Mexico Set

8

By midday we'd been waiting nearly three hours, and our plane had still not arrived. Other departures were also delayed. The official explanation was the hurricanes. Mexico City airport was packed with people. There were Indian women clasping sacks of flour and a sequin-suited rock group guarding their amplifiers. All found some way to deal with the interminable delay: mothers suckled babies, boys raced through the concourse on roller-skates, a rug pedlar – burdened under his wares – systematically pitched his captive audience, tour guides paced resolutely, airline staff yawned, footsore hikers snored, nuns told their rosaries, a tall Negro – listening to a Sony Walkman – swayed rhythmically, and some Swedish school kids were gambling away their last few pesos.

Dicky Cruyer had excess baggage, and some parcels of cheap tin decorative masks that he insisted must go as cabin baggage. From where I sat I could see Dicky focusing all his charm on to the girl at the check-in desk. There were no seats available so I was propped on one of Dicky's suitcases talking to Werner. I watched Dicky gesturing at the girl and running his hands back through his curly hair in the way he did when he was being shy and boyish.

'Don't trust him,' said Werner.

'Dicky? Don't worry, I won't.'

'You know who I mean,' said Werner. 'Don't trust Stinnes.' Werner was sitting on another of Dicky's many cases. He was wearing a guyavera, the traditional Mexican shirt that is all pleats and buttons, and with it linen trousers and expensive-looking leather shoes patterned with ventilation holes. Although Werner complained of Mexico's heat and humidity, the climate seemed to suit him. His complexion was such that he tanned easily, and he was more relaxed in the sunshine than ever he'd seemed to be in Europe.

'There's nothing to lose,' I said.

'For London Central, you mean? Or nothing to lose for you?'

'I'm just doing what London want me to do, Werner… Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die… You know how London expect us to work.'

'Yes,' said Werner, who'd had this same conversation with me many times before. 'It's always easier to do and die than it is to reason why.'

'I don't trust him; I don't distrust him,' I said as I thought about Werner's warning. 'I don't give a damn about Stinnes. I don't begrudge him his opportunity to squeeze a bigger cash payment from the department than any loyal employee ever got. More money, I'd guess, than the wife and kids of any of the department's casualties ever collected. But it makes me wonder, Werner. It makes me wonder what the hell it's all about.'

'It's the game,' said Werner. He too was slumped back against the wall with a plastic cup of warm, weak coffee in his hand. 'It's nothing to do with virtue and evil, or effort and reward; it's just a game. You know that, Bernie.'

'And Stinnes knows how to play it better than we do?'

'It's not a game of skill,' said Werner. 'It's a game of chance.'

'Is there nothing that lights up and says "tilt" when you cheat?'

'Stinnes isn't cheating. He's just a man in the right place at the right time. He's done nothing to entice London to enrol him.'

'What do you make of him, Werner?'

'He's a career KGB officer. We've both seen a million of them. Stinnes holds no surprises for me, Bernie. And, providing you don't trust him, no surprises for you either.'

'He didn't ask enough questions,' I said. 'I've been thinking of that ever since the boat trip. Stinnes didn't ask me any important questions. Not the sort of questions I'd be asking in his place.'

'He's a robot,' said Werner. 'Did you expect him to engage you in a political argument? Did you expect a detailed discussion about the deprivation of the Third World?'

'I suppose I did,' I admitted.

'Well, this is the right country for anyone looking for political arguments,' said Werner. 'If ever there was a country poised on the brink of revolution, this is it. Look around; two-thirds of the Mexican population – about fifty million people – are living at starvation level. You've seen the campesinos struggling to grow crops in volcanic ash or rock, and bringing to market half a dozen onions or some such pathetic little crop. You've seen them scratching a living here in the city in slums as bad as anywhere in the world. Four out of ten Mexicans never drink milk, two out of ten never eat meat, eggs or bread. But the Mexican government subsidizes Coca Cola sales. The official explanation is that Coca Cola is nutritious.' Werner drank some of the disgusting coffee. 'And, now that the IMF have forced Mexico to devalue the peso, big US companies – such as Xerox and Sheraton – can build factories and hotels here at rock-bottom prices, but sell to hard-currency customers. Inflation goes up. Unemployment figures go up. Taxes go up. Prices go up. But wages go down. How would you like it if you were Mexican?' It was quite a speech for Werner.

'Did Stinnes say that?'

'Haven't you been listening to me? Stinnes is a career RGB officer. Stinnes doesn't give a damn about the Mexicans and their problems, except how and when it affects his career prospects. I started talking about all this to him at the club one evening. Stinnes knows nothing about Mexico. He's not even had the regular briefing that all East European diplomatic services give to their personnel.'

'Why?' I said.

'Why? said Werner irritably, thinking I merely wanted to change the subject. 'How could I know?'

'Think about it, Werner. The first thing it indicates is that he came here at short notice. Even then, knowing the KGB, they would have arranged for him to have political indoctrination here in Mexico City.'

Werner shifted his weight uncomfortably on Dicky's suitcase and looked around to see if there was anywhere else to sit. There wasn't; in fact the whole place was getting more and more crowded. Now there was a large group of young people carrying bright orange shoulder-bags that announced them to be a choir from New Zealand. They were seating themselves all along the corridor. I hoped they wouldn't start singing. 'I suppose you're right,' said Werner.

'I am right,' I said. 'And I'll tell you something else. The complete absence of political indoctrination suggests to me that Stinnes is not here to run agents into California, nor to supervise Biedermann's funnelling of Moscow money to local organizations.'

'Don't keep me in suspense,' said Werner wearily.

'I haven't got the answer, Werner. I don't know what Stinnes is doing here. I don't even know what I'm doing here. Stinnes could be positively identified without having me along.'

'London didn't send you along so that you could identify Stinnes,' said Werner. 'London sent you along so that Stinnes could identify you.'

'No anagrams, Werner. Keep it simple for me.'

'What do you think was the first thing that came into his mind the other night when I started telling him about freezers, videos and the acceleration a Porsche 924 turbo gives you from a standing start?'

'Entrapment?'

'Well, of course. He was terrified that I was a KGB employee who was going to provide the evidence that would put him into a Siberian penal battalion for twenty years.'

'Ummm. But he could be sure that I was an SIS agent from London because he'd actually had me under arrest in East Berlin. I suppose you're right, Werner. I suppose Bret had that all figured out.'

'Bret Rensselaer, was it? Of all the people in London Central he's the most cunning one. And right now he's very keen to prove the department needs him.'

'Dicky is frightened that Bret will get the German Desk,' I said.

'Stuhlpolonaise,' said Werner.

'Exactly. Musical chairs.' Werner's use of the German word called to mind the prim formality and the slow rhythm of the promenading couples that exactly described London Central's dance when some big reshuffle was due. 'And Bret has sent Dicky marching four thousand miles away from the only chair, and Dicky wants to get back to London before the music stops.'

'But he doesn't want to return without news of a great success,' said Werner.

'You see that, do you?' I said admiringly. Werner didn't miss much. 'Yes, Bret has contrived a quandary that alarms even Dicky. If he waits here long enough to land Stinnes, Bret will be the man who congratulates him and sends him off on another assignment. On the other hand, if Dicky rushes back there without a conclusion to the Stinnes operation, someone is going to say that Dicky is not up to the job.'

'But you're both going back,' said Werner. He looked round the crowded lounge. Outside, the apron was empty and the regular afternoon rainstorm was in full fury. There was not much evidence that anyone was going anywhere.

'I'm now the file officer. Dicky is writing a report that will explain the way in which he has brought the Stinnes operation to the brink of a successful conclusion before handing everything over to me.'

'He is a crafty little bastard,' said Werner.

'Now tell me something I don't know,'

'And, if Stinnes doesn't come over, Dicky will say you messed it up.'

'Go to the top of the class, Werner. You're really getting the hang of it.'

'But I think there's only a slight chance that we'll get Stinnes over.'

'Why?' I agreed with Werner but I wanted to hear his views.

'He's still frightened, for one thing. If Stinnes really trusted you, he wouldn't tell you to send a negative signal to London. He'd let you tell London anything you liked.'

'Don't tell Dicky I told you about the compromised signal traffic,' I said. 'He'll say it's a breach of security.'

'It is a breach of security,' said Werner. 'Strictly speaking I shouldn't be told that sort of top-grade item unless it's directly concerned with my work.'

'My God, Werner. Am I glad you don't have the German Desk in London. I think you'd shop me if you thought I was breaking security.'

'Maybe I would,' said Werner complacently. I grabbed him by the throat and pretended to throttle him. It was a spectacle that interested one of the nuns enough for her to nudge her companion and nod towards me. I gave them both a sinister scowl and Werner put his tongue out and rolled his eyes.

After I'd released Werner and let him drink some more of that awful coffee, I said, 'You said Stinnes knows I'm kosher on account of interrogating me.'

'That could be a double ploy,' said Werner. 'If you were really working for Moscow, then you would be quite happy to let yourself get arrested in East Berlin. Then you'd be perfectly placed to trap Stinnes.'

'But Stinnes isn't important enough for Moscow to play out that sort of operetta.'

'Stinnes probably thinks he is important enough. It's human, isn't it? We all think we are important enough for anything.'

Werner could be exasperating. 'That's what Hollywood calls "moronic logic", Werner. It's the sort of nit-picking insanity that can't be faulted but is only too obviously stupid.'

'So explain why it's stupid.'

I took a deep breath and said, 'Because if Moscow had a well-placed agent in London whose identity was so closely guarded that Stinnes could not possibly suspect him, then Moscow would not bring him to Berlin and get him arrested just so as to get the confidence of Stinnes so that months later in Mexico City he could be enticed into agreeing to a defection plan. I mean… ask yourself, Werner.'

He smiled self-consciously. 'You're right, Bernie. But Stinnes will continue to be suspicious, you mark my words.'

'Sure, but he'll be suspicious of London and whether those tricky desk men will keep their promises. He won't be worrying if I'm a KGB plant. A man like Stinnes can probably recognize a KGB operator at one hundred paces just as we can recognize one of our people.'

'Talking of recognizing one of our own at one hundred paces, Dicky is heading this way,' said Werner. 'Is the man with him SIS?'

Dicky Cruyer was still wearing his Hollywood clothes; today it was blue striped seersucker trousers, sea-island cotton sports shirt and patent-leather Gucci shoes. He was carrying a small leather pouch that was not, Dicky said, a handbag, or anything like one.

Dicky had his friend from the embassy in tow. They'd been at Balliol together and they made no secret of their intense rivalry. Despite their being the same age, Henry Tiptree looked younger than Dicky. Perhaps this was because of the small and rather sparse moustache that he was growing, or his thin neck, bony chin and the awkward figure he cut in his Hong Kong tropical suit and the tightly knotted old school tie.

Dicky told me how his friend Henry had been made Counsellor at the very early age of thirty-eight and was now working hard to reach Grade 3. But the diplomatic service is littered with brilliant Counsellors of all ages, and a large proportion of them get shunted off to the Institute for Strategic Studies or given a fellowship at Oxford, where they could write a lot of twaddle about Soviet aims and intentions in East Europe, while people like me and Werner actually dealt with them.

'Henry has arranged everything about the baggage,' said Dicky.

There was nothing to arrange about my baggage,' I said. 'I checked it through when we first got here.'

Dicky ignored my retort and said, 'It will go air freight. But because we have first-class tickets they'll put it on the same plane we're on.'

'And which plane is that?' I asked.

Henry looked at his watch and said, 'They say it's coming in now.'

'You don't believe that, do you?' said Dicky. 'Ye gods, these airline buggers tell lies more glibly than even the diplomatic service.'

'Haw haw,' said Henry dutifully. 'But I think this time it's probably true. There are lots of delays at this time of year but eventually they come lumbering in. Three hours is about par for the course. That's why I thought I'd better be here to see you off.' Henry pronounced it 'orrf', he had that sort of ripe English accent that he'd need for becoming an ambassador.

'Plus the fact that you had to be here because it's bag day,' said Dicky. Henry smiled.

Werner said, 'Bag day?'

'The courier with the diplomatic bag is coming in on this plane,' I explained.

'Even so, your presence is much appreciated, Henry,' Dicky told him. 'I'll make sure the Prune Minister's Private Secretary hears about the cooperation you gave us.' They both laughed at Dicky's little joke but there was a promise of some undefined help when the opportunity came. Balliol men were like that; or so Dicky always said.

I could see that Werner was eyeing Henry with interest, trying to decide whether he was actually employed by the SIS within the embassy staff. It seemed possible. I winked at Werner. He grinned as he realized that I'd known what was in his mind. But we untutored men were like that; or so I always said.

'Dicky says that you're the man who holds the department together,' said Henry.

'It's not easy,' I said.

Dicky, who had expected me to deny that I held the department together, said, 'Henry loaned us the car.'

'Thanks, Henry,' I said.

'I don't know how you managed with that damned air-conditioning not working,' said Henry. 'But I suspect you chaps are going to charge full Hertz rates on your expenses, eh?'

'Not Dicky,' I said.

'Haw haw,' said Henry.

Dicky changed the subject hurriedly. 'Strawberries and freshly caught salmon,' said Dicky. 'This is the time to be in England, Henry. You can keep the land of tacos and refried beans.'

'Don't be a sadist, Dicky,' said the man from the embassy. 'I'm hoping my transfer comes through. Else I might be stuck here until Christmas or New Year. I have no chance of leave.'

'You shouldn't have joined,' said Dicky.

'I mustn't complain. I had an enjoyable six months learning the lingo and I get up to Los Angeles now and again. Mind you, these Mexicans are a rum crowd. It doesn't take much to make them awfully cross.' Henry said 'crorss'.

'No matter. You won't be here for ever. And now you're Grade 4 you're certain to end your career with a K,' said Dicky enviously. It was Dicky's special grievance that equivalently graded SIS employees could not count on such knighthoods or even lesser honours. Everything depended upon where you ended up.

'As long as I don't spill drinks over the President's wife or start a war or something.' He laughed again.

Quietly I asked Dicky if he'd told the embassy about their intercepted signals.

'Ye gods,' said Dicky. 'Bernie has just reminded me of something for your very private ear. Something for your Head of Station's very private ear, in fact.'

Henry raised an eyebrow. Head of Station was the senior SIS officer in the embassy.

Dicky said, 'Strictly off the record, Henry old bean, we have reasons to believe that the Russians are listening to your Piccolo machinery and have learned to read the music.'

'I say,' said Henry.

'I suggest he tells your Head of Mission immediately. But he must make it clear that it's only a suspicion.'

'I don't get to talk to the boss all that often, Dicky. The top brass stagger off to Acapulco every chance they get.' He went to the window and said, 'It's coming in now. She'll turn round quickly. Better get your luggage checked through.'

'It might be a hoax,' said Dicky. 'But we hope to be in a position to confirm or deny within a couple of weeks. If there's anything to it you'll hear officially through the normal channels.'

'You London Central people really do see life,' said Henry. 'Have you really been doing a James Bond caper, Dicky? Have you been crossing swords with the local Russkies?'

'Mum's the word,' said Dicky. 'We'd better get some of these airline chappies to haul this baggage over to the check-in.'

'But where will we sit then?' said ever-practical Werner.

Dicky ignored this question and snapped his fingers at a passing slave, who readily and instantly responded by tipping Werner off his perch and grabbing Dicky's other cases to swing on to his shoulder.

Dicky stroked his expensive baggage as if he didn't like to see it go. 'Those three are very fragile – muy fragil. Comprende usted?'

'Sure thing,' said the porter. 'No problem, buddy.'

'So those Russian buggers are reading the Piccolo radio traffic,' mused Henry. 'Well, that might explain a lot of things.'

'For instance?' said Dicky, counting his cases as the porter heaved them on to a trolley.

'Just little things,' said Henry vaguely. 'But I'd say your tip-off is no hoax.'

'One up for Mr Stinnes,' said Werner.

The TV monitor flashed a gate number for our flight, and we hurriedly said goodbye to Henry and Werner so that Dicky could follow closely behind the porter to be sure his cases didn't go astray.

'Henry did modern languages,' said Dicky, once we were airborne and heading home with a glass of champagne in our fists and a smiling stewardess offering us small circular pieces of cold toast adorned with fish eggs. 'He was a damned fine bat; and Henry's parties were famous, but he's not very brainy and he wasn't exactly a hard worker. He got this job because he knows all the right people. To tell you the truth, I never though he'd stick to the old diplomatic grind. It's not like Henry to have a regular job and say yes sir and no sir to everyone in sight. Poor sod, sweating out his time in that hell-hole.'

'Yes, poor Henry,' I said.

'He's desperately keen to get into our show but quite honestly, Bernard, I don't think he's right for us, do you?'

'From what you say I think he's exactly right for us.'

'Do you?' said Dicky.

Dicky had arranged everything the way he liked it. He'd put his three fragile parcels on to a vacant seat and secured them with the safety-belt. He'd taken off his shoes and put on the slippers he'd taken from his briefcase. He'd swallowed his motion-sickness tablets and made sure the Alka Seltzer and aspirin were where he could find them easily. He'd read the safety leaflet and checked the position of the emergency exits and reached under his seat to be sure that the advertised life-jacket was really there. These airline blighters speak their own language,' said Dicky. 'Have you noticed that? Stewardesses are hostesses; it makes you wonder whether to call the stewards "hosts". Safety-belts are lap-straps, and emergency exits are safety exits. Who thought up all that double-talk?'

'It must have been the same PR man who renamed the War Office the Ministry of Defence.'

I held up my glass so that the stewardess could pour more champagne. Dicky put his hand over his glass. 'We've a long journey ahead,' he said with an admonitory note in his voice.

'Sounds like a good reason to have another glass of champagne,' I said.

Dicky put down his glass and slapped his thigh lightly, like a chairman bringing a meeting to order, and said, 'Well, now I've got you to myself at last, perhaps we can talk shop.'

The only reason we'd not spent a lot of time talking shop was because Dicky had spent every available moment eating, drinking, shopping, sightseeing and extending his influence. Now he was going to find out what work I'd been doing so that he'd be able to persuade his superiors that he'd been working his butt off. 'What do you want to know, Dicky?'

'What are the chances that Comrade Stinnes will come over to us?'

'You're skipping the easy ones, are you?'

'I know you hate making guesses, but what do you think will happen? You've actually met with Stinnes. What sort of fellow is he? You've handled this sort of defection business before, haven't you?'

I didn't hate making guesses at all; I just hated confiding them to Dicky, since he so enjoyed reminding me of the ones I got wrong. I said, 'Not with a really experienced KGB official, I haven't. The defectors I've dealt with have been less important.'

'Stinnes is only a major. You're making him sound like a a member of the Politburo. I seem to remember you were involved with that colonel… the air attaché who dithered and dithered and finally got deported before we could get him.'

'Rank for rank, you're right. But Stinnes is very experienced and very tough. If we get him we'll have a very good source. He will keep the debriefing panel scribbling notes for months and months and give us some good data and first-class assessments. But our chances of getting him are not good.'

'You told me he said yes,' said Dicky.

'He's bound to say yes just to hear what we say.'

'Is it money?' said Dicky.

'I can't believe that money will play a big part in his decision. Men such as Stinnes are very thoroughly indoctrinated. It's always very difficult for such people to make the change-over to our sort of society.'

'He's a hard-nose communist, you mean?'

'Only inasmuch as he knows he mustn't rock the boat. I'd be surprised to find he's a real believer.' I drank my champagne. Dicky waited for me to speak again. I said, 'Stinnes is a narrow-minded bigot. He's one of a top-level elite in a totalitarian state where there are no agonizing discussions about capital punishment, or demos about pollution of the environment or the moral uncertainties of having atomic weapons. A KGB major like Stinnes can barge into the office of a commanding general without knocking. Here in the West no one has the sort of power that he enjoys.'

'But we're offering him a nice comfortable life. And, from what you say about his wanting a divorce, the offer comes at exactly the right time.'

'Giving up such power will not be easy. As a defector he'll be a nobody. 'He's probably seen defectors and the way they live in the Soviet Union. He'll have no illusions about what it will be like.'

'How can you compare the life of a defector going to the East with that of a defector coming to the West? All they have to offer is a perverted ideology and a medieval social system based on privilege and obedience. We have a free society; a free press, freedom to protest, freedom to say anything we like.'

'Stinnes has spent a long time in the upper layers of an authoritarian society. He won't want to protest or demonstrate against government – whatever its creed – and he'll have precious little sympathy for those who do.'

'Then give him a handful of cash and take him round the shops and show him the material benefits that come from free enterprise and competition.'

'Stinnes isn't the sort of man who will sell his soul for a mess of hi-fi components and a micro-wave oven,' I said.

'Sell his soul?' said Dicky indignantly.

'Don't turn this into a political debate, Dicky. You asked me what chance we stand, and I'm telling you what I think is in his mind.'

'So what sort of chance do we stand?' persisted Dicky. 'Fifty fifty?'

'Not better anyway,' I said.

'I'll tell the old man fifty fifty,' said Dicky as he mentally ticked off that question. I don't know why I tried to explain things to Dicky. He preferred yes-or-no answers. Explanations confused him.

'And what about this Biedermann chap?'

'I don't know.'

'He's as rich as Croesus. I looked him up when I got to Los Angeles.'

'I can't see how he can be important to us, so how can he be important to Stinnes? That's what puzzles me.'

'I'll put him into my report,' said Dicky. Although it sounded like a statement of intent, it was Dicky's way of asking me to okay it.

'By all means. I've got the list of people he forwarded the money to. You could probably get one of the bright young probationers to build that into something that sounded impressive.'

'Are we going to do anything about Biedermann?'

There's not much we can do,' I said doubtfully, 'except keep an eye on him, and rough him up from time to time to let him know he's not forgotten.'

'Gently does it,' said Dicky. 'A man like that could make trouble for us.'

'I've known him since I was a kid,' I said. 'He's not going to make trouble for us, unless he thinks he can get away with it.'

'Getting Stinnes is the important thing,' said Dicky. 'Biedermann is nothing compared with the chance of bringing Stinnes over to us.'

'I'll stroke my lucky rabbit's foot,' I said.

'If we do manage to land Stinnes, you'll get all the credit for it.'

'Will I?' I said. It seemed unlikely.

'That's one of the things I told Bret before we left London. I told him that this was really your operation. You let Bernard handle things his way, I told him. Bernard's got a lot riding on this one.'

'And what did Bret say to that?' I found that, if you scraped the ancient airline caviar off the little discs of toast, the toast didn't taste too bad.

'Have you upset Bret?'

'I'm always upsetting him.'

'You've got a lot riding on this one, Bernard. You need Bret. You need all the help you can get. I'm right behind you all the way, of course, but if Bret takes over my desk you'd get no support from him.'

'Thanks, Dicky,' I said doubtfully. It was just Dicky's way of getting me to help him in his power struggle against Bret, but I was flattered to think that Dicky thought I had enough clout to make any difference.

'You know what I'm talking about, don't you, Bernard?'

'Sure,' I said, although in fact I didn't know. I settled back in my seat and looked at the menu. But from the corner of my eye I could see Dicky wrapping his fountain pen in a Kleenex tissue, although we were already at 35,000 feet and if his pen was going to leak it would have leaked already.

'Yes,' said Dicky. 'This one will be make or break for you, Bernard.' He laid the bandaged pen to rest in his handbag, like a little Egyptian mummy that was to stay in its tomb for a thousand years.

Thank God there's no in-flight movie,' said Dicky. 'I hate in-flight movies, don't you?'

'Yes,' I said. It was one of the very few things upon which Dicky and I could have unreserved agreement.

Now that we were above the clouds, the sunlight was blinding. Dicky, seated at the window, pulled down the tinted shield. 'You don't want to read or anything, do you?'

I looked at Dicky and shook my head. He smiled, and I wondered what sort of game he was playing with all his talk of this being my operation. He'd certainly taken his time before revealing this remarkable aspect of our jaunt to me.

We reached London Sunday mid-morning. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky but there was a chilly wind blowing. In response to two telex messages and a phone call made from Mexico, the duty officer had arranged for a car to meet us. We loaded it to the point where its suspension was groaning and went to Dicky's house. Once there I accepted Dicky's offer to go inside for a drink.

Dicky's wife was waiting for us with a chilled bottle of Sancerre in the ice bucket and coffee on the warmer. Daphne was an energetic woman in her early thirties. I found her especially attractive standing there in the kitchen surrounded by wine and food. Daphne had radically changed her image; floral pinafores and granny glasses were out, and pale-yellow boiler suits were in. Her hairstyle had changed too, cut in a severe pageboy style with fringe, so that she looked like the an student Dicky had married so long ago. 'And Bernard, darling. What a lovely surprise.' She had the loud voice and upper-class accent that go with weekends in large unheated country houses, where everyone talks about horses and reads Dick Francis paperbacks.

Daphne was in the middle of preparing lunch. She had a big bowl on the table in front of her and a spring scale upon which half a pound of warm butter was being weighed. Her hands were covered in flour, and she was wiping them on a towel that bore a printed picture of the Eiffel Tower. She picked up a collection of bracelets and bangles and slipped them all on to her wrist before embracing Dicky.

'You're early, darling,' she said as she kissed him and gave me a peck too.

Dicky brushed flour from his shirt and said, 'The plane arrived on time. I didn't allow for that.'

She asked Dicky if he wanted coffee or wine but she didn't ask me. She took a glass from the cupboard and an opened bottle of chilled wine from the ice bucket and poured me a generous measure. It was delicious.

Dicky, rummaging through the kitchen cupboard, said, 'Where are the blue Spode cups and saucers?'

'They're in the dishwasher. We only have three left now. You'll have to use a mug.'

Dicky sighed the way he did when one of the clerks returned to him top-secret papers he'd left in the copying machine. Then he poured himself a mug of black coffee and we sat down round the kitchen table.

'I'm sorry we can't go into the sitting room,' said Daphne. 'It's out of use for the time being.' She looked up at the kitchen clock before deciding it was okay to pour a glass of wine for herself.

'Daphne's left her ad agency,' said Dicky. 'I didn't tell you, did I? They lost the breakfast food account and had to cut staff. They offered Daphne a golden handshake; five thousand pounds. Not bad, eh?' Dicky was pressing his ears and gulping, the way he always did after a flight.

'What are you doing now, Daphne?' I asked.

Dicky answered for her. 'She's stripping. She's gone into it with another girl from the agency.' Daphne smiled the sort of smile that showed she'd heard this joke before but she let Dicky squeeze it dry. 'There's money in stripping, Daphne says.' Dicky smiled broadly and put his arm on his wife's shoulder.

'Furniture,' said Dicky. The lounge is stacked to the ceiling with antique furniture. They'll strip the paint off it and polish it up and sell it for a fortune.'

'Not antique furniture,' said Daphne. 'Bernard already regards us as philistines. I don't want him to think I'm a complete barbarian, ruining antiques. It's second-hand odds and ends, kitchen chairs and tables and so on. No use going round the little shops in Camden Town looking for it. Liz and I go into the country banging on doors. It's rather fun. You meet the oddest people. Apparently you just dip the furniture into caustic soda and the paint falls off. We're starting that next week when I've got some gloves to protect my hands.'

'I tried it once,' I said. 'It was a wooden fireplace. It fell to pieces. It was only fifty years of paintwork that was holding it together.'

'Oh, don't say that, Bernard,' said Daphne. She laughed. 'You're discouraging me.' She poured more wine for me. She didn't seem at all discouraged.

'Take no notice of Bernard,' said Dicky. 'He can't fix an electric plug without fusing all the lights.'

'We won't be selling the furniture as perfect,' said Daphne.

'It's what all the newly weds are looking for,' said Dicky. 'At least it's one of the things.' He gave his wife a wink and an affectionate hug. 'And it looks good. I mean that. It looks very good. Once the girls get decent premises they'll make a fortune, you mark my words. They were going to call the shop "The Strip Joint" but now we hear someone is using that already.'

'You're not very tanned, Dicky,' she said, looking closely at his face. 'Considering where you've been. I thought you'd come back much more tanned than that. Neither is Bernard,' she added, glancing at me.

'We've been working, old thing, not sunning. Right, Bernard?' He picked up the cork from the wine Daphne had served me and sniffed at it.

'Right, Dicky.'

'And I saw Henry Tiptree, darling. You remember Henry. He was at Balliol with me.'

'The one who left the BBC because they were all poofs?'

'No, darling; Henry. Tall, thin, reddish hair. Looks a bit of a twit. His cousin is a duke. Henry's the one who always used to bring you those huge boxes of Belgian handmade chocolates, remember?'

'No,' said Daphne.

'And you always took the chocolates to your mother. Then Henry was posted off somewhere and you made me buy them for her. Belgian chocolates. They cost me a fortune.'

'Yes, and then when we got married you told her the shop didn't sell them any more and you got her Black Magic instead.'

'Well, they cost an absolute fortune,' said Dicky. 'Anyway Henry is in Mexico now and let us borrow his car. And I managed to get a trip to Los Angeles and I got you everything on your list except the pillowcases from Robinson's. They didn't have the exact colour of the sample you gave me. They were more purple than mauve, so I didn't buy them.'

'You are sweet, darling,' said Daphne. 'He is so sweet,' she told me.

'I know,' I said.

'And I got a dozen of those masks the Mexicans make out of old tin cans, and I got six silver-plated bracelets in the market. So that's the Christmas-present list taken care of.'

'I ordered a whole salmon for Thursday,' said Daphne. 'But I can't think of an extra girl for Bernard.'

'I should have told you,' said Dicky, turning to me. 'You're invited for dinner Thursday. Are you free?'

'I imagine I am,' I said. Thanks.'

'And don't worry about an extra girl for him,' said Dicky. 'He's having it away with one of the girls in the office.' There was a note of bitterness in Dicky's voice. Daphne detected it too. She looked at him sharply; for Dicky's affections had wandered lately and Daphne had discovered it. She drained her wineglass.

'How nice,' Daphne said icily, pouring herself another drink. 'What's her name, Bernard?'

'Her name is Gloria,' said Dicky before I replied.

'Is that the one you wanted as your secretary?' said Daphne. She stood with the bottle in her hand, waiting for the reply.

'No, no, no,' said Dicky. 'It was Bret who wanted to foist her on to me but I wasn't having her.' Having tried to appease Daphne, he turned to me and said, 'No offence to you, old man. I'm sure she's a very nice girl.'

'That's perfect,' said Daphne. She poured me some more wine. 'It will be nice to meet her. I remember Dicky saying she was a wonderful typist.' I could tell that Daphne was far from convinced of Dicky's innocence.

'She'll come to dinner, your friend Gloria?' Dicky asked, watching me carefully.

'Gloria? Oh, of course she will,' I said. 'She'll go anywhere for a free meal.'

'That's not very gallant of you, Bernard,' said Daphne.

'We'll be here,' I heard myself saying. I don't know why I say such things, except that Dicky always brings out the worst in me. I hardly knew Gloria. I'd only spoken to her twice, and then it was only to tell her to hurry up with my typing.