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

hardly felt the rest--just a vision of his own body, far away, being slowly broken like rock; cracked and split into fragments, then nothing. Nothing but the warmth of his own blood as it ran over his face into the cinders, and far away the beating of the stonebreakers. But not here. Far away.
    VII
    MR. SCARE'S STORY
    Mendel looked at him and wondered whether he was dead. He emptied the pockets of his own overcoat and laid it gently over Smiley's shoulders, then he ran, ran like a madman towards the hospital, crashed through the swing-doors of the out-patients' department into the bright, twenty-four hour interior of the hospital. A young coloured doctor was on duty. Mendel showed him his card, shouted something to him, took him by the arm, tried to lead him down the road. The doctor smiled patiently, shook his head and telephoned for an ambulance. Mendel ran back down the road and waited. A few minutes later the ambulance arrived and skilful men gathered Smiley up and took him away. "Bury him," thought Mendel; "I'll make the bastard pay." He stood there for a moment, staring down at the wet patch of mud and cinders where Smiley had fallen; the red glow of the car's rear lights showed him nothing. The ground had been hopelessly churned by the feet of the ambulance men and a few inhabitants from the prefabs who had come and gone like shadowy vultures. Trouble was about. They didn't like trouble. "Bastard," Mendel hissed, and walked slowly back towards the pub. The saloon bar was filling up. Scarr was ordering another drink. Mendel took him by the arm. Scarr turned and said: "Hello, friend, back again. Have a little of what killed Auntie." "Shut up," said Mendel; "I want another word with you. Come outside." Mr. Scarr shook his head and sucked his teeth sympathetically. "Can't be done, friend, can't be done. Company." He indicated with his head an eighteen-year-old blonde with off-white hpstick and an improbable bosom, who sat quite motionless at a corner table. Her painted eyes had a permanently startled look. "Listen," whispered Mendel; "in just two seconds I'll tear your bloody ears off, you lying sod." Scarr consigned his drinks to the care of the landlord and made a slow, dignified exit. He didn't look at the girl. Mendel led him across the street towards the prefabs. The side lights of Smiley's car shone towards them eighty yards down the road. They turned into the yard. The MG was still there. Mendel had Scarr firmly by the arm, ready if necessary to force the forearm back and upwards, breaking or dislocating the shoulder joint. "Well, well," cried Scarr with apparent delight; "She's returned to the bosom of her ancestors." "Stolen, was it?" said Mendel. "Stolen by a tall Scotsman with a walking stick and an address in Ealing. Decent of him to bring it back, wasn't it. Friendly gesture, after all this time. You've mistaken your bloody market, Scarr." Mendel was shaking with anger. "And why are the side lights on? Open the door." He searched quickly but thoroughly. Glove tray, seats, floor, rear window-ledge: nothing. He slipped his hand inside the map pocket on the passenger door, and drew out a map and an envelope. The envelope was long and flat, grey-blue in colour with a linen finish. Continental, thought Mendel. There was no writing on it. He tore it open. There were ten used five-pound notes inside and a piece of plain postcard. Mendel held it to the light and read the message printed on it with a ball-point pen: "FINISHED NOW. SELL IT." There was no signature. He got out of the car, and seized Scarr by the elbows. Scarr stepped back quickly. "What's your problem, friend?" he asked. Mendel spoke softly. "It's not my problem, Scarr, it's yours. The biggest bloody problem you ever had. Conspiracy to murder, attempted murder, offences under the Official Secrets Act. And you can add to that contravention of the Road Traffic Act, conspiracy to defraud the Inland Revenue and about fifteen other charges that will occur to