The Smiler With the Knife

by Nicholas Blake

  When they had come to a standstill and Chilton opened the plane door, he was confronted by an angry group of men and women. They looked ripe for lynching him. Furious with him as Georgia was, she could not help admiring the blend of effrontery and authority with which he carried it off. Stooping in the narrow door, he yet contrived to dominate that cluster of people. He jumped down, shook hands with the man who had dragged the two children away from the plane’s path, apologised for his forced landing, reassured himself that no one had been hurt, explained why he had been forced to come down here, invited the two children into the plane, kissed them and helped them up—all in a few moments. Then he set to work to repair the imaginary defect in his engine. By the time the inevitable policeman appeared, Chilton had finished his “repair.” “My name’s Canteloe—Lord Chilton Canteloe,” he told the policeman, and after that the affair became a mere formality. What’s in a name? thought Georgia disgustedly. If he’d killed half a dozen of those children, he could still have bought himself out of it.

  “Now you’re not really angry with me, are you?” he said, taking her arm. “I told you nothing would happen.”

  And Georgia, who dared not alienate him too far, let him lead her on to the touchline, where they watched some of the bigger boys playing football for a while.

  “You know, you might have killed some of them,” was all she said.

  “Well, I didn’t. Don’t fuss, my dear, it’s not like you,” he replied indifferently.

  At that moment Georgia perceived the whole depth and implication of his irresponsibility. He was infinitely more dangerous than a man who has a positive lust for killing and destruction. Such a man sooner or later is betrayed or driven mad by his own lust. But Chilton simply did not care much, one way or the other. Without venom or compunction he would brush aside people who blocked his way, just as he had so nearly swept away those children standing in the path of the plane. He had, abnormally developed, the egoist’s profound indifference to all human life but his own. He had the splinter of ice in his heart.

  But how well it was concealed! Who would have guessed that these children meant no more to him than buzzing flies, when he and Georgia walked back to the plane once more. The children came running from all over the field. Chilton waved gaily to them, smacked their bottoms, had them in a minute cleared away from the course so that he could get a good run up into the wind. They were all hero-worshippers from the word go. Chilton, opening his pocket book, called out to them:

  “I’ll fly back over the field and throw these two ten-bob notes out of the plane. Whoever touches one first, keeps it. No grabbing, you young ruffians. And don’t spend it all on drink.”

  They were off, to a shrill, ragged volley of cheering. Chilton circled and flew back, throwing out the notes downwind. Georgia could see them fluttering away, and the crowd of children swaying backwards and forwards below, like flowers, their white faces upturned.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE EPISODE OF THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE

  LOOKING BACK LATER upon the events of that desperate year, Georgia was to reflect how tiny had been the straws that had shown her which way the wind was blowing. An uncut hedge was her introduction to the E.B. conspiracy; a half-open door finally revealed to her the truth, and ushered her into the most tense and dangerous week of her whole life. During this week the whole force of the E.B. was mustered against her. She was a fugitive who carried next her heart, as a refugee might carry her firstborn through a country where every man’s hand seemed hostile, the safety of a civilisation. Though she always denied it, Sir John was probably right when he said afterwards that no other living woman could have won home against such odds.

  It was late afternoon, and the mist was beginning to settle down over the oaks and rusty bracken of Chilton Ashwell, when they touched down on the landing-field. The leaden, midland mist gave the house a lack-lustre appearance and tarnished the waters of the lake. But Chilton’s good spirits, that air of suppressed excitement he had manifested all day, seemed quite unabated. Later, as the other guests arrived, Georgia realised its cause. It was a gathering of the clans. Mr. Leeming, the banker, with his wizened face and inevitable tube of digestion tablets; Hargreaves Steele, the puckish mouth and the fanatic eyes; the great armaments-manufacturer, Almayne Kennedy, who looked like a sidesman in a fashionable church—and maybe was: they were all here.

  “You must treat them nicely, Georgia. They’re the chief backers of the Chilton plan. So mind your step, and keep a watch on that witty, outspoken tongue of yours,” said Chilton. “You’ll be playing hostess for me, remember.”

  The Chilton plan, she thought. What an excellent cover for them. And I’m to be hostess to the leaders of the E.B.—the tragic irony is laying itself on thick, I must say. It looks as if things were going to start moving soon.

  The Friday evening passed off without any incident, except that Chilton and Georgia won a considerable sum of money off Mr. Leeming and Lady Almayne Kennedy at bridge. They seemed almost instinctively to understand each other’s play. The long duel of wits had created this sympathy between them, so that they could lead each other on with audacious bids that kept their opponents guessing all the time.

  Next morning Chilton went into conference with his associates. Georgia would have liked to listen at the door; but, in broad daylight, with servants passing up and down the corridor, the risk was too great. It was purely by accident that, just after the conference had broken up, she happened to be passing the study door when Chilton’s secretary came out, and before he closed it behind him noticed Chilton standing by his desk, in profile to her, his hands stretched out over the big globe that rested on a corner of the desk. His mouth was graven in that dreamy, conqueror’s smile which she had seen on his face three months ago when he stood in the doorway of the marble summer-house and gazed down on the clock-golf course.

  Georgia did not pause for a moment outside the door, but Chilton’s gesture and expression bit deep into her mind. At odd moments during the day it recurred to her. There was something symbolic about the way he had been standing there, alone in the room, with the terrestrial globe beneath his hands. But was there not something more than symbolism in it too? By an association of ideas Georgia began to link the globe with the clock-golf course. The latter had contained a secret; might not the globe also hold some clue, the whole secret of Chilton’s ambitions? After all, she mused, the plans must be hidden somewhere here. They were not things one would keep in a safe, because the safes of men like Chilton Canteloe are obvious targets for burglars, which would mean either exposure or blackmail. And why else should the mere touch of his fingers on the globe bring that rare, enigmatic, omnipotent sort of expression to Chilton’s face?

  Her job was to get hold of those plans. Well, she must start somewhere, and she must certainly start soon. She decided to try the globe on Monday night, when most of the guests would have departed and there would be less danger of interference.

  Georgia’s long experience as a traveller had impressed on her the importance of detail, of being prepared for any contingency, and at the same time had taught her not to worry about the unknown factor that might crop up at any moment to upset all calculations. The unknown factor now was the globe itself. She might be unable to open it; or her hunch that it contained the plans might very well be wrong. So much had to be accepted. Assuming I do get possession of the plans, she asked herself, what next? First, I must as far as possible memorise them, in case the E.B. succeed in getting them back again. Second, I must discover the best method of conveying them to Uncle John. To memorise them, I shall probably need four or five hours at least, which means I should not leave here till the next morning. In any case it would be difficult to get away at night with all the cars locked up in the garage and the chauffeurs sleeping above.

  I must leave, then, all open and above board, on Tuesday morning. But suppose Chilton finds the plans are missing? I’d never reach London alive. Well, my girl, the answer to that is for
you to take Chilton with you—ask him to fly you back in his plane. Ask nicely, and he’ll do anything for the little woman. And it will ensure you getting at least to the London airport in safety.

  The daring of the plan brought a sparkle into her pensive eyes. She went off straight away, and asked Chilton if he was returning to London on Tuesday and could take her with him. Yes, he was, and he would. He’d fly her to the Isles of the Hesperides, if she only said the word. So far, so good. But these were only the bold outlines of a plan; filling in the detail, working out alternatives in the event of something going wrong, took up all the time she had off from being sociable with her fellow-guests and eluding Chilton’s ardour. Those two days he turned all the batteries of his charm upon her, as though in an unconscious knowledge that zero-hour was fast approaching. There were moments when he almost convinced her that this was the reality and all her suspicions of him only a plausible nightmare.

  At last Monday night came. Half-past twelve chimed from the clock downstairs. Georgia got out of bed, dressed in black coat and skirt, crept from her room on to the landing, down the broad sweep of the stairs. Chilton had gone to bed earlier than usual, to get a good sleep before their early start next day. Now she was in the great hall. The eyes of all those painted Canteloes on the walls—she could imagine them following her in the dark with their insolent curiosity. She shut the study door on them. Stay outside and mind your own business, my pop-eyed friends. The study curtains were drawn close. Good. Georgia put her small torch back in her pocket, and switched on the shaded light over Chilton’s desk. Now for the globe.

  There it stood, bland, shiny, uncommunicative, telling her little she did not know about the countries mapped on its surface, and nothing about the business on hand. Topical yet absurdly irrelevant phrases floated across her mind as she fiddled with the globe, trying to find a secret hinge, a spring, a way to open up the obstinate brute. Showing the world to the world. This dark terrestrial ball. Globe-trotter all at sea with a globe. The cubic area of a sphere is . . .

  No, it was no good. The damned thing was all one piece. Or its hemispheres as firmly welded as creation itself. She had drawn the wrong number. Yet that picture of Chilton standing here on Saturday morning, his fingers caressing the globe, refused to budge from her mind. She strove to recall exactly the position of his hands as she had seen them then. It seemed a forlorn hope, for the globe might well have been turned round since. But she persevered, gently pressing the smooth surface, over and over again, shifting her fingers slightly each time, till at last there came a faint, reluctant click from somewhere in the globe’s big belly. At the same instant, a section of it was depressed by the pressure of her right hand, and she found she could slide it inwards, exposing a gap ten inches square. Trembling a little with excitement, she put her hand into the hole, felt a mechanism of rods and springs, then, deeper down, papers. Sheaves of paper. Eureka! She began cautiously to pull them out from the globe.

  “She put in her thumb and she pulled out a plum and said what a bad girl am I.” The familiar voice froze her dead. “Wouldn’t you like a bit more light on the scene, Georgia? It’ll try your beautiful eyes, reading all that stuff.”

  Chilton Canteloe switched on the central lights. The revolver in his hand was pointed at her stomach. He said quickly:

  “And don’t yell for help, because if you do this gun’ll go off and I shall have to explain that I thought it was a burglar and shot you by mistake, Georgia darling, you twister, you little bitch.”

  Georgia recovered her self-control in a moment. She had not come entirely unprepared for this. She flipped over a few pages of the document she had taken from the globe, then looked up at him, her eyes shining.

  “So it is you, Chilton,” she said enthusiastically. “I knew it. I was sure you must be our leader, but I had to prove it to myself. Why ever didn’t you tell me? You could have trusted me. I was sick of all this mystery-making. A good many of us are, for that matter.”

  Chilton stared at her with sleepy interest. His tousled hair, the slim body in the dark-blue silk dressing-gown, made him look twenty. He said:

  “It’s a good performance, but it’s wasted on me.

  Georgia’s eyes opened wide. Her voice quavered pathetically. “Chilton, don’t. You—you don’t think I’m——?”

  “I know you’re a spy. We suspected it at the start. Then you lulled our suspicions for a while, I admit. But not altogether. That’s why I kept you near me. I wanted to have my eye on you.”

  She knew he was lying. He was not the man to confess, even now when she was in his power, that she had taken him in so thoroughly. She wanted time to think, to plan the next move.

  “You’re making a terrible mistake. I’ve been heart and soul in the E.B. from the beginning. It’s lost me most of my friends. But—don’t you see?—I had to make certain that the right person was at the head of it. I tried to make you tell me, but you wouldn’t. Then, the other morning, I saw you with this globe in your hands, and I had an intuition——”

  “Intuition! Georgia, you’re losing your form, you’re getting rattled.” He smiled at her pleasantly, almost regretfully. After his first outburst, he had controlled himself to this gentle, teasing manner that frightened her far more than any threats.

  “There’s a little gadget in that globe,” he went on, “which rings a buzzer in my bedroom when it’s opened. I’m not so simple as you thought, my dear. I’m sorry a burglar-alarm should have come between us, though. I was growing quite fond of you.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about it? Hand me over to the police?”

  “‘The warm water of your mawkish police’?” Chilton quoted. “Oh, no. I’m afraid you’ve got yourself into hotter water than that. You’ll have to be—disposed of.”

  “I see. And what good will that do you?”

  He shrugged. “Isn’t that obvious?”

  Georgia knew she must change her tactics; there was no use telling him the tale any longer.

  “It’s not obvious at all,” she said, the deadly quietness of her voice matching his own. “John Strangeways knows all about you. I recognised you at the Nebuchadnezzar party—the woman in the locket. And we know the position of your six armament dumps, too. That clock-golf course was a mistake. You should try and conquer your habit of showing off.”

  Chilton crossed his knees, transferred the revolver to his left hand, lit a cigarette with the right.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Now we know where we stand, we can be more cosy. What a nuisance women are! That means I shall have to shift my dumps before we get going. Well, these things can always be managed.”

  “Yes, I know, money talks. There’s just one thing you egoists lousy with money forget. And that is, the country’s full of decent people who don’t take bribes and look upon your values as utterly contemptible.”

  “There are quite enough who do take bribes, my dear. Besides, there are more ways of bribing a man than with money. You can offer power, excitement, revenge, or a dream of better things. My dream is selling very well just now.”

  “Your dream! It’s a dirty delirium, that’s all. It hasn’t even a hope of coming true now. Our people have got you taped. Even suppose you start your rising at all—a few innocents will be killed, and a few enthusiasts. Then you’ll collapse. Chilton Canteloe will get away, no doubt, like other scared, shady financiers before him. I can imagine you, rotting away somewhere in South America, the would-be dictator, growing fat, dirt under his fingernails, beginning to stink—a pathetic figure you’ll cut, for any one who has pity to waste. . . . Why are you clutching that revolver so tight? Look, your knuckles have gone white.”

  “I should very much like to take you into the cellars and beat you to a pulp. Perhaps I shall, but——”

  “Listen to the Nazi-imitator! Can’t you be more original? You’re just a spoilt, vicious child, eaten up with vanity. A Prince Charming who’s begun to grow old and threadbare. A contortionist going stiff in
the joints.”

  It was not so much her words as the lashing contempt of her voice that stung Chilton Canteloe. For months he had been exercising all his charm upon her, taking her final response for granted. The contemptuous indifference she now showed hit him in his sole unguarded spot. He stared at her uncomprehendingly, his lip pouting like a sulky boy’s. She thought for a moment that he was going to cry. Then he controlled himself and said:

  “Yes, you’re quite clever. But not clever enough. You think the E.B. rising is going to fail. You’re quite right. I intend it to fail. You see,” he added naïvely, “there’s a world of difference between cleverness and genius. Cleverness adapts itself to fate, genius adapts fate to itself. The great man has the courage of his own immorality—he stands above morality.”

  “I seem to have heard all this before.”

  “That plan you’re hugging to your bosom—you may read it before you die, if you like, it’s quite immaterial—we’ll call it Plan A. But there’s also a Plan B, which you and the rest of the second-rate snoopers know nothing of. It’s much simpler. I could write it on a sheet of notepaper, but I prefer to keep it in my head. Have you ever wondered why the rank-and-file of the E.B. have not been told the name of their leader? Perhaps not. You lack subtlety. You’ve got a niggling, second-rate mind, like that hired keyhole-watcher, your husband.”

  “It’s wonderful how unimpressive you are in the rôle of Genius Through the Ages,” she chuckled.

  Chilton sprang up and smacked her across the mouth. “As I was saying, there’s this Plan B. I should like you to realise what you’ve been up against. It should comfort your last hour to know that you could never really have been expected to succeed.”