Eye of the Needle by Ken Follett Page B

rendezvous again yesterday and today.” Godliman was making patterns with matchsticks on his desk, a thinking habit he had developed. “Still no movement at the house?”
    “Nothing. He’s been in there for forty-eight hours.” Bloggs repeated, “It’s my fault.”
    “Don’t be a bore, old chap,” Godliman said. “It was my decision to let him run so that he would lead us to someone else, and I still think it was the right move.”
    Bloggs sat motionless, his expression blank, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. “If the contact has been made, we shouldn’t delay picking Blondie up and finding out what his mission was.”
    “That way we lose whatever chance we have of following Blondie to somebody more important.”
    “Your decision.”
    Godliman had made a church with his matches. He stared at it for a moment, then took a halfpenny from his pocket and tossed it. “Tails,” he observed. “Give him another twenty-four hours.”
     
     
     
    THE LANDLORD was a middle-aged Irish Republican from Lisdoonvarna, County Clare, who harbored a secret hope that the Germans would win the war and thus free the Emerald Isle from English oppression forever. He limped arthritically around the old house, collecting his weekly rents, thinking how much he would be worth if those rents were allowed to rise to their true market value. He was not a rich man—he owned only two houses, this and the smaller one in which he lived. He was permanently bad-tempered.
    On the first floor he tapped on the door of the old man. This tenant was always pleased to see him. He was probably pleased to see anybody. He said, “Hello, Mr. Riley, would you like a cup of tea?”
    “No time today.”
    “Oh, well.” The old man handed over the money. “I expect you’ve seen the kitchen window.”
    “No, I didn’t go in there.”
    “Oh! Well, there’s a pane of glass out. I patched it over with blackout curtain, but of course there is a draft.”
    “Who smashed it?” the landlord asked.
    “Funny thing, it ain’t broke. Just lying there on the grass. I expect the old putty just gave way. I’ll mend it myself, if you can get hold of a bit of putty.”
    You old fool, the landlord thought. Aloud he said, “I don’t suppose it occurred to you that you might have been burgled?”
    The old man looked astonished. “I never thought of that.”
    “Nobody’s missing any valuables?”
    “Nobody’s said so to me.”
    The landlord went to the door. “All right, I’ll have a look when I go down.”
    The old man followed him out. “I don’t think the new bloke is in upstairs,” he said. “I haven’t heard a sound for a couple of days.”
    The landlord was sniffing. “Has he been cooking in his room?”
    “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Riley.”
    The two of them went up the stairs. The old man said, “He’s very quiet, if he is in there.”
    “Whatever he’s cooking, he’ll have to stop. It smells bloody awful.”
    The landlord knocked on the door. There was no answer. He opened it and went in, and the old man followed him.
     
     
     
    “WELL, WELL, WELL,” the old sergeant said heartily. “I think you’ve got a dead one.” He stood in the doorway, surveying the room. “You touched anything, Paddy?”
    “No,” the landlord replied. “And the name’s Mr. Riley.”
    The policeman ignored this. “Not long dead, though. I’ve smelled worse.” His survey took in the old chest of drawers, the suitcase on the low table, the faded square of carpet, the dirty curtains on the dormer window and the rumpled bed in the corner. There were no signs of a struggle.
    He went over to the bed. The young man’s face was peaceful, his hands clasped over his chest. “I’d say heart attack, if he wasn’t so young.” There was no empty sleeping-pill bottle to indicate suicide. He picked up the leather wallet on top of the chest and looked through its contents. There was an identity card and a ration book, and a fairly thick wad of notes.