3

"Pure lack of will." He said to himself, politely declining the offer of a woman standing at the door, "It's not so much politeness as weakness." Martintyre, you flirtatious, posturing, talkative, spineless, unproductive ......" he took a big step, trying to avoid an obstacle. "Weakness," he continued, "cannot be freed from all fetters and live an independent life," "a puddle of dirty water splashed him—"and emotional concerns, which have long since lost their original meaning." Whether it's with my wife, with Roundfield, and life in London. Taxicab! ”

Smiley took a few steps forward, but it was too late. The two young ladies huddled under an umbrella and laughed, and they had already gotten into the car, only to see a flash of arms and legs. He pulled up the collar of his black coat abruptly and continued to walk alone. "Fading pure hope," he muttered angrily, "a small patch of sandy rock in the street." You cheeky talker, who likes to ask around—"

By this time he remembered that he had forgotten the Gremmelshausen book at the club, but it was too late.

"Oh, fuck!" He scolded loudly, and in order to get angry, he stopped and scolded a few times, "Fuck, fuck, fuck." ”

He decided to sell his house in London. He had just made this important decision when he hid under the canopy and waited for the rain to stop. He heard from all sides that house prices in London had skyrocketed. That's nice. He sold his house and used some of the proceeds to buy a country house in Cowswood. Or in Burford? There is too much traffic coming and going. Stipur Aston? That's a good place. He appears as a stranger, rambling talker, and a loner of solitude, but he also has a habit or two of likability, such as talking to himself when he is in the streets. Maybe it's a bit out of fashion, but who is the same as the times these days? Not in line with the trend of the times, but also not turning its back on its own times. After all, at some point, everyone has to choose whether to move forward or go backward. Now the wind is blowing like this for a while, and it is not dishonorable for you not to fall with the wind. You still have to be assertive, persist unwaveringly, and be the mainstay of your own generation. If Ann wants to come back, then he will send her to the door and ask her to leave.

Or, it doesn't have to be asked to go, it depends on whether she is eager to return.

Solace in this premise, Smiley reached King's Road, where he paused for a moment as if to cross the street. The road is lined with gorgeous boutiques. In front of him was Beyvat Street, where he lived, a dead alley, and he walked from the beginning to the end, a total of only one hundred and seventeen steps. When he first moved here, the Georgian buildings had a decaying and old beauty, and the young couple lived on fifteen pounds a week, and in the basement they did not dare to openly accept a tenant who did not pay taxes. But now there are iron bars to protect the windows on the lower floors, and three cars are parked on the side of the road in each house. Out of a long-standing habit, Smiley walked over and glanced at each other, which one was familiar and which was not. Among the unfamiliar cars, which one is equipped with antennas and more mirrors, and which one is the windowless pickup truck that the watcher likes. He did this in part to test his memory, to keep his mind from shrinking from retirement, just as he used to memorize the numbers of shops on the bus to the British Museum, and just as he memorized the number of each staircase in his home, and in the direction in which each of the twelve doors opened.

But Smiley did this for a second reason, and that was his fear, a secret that a professional spy could not shake off until he died. Because the past experience is so complicated, even he can't remember how many grudges he has settled, and one day the enemy will come to the door to settle accounts with him.

At the end of the street, a neighbor took the dog out for a walk. She saw him and looked up and said something she didn't know, but he ignored her, knowing in his heart that it was probably about Ann again. He crossed the road. His house was dark, and the curtains were still drawn as they had been when he had gone out. He climbed six steps to the door. Since Ann was gone, he had dismissed the woman who had cleaned up the house: no one but Ann had the key. There were two locks on the door, one with a Banhan deadlock, one with a Chuber key lock, and two small pieces of wood that he had made himself, the size of a fingernail, one stuffed into the crack of the upper door beam, and one under the Banhan lock. It's a habit he left behind when he's out and about. Recently, for some unknown reason, he started using it again, perhaps in order not to be surprised by her sudden return. He touched it with his fingertips, and the two small pieces of wood were there. So he unlocked the door, pushed it in, and came across the mail that had been stuffed in at noon and lay on the carpet.

He thought to himself, what magazine is due? German Life and Literature? Linguistics? He thought it should be Linguistics, which was long due. He turned on the light on the porch, bent down, and flipped through the mail. One was a bill from his tailor, which he had not made to order, and he suspected that it was probably being worn by Ahn's lover now; One is her gas bill from a gas station in Henley (it's only October 9th and there's no money, what are they doing in Henlai); One was a letter from a bank about the opening of an account opened by the Milan bank Immingham branch to withdraw money from Mrs. Ann Smiley.

He asked, "What the fuck are the two of them doing in Emmingham?" Who knows, who will go to Immingham to have a tryst with his concubine? Where is Emmingham?

He was pondering this question when his eyes fell on an umbrella stand that he had never seen before. It is a silk umbrella with a hand-sewn holster on the handle and a gold ring on it, but it does not have the owner's initials. A thought quickly flashed through his mind: since the umbrella was dry, it must have been placed there before the rain at 6:15, for there was no trace of water on the shelf. And this umbrella is very particular, although it is not new, the stainless steel head of the umbrella tip has not been scratched. Therefore, the umbrella belongs to a person who is agile, even a young man, like one of Ahn's most recent lovers. But since the owner of the umbrella knew the pieces of wood stuffed in the door, and knew how to put them back when he entered the house, and was quite clever enough to push the door and scramble (and no doubt read) the mail, and then put them against the door, it is highly likely that he knew Smiley as well. He was not Ahn's lover, but a professional agent like himself, who had worked intimately with him at one time, and, as the jargon put it, recognized his "handwriting".

The door to the living room was blank. He gently pushed a little more away.

"Peter?" He asked.

He looked through the crack in the door, and by the light of the street lamp outside, he saw a pair of feet in suede shoes stretched out at one end of the sofa, lazily stacked on top of each other.

"If I were you, George, I wouldn't take off my coat, man," said in a kind voice, "and we've got a long way to go." ”

Five minutes later, dressed in a voluminous brown travel coat, George Smiley sat gloomily in the guest seat of Peter Gillum's convertible sports car. The coat was a gift from Ann, the only one he had to dry. It turned out that Peter had parked his car in another nearby square, so he hadn't noticed it before. Their destination was Ascot, a place known for its women and horse racing. However, it is not well known as the residence of Mr. Oliver Lacan of the Cabinet Office. Mr. Lacan is a senior adviser to various committees and the general superintendent of espionage. Or, in Gillum's disrespectful words, the butler of Whitehall.

Bill Roach was in Thursgood's school, unable to sleep in his bed, thinking to himself that he had been staring at Jim every day, and that he had finally had an effect recently. Yesterday Jim surprised Raz. On Thursday he stole again a letter addressed to Miss Aronson. Miss Aronson taught the violin and the Bible, and Roach stammered with her because of her gentle temper. According to the housekeeper, the gardener's assistant Raz was a D.P., who did not speak English or could not speak a few words of English. The houselady added that D.P. meant a different person, and that he had come from a foreign country during the war anyway. But yesterday Jim had a conversation with Raz, and he asked Raz to help shake the starter lever in front of the car, and he was talking to him in D.P.'s native language, and Raz jumped for joy anyway in what D.P. said.

With regard to Miss Aaronson's letter, the matter is a little more complicated. After returning from church on Thursday morning, Roach went to the faculty lounge to get the exercise books for their class, and there were two letters on the wall table, one for Jim and one for Miss Aronson. Jim's one was typed on a typewriter, and Miss Aaronson's was handwritten, somewhat like Jim's own. When Roach saw the letters, the faculty lounge was empty. He took his exercise book and was about to leave silently when Jim came in through another door, having returned from his morning walk, flushed and out of breath.

"Let's go, big fat, the class bell has already rang." He leaned over the table by the wall.

"All right, sir."

"The weather is a little fickle, isn't it, big fat?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, let's go."

Once at the door, Roach glanced back. Jim had straightened up and opened the Daily Telegraph that morning. The table was empty. Both letters are missing.

Did Jim write a letter to Miss Aronson and change his mind? Maybe a marriage proposal? Bill Roach has another idea. Recently, Jim got an old typewriter, a Breaking Remington card, which he repaired himself. Did he use that typewriter to type a letter to himself? Is he so lonely, writing letters to himself and stealing other people's letters? Thinking of this, Roach fell asleep.