
    â€˜Where have you been, Erik?’ He closed the door carefully, nipped out the thin glitter from the passage.
    â€˜There’s a reporter waiting about.’
    â€˜What does he want?’
    The flow of weariness for a moment ceased; he said with sharp vitality: ‘A series of great Swedes.’ Then he was as tired as before, feeling for somewhere to put his hat. ‘Somebody’s set them at me. I don’t know why.’
    â€˜This is my brother. You remember. I wired you something –’
    He came out again into the light of the room and Anthony saw how his hair receded from his temple, giving the impression of more brow than most men have. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Farrant, we must have a talk tomorrow. You must excuse me tonight. I’ve had a tiring day.’ He waited stiffly for Anthony to go; the impression was not so much one of rudeness as of awkwardness.
    â€˜Well, I’ll be pushing along to the hotel,’ Anthony said.
    â€˜I hope you had a good journey.’
    â€˜Oh, it wasn’t so dusty,’ Anthony said.
    â€˜Electrification,’ Krogh began and stopped. ‘Oh, you must forgive me. Dusty. I had forgotten the expression.’
    â€˜Well, good-bye,’ Anthony said.
    â€˜Good-bye.’
    â€˜Can you amuse yourself, Tony?’ Kate said.
    â€˜Oh, I’ll find a flicker,’ Anthony said, ‘– or the Davidge perhaps.’ He let himself out and closed the door behind him very slowly; he was curious to know how they greeted each other when they were alone. But all he heard Krogh say was: ‘Dusty. I’d quite forgotten,’ and a moment later: ‘Laurin’s ill.’
    Through the glass lift-shaft he could see the hall far below him, glittering with light; the porter’s bald head bent over the visitors’ book sailed slowly up towards him, two men sitting on either side of the hall uncurled like watch-springs till he could see their waistcoats, their legs, their shoes, till they faced him through the door of the lift. He got out and closed the door. When he turned again they were on their feet watching him. One of them, a young man, came forward and said something to him gently in Swedish.
    â€˜I’m English,’ Anthony said. ‘I don’t understand a word.’ He looked over the young man’s shoulder to the smile which dawned on the other’s face. Small, wrinkled, dusty, with a stub of cigarette stuck to his lower lip, he advanced with outstretched hand. ‘So you’re English,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that lucky? I’m English too.’ There was something in his manner, cocky and ingratiating, which Anthony remembered well. It was the shabby badge of a profession, as unmistakable as a worn attaché case, a golf bag hiding the detachable parts of a vacuum cleaner.
    â€˜I don’t want to buy anything,’ Anthony said. The Swede stood at his elbow, his head a little on one side, listening carefully, hoping to understand.
    â€˜No, no, you’re wrong,’ the man said. ‘My name’s Minty. Have a cup of coffee. The porter will oblige. I’m not a stranger here. Ask Miss Farrant about me.’
    â€˜Miss Farrant’s my sister.’
    â€˜I ought to have guessed it. You take after her.’
    â€˜I don’t want a cup of coffee. Who are you anyway?’
    The man peeled the stump of cigarette off his lip; it was stuck as hard as sticking-plaster and left a few yellow shreds behind it. He ground the rest under his heel on the black glass floor. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you’re suspicious. You don’t trust Minty to do the right thing by you. But you won’t get a better price in Stockholm for a story.’
    â€˜Oh,’ Anthony said,