– had dwindled: they were also uneconomical.
The civilian had done; he looked up. He still seemed to want to say something more, however, and he looked at Reinecke and Bauer – all three looked at one another with much the same air – but perhaps he did not trust one or another of them, and after a moment’s silence he left: shaking of hands, little formal bows, and on his way to the door he looked at Temple with a haunted expression, or rather his field of vision (haunted vision) took in the space where Temple stood. It was not the crossing of two human regards.
‘Now,’ said Reinecke with a sudden shout, turning towards Temple: he took a few paces up and down the room, and as he passed staring, Temple flinched – an involuntary flinch, of course, an unwilling tribute. Then he recovered himself with a visible effort and stood docile, obedient and terrified, a man just this side of collapse, holding on by no more than his nails, but still holding on.
Reinecke sat down, Bauer passed him the dossier and looking down at it Reinecke bawled out, ‘Name?’
They went through the long rigmarole again, Reinecke following in the dossier with a pencil.
‘Name?’
‘Richard Temple.’
‘Born?’
‘April 7th, 1911.’
‘Where?’
‘Plimpton Rectory, Plimpton, Sussex.’
‘Name of father?’
‘Llewellyn Temple.’
‘Profession or trade?’
‘Rector.’
‘Place and date of birth?’
‘Brickfield Terrace, Cardiff. June 26th, 1860.’
His mother’s name was Laura, daughter of the Reverend Mr Richard Gray, formerly vicar of Colpoys in County Durham. Twenty-three more dated facts. It was a strangely unintelligent routine: he had never varied in the last eighteen repetitions and they must be bloody fools if they thought he would do so now. Besides, it was true, as far as literal truth had any meaning: not so much easy to remember as impossible to forget. But Reinecke was completely out of form, and the routine obviously helped him along.
When the passport questions were done with, he led his prisoner through the usual wearisome, slow, time-consuming question-and-answer that built up the unchanging picture of an inefficient, stupid, petty black-marketeer – unchanging, that is, since the first shifty protestations of innocence had been broken down.
Yes, he had crossed the Spanish frontier illegally: yes, he had been engaged in trafficking: the story he had first told about coming over to see a woman had been untrue: he had lived in Barcelona to avoid military service in England. He had not registered with the Spanish police; it was easy to live there by moving from one place to another. He had never been over to handle a deal before, but had worked at the other end. The chief was a Levantine Jew called Sol – was to be found in the café after the opera house, on the other side. He did not think that Sol ever had anything to do with passing Frenchmen or Allied agents over the Frontier: there was not enough money in it to make it interesting. He was only concerned with spare parts of cars and light machinery – merchandise in the middle price range. He did not touch drugs or girls or currency, because they were all owned by established concerns. This was the first time he had sent Temple to meet the French contact on the frontier. Temple had lost his way in the mountains: he had been arrested before he had met the Frenchman.
A pause. Was it all so convincing? He had been over and over it so often that he could no longer see it at all objectively: and what was the matter with Reinecke?
‘You do not suppose we believe all this, do you?’ said Reinecke, in a tired, reasonable voice, as if it really were a question. Goggle-eyed stupidity: distress.
Reinecke told Bauer to fetch him some files from the other building: a silence filled the room and suddenly Reinecke did the cleverest thing that he had ever done in all their horrible intimacy. He pushed Temple gently into a chair and with a voice filled with human respect and deference he said, ‘Mr Temple, you must put me in touch with an Allied intelligence officer.’
He went on, hurriedly: Temple must help him to meet someone from London or the country HQ. Reinecke could offer several valuable agents – Foster and West, and Claudius – any number of Frenchmen. He would not abuse the confidence: Reinecke must, he must insure himself – he had a family. Temple could trust in Reinecke’s personal honour. Temple would be free, free and in luxury, as soon as the meeting was arranged.
The attack was so sudden, so unlike any other, and so skilfully delivered (grey face of shameful urgency, trembling insistence) that if Temple had not already had his agonised fool’s uncomprehending face well on he must have shown how jarred he was. Reinecke had been God for so long and so intensely that his descent to this plane was very moving. But the fool’s face was on, and all he had to do was to keep it there, gaping.
It was very, very cunning. Yet Reinecke should not have coupled West and Claudius; their organisations were somewhat too remote from one another.
In the silence Reinecke clasped and unclasped his hands: his bolting eyes were fixed upon Temple, and Temple saw their expression change from that first mixture of false forced good nature, anguish and shame to frustration and anger. Redness was welling up in Reinecke’s face; but before the tension had reached its height (and the ludicrous undercurrent of embarrassment, the god’s miracle having failed) they heard the clump of Bauer’s return.
Reinecke turned away with the files. Bauer continued the interrogation. It went along its usual lines, always upon the assumption that Temple was probably an Allied agent, and its aim was to induce him or compel him to give information, or to betray himself. Bauer was not very intelligent, but he was practised, and he pressed hard with his little verbal traps (he was a lawyer) and he was hot and eager enough to occupy Temple’s entire concentrated mind. Bauer delivered his lumpish, set ‘final appeal’ to the prisoner’s good sense. ‘We know how long you have been in France and what you are here for. You have been given away by your friends – thoroughly identified. What we want is the address of the house where you meet the others. Just that: nothing more. Just that, and we will let you go. We are bound to get it in a few days, because we have caught so many of your people. One of them is going to tell us. The first to tell us will be released. Why should it not be you? We would much rather it were you than one of the others. Why let them profit by your resistance? They will beat you to it – they have no scruples. You have resisted long enough; there is no point in it now. They betrayed you, quickly enough.’
But Bauer was a heavy brute: he could not disguise the enmity and dislike and cruelty in his eyes while he produced all this.
‘Come, tell me at once. Let us have no more trouble. The address of the house?’ He stood up, and looking at Reinecke’s back he shouted again, ‘The address?’
Silence would not do – too heroic altogether. Rocking his miserable head from side to side Temple blurted out, ‘But I don’t know. I don’t know any people. I don’t know any address. I’ve told you all I can. I was to meet him by the rock they said but I lost my way. I don’t know any house. It was about watches from Switzerland.’
‘Where did you meet the others?’ snapped Reinecke, turning suddenly. There was a strange feeling of spite mingling with the familiar atmosphere of anger now. Temple breathed deeply, quick, gasping breaths.
‘The address, quick,’ shouted Bauer, coming up on his right-hand side.
‘I don’t –’ moaned Temple, but the blow cut him short. He screamed as it hit him, a very loud subhuman noise. Oh, oh, oh. Keep close to him and he cannot hit so hard, close in, close in …
Then he was in the chair, hawking and choking for breath. He could hardly see. ‘Where did you meet the others? Quick.’
‘Where did you meet the others?’
‘Where did you meet the others?’