“The young man of today,” said Mr. Behrens, “is physically stronger and fitter than his father. He can run a mile faster—”
“A useful accomplishment,” agreed Mr. Calder.
“He can throw a weight farther, can jump higher, and will probably live longer.”
“But not as long as the young lady of today,” said Mr. Calder. “They have a look of awful vitality.”
“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Behrens — he and Mr. Calder, being very old friends, did not so much answer as override each other, and frequently they both spoke at once — “nevertheless, he is, in one important way, inferior to the older generation. He is mentally softer—”
“Morally, too.”
“The two things go together. He has the weaknesses which go with his strength. He is tolerant — but he is flabby. He is intelligent — but he is timid. He is made out of cast iron, not steel.”
“Stop generalizing,” said Mr. Calder. “What’s worrying you?”
Mr. Calder considered the matter, at the same time softly scratching the head of his deerhound, Rasselas, who lay on the carpet beside his chair.
Mr. Behrens, who lived down in the valley, had walked up — as he did regularly on Tuesday afternoons — to take tea with Mr. Calder in his cottage on the hilltop.
“You’re not often right,” said Mr. Calder at last.
“Thank you.”
“But you could be on this occasion. I saw Fortescue yesterday.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Behrens. “He told me you had been to see him. I meant to ask you about that. What did he want?”
“There’s a woman. She has to be killed.”
Rasselas flicked his right ear at an intrusive fly; then, when this proved ineffective, he growled softly and shook his head. “Anyone I know?” said Mr. Behrens.
“I’m not sure. Her name, at the moment, is Lipper — Maria Lipper. She lives in Woking, and is known there as Mrs. Lipper, although I don’t think she has ever been married. She has worked as a typist and filing clerk at the Air Ministry since — oh, since well before the last war.”
Both Mr. Behrens and Mr. Calder spoke of the “last war” in terms of very slight derogation. It had not been their war.
“And how long has she been working for them?”
“Certainly for ten years, possibly more. Security got onto her in the end by selective coding, and that, as you know, is a very slow process.”
“And not one which a jury would understand or accept.”
“Oh, certainly not,” said Mr. Calder. “Certainly not. There could be no question here of judicial process. Maria is a season ticket holder, not a commuter.”
By this Mr. Calder meant that Maria Lipper was a secret agent who collected, piecemeal, all information which came her way, and passed it on at long intervals — of months, or even of years. No messenger came to her. When she had sufficient to interest her masters, she would take it to a collecting point and leave it. Occasional sums of money would come to her through the mail.
“It is a thousand pities,” added Mr. Calder, “that they did not get onto her a little sooner — before operation Prometheus Unbound came off the drawing board.”
“Do you think she knows about that?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Mr. Calder. “I wasn’t directly concerned. Buchanan was in charge. But it was her section that did the Prometheus typing, and when he found out that she had asked for an urgent contact, I think — I really think — he was justified in getting worried.”
“What is he going to do about it?”
“The contact has been short-circuited. I am taking his place. Two days from now Mrs. Lipper is driving down to Portsmouth for a short holiday. She plans to leave Woking very early — she likes clear roads to drive on — and she will be crossing Salisbury Plain at six o’clock. Outside Upavon she turns off the main road. The meeting place is a barn at the top of the track. She has stipulated a payment of five hundred pounds in one-pound notes. Incidentally, she has never before been paid more than fifty.”
“You must be right,” said Mr. Behrens. “I imagine that I am to cover you here. Fortunately, my aunt is taking the waters at Harrogate.”
“If you would.”
“The usual arrangements.”
“The key will be on the ledge over the woodshed door.”
“You’d better warn Rasselas to expect me. Last time he got it into his head that I was a burglar.”
The great hound looked up at the mention of his name and grinned, showing his long white incisors.
“You needn’t worry about Rasselas,” said Mr. Calder. “I’ll take him with me. He enjoys an expedition now and then. All the same, it is a sad commentary on the younger generation that a man of my age has to be sent on an assignment like this.”
“Exactly what I was saying. Where did you put the backgammon board?”
Mr. Calder left his cottage at dusk the following evening. He drove off in the direction of Gravesend, crossed the river by the ferry, and made a circle round London, recrossing the Thames at Reading. He drove his inconspicuous car easily and efficiently. Rasselas lay across the back seat, between a sleeping bag and a portmanteau. He was used to road travel, and slept most of the way.
At midnight the car rolled down the broad High Street of Marlborough and out onto the Pewsey Road. A soft golden moon made a mockery of its headlights.
A mile from Upavon, Mr. Calder pulled up at the side of the road and studied the 1/25000 range map with which he had been supplied. The track leading to the barn was clearly shown. But he had marked a different and roundabout way by which the rendezvous could be approached. This involved taking the next road to the right, following it for a quarter of a mile, then finding a field trade — it was no more than a dotted line even on his large-scale map — which would take him up a small re-entrant. The track appeared to stop just short of the circular contour which marked the top of the down. Across it, as Mr. Calder had seen when he examined the map, ran, in straggling Gothic lettering, the words Slay Down.
The entrance to the track had been shut off by a gate, and was indistinguishable from the entrance to a field. The gate was padlocked too, but Mr. Calder dealt with this by lifting it off its hinges. It was a heavy gate, but he shifted it with little apparent effort. There were surprising reserves of strength in his barrel-shaped body, thick arms, and plump hands.
After a month of fine weather the track, though rutted, was rock-hard. Mr. Calder ran up it until the banks on either side had leveled out and he guessed that he was approaching the top of the rise. There he backed his car into a thicket. For the last part of the journey he had been traveling without side lights. Now he switched off the engine, opened the car door, and sat listening.
At first the silence seemed complete. Then, as the singing of the engine died in his ears, the sounds of the night reasserted themselves. A night jar screamed; an owl hooted. The creatures of the dark, momentarily frozen by the arrival among them of this great palpitating steel-and-glass animal, started to move again. A mile across the valley, where farms stood and people lived, a dog barked.
Mr. Calder took his sleeping bag out of the back of the car and unrolled it. He took off his coat and shoes, loosened his tie, and wriggled down into the bag. Rasselas lay down too, his nose a few inches from Mr. Calder’s head.
In five minutes the man was asleep. When he woke he knew what had roused him. Rasselas had growled, very softly, a little rumbling, grumbling noise which meant that something had disturbed him. It was not the growl of imminent danger; it was a tentative alert.