This was Deighton's second book, before he became vaguely hackish and joined the Ludlum/Forsythe "hefty Cold War thriller" gang. Here he has style to burn, definitely influenced by Chandler but not at all a pastiche or pale imitation. His sentences are crisp and always un-cliched; his attitude, as filtered through his nameless British protagonist, is cynical and put-upon and tough as a blackjack. You're more than welcome to picture Michael Caine embodying the anti-hero, as he did in the effective (though a bit uneven) film.