The Other Side of Silence

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 Lépine. 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.”

I went inside the villa, through the cool hall, grabbed the wrought-iron banister, and started up the stairs two at a time. The eagle atop a ten-foot-high gilded wooden perch on the corner landing eyed my swift progress with detached interest. There was something vaguely Nazi about that eagle, and I would not have been surprised if it had once been marched triumphantly through the Brandenburg Gate, at the head of an SA troop and a military brass band, in some midnight torchlight procession. Sometimes I miss Berlin more than seems appropriate.

I reached the second floor and climbed the wooden stair onto the flat roof. On the other side of the freestanding structure that was Maugham’s study was a short pan-tiled Moorish roof, and at the far end of this, a large square chimney, about the height of a man. I stepped gingerly onto the tiles and walked as quickly as I dared to the chimney, then took hold of it.

I hadn’t expected it to be quite so easy, but Maugham had not exaggerated. The fireplace was like a large microphone and already I could hear the plummy sound of Guy Burgess speaking on tape. I didn’t know it yet, but by sending me up there Maugham had effectively saved my life.