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Authors: Len Deighton
Tags: Fiction
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port and talked about the set of six dram glasses he had bought in Portobello Road.
‘Might be eighteenth-century. They call that trumpet-bowled, see?’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘But aren’t there only five glasses?’
‘Ahh! Set of six with one missing.’
‘Ahh,’ I said.
Dawlish’s squawk-box buzzed and the bomber’s voice said, ‘Can I talk, Mr D?’
‘Go ahead,’ Dawlish said.
‘I’ve got it on the X-ray. It’s got electrical wiring in it so I want to go slowly, Mr Dawlish.’
‘Good Heavens yes,’ said Dawlish. ‘One doesn’t want the building blown to smithereens.’
‘Two doesn’t,’ said the duty bomber, and then he laughed and said it again, ‘two doesn’t.’
The small metal box that the Pike brothers had given me contained six fertile eggs and an electrical device that kept them at a constant temperature of 37° Centigrade. Each egg-shell had a wax-pencilled number, a filled notch and a puncture. Through the hyaline membrane of each egg a hypodermic needle had inserted a living virus. The eggs had been stolen from the Microbiological Research Establishment at Porton. The duty driver took them back to that quiet and picturesque corner ofold England at five o’clock that morning, using a blanket and hot-water bottle to keep them warm and alive.
For my trip to Helsinki Dawlish and I put six medium-grade new-laid into the metal box. We got them from the canteen, but had a terrible job removing the little lion stamp-marks that guarantee purity.
Chapter 7
The West London Air Terminal is stainless steel and glass, like a modern corned-beef factory. Passengers are felled, bled, eviscerated and packed firmly into buses, watched by men with wheelbarrows and dirty boots and red-eyed girls who pat their hairdos and tear up coloured pieces of paper.
A resonant female voice began the countdown on the bus departure and at the last moment Jean decided to ride out to the airport with me. The airport bus contained the driver, Jean, myself and nine other passengers all but one being male. In the bus baggage compartment were twelve cases of medium size, one hat-box, three paper-wrapped parcels, one hessian-wrapped box, one document case, three sets of skis (in presses and complete with sticks), one set of which were slalom skis, and a small hamper containing samples of ladies’ shoes.
It was a good haul for the thief who hijacked the whole lot of it. In my case was the electrically heated box of eggs.
The morning flight to Stockholm and Helsinki was delayed by ninety-seven minutes. By that time the skis and two bags were recovered, but neither were mine. Because I thought I might be under surveillance by parties unknown, LAP Special Branch questioned the only witness of the theft that could be found—an LAP police constable named Blair—and delivered this transcript of his account to me on the aeroplane.
Special Branch
Confidential
London Airport
Copy 2 of 2
Transcript from tape-band. Police Constable Blair in conversation with Det. Sgt Smith, Special Branch LAP.
Det. Sgt Smith: We are particularly interested in the man you saw this morning and so I am recording now in order to make a transcript that will keep your descriptions on record. Don’t give your answers in a formal way, don’t hesitate to correct anything after you have said it and don’t hurry; we have plenty of tape. Tell me first what drew your attention to this particular man.
PC Blair: He seemed very strong. He was working harder than I’ve seen any of the porters ever work (laughter). He sort of um lifted the um cases over into the van one in each hand. He did the whole load in about six journeys across the pavement.
Det. Sgt Smith: Tell me what he said when he saw you watching.
PC Blair: Well er like I told you he er I didn’t don’t er remember exactly the words he used but it was something like ‘How’s about a go at the old winter sporting’ but it was more American than that.
Det. Sgt Smith: Did you take him
‘Might be eighteenth-century. They call that trumpet-bowled, see?’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘But aren’t there only five glasses?’
‘Ahh! Set of six with one missing.’
‘Ahh,’ I said.
Dawlish’s squawk-box buzzed and the bomber’s voice said, ‘Can I talk, Mr D?’
‘Go ahead,’ Dawlish said.
‘I’ve got it on the X-ray. It’s got electrical wiring in it so I want to go slowly, Mr Dawlish.’
‘Good Heavens yes,’ said Dawlish. ‘One doesn’t want the building blown to smithereens.’
‘Two doesn’t,’ said the duty bomber, and then he laughed and said it again, ‘two doesn’t.’
The small metal box that the Pike brothers had given me contained six fertile eggs and an electrical device that kept them at a constant temperature of 37° Centigrade. Each egg-shell had a wax-pencilled number, a filled notch and a puncture. Through the hyaline membrane of each egg a hypodermic needle had inserted a living virus. The eggs had been stolen from the Microbiological Research Establishment at Porton. The duty driver took them back to that quiet and picturesque corner ofold England at five o’clock that morning, using a blanket and hot-water bottle to keep them warm and alive.
For my trip to Helsinki Dawlish and I put six medium-grade new-laid into the metal box. We got them from the canteen, but had a terrible job removing the little lion stamp-marks that guarantee purity.
Chapter 7
The West London Air Terminal is stainless steel and glass, like a modern corned-beef factory. Passengers are felled, bled, eviscerated and packed firmly into buses, watched by men with wheelbarrows and dirty boots and red-eyed girls who pat their hairdos and tear up coloured pieces of paper.
A resonant female voice began the countdown on the bus departure and at the last moment Jean decided to ride out to the airport with me. The airport bus contained the driver, Jean, myself and nine other passengers all but one being male. In the bus baggage compartment were twelve cases of medium size, one hat-box, three paper-wrapped parcels, one hessian-wrapped box, one document case, three sets of skis (in presses and complete with sticks), one set of which were slalom skis, and a small hamper containing samples of ladies’ shoes.
It was a good haul for the thief who hijacked the whole lot of it. In my case was the electrically heated box of eggs.
The morning flight to Stockholm and Helsinki was delayed by ninety-seven minutes. By that time the skis and two bags were recovered, but neither were mine. Because I thought I might be under surveillance by parties unknown, LAP Special Branch questioned the only witness of the theft that could be found—an LAP police constable named Blair—and delivered this transcript of his account to me on the aeroplane.
Special Branch
Confidential
London Airport
Copy 2 of 2
Transcript from tape-band. Police Constable Blair in conversation with Det. Sgt Smith, Special Branch LAP.
Det. Sgt Smith: We are particularly interested in the man you saw this morning and so I am recording now in order to make a transcript that will keep your descriptions on record. Don’t give your answers in a formal way, don’t hesitate to correct anything after you have said it and don’t hurry; we have plenty of tape. Tell me first what drew your attention to this particular man.
PC Blair: He seemed very strong. He was working harder than I’ve seen any of the porters ever work (laughter). He sort of um lifted the um cases over into the van one in each hand. He did the whole load in about six journeys across the pavement.
Det. Sgt Smith: Tell me what he said when he saw you watching.
PC Blair: Well er like I told you he er I didn’t don’t er remember exactly the words he used but it was something like ‘How’s about a go at the old winter sporting’ but it was more American than that.
Det. Sgt Smith: Did you take him
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