‘He would have to, wouldn’t he?’
‘I suppose so—to make sense of the story.’
‘But it could have been anybody else?’
‘In theory, yes—but who? And why should Schmidt implicate Bates at all?’
Colonel Russell smiled. ‘My impression,’ he said, ‘is that you are asking a hypothetical question. I suspect you know the answer.’
‘
‘Not the answer—no. But I know that Sir Jeremy sometimes eats at Bernardo’s . . . where Schmidt is the wine waiter.’
‘And on that you are prepared to believe that Sir Jeremy—Sir Jeremy of all people—has bribed a waiter to murder Nichol?’
But Major Mortimer stood his ground. ‘Not believe,’ he said. ‘Not as a fact, that is. But I am prepared to accept it as a working hypothesis.’
‘But at best this Schmidt is badly concussed: at the worst he’s dying. He might say the first name that came into his head.’
‘I can’t deny the possibility,’ Mortimer said stolidly.
Charles Russell looked at him with understanding; he was fond of Major Mortimer, he knew his value; but he was aware that it was waste of time to try to change his mind. Instead he changed the point. ‘Then putting Sir Jeremy aside,’ he said, ‘we still have before us what on the face of it is an attempted murder. I accept that part of the incident. I must, for I do not believe that coincidence can reasonably be stretched to cover a man stealing one vehicle and, abandoning it, escaping in another which just happens to be stolen. And if the second has been stolen as a getaway, then the obvious question is: a getaway from what? From an accident? But that is a contradicton in terms.’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘Then who was behind this affair? You wouldn’t care to speculate?’
‘No thank you.’
Charles Russell smiled disarmingly. ‘Speculate, damn you,’ he said.
Mortimer allowed himself the suspicion of a shrug. ‘As an exercise in imagination,’ he said, ‘I should have to start from your own position that the attempt on Doctor Nichol is still unexplained. We know that Nichol is Number One by a street where Slow Burner is concerned, and simultaneously we are in very deep water about Slow Burner at Dipley. I might think that rather odd: rather more than a coincidence, perhaps.’
‘You might indeed.’
‘Then I would point out that our theory about Dipley is that Parton was trying to distract us while he got away. Where he intended to go we do not know, but we were agreeing yesterday that it’s perfectly possible that he’s in touch with . . . with Them. Now if they get Slow Burner too that would be quite a feat: if they got it exclusively—deprived us of it—it would be the coup of all time. So they might be thinking of murdering Nichol.’ Mortimer’s voice rose on a note of irony. ‘Not that I think much of that,’ he added, ‘for they would have to murder the other top men to make a job of it. There are eleven on the Security List, the Keep-in-the-country List, at the moment, so if I were right we should be expecting another nine murders. And I don’t think highly of that. I don’t think much of a theory which postulates nine more killings to make sense of it.’ Mortimer chuckled a little sourly. ‘It is unreasonable,’ he said. ‘It offends the unities.’
‘It does. But if I may say so it also takes for granted that the potential murderers know about the Security List and that on it there are eleven names—one to subvert, that is, one they have tried to kill already, and nine to come. Do you think they do know about this List?’
‘They might, of course. But we haven’t any reason to suppose they do.’
‘And it is further assumed that if the existence of the List is known the hypothetical killers are also taking it for what it is—I mean the names of eleven men any one of whom could probably resurrect Slow Burner if the others died. Do you think they would know that too?’
Major Mortimer sighed. ‘I don’t know. You are very much better at this sort of thing than I am.’
‘I beg your pardon. I wasn’t trying to be tiresome. Indeed I accept that this was probably a political killing or the attempt at it, for I do not see what other kind of killing it could be. What I don’t accept is the full rigour of your argument—that to subvert one necessarily implies that the other ten must be murdered. But I would readily agree that if you are going to subvert the Second-in-Command it might well seem profitable to murder the Commanding Officer.’
‘Yes,’ Mortimer said slowly, ‘but Parton . . .’
‘I feel reasonably certain that Parton isn’t a killer. It is possible that he knows of an intention to murder Nichol but it isn’t necessary to assume it, far less that he has any active hand in the business. Treason, I think, is Parton’s meat, but killing—no. On the other hand Schmidt, after all, is a Middle European—rather more East than Middle, I should say I know you told us at Colton that there was nothing against him, but I needn’t remind you that that establishes only that there is nothing against him which we know. Perhaps there wasn’t anything—nothing, I mean, until he was persuaded to drive at Nichol: the people we have in mind are very good at persuasion. He may have relations still in the country, friends . . .’ Charles Russell grimaced. ‘Whatever the details,’ he went on, ‘I am assuming that this was an attempt at a political murder. Which brings it into our own sphere as well as Williams’. There has been an attempt on Nichol, and if somebody has tried to kill him and failed that somebody could try again. That will have occurred to Williams, no doubt, and we mustn’t appear to be interfering openly. Nevertheless we have an obligation. I think we should arrange for a little unobtrusive doubling-up on whatever Williams may have done. For instance we could start by telling that man of ours at Colton to keep his other eye on Doctor Nichol. And we should arrange for another to take over if Nichol leaves the Centre.’
‘I have done so, sir.’
Colonel Russell glanced at Mortimer sharply. ‘You don’t waste much time,’ he said.
Mortimer did not answer, but he did not seem displeased.
‘Just the same,’ Russell went on, ‘unobtrusive is the word. We must remember that Nichol doesn’t know what we do. And nor, I trust, does the Press. Williams is pretty good with the Press. I imagine tomorrow’s papers will carry the bare story, and probably a hint, as near a statement as they dare, that the driver was drunk. They will guess that the escape car was stolen from St James’s Square, but I think we can rely on Williams to keep to himself that it had in fact been stolen the day before. That is what Nichol will see in his newspaper, and if he even guesses that we’re watching him on that he will tell us we’ve been reading too many detective stories.’
Major Mortimer waited for some time before answering; he seemed to be choosing his words. ‘With every respect, sir,’ he said at length, ‘are you sure that you haven’t?’
Charles Russell laughed; he was clearly very far from offence. ‘You mean,’ he suggested, ‘that I am declining a perfectly plain explanation in favour of one which is guesswork?”
Mortimer nodded.
‘It’s true, I admit. I simply do not credit that Sir Jeremy Bates is a murderer.’
‘I can’t persuade you? It’s no good reminding you that it’s common knowledge that they detest each other, or at least that Sir Jeremy detests Nichol? It’s no good suggesting that he’s jealous, resentful . . .?’
‘None at all,’ Russell said smiling. But he reflected for a moment. ‘To whom exactly did Schmidt tell this story of his?’ he inquired. ‘This preposterous tale?’
‘To the doctor and to a detective sergeant.’
‘Then you had better make very sure that he talks to nobody else. The doctor is secure, I suppose?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then make sure that Schmidt talks to nobody but the police—which in this context includes yourself. Check his story if you can do it without treading on Williams’ toes. If it is checkable, that is. I do not think it is. Tell me what you discover. And tell nobody else. In no circumstances commit us to any a
ction.’
‘Very good.’
Charles Russell retreated again into reflection; when he spoke his manner had changed. ‘This Schmidt’ he asked, ‘you say he’s going to die?’ His voice was non-committal.
‘So they think, sir.’
‘Then on the barest chance that he’s telling the truth we should earnestly pray that he does.’ Russell’s tone, now, was decided. ‘We understand each other?’ he inquired.
‘We do, sir.’ It was evident that Major Mortimer understood very well.
Russell looked at his watch. ‘It’s terribly late,’ he said. ‘I think I shall sleep here.’
Then so shall I.’
The two men walked upstairs to the comfortable bedrooms which the Executive provided for officers kept late. Quite a few of its servants were kept quite late quite often. Russell opened the door. The housekeeper was efficient and the room was an invitation. The bed had been turned down, and clean pyjamas lay upon the radiator. A dressing gown hung behind the door. Beyond the bedroom the tiny bathroom was spotless. There was even a choice of razors. ‘Good night,’ Russell said.
‘Good night, sir.’
Mortimer opened the door of the adjoining bedroom and shut it behind him firmly. He waited a moment before he opened it again noiselessly. Then he crept silently downstairs to his office. He had work to do. Like Russell he wanted to think on paper.
He took a sheet of foolscap, not as thick as Russell’s, but good enough for his purpose. He was conscious of two things: that his mind was not as sharp as his superior’s—not, where dialectic was concerned, within distance of it; and that it was very tired. And it was his experience that not quite first-class minds could, when sufficiently relaxed, not competing, doing their work in their own way, sometimes surprise their owners. Somehow they could sometimes produce what better machines could not.
He began to consider Sir Jeremy, smiling, wondering how he would deal with him if he were trying to put him on paper. The stream of consciousness, he thought . . . He took a pencil and began to scribble.
Sir Jeremy is Sir Jeremy is Sir Jeremy, he wrote. He’s an old so-and-so, I detest him, but he’s a man. He is also a civil servant of great seniority and experience. He is conditioned and conditioned for as many chapters as the reader will stand for. One of his responsibilities he has a thing about—the special powers. Why God knows . . . No, that isn’t true, for even I can guess. They’ve never been used, they’re a precedent, precedents are hell, Sir Jeremy ducks them. So would I if I were Sir Jeremy. His Minister . . . only thirty in the House in a good Division. Christ, I’m glad I’m not a Permanent Secretary. And there’s something else, something I can only make a shot at. The special powers are special powers—in a sense they’re breaking the rules. The rules the rules the rules. I’ve lived with them for thirty-odd years, I have, and now I’m Sir Jeremy. So I don’t break them, I won’t break them. I won’t take short cuts. Tm proud, I am, and I won’t fail. I hate the man I think may make me, I hate his guts, ’m a little crazy . . .
Mortimer’s pencil slipped from his fingers; he recovered himself with a jerk, rubbing his heavy eyes. Murder, he thought—he had heard of some queer ones in his time, and he was a very careful man. Nichol was being looked after but . . .
He looked at the clock. It was nearly two in the morning, but he could still reach whom he wished to; he could contact Percival-Smith.
He picked up the telephone.
Chapter 8
Sir Jeremy’s morning paper was the same as William Nichol’s, and it had told him that William Nichol was alive. The newspaper, which was a very careful one, had reported the accident carefully, factually; it was a mile from formally suggesting that the affair had been anything but an accident, but it contrived an undertone of curiosity. It noted that the lorry had been stolen; it thought it worth mention that, a minute or two after the accident, a car had been driven, very abruptly, from St James’s Square. Later this car had crashed in South London. The driver was in hospital . . .
Sir Jeremy’s newspaper did not say that the police were making inquiries. It did not need to; it was not that sort of newspaper.
It pricked Sir Jeremy’s sense of irony that Schmidt, who might so conveniently have killed himself, seemed in that exercise narrowly to have failed. That William Nichol was still alive was a disappointment, but Sir Jeremy was in no way apprehensive. If Schmidt should still die he would take his pathetic secret with him, and if he did not . . . Sir Jeremy smiled, almost gaily. Suspicion alone he did not fear, for he had accepted it as inevitable; he had discounted it. It had been Russell, he remembered, who had once explained to him that you could murder—he corrected himself: that you could dispose of—almost anybody provided only that you didn’t try to be too clever and that you didn’t object to suspicion. Russell had explained that a surprising proportion of murderers was hanged solely because they had tried to cover their traces. Had you an unwanted wife? he had inquired rhetorically. Then take her for a walk every evening. Do so for at least a couple of months. Then take her out one night and push her down a quarry. You must make a sensible job of it, of course—no signs of a scuffle, no carrying her to the edge, leaving a single set of footprints to destroy you. Get her to look over . . . and give a firm push. Your friends who knew your private circumstances would be suspicious; they would go to the police with every variety of discreditable incident surprisingly recorded to damn you. You would have to leave the neighbourhood, but you would be very unlucky, Russell had explained, very unlucky indeed, to hang.
Schmidt, on the other hand, could hang. If he lived, that is. Sir Jeremy was conscious that inevitably there would be a certain amount of unpleasantness if Schmidt both lived and chattered. As he thought it certain that he would. But after all a Permanent Secretary was not ill-placed to cope with a certain amount of unpleasantness. Schmidt could hang; Schmidt could go to hell. They would trace no money from himself to Schmidt for Schmidt had received none. Come to think of it he owed the animal ten thousand pounds. The thought did not disturb him.
Sir Jeremy was conscious that this morning almost nothing would be capable of disturbing him. Even the knowledge that Nichol was still alive was merely an irritation, for he had already a plan for that. He looked at his lovely old clock with a renewed affection. You never knew, he thought, when odd bits of knowledge wouldn’t come in handy. Clocks, for instance. He had a very good reason for satisfaction that clocks were his hobby; that he was very expert with clockwork.
Sir Jeremy began to hum softly, a tune which, against his will, had stuck with him from railway station loudspeakers, from street musicians, from a dozen sources beyond his choice. It was really a beautiful morning, really a beautiful day. He felt detached; he felt calm and at ease—positively clean. He remembered that he had even taken a couple of drinks, and that was something he hadn’t done for years. Not twenty drinks; not no drinks at all; but two drinks like—like a gentleman, he thought happily. Not like a senior civil servant ground by a remorseless pressure for a lifetime; but like a gentleman . . .
A couple of drinks like a gentleman.
And he was conscious of immediate duty done. The problem of Dipley was a very awkward one, and he had decided that officially there was nothing he could do—almost nothing, that is. There was nothing he could do, but he could take the appropriate action. He was aware that they were not the same things, but he hadn’t become a Permanent Secretary without the distinction becoming professionally blurred. There was nothing he could do officially—his private plans were not the Permanent Secretary’s—but the appearance of action was imperative; it was second nature. There might be a Departmental Inquiry, perhaps worse. It would be intolerable if Sir Jeremy Bates were disclosed as inactive for days: sitting; not even Minuting. At least the papers must be in order.
He had decided that he would take the appropriate action; he would call a meeting and record a note of it.
Sir Jeremy smiled again. He had called his meeting for two o’clock,
and he was aware that that would annoy William Nichol since it would curtail his luncheon. Sir Jeremy decided upon another drink. It would be amusing, he thought, to see Nichol again. And alive . . . for a little. He rubbed his hands. It wasn’t one of his normal gestures, and in another man it would have struck him as slightly senile.
Charles Russell’s uniformed messenger was announcing Doctor Nichol, and on his heels Nichol walked quickly into the room. ‘Good morning,’ Russell said. ‘I’m very glad to see you about.’
‘You should be.’ Nichol’s manner was a little brief. ‘That fool of a lorry driver—I suppose he was drunk. I’ve seen the paper and I gather he stole a car and crashed it. I read that he’s on the danger list. I don’t think I’m a revengeful man, but . . .’
‘Quite,’ Russell said. He observed William Nichol closely. His movements were more abrupt than was his habit; he threw his hat and coat upon the sofa; he was evidently on edge. Russell had known him since boyhood and he did not believe that this ill-temper was the result solely of having escaped a very unpleasant accident. ‘Sir Jeremy?’ he inquired. His tone was sympathetic.
‘Sir Jeremy,’ Nichol agreed shortly.
‘Then I understand perfectly. For my part I can give orders, and I think I am entitled to say that I can take them, but I cannot live like the Prophet’s Coffin between the two. Sir Jeremy’s world is not mine. He hasn’t sent for us to give us instruction, you know. He will listen to anything we have to say, and when he finds that is nothing in particular he will say that he will consider the situation.’
‘Precisely. And really I cannot spend so much time running between Colton and London. Bates, you will remember, summoned us both last Friday. Then on Monday I had to come for the Commission. On Tuesday, with pleasure this time because it was at your request, I came again. Yesterday there was a meeting at the Society—Bates would know about that, and today again he . . .’
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