A Spoonful of Luger (44 page)

I
was
lucky
to
have
received
nothing
worse
than
facetiousness.

“There,”
she
said,
walking
in
with
the
tray.
Had
she
been
away
that
long?
“You’re
feeling
better.”

I
laughed,
the
first
time
for
days,
in
a
kind
of
idiot
relief.
“You’re
wonderful,
Anne.”

She
sat
in
front
of
the
tray,
keeping
her
face
averted,
pouring
tea.

“You
haven’t
given
it
time
to
brew,”
I
pointed
out.

“Damn
you,”
she
said
angrily,
still
refusing
to
look
up.
“Do
you
have
to
be
so
blasted
professional?”

“Habit,
I
suppose.”

“Everything,
every
little
gesture,
expression,
tone
of
voice,
you
pick
up
and
analyse.”

“It’s
my
training.”

“Don’t
apologize.”

“I
was
rather
proud
of
it,
actually.”

She
carefully
put
two
precious
spoons
of
sugar
in
my
tea,
from
memory.
I
said
nothing;
I’m
on
sweeteners
now.

“Do
you
know,
George,
you
can
be
positively
unpleasant.
With
a
bit
of
effort
you
could
be
quite
hateful.”

“You
gave
me
the
impression
I’d
succeeded.”

She
frowned.
“I
did?”
She
was
at
last
looking
directly
at
me.

“You
couldn’t
bear
to
see
me
when
you
recovered,”
I
reminded
her.

“Analyse
every
little
word,”
she
murmured.
“But
not
always
successfully.”

“Wasn’t
that
what
you
meant?”

I
suppose
I’d
never
really
understood
her.
Right
from
our
very
first
meeting,
I
had
not
been
certain
who
was
fooling
whom.
It
was
rigged,
of
course,
that
meeting,
an
idea
of
my
Super’s.
I
was
angry
about
it;
they
needed
a
younger
man,
somebody
who’d
enjoy
deceiving
a
woman.
She
hadn’t
looked
right
for
the
part
we
assumed
she
was playing —
too
open,
too
full
of
life.

But
people
never
look
what
they
are,
especially
when
they
try.
Her
husband
hadn’t
looked
like
a
wealthy
leader
of
a
dope
gang,
but
we
knew
he
was.
She
hadn’t
looked
like
a
woman
who
could
be
married
to
such
a
man,
and
know
what
he
was.
And
yet
—
she
must
have
known,
and
must
have
been
leading
me
on.

“I
didn’t
mean
I
had
cause
to
hate
you,
George,”
she
said
gently,
only
her
careful
spacing
of
the
words
giving
them
a
special
emphasis.

“I
deceived
you.
That
café
—
do
you
remember?
A
chance
meeting ... ”

“Chance!”

“On
the
surface.
Then
another
and
another.
We
got
on
fine,
Anne,
do
you
realize
that?”

We
had
got
on
like
fire
racing
in
front
of
a
strong
wind.
I
hadn’t
expected
to
be
able
to
relax
into
the
work.
It
was
just
a
job
to
be
done.
But
Anne
had
turned
out
to
be
pleasant
and
receptive,
an
easy
companion.
The
briefing
was
simply
to
get
to
know
her well
enough
to
be
able
to
slip
her
false
information.
Which
didn’t
really
need
all
those
meetings,
those
visits
to
her
place
—
this
place
—
with
our
intimacy
growing
all
the
while.

“But
you’ve
hardened
now,
George,”
she
said,
eyeing
me
measuringly.
“You
used
to
laugh
so
easily.”

“It’s
a
hard
life.”

“Since
you
retired?”

“Even
before.”

“They ...
they ... ?”
She
stopped.
“Some
more
tea?”

“Thank
you,
yes.
You
were
going
to
say:
they
weren’t
pleased.”

“They
wouldn’t
be
—
would
they?”

Looking
back,
I
can’t
remember
exactly
when
I
decided
not
to
go
through
with
it.
A
day
or
two
before
the
end,
I
believe.
By
that
time
I
had
allowed
Anne
to
discover
I
was
a
policeman,
though
without
any
hint
that
I
was
interested
in
anything
remotely
touching
her.
I
had
told
her
I
was
working
on
a
special
case,
and
I’d
suggested
that
drugs were
involved.
The
idea
was
that
she
would
accept
me
as
a
naive
and
impressionable
copper,
shooting
off
his
mouth
in
the
throes
of
infatuation.
It
was
assumed
she
was
systematically
extracting
information
from
me
and
feeding
it
to
her
husband,
and
on
that
assumption
I
was
intending
to
give
her
a
false
lead.
Then,
when
he
acted
on
it,
we’d
have
him.

But
somewhere
along
the
line
I
became
uncertain.
If
her
innocence
was
an
act,
it
was
a
damn
sight
better
one
than
mine.
I
began
to
hate
myself
for
deceiving
her.
But
there
was
nothing
to
prevent
it
going
ahead
as
planned,
and
innocent
or
not
she’d
probably
still
pass
him
the
information
we
needed
him
to
receive,
if
only
in
casual
conversation.
Then
we’d
have
him.