Read The Confidential Agent for Free Online Page A

emotion. He said, ‘I know your sort. Worm your way in on board a boat. I spotted you from the first.’
    D. said, ‘I’m in a hurry. Will you take me to Miss Cullen – or to the police?’
    â€˜You foreigners,’ the manager said, ‘come over here, get hold of our girls . . . you are going to learn a lesson . . .’
    â€˜Surely your friend over there is a foreigner too?’
    â€˜He’s a gentleman.’
    â€˜I don’t understand,’ D. said, ‘what you propose to do?’
    â€˜If I had my way, you’d go to gaol – but Rose – Miss Cullen – won’t charge you.’ He had been drinking a lot of whisky: you could tell that from the smell. ‘We’ll treat you better than you deserve – give you a thrashing, man to man.’
    â€˜You mean – assault me?’ he asked incredulously. ‘There are three of you.’
    â€˜Oh, we’ll let you fight. Take off your coat. You called this chap here a thief – you bloody thief! He wants a crack at you.’
    D. said with horror, ‘If you want to fight, can’t we get – pistols – the two of us?’
    â€˜We don’t go in for that sort of murder here.’
    â€˜And you don’t fight your own battles either.’
    â€˜You know very well,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a gammy hand.’ He drew it out of his pocket and waggled it – a gloved object with stiff formalised fingers like a sophisticated doll’s.
    â€˜I won’t fight,’ D. said.
    â€˜That’s as you like.’ The chauffeur came edging up without a cap. He had taken off his overcoat, but hadn’t troubled about his jacket – tight and blue. D. said, ‘He’s twenty years younger.’
    â€˜This isn’t the National Sporting Club,’ the manager said. ‘This is a punishment.’ He let go of D.’s collar and said, ‘Go on. Take off your coat.’ The chauffeur waited with his fists hanging down. D. slowly took off his overcoat, all the horror of the physical contact was returning: the club swung: he could see the warder’s face – this was degradation. Suddenly he became aware of a car coming up behind; he darted into the middle of the road and began to wave. He said, ‘For God’s sake . . . these men . . .’
    It was a small Morris. A thin nervous man sat at the wheel with a grey powerful woman at his side. She looked at the odd group in the road with complacent disapproval. ‘I say – I say,’ the man said. ‘What’s all this about?’
    â€˜Drunks,’ his wife said.
    â€˜That’s all right, old man,’ the manager said; he had his monocle back over the fish-like eye. ‘My name’s Captain Currie. You know – the Tudor Club. This man stole a car.’
    â€˜Do you want us to fetch the police for you?’ the woman said.
    â€˜No. The owner – a fine girl, one of the best – doesn’t want to charge. We’re just going to teach him a lesson.’
    â€˜Well, you don’t want us,’ the man said. ‘I don’t intend to be mixed up . . .’
    â€˜One of these foreigners,’ the manager explained. ‘Glib tongue, you know.’
    â€˜Oh, a foreigner,’ the woman said with tight lips. ‘Drive on, dear . . .’ The car ground into gear and moved forward into the fog.
    â€˜And now,’ the manager said, ‘are you going to fight?’ He said with contempt, ‘You needn’t be afraid. You’ll get fair play.’
    â€˜We better go into the field,’ the chauffeur said. ‘Too many cars here.’
    â€˜I won’t move,’ D. said.
    â€˜All right, then.’ The chauffeur struck him lightly on the cheek, and D.’s hands automatically went up in defence. Immediately the chauffeur struck again on the mouth, all the time