The Other Side of Silence

“What about spying? Ever done any of that?”

“Spying?”

“What I mean is, have you ever undertaken any clandestine activities?”

“Only at the Grand Hotel. When I’m not muscle for Mr. Maugham I work as a concierge. I’m often to be found looking through keyholes. I like to keep an eye on blondes to see if they’re natural or not.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“These days most of them are faking it.”

“Walter has had a tough time with the ladies, I think,” observed Maugham. “I think his heart has been broken once too often.”

“There’s nothing like an unhappy love affair to give you a good laugh,” I said.

“Righto,” said Reilly in a cheery sort of way. “I just wanted to make sure you can be trusted. I’m sure you can appreciate why we need to do something like that. Things being what they are, right now. Everyone in Whitehall is more than a little paranoid.”

“Sure, I get it.” I smiled uncertainly, wondering if I had just been vetted; and the possibility that Patrick Reilly had cleared me as a security risk was enough to make me understand for the first time just how easy it had been for Burgess and Maclean to spy successfully for the Russians over such a long period of time. Burgess hadn’t exaggerated. A retarded child could probably have been as effective a spy as he’d managed to be. If Reilly could have cleared me he might just as easily have cleared Julius and Ethel Rosenberg.

“Anyone know the score in the test match?” he asked brightly.

TWENTY-FOUR

Sir John Sinclair came back from the library, took Reilly aside with some urgency, and then moved him smoothly into the drawing room, leaving me alone on the terrace with Somerset Maugham. The MI6 director’s face had been flushed and was anything but its usual inscrutably English mask. Clearly he had learned something from London that had alarmed him. After a moment or two, he came back and closed the French windows firmly, as if the utmost discretion was now required.

“Hello,” said Maugham, “something’s up, I think.”

I helped myself to another brandy. I was drinking too much but when the brandy was as good as that being served at the Villa Mauresque such considerations hardly seemed to matter. Besides, I was bored. That’s the thing about the British, even when they’re spies they’re so very boring.

“Oh Lord,” said Maugham, “I do hope they’re not going to start quibbling about the money.” His snake eyes narrowed. “Look here, I’ve decided. I’m not going to pay if there’s any question of them not reimbursing me. Sorry, Walter, and rest assured I’ll pay you what I agreed to pay you. But I shall copy the Duke of Wellington’s example and tell this German bastard to publish and be damned. I’d rather say to hell with them all than lose that Lepine. After all, what can the press do to me down here? I’m already an exile. It will be tough on my brother, but we’ve never been close and he’ll just have to ride out the storm.”

From the place where he’d left them, on the refectory table in the drawing room, Sinclair collected the notes he’d made when listening to the tape and consulted them impatiently; then, giving up, he tossed the notebook aside, turned a knob on the Grundig, and wound the tape back to the beginning.

“I don’t think it’s a problem with the money,” I said. “I’d say there’s a problem with something Burgess said.”

“You don’t suppose they think the tape is a fake?” Maugham asked.

“You heard Blunt. He’s certain that it’s Burgess talking. And according to all of you, he’s the one who knows Burgess better than anyone. Whatever that means. No, this is something else. Something factual, perhaps. If only we could hear what’s happening in that drawing room.”

“Shit.” Maugham turned a full circle on his heel and then stamped his foot irritably.

“There’s nothing to do except be patient,” I said. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

“Soon enough might be too late.” Maugham shook his head. “Look here, Walter,” he said, “there is a way someone can eavesdrop on what’s happening in there. But you need to be a lot younger and quicker than I to do it. I was going to use this method in Ashenden, but my editor didn’t believe it would work. But it does work, I can assure you. At least it does at the Villa Mauresque. If you go up to my study and then climb along the roof a bit, you can hear almost everything. The fireplace in the drawing room acts like a giant ear trumpet and conducts all of the sound straight up the chimney. The number of times I’ve stood up there and listened to what my guests really thought about me. I shall never invite Diana Cooper again. Well, go on. I’ll follow you up to the study.”