Call for the Dead by John le Carré Read Free Book Online

"Krauts?" "Krauts. Huns, Jerries. Bloody Germans. Wouldn't give you sixpence for the lot of them. Carnivorous ruddy sheep. Kicking Jews about again. Us all over. Knock 'em down, set 'em up. Forgive and forget. Why bloody well forget, I'd like to know? Why forget theft, murder and rape just because millions committed it? Christ, one poor little sod of a bank clerk pinches ten bob and the whole of the Metropolitan's on to him. But Krupp and all that mob--oh no. Christ, if I was a Jew in Germany I'd..." Smiley was suddenly wide awake: "What would you do? What would you do, Mendel?" "Oh, I suppose I'd sit down under it. It's statistics now, politics. It isn't sense to give them H-bombs so it's politics. And there's the Yanks--millions of ruddy Jews in America. What do they do? Damn all: give the Krauts more bombs. All chums together--blow each other up." Mendel was trembling with rage, and Smiley was silent for a while, thinking of Eisa Fennan. "What's the answer?" he asked, just for something to say. "Christ knows," said Mendel savagely. They turned into Battersea Bridge Road and drew up beside a constable standing on the pavement. Mendel showed his Police card. "You seem to know a lot about him," said Mendel. | "I should do, I've run him in a few times. There's not much in the book that Adam hasn't been up to. He's one of our hardy perennials, Scarr is." "Well, well. Anything on him at present?" "Couldn't say, sir. But you can have him any time for illegal betting. And Adam's practically under the Act already." They drove towards Battersea Hospital. The park on their right looked black and hostile behind the street lamps. "What's under the Act?" asked Smiley. "Oh, he's only joking. It means your record's so long you're eligible for Preventive Detention--years of it. He sounds like my type," Mendel continued. "Leave him to me." They found the yard as the constable had described, between two dilapidated pre-fabs in an uncertain row of hutments erected on the bomb site. Rubble, clinker and refuse lay everywhere. Bits of asbestos, timber and old iron, presumably acquired by Mr. Scarr for resale or adaptation, were piled in a corner, dimly lit by the pale glow which came from the farther pre-fab. The two men looked round them in silence for a moment. Then Mendel shrugged, put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. "Scarr!" he called. Silence. The outside light on the far pre-fab went on, and three or four pre-war cars in various stages of dilapidation became dimly discernible. The door opened slowly and a girl of about twelve stood on the threshold. "Your dad in, dear?" asked Mendel. "Nope. Gone to the Prod, I 'spect." "Righto, dear. Thanks." They walked back to the road. "What on earth's the Prod, or daren't I ask?" said Smiley. "Prodigal's Calf. Pub round the corner. We can walk it--only a hundred yards. Leave the car here." It was only just after opening time. The public bar was empty, and as they waited for the landlord to appear the door swung open and a very fat man in a black suit came in. He walked straight to the bar and hammered on it with a half-crown. "Wilf," he shouted; "Take your finger out, you got customers, you lucky boy." He turned to Smiley; "Good evening, friend." From the rear of the pub a voice replied: "Tell 'em to leave their money on the counter and come back later." The fat man looked at Mendel and Smiley blankly for a moment, then suddenly let out a peal of laughter: "Not them, Wilf--they're busies!" The joke appealed to him so much that he was finally compelled to sit on the bench that ran along the side of the room, with his hands on his knees, his huge shoulders heaving with laughter, the tears running down his cheeks. Occasionally he said, "Oh dear, oh dear," as he caught his breath before another outburst. Smiley looked at him with interest. He wore a very dirty stiff white collar with rounded edges, a flowered red tie carefully pinned outside the black waistcoat, army boots and a shiny black