Minute for Murder

by Nicholas Blake

  “Your assistant is away to-day?”

  “No, she’s not turned up yet.”

  “Certain sections of the staff are getting very slack,” said Billson, placing Miss Finlay’s chair at a regulation distance from Nigel’s desk and sitting down.

  “So I am told,” said Nigel blandly. “Are you having a lot of trouble with your Section?”

  “To the contrary. The attendance figures in the Photographs Library are exemplary.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.”

  “I noticed Miss Finlay leaving the building at 4.52 yesterday.”

  “Do you wish to lodge an official complaint about my assistant?”

  “No—er, that is, no. Not at this present moment.” Edgar Billson shot his starched cuffs and glanced uneasily at Merrion Squires, who was staring fixedly at him over the back of his chair, with the ruminative look of a horse gazing over the half-door of a loose-box.

  “No, it was about these Pink Forms of yours. I can’t work them, if the Production Units persist in filling them in in such a slovenly manner.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to discuss this with the Deputy Director. The Pink Form was his invention.”

  “Mr. Fortescue has asked me to discuss the matter with you.”

  “What’s the trouble, then?”

  Edgar Billson laid a sheaf of forms on Nigel’s desk. He coughed. “The purpose of the Pink Form——”

  “——Is to captivate the masculine eye. Natural selection,” Squires broke in irresponsibly.

  “Shut up, Merrion,” said Nigel.

  “The purpose of the Pink Form,” continued Billson relentlessly, “is to facilitate and co-ordinate the ordering of photostats and rough prints by the Production Units at the preliminary stages of—h’rrm—production.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Nigel said. It was one of Billson’s most tiresome traits, this lecturing you on the elements of work which you knew backwards.

  “If you will examine these examples, you will note that the appropriate procedure has not been followed. Dates are missing: entries are sometimes illegible: the quality of print required is not always stipulated.”

  “I see one date missing. Only one,” returned Nigel, glancing rapidly over the forms.

  “Furthermore, the ordering of rough prints and photostats appears to me far in excess of reasonable requirements. Why, for instance, should your Unit have requested six copies of print Q.W.5339? Three at the most would suffice.”

  “It’s to expedite the work on one of our rush jobs. The Q.W. series, you may remember, is a file of canned photographs. We wish to use one of them. To do so, it’s necessary to re-submit it to three Security Censors—Naval, Military and Air. Three separate copies to speed things up. The remaining three are for our own use.”

  Edgar Billson had been growing red in the face during this measured reply. He now broke out, with unusual violence.

  “The trouble with you Temporaries is that you have no grasp of Civil Service traditions. Speed is not everything in our work, Strangeways.”

  “You surprise me,” put in Merrion Squires.

  “There is also the broader question of the public economy. I am answerable to the Treasury for all Sectional expenditure under the internal vote. I am not prepared to squander public funds in this irresponsible way, on your pretext of accelerating the work of the Division.”

  “You’d better talk to the Director about it, then, if you want to dispute his rulings on Divisional policy,” replied Nigel calmly.

  “I fail to understand you. To what ruling do you refer?”

  “The general ruling, given by him at a Progress Meeting in May, 1940, to all Heads of Sections, that under no circumstances must red tape or any other form of official obstructionism be allowed to interfere with the smooth and rapid work of the Division.”

  “Are you suggesting that——?”

  “I’m suggesting that my Unit needs six copies of Q.W.5339. And that, whenever we need six copies of a photograph, we shall continue to order them. And that I am tired of being lectured by you on my official obligations. And that, if you ever again use the word ‘irresponsible’ in reference to my work, I shall ask the Director to take disciplinary action against you.” Nigel paused a moment. “If you will leave these forms with me, I’ll look into them.”

  Edgar Billson gave him one vicious look, then rose, and made for the door. His would-be dignified exit was spoiled, however, by the whirlwind entrance of Pamela Finlay, which knocked him back several feet into the room.

  “I must say you’ve got the jargon all right,” said Merrion, when Billson had finally retired. “I’ve never known that little rabbit bare his teeth so aggressively. though. Have you? Any one would think the Q files were his personal collection of pornographic studies, he’s so touchy about them. . . .”

  Twenty minutes later the Director sent for Nigel. Nigel found him sitting on the edge of his desk, his long legs dangling, a large part of the floor in front of him covered with photographs arranged in groups. Jimmy Lake flipped a hand at Nigel, then resumed his trance-like brooding over the photographs. They were the proposed double-spreads for one of the Pacific series jobs. From time to time the Director referred to one of Merrion Squires’ lay-out sheets, hoisted himself off his desk, altered the relative positions of some of the pictures or substituted different ones from a pile that lay on the window-sill; then returned to his contemplative pose. It was like a slow-motion game of Patience, thought Nigel, played with 12-inch by 10-inch prints instead of cards. He offered this fancy to the Director.

  “Yes,” Jimmy Lake replied. “I find it very soothing to the nerves.”

  There was another long silence. Nigel was quite accustomed to these silences, though this morning the Director seemed more than usually distrait. At last Jimmy spoke.

  “No, it won’t do. It’s dead.” He pointed at one of the groups. “That one. Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

  It was rather like being asked by Menuhin to explain a flaw in a passage of virtuoso playing by Szigeti, for Merrion Squires’ technical brilliance in lay-out was only excelled by the Director’s extraordinary flair for the visual presentation of stories and ideas. However, Nigel took a dip at it.

  “This is the key picture,” he said, pointing. “It ought to be given more value. Make a three-quarters spread of it, and use the others in a vertical strip on the right-hand page.”

  The Director smiled faintly.

  “Pooh!” he said. “Why isn’t Merrion here, ducky?”

  Nita Prince said, “I’ve rung him once.”

  “Ring him again, then.”

  Nigel noticed a crumpled ball of a handkerchief on Nita’s table, and there were shadows under her eyes. Her voice, when she asked for the number, sounded a bit out of control, as if she was very tired.

  “Merrion Squires I want,” said Jimmy patiently. “That’s Brian Ingle’s extension you asked for.”

  “Sorry.” Nita tried again. It was odd, thought Nigel. Whatever one might say of her private life, the girl had always kept her mind on her work in the office. And the look she had given Jimmy was rather odd, too: a look of—reproach? Determination? Sulkiness? Uncertainty?—Nigel found himself unable to define it. It was, at any rate, very different from her normal look of confidence, of discreet possessiveness, of a happy secret shared—more naked, more vulnerable.

  When Merrion arrived, they got down to the photographs again. The faulty spread was pointed out to him.

  “No, it’s poor, that one,” he agreed. “I was waiting for the Q. prints to turn up: there’s a much better picture amongst them, I know.”

  The Director lifted his eyebrows interrogatively at Nigel.

  “I’m having trouble with Billson over them.” Nigel explained the situation, as non-committally as he could: he had no wish to get Billson into trouble.

  “Ring up Billson, ducky,” said the Director. “Tell him we must have the prints from the Q.W. series in twenty-four hours. Tell him
I say so.”

  “He’s always sitting on those Q files,” said Merrion. “He’ll hatch them out one day.”

  “You forget Billson a moment and concentrate on your job, my son. These lay-outs of yours”—Jimmy held them up distastefully—“they’re second-rate.” Second-rate was the most offensive term of criticism the Director ever used, and he used it very sparingly. Nigel was startled by the rasp that had suddenly come into his quiet voice. So, evidently, was Merrion.

  “Maybe I’ve outlived my usefulness in the Division,” he replied, only half-humorously.

  “You’ll be told when you have—don’t worry,” said Jimmy, looking at Merrion directly.

  Another queer little unsheathing of the claws concealed in his velvet manner, thought Nigel.

  “You must take them away—this one and this one—and try again. I’ve asked you to alter them before. Now I’m telling you to alter them.”

  “And I told you your suggestions for improving them were no good.” Merrion’s Irish temperament took criticism hard, and Jimmy normally treated it in a more tactful way. “I can’t adapt my technique to the brain-waves of amateurs.”

  “Amateurs” was, if possible, an even more offensive term in the Division than “second-rate.”

  “I think you had better control your language,” said Jimmy in his deadliest, quiet tone. “You are one of a number of experts working here. You are not omniscient. You are not even cleverer than the rest. And you have given more trouble recently than the whole lot. The Deputy Director tells me——”

  “Oh, must we have all this now?” exclaimed Nita in a trembling voice. “I’m sure Merrion——”

  “I can do without your sympathy, my lollipop,” said Merrion furiously.

  Nigel expected an outburst from the Director at this. But Jimmy Lake turned away to the window, as if detaching himself from the whole affair and leaving the other two to fight it out between them. It had the effect, whether intended or not, of deflating the scene. After a moment, Nita said, trying to smile:

  “Jimmy is practising being hard-hearted. But it doesn’t work. Does it, Jimmy?”

  Nigel was to remember afterwards the tone in which she said it. A tone whose undertones were curiously arresting, yet impossible to interpret. At any rate, Nigel could not begin to interpret them now; for the door was flung open and a small, lively-looking man in officer’s uniform stood there, hands clasped dramatically over his heart, surveying them with an expression of the most theatrical astonishment.

  “My angels!” this apparition exclaimed, in a high, light voice. “Jimmy! More distinguished-looking than ever! And Nigel! And another handsome young gentleman! And Nita! You sumptuous girl!”

  He swooped down upon her like a pantomime fairy on a wire, and demonstratively embraced her. Behind him a small, sedate woman entered the room, rather shyly. Jimmy Lake, who was watching with an amused expression the scene at Nita’s desk, did not notice this new-comer till she touched his elbow. Then he swung round.

  “My dear girl! What are you doing here?”

  There was something like consternation in his voice, thought Nigel. And no wonder: Alice Lake had never been encouraged to come to the office; not with Nita Prince there.

  “Charles brought me,” she said. Her voice had the same high, light timbre as Charles Kennington’s—a doll-like quality. Nigel realised he had quite forgotten they were twins. Seeing them together now for the first time, while Jimmy was introducing Merrion Squires to Charles, he had leisure to observe their likeness—the tone of voice, the triangular-shaped face with broad brow and pointed chin, the small delicate bones. Only Charles seemed to have taken all the vitality: his sister looked flat beside him, a shadow of himself, pleasantly smiling but silent and withdrawn.

  “Yes, I brought her,” bubbled Charles. “Alice and I are inseparable. Aren’t we, love? We intend never, never to part again.” He beamed at his sister from where he sat, perched on Nita’s desk, his arm lying lightly round Nita’s shoulders.

  Nigel thought there was a certain atmosphere of constraint, if not of embarrassment, in the room during the momentary silence that followed. The Director, hands in pockets, half-turned away from them, was standing by the window. If he felt some awkwardness in his wife’s presence there, he was making no attempt to smooth it over with his usual light touch for awkward situations. Everyone else suddenly started talking all at once.

  “So glad to meet you again,” Merrion Squires said to Mrs. Lake. “I thought your last novel was excellent.”

  “You do look different in uniform,” said Nita, turning her lustrous eyes up to Charles Kennington.

  “Now, my dears,” Charles babbled, “I must hear all your news. How long is it?—it seems years since I saw any of you. I feel quite out of touch with the world of affairs, the world where men are ciphers, and women are—women.” He kissed Nita lightly on the brow. “Put me in the picture,” he demanded.

  Nita said, “Oh, we’ve just been slogging away, while you were getting killed and coming to life again and having a gorgeous time looting in Germany.”

  “Not killed, dear,” said Charles severely. “The rest is correct, including the coming to life again. But I was never killed, I give you my word.”

  “What a lot of ribbons you have!” said Nita, touching the breast of his military uniform. “There was only one there when I saw you last. Have you been very brave, darling?”

  “Quite intrepid, my pet. I have probably faced more forms in triplicate than any man in the British Army.”

  “You and Merrion must get together,” said Jimmy Lake dryly. “He’s another hero.”

  “A hero!” Charles Kennington stretched his clasped hands dramatically towards Squires. “You must tell me all about it.”

  “He saved us all from a bomb,” Jimmy said.

  Charles Kennington shuddered delicately. “Don’t speak to me of bombs. I could not dislike them more. Particularly Anglo-American bombs. They kept dropping them on me when I was in Germany.”

  “Very inaccurate bombing practice,” said Jimmy.

  “Well, no. Not exactly. You see, I was rather far in advance of the troops, some of the time.”

  “A spy? Charles! Is that why you were supposed to be dead?” cried Nita.

  She was making all the running. Nigel had never seen her so flushed and excited. Her mane of bright hair tumbled over Charles Kennington’s hand as she talked to him. But there was something conscious in the way she played up to him; as though, Nigel thought first, it was really directed towards somebody else—directed, perhaps, at Jimmy Lake. Then he thought, no, it’s just the slight over-acting of a clever woman who must appear all sweetness to her long-lost fiancé, and is at the same time conscious of her new lover—in a conspiracy with him, perhaps, to defer the moment when Charles Kennington must be told the truth.

  Nita Prince, flushed, melting, a Danäe in a golden shower, certainly held the stage how. Even Merrion Squires kept glancing round at her as he talked with Mrs. Lake in a far corner. Only Alice Lake seemed out of the picture, as she sat there with eyes downcast upon the hands loosely clasped in her lap.

  “My dear old colleague, the Archdeacon!” entoned Charles, as Harker Fortescue came in, with Brian Ingle behind him. “How are the offertories keeping up? Ember Days bearing fruit an hundredfold, I trust? And Brian, lovely to see you. Well, this is like old times. But stay!” He lifted a pastoral forefinger in the air. “One of the clergy is missing, surely. Where is the Reverend Billson? Not taken from our midst, I hope?”

  “You can’t want to see him, Charles,” said Nita, laughing.

  “My love, in the sight of God we are all equal. Pray send at once for our fellow-worker in the vineyard.”

  Nita applied herself to the telephone.

  “We’ve got to congratulate you, Charles,” said the Deputy Director. “A first-class job. Saw about it in the papers, of course, but they didn’t mention you by name. ‘Young English Major Captures Number Three Nazi.’ Absolu
tely first-class.”

  “I shall treasure up your words, dear Archdeacon.”

  “I hope you’re going to tell us all about it,” said Brian Ingle. “Were you—I mean, did you work alone in Germany? It must be frightfully n-nerve-racking, a job like that,” he added wistfully. “I do admire people n-no end who——”

  “Just about as nerve-racking as sitting at a desk here when the V-bombs were falling, I should think,” replied Charles with a very sweet and winning smile, his affectations put aside for a moment. Nigel noticed the same smile appearing, like a reflection, on Alice Lake’s face. Brian Ingle flushed, unconsciously straightening his shoulders.

  “Oh, that’s n-nonsense, Charles,” he said happily.

  “I’ll certainly tell you the tale. Not that it’s madly stimulating,” said Charles Kennington, with a return to his normal manner. “Social realism at its drabbest, my dears. Hallo! If it isn’t Edgar! And not a day older!”

  Charles was the only person in the Ministry of Morale who had ever called Mr. Billson by his Christian name.

  Edgar Billson moved across the room, picking his way with pigeon-toed gait amongst the photographs which still littered the floor. Having reached Charles, he raised his eyes for the first time, coughed, extended a large white hand, and said:

  “Very pleased to see you again, Major. Permit me to offer my congratulations on your daring coup. H’rrm. Quite a gathering for you,” he added on a faintly censorious note, as though it had just occurred to him that the Treasury might not sanction the present expenditure of Divisional time on social entertainment.

  “Yes, too delicious, isn’t it? If only I had my camera! What a charming, informal group you would all make. Or I could arrange you—let me see—yes, like one of those Victorian intellectual picnic groups. You know—littered all over a mountainside. The Higher Thought amongst the boulders. The gentlemen couched full length upon sphagnum moss, gazing in every direction at Progress; the ladies being strenuous with luncheon baskets and volumes of verse. And”—he clapped his hands delightedly as the cry of “Coffee” wailed from the end of the corridor—“and here comes the picnic! Beautiful, nourishing coffee!”