‘Listen,’ I said, ‘what are you doing with that thing?’
‘What?’
‘That gun.’
He looked at the machine which rested so awkwardly in his paw. He giggled. I think that describes the bubbly sound he made.
‘I’ll be honest, Mr White. I’ve never used one of these things before.’
‘Well you’d better be careful.’
‘Oh, I will of course.’
‘Isn’t there a safety catch on those things?’
He frowned. This was not proceeding as it should. Obviously, he had rehearsed this moment.
‘Yes, there is,’ he snapped. ‘And it’s off. Look, I wish you’d stop worrying.’
‘Well I mean …’
‘I know it’s a bit awkward, this situation, but I’m going to explain, if you give me a chance.’
‘Can I sit down?’
‘Of course you can sit down.’
I sat down, on a chair by the table, and looked at a crust of bread with teethmarks in it. The room had been searched, very expertly, to be sure, but if one’s existence has dragged on for a year in a space measuring sixteen by ten, then there are few variations in the furniture which will not be immediately noticed. I noticed them (the drawer that stuck, unless one knew the way to close it, the papers that were rearranged too neatly) but not with any great surprise. I knew what it was for which Charlie had been searching, and knew that he could not have found it, because it was not there. He moved away from the door, two faltering steps, paused, touched a tongue tip to the point of his upper lip, and looked about him worriedly. He seemed to be wondering what to do next.
‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked.
He considered the offer, and said,
‘If you have one.’
‘In there.’
He opened the wardrobe and peered into it, the gun drooping, drew out a bottle and held it aloft.
‘Empty,’ he said, with a sad grin.
‘Sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Pavlov would have been entranced with us. Charlie, with the gun in one hand, the bottle in the other, stood and looked at me lugubriously. Then he dropped the bottle on the bed. My steely grey eyes flickered, measuring the distance from my chair to the bed and that potential weapon, for which, at an opportune moment, I would leap, grasp by the neck, and whirl about, while Charlie made one of those accommodating delayed-action film turns, and … my eyes are neither steely or grey. Charlie sat down on the other side of the table.
‘What do you want here?’ I asked.
That was a laugh, that question. Still, one must, I suppose, go through the formalities.
‘You were supposed to meet the German tonight, weren’t you?’ he said.
‘Erik?’
‘Yes.’
‘What business is that of yours?’
He sighed, and touched his forehead with his fingertips.
‘You should trust me, Mr White,’ he said softly, sadly.
‘Why?’
‘I think that’s obvious.’
‘It’s not.’
‘They got the German. They can get you.’
‘They what?’
He looked at me closely, and frowned.
‘You didn’t know?’
‘What?’ I cried.
‘They arrested him tonight. I thought you … Mr White, are you all right? I’m sorry, I thought you knew. He was in a shop just across the way there, by the station. They came and arrested him and —’
‘Look, Charlie, that gun, you don’t have to keep pointing it at me.’
He looked down, and seemed startled to find the weapon still in his hand. A nerve was having a fit in my eyelid. He laid the gun on the table and said,
‘The thing is, I don’t think I’d be able to shoot you, even if I had to. I don’t like admitting that, but I may as well be honest. Of course, neither of us is sure that I couldn’t blow your head off, so the gun is really just something to give me a bit of an advantage. Do you see?’
I nodded.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
He smiled.
‘Good, good.’
We were a jolly pair; in a moment, we would be telling each other what nice fellows we were. I said,
‘Can I light a cigarette?’
He would not answer, but only gave me a reproachful look. I had hurt his feelings, just when he thought that we were getting along so well. I lit the fag, blew some smoke, and picked a thread of tobacco from my lip. We watched each other. I was suddenly, horribly bored.
‘For Christ’s sake, Charlie, what is all this about?’
He tapped his fingers absent-mindedly on the gun barrel, licked his lips, clasped his hands, and said,
‘I came over here six … yes, it’s six years ago now. I started up a business with a friend of mine, a chap called Black, Arthur Black. Rings a bell?’
‘No.’
He wagged a roguish ringer at me, and grinned.
‘Come now, Mr White, come now.’
I shrugged, and looked at a corner of the ceiling. Charlie recollected the seriousness of the occasion, and wiped the grin from his pale jaws.
‘To continue,’ he intoned. ‘Arthur and I had a nice little business here, a kind of PR agency, public relations, you know? We did a bit of liaison work between London and Athens. Things were going nicely. Then, one day, Arthur turns up with this document.’
He paused, cleared his throat, and took off his spectacles. What tiny eyes he had. They seemed to be situated somewhere near the back of his skull. Without the goggles, he bore an extraordinary resemblance to a rat. He breathed on the lenses (his pursed mouth making a sound, to wit: whoo) and polished them with his sleeve. Then he put the spectacles back on his nose, and, ah, old owl again, he said,
‘I can tell you, Mr White, that little scrap of paper fairly floored us. We didn’t understand the full significance of it, of course, but we knew that it was big, really big.’
His eyes grew bigger in the glass, and a big tongue came out and licked his lips. He nodded solemnly.
‘It concerned the army, some kind of a secret directive … well, there’s no need to tell you that, is there? Anyway, Arthur was all for finding a buyer, and, obviously, he thought the army was his best bet. I didn’t like it, Mr White, I didn’t like it. I contacted your people, your head man, told him what I had to offer, named a nominal figure, and agreed to sell. Arthur was furious, but there was nothing he could do. I was the boss. I sent him off to the island, to deliver it to the German, and … you know the rest.’
He stood up, clasping and unclasping his hands, and began to walk toward the bed. What I did then, I think I did just for the hell of it. I caught the table in both hands, slewed it round, aimed, and flung it at him. It was a light affair, and flew out of my hands with a high hop. The corner of it caught him in the small of the back. He threw up his arms and let out a roar of pain, fell headlong, and went skidding under the bed. Yes, under the bed, from where his legs protruded, kicking up and down. I could hardly believe that I had caused so much thunder and violence, and decided that he was exaggerating. Already he was struggling to his knees, coughing and groaning, and the mattress grew a hump in its centre. I sprang into action. Sprang, ah yes. I ran in a circle around the room. The floor was littered with papers, cigarette ash, bits of bread, and no gun. The bed, of course. He was backing out, his arse wagging, toes thumping the floor. The snout of the pistol appeared before his own did. I took a leap, and landed, on one foot, on his wrist. There was a howl, the gun jumped away from us, and Charlie scurried once more under the bed.