The Looking Glass War by John le Carré Read Free Book Online

about it, its painted eyes staring from between fringes of ragged cotton, was a doll. Its daubed mouth was lolling open, its head hung sideways as if it were broken or dead. It is called a talking doll, but no living thing uttered such a sound.
    ‘Where is your mother?’ asked Leclerc. His voice was aggressive, frightened.
    The child shook her head. ‘Gone to work.’
    ‘Who looks after you, then?’
    She spoke slowly as if she were thinking of something else. ‘Mum comes back tea-times. I’m not to open the door.’
    ‘Where is she? Where does she go?’
    ‘Work.’
    ‘Who gives you lunch?’ Leclerc insisted.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Who gives you dinner?’ Avery said quickly.
    ‘Mrs Bradley. After school.’
    Then Avery asked, ‘Where’s your father?’ and she smiled and put a finger to her lips.
    ‘He’s gone on an aeroplane,’ she said. ‘To get money. But I’m not to say. It’s a secret.’
    Neither of them spoke. ‘He’s bringing me a present,’ she added.
    ‘Where from?’ said Avery.
    ‘From the North Pole, but it’s a secret.’ She still had her hand on the doorknob. ‘Where Father Christmas comes from.’
    ‘Tell your Mother some men were here,’ Avery said. ‘From your Dad’s office. We’ll come again tea-time.’
    ‘It’s important,’ said Leclerc.
    She seemed to relax when she heard they knew her father.
    ‘He’s on an aeroplane,’ she repeated. Avery felt in his pocket and gave her two half-crowns, the change from Sarah’s ten shillings. She closed the door, leaving them on that damned staircase with the wireless playing dreamy music.

4
    They stood in the street not looking at one another. Leclerc said, ‘Why did you ask that question, the question about her father?’
    When Avery did not reply he added incongruously, ‘It isn’t a matter of liking people.’
    Sometimes Leclerc seemed neither to hear nor to feel; he drifted away, listening for a sound, like a man who having learnt the steps had been deprived of the music; this mood read like a deep sadness, like the bewilderment of a man betrayed.
    ‘I’m afraid I shan’t be able to come back here with you this afternoon,’ Avery said gently. ‘Perhaps Bruce Woodford would be prepared—’
    ‘Bruce is no good.’ He added: ‘You’ll be at the meeting; at ten forty-five?’
    ‘I may have to leave before the end to get to the Circus and collect my things. Sarah hasn’t been well. I’ll stay at the office as long as I can. I’m sorry I asked that question, I really am.’
    ‘I don’t want anyone to know. I must speak to her mother first. There may be some explanation. Taylor’s an old hand. He knew the rules.’
    ‘I shan’t mention it, I promise I shan’t. Nor Mayfly.’
    ‘I must tell Haldane about Mayfly. He’ll object, of course. Yes, that’s what we’ll call it … the whole operation. We’ll call it Mayfly.’ The thought consoled him.
    They hurried to the office, not to work but for refuge; for anonymity, a quality they had come to need.
    His room was one along from Leclerc’s. It had a label on the door saying, ‘Director’s Aide’. Two years ago Leclerc had been invited to America, and the expression dated from his return. Within the Department, staff were referred to by the function they fulfilled. Hence Avery was known simply as Private Office; though Leclerc might alter the title every week, he could not alter the vernacular.
    At a quarter to eleven Woodford came into his room. Avery guessed he would: a little chat before the meeting began, a quiet word about some matter not strictly on the agenda.
    ‘What’s it all about, John?’ He lit his pipe, tilted back his large head and extinguished the match with long, swinging movements of his hand. He had once been a schoolmaster; an athletic man.
    ‘You tell me.’
    ‘Poor Taylor.’
    ‘Precisely.’
    ‘I don’t want to jump the gun,’ he said, and settled himself on the edge of the desk, still absorbed in his pipe.
    ‘I don’t want