The Night Manager (66 page)

It wasn't till one evening a week later, when they were taking a last look at a patch of shallow water Pete always liked a couple of miles southeast of the Lanyon, and caught the smell of wood smoke on the offshore wind, that they separately arrived at the same unspoken decision to stroll casually down the lane and find out who the hell was living there--most likely that stinking old gyppo, Slow-and-Lucky, and his bloody mongrel. If so, he got no business. Not in Jack Linden's house. Not Lucky. That wouldn't be appropriate.

Long before they reached the front door, they knew it wasn't Lucky or anyone like him. When Lucky moved into a house, he didn't immediately cut the grass round the front path, or polish the brass door handle for you, boy. And he didn't put a pretty chestnut mare in your paddock--bloody hell, boy, she was so pretty she damn near smiled at you!

Lucky didn't hang woman's washing on the clothesline either, even if he was a bit kinky. Or stand still as a bloody buzzard at the parlour window, more like a shadow than a man, but a familiar shadow for all the weight he'd lost, challenging you to come up the path so he could break your legs for you, same as he damn near done for Pete Pengelly that time they tried to lamp his rabbits. He'd grown a beard, they noted, before they turned tail and scuttled back up the lane: a dirty big thick Cornish type of beard, more mask than bloody hair. God help us! Jack Linden in a Jesus beard! But when Redfers, who was courting Marilyn these days, plucked up his courage and informed Mrs. Trethewey, his mother-in-law-to-be, that Jack Linden had come back to the Lanyon, not a ghost but flesh, she bit off his head for him: "That's no more Jack Linden than I am," she retorted. "S don't you go being a silly boy, Redfers Hosken. That's a gentleman from Ireland and his lady, and they're going to breed horses and paint pictures. They've bought their house and paying their debts, and they're turning over a new leaf in life, it is high time you did the same."

"Looked like Jack to me," said Redfers, with more spirit than he felt.

Mrs. Trethewey fell quiet a moment, deliberating how much she could safely tell a boy of such patent limitation.

"Now you listen to me, Redfers," she said. "Jack Linden who came here a while back is far away over the hills. The person who lives at the Lanyon--well, I grant you he may be some kind of relative of Jack's, that's possible, and there's a similarity for those of us who didn't know Jack well. But I've had the police here, Redfers. A very persuasive gentleman from Yorkshire, with charm to burn, came all the way from London and spoke to certain people. And what may look like Jack Linden to some of us is an innocent stranger to those who are a little wiser. So I'll trouble you never to talk out of turn again, because if you do, you'll hurt two precious souls."

The End

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I acknowledge with gratitude the help of Jeff Leen of The Miami Herald and Rudy Maxa, Robbyn Swan, Jim Webster of Webster Associates, Edward Nowell of Nowell Antiques, Billy Coy of Enron, Abby Redhead of ABS, Roger and Anne Harris of Harris's Restaurant, Penzance, Billy Chappie of St. Buryan, and friendly spirits in the U. S. Drug Enforcement Agency and the U. S. Treasury who for obvious reasons cannot be mentioned here. Nor would it be appropriate to name arms dealers who opened their doors to me, as opposed to those who ran a mile when they heard me coming, or a former British soldier in Ireland who allowed me to plunder his memory. The management of a certain great hotel in Zürich, true to its traditions, showed a sporting indulgence towards the foibles of an old guest. Scott Gryphon piloted me in Canada, Peter Dorman and his colleagues at the Chicago House in Luxor showed me extraordinary courtesy, and opened my eyes to the splendours of ancient Egypt. Frank Wisner revealed to me a Cairo I shall never forget. The Mnushins lent me their piece of paradise.

Kevin Buckley pointed me in good directions, Dick Koster gave me the keys to Faberge, Gerasimos Kanelopulos spoiled me in his bookshop, Luis Martinez gave me a precious piece of Panama's magic. Jorge Ritter showed me Colón and much more, Barbara Deshotels shepherded me in Curaçao. If I have failed to live up to their hospitality and wise words, the fault is in me, not in them. Of all the people along the way who gave me encouragement and a helping hand, John Galley and Sandy Lean are almost too close to thank, but without them the Iron Pasha might never have set sail.

John Le Carré was born in 1931. After attending the universities of Berrie and Oxford, he taught at Eton and spent five years in the British Foreign Service.

The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, his third book, secured him a worldwide reputation. He divides his time between England and the Continent.