The Postmaster General

by Hilaire Belloc

  The policemen of the “A” division were bawling, “Who goes home?” at the top of their fine deep voices through the corridors of St. Stephens not five minutes after the moment when the Home Secretary had got into the underground train for Victoria and James Haggismuir McAuley had got into his fast motor-car to drive home to his flat near the Marble Arch.

  . … . …

  All during the short remainder of the evening Halterton had been chafing in the House of Commons. He must see the Home Secretary again. He could not rest until he had seen him again. He must get more advice. It was mere nerves, he told himself, and there his judgement was exact. The last dull nonsense had been spoken, it was eleven o’clock, the House rose. He was all agog to go, and as the cry, “Who goes home?” rang through the corridors he was up and off, so hurriedly that a colleague or two turned to watch him with a smile. Down the cloister, through the subway he strode off on those long legs of his, his face hollow with anxiety, determined to catch Williams this time and get some crumb of further advice to quiet his nerves. The Postmaster-General legged it across to the Club again, and legged it up to the second floor, two steps at a time. The billiard-room was empty and dark. He came down, and heard from a fellow member that Mr. Williams had gone out, and learned that he was just those few minutes too late. It was exasperating, but there was nothing to be done. Urged though he was by that itch to take further advice, restrained by the knowledge that disturbance on the telephone would only annoy his colleague and make him more difficult to approach again the next day, Wilfrid Halterton, after waiting irresolutely on the pavement, hailed a cab and drove off to his flat north of the Park.

  He was a long time getting off to sleep. How he wished he could have seen Williams again. His mind was filled with uncertain plans that led nowhere—now half deciding to force the truth out of McAuley the very first thing next morning, now fairly convinced that he ought first to see Williams again, even if that great man should be late in getting to his office; now trying to plan some scheme entirely his own, which would recover the fatal document without a soul being the wiser; now losing himself again in a fog of contradictions.

  But while Halterton thus suffered, James McAuley, less than a mile away, was going through emotions of a similar kind, but of different effect.

  He had reached his flat. He was not a man who sat up late. He prepared for bed at once. He never changed his coat, even when he was putting on his things for the night, without taking the precaution that such a man would take, and which he intended to take during all the interval that would pass before this matter was settled, and the new contract actually at work. Before taking off his coat he felt for the two envelopes, to transfer them to the pocket of his pyjama jacket and to secure that pocket with a safety pin. James Haggismuir McAuley ran no risks, and a man asleep is vulnerable. It was not the first time in his life that he had had to watch over little documents as though they were a part of his very self.

  The instinctive gesture was made, the hand plunged into the depths of that deep inside breast-pocket of his coat—and there was nothing there.

  The blood left the keen, capable head of James McAuley. He felt dizzy, and had to sit down suddenly on the bed. Then there happened to him what might have happened to a weaker man. He thought that he would make sure—that he might have been deceived: he thought his very senses might have deceived him. He actually brought out his coat under the full light of the shaded wireless electric lamp over his dressing-table, and turned the fatal pocket inside out. There was but one indication of what had been. The little metal clip with which he had kept the two envelopes together was still there. It had been jerked off as whoever had done it had drawn those papers from their rightful place.

  It was futile, it was especially futile in such a man; but intense emotion has this effect—James Haggismuir McAuley emptied all the pockets of his coat—and he was a man who carried many things upon him. Out they came upon the eiderdown—a small pad—a cigarette case—matches—but of course there was not a sign of either envelope. He ought to have known that. If they had gone from the one pocket where of necessity he guarded them, they were gone from him —for the moment at least—altogether.

  Then his mind began to work actively again, as was its wont. He was out on the landing and downstairs, wasting not a moment over the lift, which might have delayed him; he was down the six flights to the porch and had got a taxi before a full minute had passed after his slamming his flat door behind him. The way was clear enough at that time of night; he was at the Club in less time than it had taken him to go from it to his rooms. He mastered his voice and asked the porter, without haste and with indifference, whether anything had been found in the billiard-room—any papers? If so, they were his.

  Even as he went into the Club he had thought he saw for a moment over his shoulder a familiar figure. He was right. It was the tall, lanky form of Wilfrid Halterton, off across the road to the cab rank. So he added another word to the porter.

  “Has Mr. Halterton been in here again?” he asked of the porter.

  “Yes, sir, he’s only just this minute gone out.”

  “Was he looking for anyone?”

  “Not that I know of, sir,” said the porter to McAuley; then to the page:

  “Where did Mr. Halterton go when he came in just now?”

  “Mr. Halterton went up to the billiard-room, sir. He seemed to be looking about for something there, sir,” answered the page in a touching treble. (For the porter was “Sir” to the page, just as McAuley was “Sir” to the porter—there is rank on rank in this world.) McAuley turned to the child almost roughly.

  “Up to the billiard-room, did you say? Up to the billiard-room? Did he find anything in the billiard-room?”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” said the child. “I didn’t see him come down with anything. No, sir.”

  Without a word McAuley in his turn sprang up the stairs to the billiard-room. It might look odd to the servants, but he couldn’t help that. The thing was all-important. He was on Halterton’s track. Halterton was the man. … He was beginning to see clearly. … But he would satisfy himself.

  He stood in that empty billiard-room with his chin in his hand, reviewing rapidly all that had happened. Why had Halterton come in as he did? He must have learned that he was there playing; he would have thought of the coat being taken off and hung on the nail—or even if he didn’t think of it the sight of it would have reminded him. … Upon his word, he had never given Halterton credit for so much brains! But that was what must have happened.

  But could Halterton have got hold of those envelopes with young Hayling sitting by? Hardly. Yes, perhaps he could. … At any rate, somehow, he must have got them. Perhaps he had taken them and then hadn’t had a chance to put them in his pocket. … It hurriedly occurred to McAuley that the Postmaster-General, after taking the letters from the coat, might have thrust them in the gap behind the bench. He might have feared to be seen putting them into his own pocket. That would be why he had come back. … Or did he come back because he wanted to assure himself that no one had suspected him?

  It was Halterton who had those letters, anyway! Sure enough! Who else but Halterton could know that they existed? Who else but Halterton could guess that they could have been in his—James McAuley’s— close keeping? … But upon his word, he had not given Halterton credit for so much commercial sense! He almost admired the man, compared at least with what had been his common mood hitherto in the Postmaster-General’s presence.

  Well, there was nothing more to be done. If he lingered there, it would be noticed more than it had been already. He must be off. He came down, said a few words to the porter as he went out, got a taxi and went back home—to lie awake for hours.

  Chapter VII

  Honest Jack Williams was compelled, as a professional democrat and plainly labelled “Trades Union” to travel third class on all occasions. For the same reason he must live in a small house, which he liked doing, and with only one maid
, which he didn’t mind. What was harder was that he could not have a big, comfortable car—indeed, no car at all. On the other hand, he was allowed to hob-nob with the rich, who delighted, some in his billiards, some in his funny stories, some in his financial tips—though he had a reputation for unloading and had stung several of them. He might drink all the champagne he wanted as publicly as he chose, so that it wasn’t in his own house; and as for his reputation—now general—for having got together some mysterious mass of money, that only made him the more respected by his fellow Trades Unionists; who did not call themselves Anarchists or Socialists, but plain Amalgamated Transformers, at a minimum wage of 83s. a week of forty-eight hours. But third class, I say, was insisted on.

  Yet on this night he risked it as he changed at Victoria; took a first class ticket, and making a hardly perceptible sign to the guard with his left eyebrow, secured a compartment to himself.

  In that privacy, when the train had fairly started he pulled out the two envelopes, badly crumpled, from his trousers pocket. He had kept his hand upon them most of the time since leaving the Club, for the pocket was not a convenient place for them, and he had no desire to lose either of them. He pulled them out, smoothed them as best he could, for the moment, and then put them very carefully into the inside breast-pocket of his coat, just as the lawful possessor of the one (and unlawful possessor of the other) had done before him.

  If any of my readers are thinking of entering public life, I would take this opportunity of telling them that any documents that they may have occasion to purloin should thus be kept upon the person of the individual, and never entrusted to a safe or a locked drawer. Also, it is wise to keep them in the inside left-hand breastpocket, and not a bad thing to have a loop or button for fastening same. The last was a precaution which James McAuley had not taken, perhaps because his purely commercial career had not given him so much experience as men obtain in the higher career of statesmanship.

  When Jack Williams got home he did not go up to bed, late as it was. He had something to do before sleeping. The first thing he did was to fill a kettle with water and to put it on the electric heater till it boiled. Then he passed the flap of each envelope in turn back and forth in front of the spout so that it should be thoroughly steamed. And when they were thoroughly steamed he opened them with the ease that manoeuvre ensures.

  This done, he did not pull out the all-important contents of the two envelopes, but went out to rummage for the electric iron, called in the language of his wife “the flat iron.” He brought with him at the same time a piece of folded flannel. Then within this folded flannel he placed the two letters and their envelopes and carefully ironed over the material.

  That, I may further inform any one of my readers who may be considering entering public life, is the proper way of getting creases out of any documents which may have been rumpled in the process of acquisition.

  All these things having been accomplished, Honest Jack Williams turned off the heaters, replaced the iron in the back room, leaving everything tidy, and then came back for a quiet perusal of his prizes. He leaned back in his chair, holding one in each hand, and surveying them with affection and pride.

  They were not only symbols but fruits of victory to the great strategist. They were not only the fruits of victory but the instruments of inevitable triumph to come. He felt as Moltke felt when he held the two French armies of 1870 apart, with the Army of Metz in his right hand and the army of Sedan in his left, and said to himself: “Both these armies are now securely mine.”

  I share what I am sure is my reader’s admiration for the simplicity and boldness of the action which had secured such results.

  For a long time past it has been a necessity for our modern statesmen to march with the times and to adopt the methods of their day. Dead and buried with the futilities of the forgotten Victorian deadness is all that pompous play-acting of indifference to personal gain and aloofness from decisive commercial manoeuvre. The generation in which even a humble watering of shares was doubtful and a duplication of them condemned was one that substituted words for deeds, windy with copybook maxims and worthless with rhetoric. It gave us—as it could only give us— the little England of that day, with its pretence to dominion and its boast of government by a narrow social group, ignorant of real affairs. But hitherto there had clung to the technique of politics a sort of fossil respect for indirect approaches. To get hold of information against a rival, to have a particular photograph taken, or even to obtain possession of documents by roundabout ways, through underlings who might be deceived, was necessary to success in the great game; but to do the thing oneself, bravely, at once, and finally, without risk of witnesses and without loss of time, had never yet been attempted. Jack Williams was the pioneer who took the last great step forward in the science of politics.

  Therefore he had gained the reward which always awaits those who dare to be Realist, and who accept to the full all the conditions of their action and drive straight to its conclusion.

  There he sat, with the two trophies of his genius displayed in either hand, mastering each in turn, and conscious that he was in impregnable possession of what could now give him unchallenged control. The whole great coming business of Television was in his power, as he followed the words of those two letters: the typescript signed by Halterton promising the contract to McAuley, the manuscript written wholly in McAuley’s hand promising the post and salary to Halterton—two master keys that opened all the doors.

  They were much what he had expected. He recognized in each the skilled hand of the financier.

  He was particularly impressed by the mixture of kindness and deference of the manuscript letter, in which Halterton had been asked to sacrifice his leisure for the inadequate salary of £10,000 a year—free of tax The other (the typewritten letter), which authorized McAuley to go on with the contract and was duly signed “Wilfrid Halterton,” gave him a little more to think about. He read it twice to make sure that it would have been sufficient for McAuley to proceed upon forthwith, and he decided that it was. It was put in very general terms, and it was, as we have seen, quite short. But Williams, who understood these things better than anyone else, decided that it was adequate. There could be no going back from it. And if ever James McAuley got hold of that letter again the contract would go forward. Whoever was the possessor of that letter controlled the future of Television—so much was sure.

  He had already told the Postmaster-General quite truly that there was no going back for him, Wilfrid Halterton, whether he had his promise safe in his pocket or not. The endorsement was there, and broad and genial was the smile of Jack Williams as he read the pencilled words in Halterton’s own unmistakable hand:

  “James McAuley’s letter. Handed to me March 3, 1960. W.H.”

  The thing was already on the Order Paper, and even if the Postmaster - General desired to put a belated spoke in the wheel now he would not dare—so long as he imagined that McAuley had that letter in his possession.

  Jack Williams folded each document again with a satisfied sigh, put each back into its proper envelope, unfastened, and slipped them into that inside left-hand breast-pocket—buttoned within. He spent about ten minutes communing with himself and reviewing the points of his policy. He was completely master, and now the thing to do was to work out the details.

  The first point to decide was whether he should let Halterton in again. He decided that he would not. McAuley he would need, for McAuley pulled all the ropes of the Television business and understood its working. But Halterton he could do without.

  The next thing to consider was what proposition McAuley should be offered? Control remained with himself, Williams, of course. McAuley should have his salary as Chief Permanent Commissioner when the Charter should have been granted and the monopoly in full swing. On the whole, Williams thought that about a third of his own share might usefully be offered to the man with a practical knowledge of the trade, the man whom he needed, the man in whose name the co
ntract was made out, and the man without whom it would be difficult to go to work.

  There was one more thing to be decided. When and how he should approach McAuley and tell him how things stood, tell him that the power had passed into his (Williams’s) hands, and that all further steps would be dependent upon him.

  He decided—being the great strategist he was (and see what talents are needed to rise as this man had risen in the service of his country)—on watching the development of the game, and not acting in the matter until the right opportunity appeared.

  Having settled all this in his mind to his satisfaction, he at last went to bed and to sleep—it was nearly two o’clock in the morning.

  Next day, after the usual happy breakfast with his wife, he did not go down immediately to the Home Office, but telephoned that he might be an hour later than usual, as he had business which kept him at home. He also telephoned to that friend, Mr. Gunter, who lived in his neighbourhood, and bade him step round.

  Mr. Gunter we have had a glimpse of. Though he played but a small part in these great affairs, he played an interesting one, and he is a type. So you shall hear something more about him.

  In the distant past, when they had both been young men in the same Trades Union, Jack Williams got knowledge, by an accident, of a most unfortunate slip on Henry Gunter’s part. The young fellow, as he then was, had done something very odd with a cheque. It was the duty of Jack Williams, as his superior among the officials of the Union, to have prosecuted him. But Gunter had been sorely tempted, he was married, with young children, badly in debt—and he had fallen. What Williams had done on that long past day was this. He had made up the loss on the cheque—it was a considerable sum to him in those days—no less than £15, out of his own pocket. Thenceforward he had protected Gunter, though necessarily reminding him from time to time of the knowledge he had.