df.theedge-第4节

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　　I　met　him　first　on　a　day　when　old　Clement　Cornborough　asked　me　again　to　lunch　to　discuss　in　detail；　as　he　said；　the　winding　up　of　the　Trust　he'd　administered　on　my　behalf　for　twenty　years。　A　small　celebration；　he　said。　At　his　club。
　　His　club　turned　out　to　be　the　Hobbs　Sandwich　Club；　near　the　Oval　cricket　ground；　a　Victorian　mini…mansion　with　a　darkly　opulent　bar　and　club　rooms；　their　oak…panelled　walls　decorated　with　endless　pictures　of　gentlemen　in　small　cricket　caps；　large　white　flannels　and　（quite　often）　side…whiskers。
　　The　Hobbs　Sandwich；　he　said；　leading　the　way　through　stained…glass　panelled　doors；　was　named　for　two　great　Surrey　cricketers　from　between　the　wars；　Sir　Jack　Hobbs；　one　of　the　few　cricketers　ever　knighted；　and　Andrew　Sandham；　who　had　scored　one　hundred　and　seven　centuries　in　first…class　cricket。　Long　before　I　was　born；　he　said。
　　I　hadn't　played　cricket　since　distant　days　at　school；　nor　liked　it　particularly　even　then：　Clement　Cornborough　proved　to　be　a　lifelong　fanatic。
　　He　introduced　me　in　the　bar　to　an　equal　fanatic；　his　friend　Val　Catto；　who　then　joined　us　for　lunch。　Not　a　word　about　my　Trust　was　spoken。　The　two　of　them　talked　cricket　solidly　for　fifteen　minutes　and　then　the　friend　Catto　began　asking　questions　about　my　life。　It　dawned　on　me　uneasily　after　a　while　that　I　was　being　interviewed；　though　I　didn't　know　for　what；　and　I　learned　afterwards　that　in　conversation　one　day　during　the　tea　interval　of　a　cricket　match　Catto　had　lamented　to　Cornborough　that　what　he　really　needed　was　someone　who　knew　the　racing　scene　intimately；　but　whom　the　racing　scene　didn't　know　in　return。　An　eyes　and　ears　man。　A　silent；　unknown　investigator。　A　fly　on　racing's　wall　that　no　one　would　notice。　Such　a　person；　they　had　sighed　together；　was　unlikely　to　be　found。　And　that　when　a　few　weeks　later　I　walked　into　Cornborough's　office　（or　at　least　by　the　time　I　left　it）　the　lawyer　had　suffered　a　brainwave　which　he　passed　on　to　his　friend　Val。
　　The　Hobbs　Sandwich　lunch　（of　anything　but　sandwiches）　had　lasted　through　a　good　chunk　of　the　afternoon；　and　by　the　end　of　it　I　had　a　job。　I　hadn't　taken　a　lot　of　persuading；　as　it　seemed　interesting　to　me　from　the　start。　A　month's　trial　on　both　sides。　Brigadier　Catto　said；　and　mentioned　a　salary　that　had　Cornborough　smiling　broadly。
　　'What's　so　funny？'　the　Brigadier　asked。　'That's　normal。　We　pay　most　of　our　men　that　at　the　start。'
　　'I　forgot　to　mention　it。　Tor　here　is。。　um。。。'　He　paused；　perhaps　wondering　whether　finishing　the　sentence　came　under　the　heading　of　breaking　a　client's　right　to　confidentiality；　because　after　a　short　while　he　went　on；　'He'd　better　tell　you　himself。'
　　'I　accept　the　salary；'　I　said。
　　'What　have　you　not　told　me？'　Catto　asked；　suddenly　very　much　the　boss；　his　eyes　not　exactly　suspicious　but　unsmiling：　and　I　saw　that　I　was　not　binding　myself　to　some　slightly　eccentric　friendly　cricket　nut；　but　to　the　purposeful；　powerful　man　who　had　manded　a　brigade　and　was　currently　keeping　horseracing　honest。　I　was　not　going　to　be　playing　a　game；　he　was　meaning；　and　if　I　thought　so　we　would　go　no　further。
　　I　said　wryly；　'I　have　a　private　ine　after　tax　of　about　twenty　times　the　salary　you're　offering；　but　I'll　take　your　money　all　the　same；　sir；　and　I'll　work　for　it。'
　　He　listened　to　the　underlying　declaration　of　mitment　and　good　faith；　and　after　a　long　pause　he　smiled　briefly　and　nodded。
　　'Very　well；'　he　said。　'When　can　you　start？'
　　I　had　started　the　next　day　at　Epsom　races；　relearning　the　characters；　reawakening　sleeping　memories；　hearing　Aunt　Viv's　bright　voice　in　my　ear　about　as　clearly　as　if　she　were　alive。　'There's　Paddy　Fredericks。　Did　I　tell　you　he　used　to　be　married　to　Betsy　who's　now　Mrs　Glovebinder？　Brad　Glovebinder　used　to　have　horses　with　Paddy　Fredericks　but　when　he　pinched　Betsy；　he　took　his　horses　away　too。。。　no　justice　in　the　world。　Hello　Paddy；　how　are　things？　This　is　my　nephew　Torquil；　as　I　expect　you　remember；　you've　met　him　often　enough。　Well　done　with　your　winner；　Paddy　。。。'　and　Paddy　had　taken　us　off　for　a　drink；　buying　me　a　Coke。
　　I　came　face　to　face　unexpectedly　with　the　trainer　Paddy　Fredericks　that　first　day　at　Epsom　and　he　hadn't　known　me。　
　　There　hadn't　been　a　pause　or　a　flicker。　Aunt　Viv　had　been　dead　nearly　eight　years　and　I　had　changed　too　much；　and　I　had　been　reassured　from　that　early　moment　that　my　weird　new　non…identity　was　going　to　work。
　　On　the　grounds　that　racing　villains　made　it　their　business　to　know　the　Security　Service　prehensively　by　sight；　Brigadier　Catto　said　that　if　ever　he　wanted　to　speak　to　me　himself；　it　would　never　be　on　a　racecourse　but　always　in　the　bar　of　the　Hobbs　Sandwich；　and　so　it　had　been　for　the　past　three　years。　He　and　Clement　Cornborough　had　sponsored　me　for　full　membership　of　the　club　and　encouraged　me　to　go　there　occasionally　on　other　days　on　my　own；　and　although　I'd　thought　the　Brigadier's　passion　for　secrecy　a　shade　obsessive　I　had　fallen　in　with　his　wishes　and　e　to　enjoy　it；　even　if　I'd　learned　a　lot　more　about　cricket　than　I　really　wanted　to。
　　On　the　night　of　Derry　Welfram's　death；　I　walked　into　the　bar　at　ten　to　eight　and　ordered　a　glass　of　Burgundy　and　a　couple　of　beef　sandwiches　which　came　promptly　because　of　the　post…cricket…season　absence　of　a　hundred　devotees　discussing　leg…breaks　and　insider　politics　at　the　tops　of　their　voices。　There　were　still　a　good　number　of　customers；　but　from　late　September　to　the　middle　of　April　one　could　talk　all　night　without　laryngitis　the　next　day；　and　when　the　Brigadier　arrived　he　greeted　me　audibly　and　cheerfully　as　a　fellow　member　well　met　and　began　telling　me　his　assessment　of　the　Test　team　just　assembled　for　the　winter　tour　abroad。
　　'They've　disregarded　Withers；'　he　plained。　'How　are　they　ever　going　to　get　Balping　out　if　they　leave　our　best　in…swinger　biting　his　knuckles　at　home？'
　　I　hadn't　the　faintest　idea；　and　he　knew　it。　With　a　gleam　of　a　smile　he　bought　himself　a　double　Scotch　drowned　in　a　large　glass　of　water；　and　led　the　way　to　one　of　the　small　tables　round　the　edge　of　the　room；　still　chatting　on　about　the　whys　and　wherefores　of　the　selected　team。
　　'Now；'　he　said　without　change　of　speed　or　volume；　'Welfram's　dead；　Shacklebury's　dead；　Gideon's　dead；　and　the　problem　is　what　do　we　do　next？'
　　The　question；　I　knew；　had　to　be　rhetorical。　He　never　called　me　to　the　Hobbs　Sandwich　to　ask　my　advice　but　always　to　direct　me　towards　some　new　course　of　action；　though　he　would　listen　and　change　his　requirements　if　I　put　forward　any　huge　objections；　which　I　didn't　often。　He　waited　for　a　while；　though；　as　if　for　an　answer；　and　took　a　slow　contemplative　mouthful　of　weak　whisky。
　　'Did　Mr　Gideon　leave　any　notes？'　I　asked　eventually。
　　'Not　as　far　as　we　know。　Nothing　as　helpful　as　telling　us　why　he　sold　his　horses　to　Filmer；　if　that's　what　you　mean。　Not　unless　a　letter　es　in　the　post　next　week；　which　I　very　much　doubt。'
　　Gideon　had　been　frightened　beyond　death；　I　thought。　The　threat　must　have　been　to　the　living；　an　ongoing　perpetual　threat。
　　'Mr　Gideon　has　daughters；'　I　said。
　　The　Brigadier　nodded。　'Three。　And　five　grandchildren。　His　wife　died　years　ago；　I　suppose　you　know。　Am　I　reading　you　*aright？'
　　'That　the　daughters　and　grandchildren　were　hostages？　Yes。　Do　you　think　they　could　know　it？'
　　'Positive　they　don't；'　the　Brigadier　said。　'I　talked　with　his　eldest　daughter　today。　Nice；　sensible　woman；　about　fifty。　Gideon　shot　himself　yesterday　evening；　around　five　they　think；　but　no　one　found　him　for　hours　as　he　did　it　out　in　the　woods。　I　went　down　to　the　house　today。　His　daughter；　Sarah；　said　he's　been　ultra…depressed　lately；　going　deeper　and　deeper；　but　she　didn't　know　what　had　caused　it。　He　wouldn't　discuss　it。　Sarah　was　in　tears；　of　course；　and　also　of　course　feeling　guilty　because　she　didn't　prevent　it；　but　she　couldn't　have　prevented　it；　it's　almost　impossible　to　stop　a　determined　suicide；　you　can't　force　people　to　go　on　living。　Short　of　imprisonment；　of　course。　Anyway；　if　she　was　any　sort　of　a　hostage；　she　didn't　know　it。　It　wasn't　that　sort　of　guilt。'
　　I　offered　him　one　of　my　so　far　uneaten　sandwiches。　He　took　one　absentmindedly　and　began　to　chew；　and　I　ate　one　myself。　The　problem　of　what　to　do　about　Filmer　lay　in　morose　wrinkles　across　his　brow　and　I'd　heard　he　considered　the　collapse　of　the　conspiracy　trial　a　personal　failure。
　　'I　went　to　see　Ezra　Gideon　myself　after　you　and　John　Millington　flushed　out　Welfram；'　he　said。　'I　showed　Ezra　your　photograph　of　Welfram。　I　thought　he　would　faint；　he　went　so　white；　but　he　still　wouldn't　speak。　And　now；　God　damn　it；　in　one　day　we've　lost　both　contacts。　We　don't　know　who　Filmer　will　get　to　next；　or　if　he's　already　active　again；　and　we'll　have　the　devil's　own　job　spotting　another　frightener。'
　　'He　won't　have　found　one　himself　yet；　I　shouldn't　think；'　I　said。　'Certainly　not　one　as　effective。　They　aren't　that　mon；　are　they？'
　　'The　police　say　they're　getting　younger。'
　　He　looked　unusually　discouraged　for　someone　whose　success　rate　in　all　other　fields　was　impressive。　The　lost　battle　rankled：　the　victories　had　been　shrugged　off。　I　drank　some　wine　and　waited　for　the　manding　officer　to　emerge　from　the　worried　man；　waited　for　him　to　unfold