John le Carré - A PERFECT SPY

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A PERFECT SPY

by John Le Carre

1986

In the small hours of a blustery

October morning in a south Devon

coastal town that seemed to have

been deserted by its inhabitants,

Magnus Pym got out of his elderly

country taxi-cab and, having paid

the driver and waited till he had

left, struck out across the

church square. His destination

was a terrace of ill-lit

Victorian boardinghouses with

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A PERFECT SPY

names like Bel-a-Vista, The

Commodore and Eureka. In build he

was powerful but stately, a

representative of something. His

stride was agile, his body

forward-sloping in the best

tradition of the Anglo-Saxon

administrative class. In the same

attitude, whether static or in

motion, Englishmen have hoisted

flags over distant colonies,

discovered the sources of great

rivers, stood on the decks of

sinking ships. He had been

travelling in one way or another

for sixteen hours but he wore no

overcoat or hat. He carried a fat

black briefcase of the official

kind and in the other hand a

green Harrods bag. A strong sea

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A PERFECT SPY

wind lashed at his city suit,

salt rain stung his eyes, balls

of spume skimmed across his path.

Pym ignored them. Reaching the

porch of a house marked "No

Vacancies" he pressed the bell

and waited, first for the outside

light to go on, then for the

chains to be unfastened from

inside. While he waited a church

clock began striking five. As if

in answer to its summons Pym

turned on his heel and stared

back at the square. At the

graceless tower of the Baptist

church posturing against the

racing clouds. At the writhing

monkey-puzzle trees, pride of the

ornamental gardens. At the empty

bandstand. At the bus shelter. At

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A PERFECT SPY

the dark patches of the side

streets. At the doorways one by

one.

"Why Mr. Canterbury, it's you,"

an old lady's voice objected

sharply as the door opened behind

him. "You bad man. You caught the

night sleeper again, I can tell.

Why ever didn't you telephone?"

"Hullo, Miss Dubber," said Pym.

"How are you?"

"Never mind how I am, Mr.

Canterbury. Come in at once.

You'll catch your death."

But the ugly windswept square

seemed to have locked Pym in its

spell. "I thought Sea View was up

for sale, Miss D," he remarked as

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A PERFECT SPY

she tried to pluck him into the

house. "You told me Mr. Cook

moved out when his wife died.

Wouldn't set foot in the place,

you said."

"Of course he wouldn't. He was

allergic. Come in this instant,

Mr. Canterbury, and wipe your

feet before I make your tea."

"So what's a light doing in his

upstairs bedroom window?" Pym

asked as he allowed her to tug

him up the steps.

Like many tyrants Miss Dubber was

small. She was also old and

powdery and lopsided, with a

crooked back that rumpled her

dressing-gown and made everything

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A PERFECT SPY

round her seem lopsided too.

"Mr. Cook has rented out the

upper flat, Celia Venn has taken

it to paint in. That's you all

over." She slid a bolt.

"Disappear for three months, come

back in the middle of the night

and worry about a light in

someone's window." She slid

another. "You'll never change,

Mr. Canterbury. I don't know why

I bother."

"Who on earth is Celia Venn?"

"Dr. Venn's daughter, silly. She

wants to see the sea and paint

it." Her voice changed abruptly.

"Why Mr. Canterbury, how dare

you? Take that off this instant."

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A PERFECT SPY

With the last bolt in place Miss

Dubber had straightened up as

best she could and was preparing

herself for a reluctant hug. But

instead of her customary scowl,

which nobody believed in for a

moment, her poky little face had

twisted in fright.

"Your horrid black tie, Mr.

Canterbury. I won't have death in

the house, I won't have you bring

it. Who is it for?"

Pym was a handsome man, boyish

but distinguished. In his early

fifties he was in his prime, full

of zeal and urgency in a place

that knew none. But the best

thing about him in Miss Dubber's

view was his lovely smile that

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A PERFECT SPY

gave out so much warmth and truth

and made her feel right.

"Just an old Whitehall colleague,

Miss D. No one to flap about. No

one close."

"Everyone's close at my age, Mr.

Canterbury. What was his name?"

"I hardly knew the fellow," said

Pym emphatically, untying his tie

and slipping it into his pocket.

"And I'm certainly not going to

tell you his name and have you

hunting the obituaries, so

there." His eye as he said this

fell on the visitors' book, which

lay open on the hall table

beneath the orange nightlight

that he had fitted to her ceiling

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A PERFECT SPY

on his last visit. "Any casuals

at all, Miss D?" he asked as he

scanned the list. "Runaway

couples, mystery princesses? What

happened to those two lover-boys

who came at Easter?"

"They were not lover-boys," Miss

Dubber corrected him severely as

she hobbled towards the kitchen.

"They took single rooms and in

the evenings they watched

football on the television. What

was that you said, Mr.

Canterbury?"

But Pym had not spoken. Sometimes

his gushes of communication were

like phone calls cut off by some

inner censorship before they

could be completed. He turned

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back a page and then another.

"I don't think I'll do casuals

any more," Miss Dubber said

through the open kitchen doorway

as she lit the gas. "Sometimes

when the doorbell goes I sit here

with Toby and I say: 'You answer

it, Toby.' He doesn't of course.

A tortoise-shell cat can't answer

a door. So we go on sitting here.

We sit and we wait and we hear

the footsteps go away again." She

cast a sly glance at him. "You

don't think our Mr. Canterbury is

smitten, do you, Toby?" she

enquired archly of her cat.

"We're very bright this morning.

Very shiny. Ten years younger, by

the look of our coat, Mr.

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APERFECTSPYAPERFECTSPYbyJohnLeCarre19861InthesmallhoursofablusteryOctobermorninginasouthDevoncoastaltownthatseemedtohavebeendesertedbyitsinhabitants,MagnusPymgotoutofhiselderlycountrytaxi-caband,havingpaidthedriverandwaitedtillhehadleft,struckoutacrossthechurchsquare.Hisdestinationwasaterraceofill-l...

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John le Carré - A PERFECT SPY

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