"You cheated her too often," Rowe said. He sat down by his side and watched the winding up and over and round.
"What are you going to do?"
"Wait till the train starts and then pull the cord."
Suddenly from very close the guns cracked -- once, twice, three times. The old lady looked vaguely up as though she had heard something very faint intruding on her silence. Rowe put his hand into Hilfe's pocket and slipped the gun into his own, "If you'd like to smoke," the old lady said, "don't mind me."
Hilfe said, "I think we ought to talk things over."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"It wouldn't do, you know, to get me and not to get the photographs."
Rowe began, "The photographs don't matter by themselves. It's you. . ." But then he thought: they do matter. How do I know he hasn't passed them on already? If they are hidden, the place may be agreed on with another agent. . . even if they are found by a stranger, they are not safe. He said, "We'll talk," and the siren sent up its tremendous howl over Paddington. Very far away this time there was a pad, pad, pad, like the noise a fivesball makes against the glove, and the old lady wound and wound. He remembered Anna saying, "I'm afraid he'll talk," and he saw Hilfe suddenly smile at the wool as if life had still the power to tickle him into savage internal mirth.
Hilfe said, "I'm still ready to swop."
"You haven't anything to swop."
"You haven't much, you know, either," Hilfe said. "You don't know where the photos are. . .
"I wonder when the sirens will go," the old lady said. Hilfe moved his wrists in the wool. He said, "If you give back the gun, I'll let you have the photographs. . ."
"If you can give me the photographs, they must be with you. There's no reason why I should bargain."
"Well," Hilfe said, "if it's your idea of revenge, I can't stop you. I thought perhaps you wouldn't want Anna dragged in. She let me escape, you remember. . ."
"There," the old lady said, "we've nearly done now."
Hilfe said, "They probably wouldn't hang her. Of course that would depend on what I say. Perhaps it would be just an internment camp till the war's over -- and then deportation if you win. From my point of view," he explained dryly, "she's a traitor, you know."
Rowe said, "Give me the photographs and then we'll talk." The word "talk" was like a capitulation. Already he was beginning painfully to think out the long chain of deceit he would have to practise on Mr Prentice if he were to save Anna.
The train rocked with an explosion; the old lady said, "At last we are going to start," and leaning forward she released Hilfe's hands. Hilfe said with a curious wistfulness, "What fun they are having up there." He was like a mortally sick man saying farewell to the sports of his contemporaries: no fear, only regret. He had failed to bring off the record himself in destruction. Five people only were dead: it hadn't been much of an innings compared with what they were having up there. Sitting under the darkened globe, he was a long way away; wherever men killed his spirit moved in obscure companionship.
"Give them to me," Rowe said.
He was surprised by a sudden joviality. It was as if Hilfe after all had not lost all hope -- of what? escape? further destruction? He laid his left hand on Rowe's knee with a gesture of intimacy. He said, "I'll be better than my word. How would you like to have your memory back?"
"I only want the photographs."
"Not here," Hilfe said. "I can't very well strip in front of a lady, can I?" He stood up. "We'd better leave the train."
"Are you going?" the old lady asked.
"We've decided, my friend and I," Hilfe said, "to spend the night in town and see the fun."
"Fancy," the old lady vaguely said, "the porters always tell you wrong."
"You've been very kind," Hilfe said, bowing. "Your kindness disarmed me."
"Oh, I can manage nicely now, thank you."
It was as if Hilfe had taken charge of his own defeat. He moved purposefully up the platform and Rowe followed like a valet. The rush was over; he had no chance to escape; through the glassless roof they could see the little trivial scarlet stars of the barrage flashing and going out like matches. A whistle blew and the train began to move very slowly out of the dark station; it seemed to move surreptitiously; there was nobody but themselves and a few porters to see it go. The refreshment-rooms were closed, and a drunk soldier sat alone on a waste of platform vomiting between his knees.
Hilfe led the way down the steps to the lavatories; there was nobody there at all -- even the attendant had taken shelter. The guns cracked: they were alone with the smell of disinfectant, the greyish basins, the little notices about venereal disease. The adventure he had pictured once in such heroic terms had reached its conclusion in the Gentlemen's. Hilfe looked in an L.C.C. mirror and smoothed his hair.
"What are you doing?" Rowe asked.
"Oh, saying good-bye," Hilfe said. He took off his jacket as though he were going to wash, then threw it over to Rowe. Rowe saw the tailor's tag marked in silk, Pauling and Crosthwaite. "You'll find the photographs," Hilfe said, "in the shoulder."
The shoulder was padded.
"Want a knife?" Hilfe said. "You can have your own," and he held out a boy's compendium.
Rowe slit the shoulder up and took out from the padding a roll of film; he broke the paper which bound it and exposed a corner of negative. "Yes," he said. "This is it."
"And now the gun?"
Rowe said slowly, "I promised nothing."
Hilfe said with sharp anxiety, "But you'll let me have the gun?"
"No."
Hilfe suddenly was scared and amazed. He exclaimed in his odd dated vocabulary, "It's a caddish trick."
"You've cheated too often," Rowe said.
"Be sensible," Hilfe said. "You think I want to escape. But the train's gone. Do you think I could get away by killing you in Paddington station? I wouldn't get a hundred yards."
"Why do you want it then?" Rowe asked.
"I want to get further away than that." He said in a low voice, "I don't want to be beaten up." He leant earnestly forward and the L.C.C. mirror behind him showed a tuft of fine hair he hadn't smoothed.
"We don't beat up our prisoners here."
"Oh no?" Hilfe said. 'do you really believe that? Do you think you are so different from us?"
"Yes."
"I wouldn't trust the difference," Hilfe said. "I know what we do to spies. They'll think they can make me talk -- they will make me talk." He brought up desperately the old childish phrase, "I'll swop." It was difficult to believe that he was guilty of so many deaths. He went urgently on, "Rowe, I'll give you your memory back. There's no one else will."
"Anna," Rowe said.
"She'll never tell you. Why, Rowe, she let me go to stop me. . . Because I said I'd tell you. She wants to keep you as you are."