As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  The next day Woolton was interviewed on the BBC and made a special appeal to the nation for land girls. Five hundred applied in the first twenty-four hours, and the minister had the five thousand Charlie requested within ten weeks. Charlie allowed the applications to continue pouring in until he had seven thousand, and could clearly identify a smile on the face of the president of the National Farmers’ Union.

  Over the second problem of lack of supplies, Charlie advised Woolton to buy rice as a substitute diet staple because of the hardship the nation was facing with a potato shortage. “But where do we find such a commodity?” asked Woolton. “China and the Far East is much too hazardous a journey for us even to consider right now.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said Charlie, “but I know a supplier in Egypt who could let us have a million tons a month.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “Certainly not,” said Charlie, “But his brother still works in the East End, and if we were to intern him for a few months I reckon I could pull off some sort of deal with the family.”

  “If the press ever found out what we were up to, Charlie, they’d have my guts for garters.”

  “I’m not going to tell them, Minister.”

  The following day Eli Calil found himself interned in Brixton Prison while Charlie flew off to Cairo to close a deal with his brother for a million tons of rice per month, rice that had been originally earmarked for the Italians.

  Charlie agreed with Nasim Calil that the payments could be made half in pounds sterling and half in piastres, and as long as the shipments always arrived on time no paperwork concerning the money needed be evident on the Cairo end. Failing this, Calil’s government would be informed of the full details of their transaction.

  “Very fair, Charlie, but then you always were. But what about my brother Eli?” asked Nasim Calil.

  “We’ll release him at the end of the war but then only if every shipment is delivered on time.”

  “Also most considerate,” Nasim replied. “A couple of years in jail will do Eli no harm. He is, after all, one of the few members of my family who hasn’t yet been detained at His Majesty’s pleasure.”

  Charlie tried to spend at least a couple of hours a week with Tom Arnold so that he could be kept up to date on what was happening in Chelsea Terrace. Tom had to report that Trumper’s was now losing money steadily and he had found it necessary to close five of the premises and board up another four; this saddened Charlie because Syd Wrexall had recently written to him offering his entire group of shops and the bombed-out corner pub for only six thousand pounds, a sum Wrexall was claiming Charlie had once made him a firm offer on. All Charlie had to do now, Wrexall reminded Arnold in an accompanying letter, was to sign the check.

  Charlie studied the contract that Wrexall had enclosed and said, “I made that offer long before the outbreak of war. Send all the documents back. I’m confident he’ll let those shops go for around four thousand by this time next year. But try and keep him happy, Tom.”

  “That might prove a little difficult,” replied Tom. “Since that bomb landed on the Musketeer Syd’s gone off to live in Cheshire. He’s now the landlord of a country pub in some place called Hatherton.”

  “Even better,” said Charlie. “We’ll never see him again. Now I’m even more convinced that within a year he’ll be ready to make a deal, so for the time being just ignore his letter; after all, the post is very unreliable at the moment.”

  Charlie had to leave Tom and travel on down to Southampton, where Calil’s first shipment of rice had arrived. His lorry girls had gone to pick up the bags, but the manager of the port was refusing to release them without proper signed documentation. It was a trip Charlie could have well done without, and one he certainly didn’t intend to make every month.

  When he arrived on the dockside he quickly discovered that there was no problem with the trade unions, who were quite willing to unload the entire cargo, or with his girls, who were just sitting on the mudguards of their lorries waiting to take delivery.

  Over a pint at the local pub, Alf Redwood, the dockers’ leader, warned Charlie that Mr. Simkins, the general manager of the Docks and Harbour Board, was a stickler when it came to paperwork and liked everything done by the book.

  Does he?” said Charlie. “Then I’ll have to stick by the book, won’t I?” After paying for his round, he walked over to the administration block where he asked to see Mr. Simkins.

  “He’s rather busy at the moment,” said a receptionist, not bothering to look up from painting her nails. Charlie walked straight past her and into Simkins’ office, to find a thin, balding man sitting alone behind a very large desk dipping a biscuit into a cup of tea.

  “And who are you?” asked the port’s official, taken so completely by surprise that he dropped his biscuit into the tea.

  “Charlie Trumper. And I’m here to find out why you won’t release my rice.”

  “I don’t have the proper authority,” said Simkins, as he tried to rescue his biscuit, which was now floating on the top of his morning beverage. “No official papers have come from Cairo, and your forms from London are inadequate, quite inadequate.” He gave Charlie a smile of satisfaction.

  “But it could take days for me to get the necessary paperwork sorted out.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “But we’re at war, man.”

  “Which is why we must all try to keep to the regulations. I’m sure the Germans do.”

  “I don’t give a damn what the Germans do,” said Charlie. “I’ve got a million tons of rice coming through this port every month, and I want to distribute every last grain of it as quickly as possible. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You certainly do, Mr. Trumper, but I shall still require the official papers correctly completed before you get your rice.”

  “I order you to release that rice immediately,” said Charlie, barking at him for the first time.

  “No need to raise your voice, Mr. Trumper, because as I’ve already explained you don’t have the authority to order me to do anything. This is the Docks and Harbour Board and it doesn’t, as I’m sure you know, come under the Ministry of Food. I should go back to London, and this time do try a little harder to see that we get the correct forms properly filled in.”

  Charlie felt he was too old to hit the man, so he simply picked up the telephone on Simkins’ desk and asked for a number.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Simkins. “That’s my telephone—you don’t have the proper authority to use my telephone.”

  Charlie clung to the phone and turned his back on Simkins. When he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he said, “It’s Charlie Trumper. Can you put me through to the Prime Minister?”

  Simkins’ cheeks turned first red, then white, as the blood drained quickly from his face. “There’s really no need—” he began.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Charlie. “I’m down in Southampton. The rice problem I mentioned to you last night. There turns out to be a bit of a holdup at this end. I don’t seem to be able—”

  Simkins was now frantically waving his hands like a semaphore sailor in an attempt to gain Charlie’s attention, while at the same time nodding his head energetically up and down.

  “I’ve got a million tons coming in every month, Prime Minister, and the girls are just sitting on their—”

  “It will be all right,” whispered Simkins as he began to circle Charlie. “It will be all right, I can assure you.”

  “Do you want to speak to the man in charge yourself, sir?”

  “No, no,” said Simkins. “That won’t be necessary. I have all the forms, all the forms you need, all the forms.”

  “I’ll let him know, sir,” said Charlie, pausing for a moment. “I’m due back in London this evening. Yes, sir, yes, I’ll brief you the moment I return. Goodbye, Prime Minister.”

  “Goodbye,” said Becky as she put down the telephone. “And no doubt you’ll tell me what
all that was about when you do get home tonight.”

  The minister roared with laughter when Charlie repeated the whole story to him and Jessica Allen later that evening.

  “You know, the Prime Minister would have been quite happy to speak to the man if you had wanted him to,” said Woolton.

  “If he’d done that Simkins would have had a heart attack,” said Charlie. “And then my rice, not to mention my drivers, would have been stuck in that port forever. In any case, with the food shortage the way it is I wouldn’t have wanted the wretched man to waste another of his biscuits.”

  Charlie was in Carlisle attending a farmers’ conference when an urgent call came through for him from London.

  “Who is it?” he asked as he tried to concentrate on a delegate who was explaining the problems of increasing turnip yields.

  “The Marchioness of Wiltshire,” whispered Arthur Selwyn.

  “Then I’ll take it,” said Charlie, and left the conference room to return to his bedroom, where the hotel operator put the call through.

  “Daphne, what can I do for you, my luv?”

  “No, darling, it’s what I can do for you, as usual. Have you read your Times this morning?”

  “Glanced at the headlines. Why?” asked Charlie.

  “Then you’d better check the obituaries page more carefully. In particular, the last line of one of them. I won’t waste any more of your time, darling, as the Prime Minister keeps reminding us just what a vital role you’re playing in winning the war.”

  Charlie laughed as the line went dead.

  “Anything I can do to help?” asked Selwyn.

  “Yes, Arthur, I need a copy of today’s Times.”

  When Selwyn returned with a copy of the morning paper, Charlie flicked quickly through the pages until he came to the obituaries: Admiral Sir Alexander Dexter, a First World War commander of outstanding tactical ability; J. T. Macpherson, the balloonist and author; and Sir Raymond Hardcastle, the industrialist…

  Charlie skimmed through the bare details of Sir Raymond’s career: born and educated in Yorkshire; built up his father’s engineering firm at the turn of the century. During the twenties Hardcastle’s had expanded from a fledgling company into one of the great industrial forces in the north of England. In 1937 Hardcastle sold his shareholding to John Brown and Company for seven hundred and eighty thousand pounds. But Daphne was right—the last line was the only one that really concerned Charlie.

  “Sir Raymond, whose wife died in 1914, is survived by two daughters, Miss Amy Hardcastle and Mrs. Gerald Trentham.

  Charlie picked up the telephone on the desk beside him and asked to be put through to a Chelsea number. A few moments later Tom Arnold came on the line.

  “Where the hell did you say Wrexall was to be found?” was the only question Charlie asked.

  “As I explained when you last inquired, Chairman, he now runs a pub in Cheshire, the Happy Poacher, in a village called Hatherton.”

  Charlie thanked his managing director and replaced the receiver without another word.

  “Can I be of any assistance?” asked Selwyn dryly.

  “What’s my program for the rest of the day looking like, Arthur?”

  “Well, they haven’t quite finished with the turnips yet, then you’re meant to be attending more sessions all afternoon. This evening you’re proposing the health of the government at the conference dinner before finally presenting the farmers’ annual dairy awards tomorrow morning.”

  “Then pray I’m back in time for the dinner,” said Charlie. He stood up and grabbed his overcoat.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” asked Selwyn, trying to keep up with his master.

  “No, thank you, Arthur. It’s a personal matter. Just cover for me if I’m not back in time.”

  Charlie ran down the stairs and out into the yard. His driver was dozing peacefully behind the wheel.

  Charlie jumped into his car and the slammed door woke him up. “Take me to Hatherton.”

  “Hatherton, sir?”

  “Yes, Hatherton. Head south out of Carlisle, and by then I should be able to point you in the right direction.” Charlie flicked open the road map, turned to the back and began running his finger down the H’s. There were five Hathertons listed but luckily just the one in Cheshire. The only other word Charlie uttered on the entire journey was “Faster,” which he repeated several times. They passed through Lancaster, Preston and Warrington before coming to a halt outside the Happy Poacher half an hour before the pub was due to close for the afternoon.

  Syd Wrexall’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when Charlie strolled in the front door.

  “A Scotch egg and a pint of your best bitter, landlord, and no short measures,” Charlie said with a grin, placing a briefcase by his side.

  “Fancy seeing you in these parts, Mr. Trumper,” declared Syd after he had shouted over his shoulder, “Hilda, one Scotch egg, and come and see who’s ’ere.”

  “I was just on my way to a farmers’ conference in Carlisle,” explained Charlie. “Thought I’d drop by and have a pint and a snack with an old friend.”

  “That’s right neighborly of you,” said Syd as he placed the pint of bitter on the counter in front of him. “Of course, we read about you in the papers a lot nowadays, and all the work you’re doing with Lord Woolton for the war effort. You’re becoming quite a celebrity.”

  “It’s a fascinating job the Prime Minister has given me,” said Charlie. “I can only hope that I’m doing some good,” he added, hoping he sounded pompous enough.

  “But what about your shops, Charlie? Who’s taking care of them with you away so much of the time?”

  “Arnold’s back at base doing the best he can in the circumstances, but I’m afraid I’ve got four or five closed, not to mention those that were already boarded up. I can tell you, Syd, in confidence”—Charlie lowered his voice—“if things don’t start brightening up before too long I shall soon be looking for a buyer myself.” Wrexaff’s wife came bustling in carrying a plate of food.

  “Hello, Mrs. Wrexall,” said Charlie, as she put down a Scotch egg and a plate of salad in front of him. “Good to see you again, and why don’t you and your husband have a drink on me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do, Charlie. Can you see to it, Hilda?” he said, as he leaned over the bar conspiratorially. “Don’t suppose you know anyone who’d be interested in purchasing the syndicate’s shops, and the pub, for that matter?”

  “Can’t say I do,” said Charlie. “If I remember rightly, Syd, you were asking an awful lot of money for the Musketeer which is now nothing more than a bomb site. Not to mention the state of the few shops the syndicate still have boarded up.”

  “I came down to your figure of six thousand, which I thought we had already shaken hands on, but Arnold told me you were no longer interested,” said Syd, as his wife placed two pints on the counter before going off to serve another customer.

  “He told you that?” said Charlie, trying to sound surprised.

  “Oh, yes,” said Wrexall. “I accepted your offer of six thousand, even sent the signed contract for your approval, but he just returned the documents without so much as a by-your-leave.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Charlie. “After I’d given my word, Syd. Why didn’t you get in touch with me direct?”

  “Not that easy nowadays,” said Wrexall, “what with your new exalted position I didn’t think you’d be available for the likes of me.”

  “Arnold had no right to do that,” said Charlie. “He obviously didn’t appreciate how long our relationship goes back. I do apologize, Syd, and remember, for you I’m always available. You don’t still have the contract, by any chance?”

  “Certainly do,” said Wrexall. “And it’ll prove I’m as good as my word.” He disappeared, leaving Charlie to take a bite of Scotch egg and a slow swig of the local brew.

  The publican returned a few minutes later and slammed down some documents on the bar top. “There
you are, Charlie, true as I stand here.”

  Charlie studied the contract that he had been shown by Arnold some eighteen months before. It already bore the signature “Sydney Wrexall,” with the figures “six thousand” written in after the words “for the consideration of—”

  “All that it needed was the date and your signature,” said Syd. “I never thought you’d do that to me, Charlie, after all these years.”

  “As you well know, Syd, I’m a man of my word. I’m only sorry my managing director wasn’t properly acquainted with our personal arrangement.” Charlie removed a wallet from his pocket, took out a checkbook, and wrote out the words “Syd Wrexall” on the top line and “six thousand pounds” on the line below before signing it with a flourish.

  “You’re a gentleman, Charlie, I always said you were. Didn’t I always say he was, Hilda?”

  Mrs. Wrexall nodded enthusiastically as Charlie smiled, picked up the contract and placed all the papers inside his briefcase and then shook hands with the publican and his wife.

  “How much is the damage?” he asked after he had drained the last drop of his beer.

  “It’s on the house,” said Wrexall.

  “But, Syd—”

  “No, I insist, wouldn’t dream of treating an old friend like a customer, Charlie. On the house,” he repeated as the telephone rang and Hilda Wrexall went off to answer it.

  “Well, I must be on my way,” said Charlie. “Otherwise I’ll be late for this conference, and I’m meant to be delivering another speech tonight. Nice to have done business with you, Syd.” He had just reached the door of the pub as Mrs. Wrexall came rushing back to the counter.

  “There’s a lady on the line for you, Syd. Calling long distance. Says her name is Mrs. Trentham.”

  As the months passed Charlie became the master of his brief. No port directors could be sure when he might burst into their offices, no suppliers were surprised when he demanded to check their invoices and the president of the National Farmers’ Union positively purred whenever Charlie’s name came up in conversation.