CHAPTER FOURSHAKKEY
London—December, 1944
Berg came out of the bathroom, went into the bedroom, began to dress. He was whistling. Outside it was cold. He moved to the window, pulled aside the blackout curtain, looked out. It was very dark.
When he had finished dressing, he took a bottle of whisky from a cupboard in the corner, poured out a good measure into the tooth-glass, mixed some water, drank it. He looked at himself in the glass. He thought to himself: You’re not a bad-looking guy. You got a funny sorta mug, but you’re not too bad. He felt vaguely happy.
Actually, although he did not know it, Berg was subconsciously pleased with having created for himself a background. His work with Ransome for nearly four years had produced in him a certain sense of discipline. He had made himse
