Call for the Dead Read Online Free Page A

very much indeed all the same. Well, ^ at least we know where we stand... not at all, you've been very helpful... just a theory, that's all... have to think again, won't we? Well, thanks very much. Very kind, keep it under your hat... Cheerio." He rang off, tore the page from the pad and put it in his pocket. Smiley spoke quickly: "There's a beastly caf'own the road. I need some breakfast. Come and have a cup of coffee." The telephone was ringing; Snliley could almost feel Maston the other end. Mendel looked at him for a moment and seemed to understand. They left it ringing and walked quickly out of the police station towards the High Street. The Fountain Caf'Proprietor Miss Gloria Adam) was all Tudor and horse brasses and local honey at sixpence more than anywhere else. Miss Adam herself dispensed the nastiest coffee south of Manchester and spoke of her customers as "My Friends." Miss Adam did not do business with friends, but simply robbed them, which somehow added to the illusion of genteel amateurism which Miss Adam was so anxious to preserve. Her origin was obscure, but she often spoke of her late father as "The Colonel." It was rumoured among those of Miss Adam's friends who had paid particularly dearly for their friendship that the colonelcy in question had been granted by the Salvation Army. Mendel and Smiley sat at a corner table near the fire, waiting for their order. Mendel looked at Smiley oddly: "The girl remembers the call clearly; it came right at the end of her shift--five to eight last night. A request for an 8.30 call this morning. It was made by Fennan himself--the girl is positive of that." "How?" "Apparently this Fennan had rung the exchange on Christmas Day and the same girl was on duty. Wanted to wish them all a Happy Christmas. She was rather bucked. They had quite a chat. She's sure it was the same voice yesterday, asking for the call. 'Very cultured gentleman,' she said." "But it doesn't make sense. He wrote a suicide letter at 10.30. What happened between 8 and 10.30?" "Who the devil's she?" "Sorry, sir. What we call your Adviser, sir. Pretty general in the Branch, sir. Very sorry, sir." How beautiful, thought Smiley, how absolutely beautiful. He opened the folder and looked at the fascimile. Mendel went on talking: "First suicide letter I've ever seen that was typed. First one I've seen with the time on it, for that matter. Signature looks O. K., though. Checked it at the station against a receipt he once signed for lost property. Right as rain." The letter was typed, probably a portable. Like the anonymous denunciation; that was a portable too. This one was signed with Fennan's neat, legible signature. Beneath the printed address at the head of the page was typed the date, and beneath that the time: 10.30 p.m.: "Dear Sir David, After some hesitation I have decided to take my life. I cannot spend my remaining years under a cloud of disloyalty and suspicion. I realise that my career is ruined, that I am the victim of paid informers. Yours sincerely, Samuel Fennan." Smiley read it through several times, his mouth pursed in concentration, his eyebrows raised a little as if in surprise. Mendel was asking him something: "How d'you get on to it?" "On to what?" "This early call business." "Oh, I took the call. Thought it was for me. It wasn't--it was the exchange with this thing. Even then the penny didn't drop. I assumed it was for her, you see. Went down and told her." "Down?" "Yes. They keep the telephone in the bedroom. It's a sort of bed-sitter, really... she used to be an invalid, you know, and they've left the room as it was then, I suppose. It's like a study, one end; books, typewriter, desk and so forth." "Typewriter?" "Yes. A portable. I imagine he did this letter on it. But you see when I took that call I'd forgotten it couldn't possibly be Mrs. Fennan who'd asked for it." "Why not?" "She's an insomniac--she told me. Made a sort of joke of it. I told her to get some rest and she just said: 'My