Letters for a Spy Read Free Page A

boy of thirteen, when I’d first seen The Maltese Falcon , I’d decided that in time I should move to Los Angeles and become a private eye. It was ironic: was I now—when I’d nearly forgotten all about this—soon to achieve a small surviving part of that ambition?) “There may not have been any broken bones, but surely there must have been some cuts … grazes…?”
    “Must there?” he asked; in truth not sounding very interested.
    “And would he have been thrown out of the aircraft—or sucked out—or what? Was he conscious when he hit the water? Can’t they gauge such things as concussion in a circumstance like that?”
    “Oh well, Anders, you know these Spanish. They quite pride themselves on being slap-happy. But in any case, what difference would it make?”
    Yes. I paused. He was right. What difference would it make?
    And while I had naturally hoped my questions might lead on to others more productive, I suspected I had also been firing them off simply for the sake of showing that I could.
    Yet, all the same, I felt surprised. Mannheim was generally meticulous.
    He must have sensed my reaction.
    “Of course, Anders, it’s good that you should question. But let’s face it: this post-mortem could hardly have seemed that important to anyone. And we have to remember that the body was wanted for burial at noon the following day. Besides, we must be fair. The doctor would have had a very clear notion of what he was about to find. The man died when his plane was lost at sea. That’s obvious. It’s not under debate. Cuts, grazes—concussion—all totally beside the point. Yes?”
    “Yes, sir. But why was his the only body? And why no bits of wreckage?”
    “The only body so far . The others could well have been caught by different currents; may not be found for months, if found at all. The same for any floating debris. I repeat: it’s good to be conscientious—incontestably it is—but at present I think you’re refining too much on something that doesn’t require it. Do you feel in any doubt there was a plane crash? Do you feel in any doubt we have a dead body which was drifting in the sea?”
    “No, sir. Of course not.” I shook my head, yet at the same time couldn’t help but purse my lips a little: a persistent trait my mother used to tease me about when I’d been small and getting ready to be difficult. My English mother, who had died in 1927—December 1927—three days in advance of my tenth birthday.
    And I was aware that I was beginning to irritate him.
    But if so, I reflected, then I might as well make a thorough job of it. Having once begun.
    “But if I’m really to be given carte blanche, sir…?”
    ‘Carte blanche’ had been Mannheim’s phrase. He had already spoken about my setting off for England later that same night and about my being allowed a full week for my enquiries, “if a full week should turn out to be absolutely necessary!” Now he nodded. I thought I must have somewhat overrated my tendency to irritate, for his nod seemed almost avuncular.
    “Then where I’d truly like to start, sir—if it’s at all feasible, that is—would be with the exhumation of Major Martin’s body.”
    Suddenly no aspect of him seemed even remotely avuncular. (Unless in the manner of Uncle Silas; or of Uncle Ebenezer.)
    “Well, you can’t!” he snapped. “It isn’t feasible; not in the slightest!”
    But after a moment he again relaxed. “And what’s more—you know it isn’t! In Spain we don’t possess so much as one shred of authority.” He smiled. “Well, anyway, not officially,” he said.
    I accepted such defeat. I had merely wanted to be laying the foundations for my defence—in case the worst should happen, and my eventual findings should prove to be misjudged.
    For I couldn’t forget that earlier phrase he had employed. It had begun to sound intimidating.
    Your responsibility.
    He might not have stressed the adjective as now, inside my head, I was hearing it