by Alec Waugh
‘An Indian, a Bengali.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘In a bus, going to a race meeting. He advised me to back a certain horse. I did. The horse came in third. I saw him afterwards. He apologized. He said he was very sorry. He had backed the horse both ways. He had made a lot of money. He insisted on paying half my losses. We had a coffee together. I told him I worked with Pearl. He asked about my political opinions. He said he had the same ideas.’
‘Was he a Communist?’
‘He had been one in India: he was hoping to build up a branch in Karak; it was difficult, he said; the party is illegal here.’
‘Did you tell him that you were a Communist?’
‘I told him that I had been one in India.’
‘Did he tell you that once a Communist always a Communist; that you owed a duty to the party even if you were in Karak?’
‘He told me that.’
‘You saw him again. You saw him several times? Where did you see him, here in Kuala Prang or at the oil camp?’
The questions followed, one upon another. But they were set slowly, casually, not as though they were part of a cross-examination. They had met, he and the Indian, several times. Perhaps, Forrester reflected, it was not surprising that there had been no exchange of names. Communists enjoyed this ‘cloak and dagger’ business.
‘Did he tell you he was receiving orders from the Communist party? Did he tell you that this attack upon the Crown Prince’s fiancée was a party order? Did he give you a reason for this order?’
‘He told me that the party wanted an attack made against a member of the royal family to publicize the ideas for which the party stands; he said that the party was ready to pay money to anyone who would make the attempt.’
Forrester made a mental reservation. This did not ring true to him. An underground party did not want to publicize itself. It worked in secret. But he did not allow Rajat Singh to see that he was sceptical. He did not want to put Rajat Singh upon his guard. He handed him an album labelled ‘Rogues’ Gallery’.
‘Run your eye over that; do you recognize your friend?’
As Rajat turned the pages, Forrester continued with his questions.
‘Were you much in debt?’
‘A thousand dollars.’
‘Did he pay that for you?’
‘He paid the half. He promised to pay the rest afterwards.’
Your creditors will be lucky if they ever see that, thought Forrester. ‘What were your exact instructions?’
‘To fire at Miss Marsh, then run away. He said with any luck I’d not be seen.’
‘Did he say shoot to kill?’
‘He said it didn’t matter. The attempt was the important thing. As a good Buddhist I intended to shoot high.’
‘I see.’
But he did not see. The whole thing sounded phony. Yet he believed the Indian was telling him what he believed to be the truth.
‘Now I want you to tell me everything you can remember about the Indian, what he wore, where you used to meet him, who were his friends.’ Most of the answers were negative. ‘Is he in that book?’ The Indian shook his head.
‘Do you recognize anybody else?’
‘This man I do. I knew him in Bengal.’
‘Did you know that he was living here?’
‘I did not. No.’
‘Was he a member of the party?’
‘Yes.’
The man in question had arrived in Karak less than a year ago. He had been living quietly on the outskirts of Kuala Prang. He was partner in an import-export business. His name was Prender. He might very well have been aware of Rajat Singh’s presence in Karak, without Rajat Singh being aware of his. It was a trail worth following.
‘You sincerely believed that by firing at Miss Marsh, you were performing a service to the party?’
‘I did.’
‘Who gave you the revolver?’
‘I told you. I bought it when I first arrived here.’
3
Next morning Forrester made his report to Studholme.
‘How much of his story do you believe?’ asked Studholme.
‘The greater part, sir.’
‘But so much of it makes no sense. He must have known he could not hope to get away with it. He could not have escaped into the crowd. He would have been caught at once.’
‘He is a very stupid man, sir.’
‘He says that he did this for the sake of the party, yet he was bribed. Would he have done it without that bribe?’
‘Most motives are mixed, sir.’
‘There’s another thing too makes no sense. He talks of his devotion to the party, yet he is prepared to give you all this information. He’s practically turned King’s Evidence. Your promise to get him out of the country safely persuaded him to turn King’s Evidence. You offered to announce his death, so that the party couldn’t be revenged; yet he is delighted at the idea of returning home with presents. If the party’s intelligence system is one quarter as good as it is supposed to be, the news of his return will reach here. Our Communists will alert his Communists. Out of the frying pan into the fire. It makes no sense.’
‘I repeat, sir, that Rajat is a very stupid fellow. Only a very stupid fellow would have taken on such an assignment.’
‘Why did the party choose such a stupid fellow?’
‘Perhaps, sir, because they wanted him to do something stupid.’
‘Why did they want anything so stupid done?’
‘Perhaps their reason for that would make sense if we knew what it was.’
Studholme shrugged.
‘If the whole thing is what it appears to be, Whitehall’s warning was well timed. But as far as one can see, there’s less danger than they supposed. It must be a very haphazard organization. At the same time, because it is so haphazard, we may have to be all the more on our guard. You remember what Hitler said after the Dieppe raid. “I can’t tell what these military idiots will do next.” There is a parallel there, isn’t there?’
‘I think there is, sir.’
‘Are you going to issue a statement to the Press?’
‘That’s for you to decide, sir. I shall advise the King in terms of what you say.’
‘What would you recommend yourself?’
‘Might I have twenty-four hours to think about it?’
‘Forty-eight if you like. There isn’t any hurry.’
And I could do with as much as that, thought Forrester. It was by no means such a clear-cut issue to him as it was to Studholme, but then he knew more than Studholme did. He had had that warning. How had young Macartney got on to this? What link had Angus with obscure Indians such as these? Through his factory? Or weren’t they obscure at all? Was there more to this than was apparent? Was it really all a mounting pyramid of folly; a small group of amateurs, untrained, unled, undisciplined, doing a stupid thing because they could not think of anything sensible to do: or was there genuine planning behind this foredoomed venture?
‘Another thing,’ Studholme was continuing. ‘What are you going to do with this fellow? Pack him off to India right away?’
‘That’s what I promised him.’
‘Mightn’t he be more use as a decoy; that unknown Indian is bound to contact him sometime.’
‘The unknown Indian would know we’d be banking up on that. He’d either keep well away or have a friend deal with him. I like to keep my promises when I can.’
‘Have it your own way,’ Studholme paused. ‘I suppose I should congratulate you, shouldn’t I, on the way you’ve handled this?’
‘Thank you, sir, I had a lucky break.’
And now, Forrester thought, for young Macartney. He rang him up from the A.D.C.’s office.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you to come round here. It would give people ideas. You have a flat over your office. I’ll be round in half an hour. I’ll come straight up.’
It was the first time he had been in Angus’s flat.
He was curious to see it. ‘Do you mind if I use your bathroom?’ Angus opened the bedroom door. ‘That door at the far end.’
Forrester opened the glass-doored row of shelves above the basin. All very masculine, he noted. But from the peg on the inside of the door was hanging a black silk kimono embroidered with a silver dragon. That was less masculine. He turned the inside of it out and sniffed. Not masculine at all. He wondered whose. He glanced round the bedroom; a masculine room all right; photographs of school groups and etchings of Oxford Colleges, but with its wide, low double bed, its thick rugs, its three-mirrored dressing-table, it had been furnished in terms of the possibility of feminine companionship. It was more or less what he had expected, but he was always glad to be able to confirm what he suspected. He returned to the sitting-room.
‘Have you heard what happened at the oil camp yesterday?’ he asked.
Angus shook his head. Forrester was surprised. ‘I’d have thought you would have.’ He told him what had happened. ‘I’m grateful, very grateful, for your warning.’
He looked at Angus with lazy, half-closed eyes. ‘You realize of course what is the next step in our programme?’
‘No.’
‘I have to know where you got your information.’
‘But I can’t, I mean, this is one of those things …’
Forrester cut him short. ‘That is precisely what it is; one of those things. There are times when a first loyalty comes before all other loyalties; when one’s country is at stake, when the ruler of one’s country is in danger, the individual has no right to private feelings; he cannot let private affection outweigh public duty. This is a public duty. I may sound pompous, but it is the truth. You have to tell me. I’ve got to know all you know. You must see that.’
Before Angus’s memory rose the picture of that brief talk at the Palace when the King had said, ‘My son will be very much alone here. He will be in need of friends.’ He had felt himself then to be a dedicated person, his sovereign’s liegeman. He thought of his father, old and sad and querulous. The scales went down. ‘O.K.,’ he said and told his story.
On the scent at last, thought Forrester. Old though he was, he wondered if he had ever felt such high excitement. After all these weeks of waiting … something had told him all along that this wasn’t an ordinary have-nots against the haves set-up. It couldn’t be if old Macartney were mixed up in it.
‘I must see your father as soon as possible,’ he said, ‘and without his being warned I’m coming. It must look unplanned. Let’s think now. …’
He paused, ruminating. There was no reason why he shouldn’t revisit Kassaya, not after yesterday. He could look in at Macartney on the way out there. He needn’t take Angus with him. Or perhaps he should. It would look more natural if he did.
‘Have you yourself any excuse for going to the oil camp?’ he asked.
‘I could think up one.’
‘Well, do; we could go on down together; in about an hour. We could reach your father’s house by twelve. We could stop there for a drink, then I could drive you on. I want to see young Hallett. We could have a late swim; a sandwich at the club. On the way back I could leave you at your house. Is there anything wrong with that? No, I don’t think there is. I’ll call back in an hour’s time.’
From the balcony of his flat Angus watched the old man shuffle across the street to his waiting car. What had happened, what was about to happen? What was his father doing? He could not really believe that his father was part of a conspiracy; it was one thing to hate the British; quite another to plot against a sovereign’s life. It was inconceivable, and yet, and yet. … In the room behind him the telephone began to ring. A woman’s voice, eager, high-pitched, breathless.
‘Darling, how wonderful to find you there. I’m at the airport; landed five minutes ago. I was praying yours would be the first voice I heard, though I didn’t dare to hope it. Darling, I’m so excited.’
For a moment taken off his guard, he did not recognize the voice. Then he realized and his spirits sank. Blanche, already. It seemed only yesterday that she had gone.
‘Aren’t you back earlier than you thought?’ he said.
‘Of course, I did it to surprise you. I didn’t even tell Harry. I didn’t want to be met. I planned to come straight down from the airport. But I thought, Better not, he may be busy. You aren’t busy, are you though?’
‘Well, yes, I am.’
‘Truly?’
‘Yes, truly.’
‘Something that can’t possibly be put off?’
Her voice was wheedling. This was too much, on top of everything.
‘I’m sorry. A date with Forrester. You know what he is, don’t you?’
‘Do I? I don’t believe I do. I’ve always found him most amenable. Surely now, darling, surely.’
‘No, really, really.’
‘Well, if you say so, but I’m disappointed.’
‘So’m I.’
‘I wish you sounded it.’
They laughed together. Did his laugh sound sincere?
‘When do I see you then?’
He raised the back of his hand against his head. This was more than tricky; he had lived for today. He had not looked ahead.
‘I’ll have to spend a day or two at the camp,’ she chattered on. ‘I can’t come right away. What about Saturday?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t manage that. There’s a lot on right now. I wasn’t organized you see … I …’
‘But Saturday is your day off.’
‘I know but all the same … at such short notice. … It’s wonderful that you’re back, but at the moment …’
She cut him short. ‘It’s quite all right. Don’t fuss, I understand. It isn’t easy always on my side, either. I’ll call you soon.’
With relief he heard the receiver click, with guilt as well. Had he been very mean? But what else could he have done, taken off his guard like that? Should he have told her he was going out to Kassaya? What would the point have been? They’d have had no chance to talk. They’d agreed from the start that meetings apart from their private ones should be as casual as possible. He would be busy the whole time out there. The odds were against their meeting, against her hearing he’d been out there, and if she did …
He raised his clenched fist against his forehead. What was he worrying about this afternoon for? It wasn’t this afternoon that counted, but all the afternoons ahead. Sooner or later he would have to tell her something. When and where and how? He’d too much upon his mind. … His father’s illness, this thing with Forrester. And Lila, that constant, that honeyed torture. He was in a prison waiting to be called. If only he could call her. He looked at the telephone resentfully. It was like a prison warder.
4
Ten miles away, at the airport, Blanche too looked resentfully at a telephone. Was it possible that only five minutes ago she had picked up that receiver with such excitement: that for days now she had been counting the seconds to the moment when she could lift it, hearing with the ears of memory and anticipation the excitement in his voice when he had heard hers. ‘What, at the airport already, hurry round, at once. I said at once.’ That was how she had pictured it.
What a fool she had been. You ought not to come as a surprise. People made their plans ahead, men particularly, with the little books they carried in their pockets; keeping their plans in pigeonholes, not liking to disturb them. Never change a plan. If only they would seem more annoyed because there were those plans. Men were annoyed with their wives for interfering with their work; they never were annoyed with their work interfering with the time they wanted to spend with their wives. She ought to have realized that by this time. Now she had to ring up Harry and explain her unannounced return. What an anticlimax.
5
Forrester and Angus arrived at the Macartney bungalow a little after twelve. On the journey down Forrester had scarcely spoken. As the car stopped, he said, ‘You’d better go in first. Tell your father that I’m here; ask
if you can bring me in for a drink. What time does he take tiffin?’
‘He doesn’t. He only has one meal a day, at night. For lunch he has a sandwich, brought in when he’s in the mood for it.’
‘A sandwich is exactly what I’d like, but only if he suggests it.’
Macartney was sitting in a straight-backed chair opposite a chess-board. He was breathing heavily. He looked old and drawn and tired. Once again Angus was struck by a sense of guilt. To spy upon his father at the very hour when he should be cossetting his last months, repaying the debt that he had assumed during his boyhood. What else, though, could he do? Forrester had been right. There were loyalties that went deeper than the tie of blood.
Macartney looked up from the board. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘I’m motoring through to the oil camp. Colonel Forrester is with me.’
‘Colonel Forrester?’
‘Yes, you know, the technical adviser to the C.I.D.’
‘Of course, I remember him. I’ve met him several times.’
‘Could I bring him in for a drink?’
‘Naturally. Would he like some lunch?’
‘Were you going to have some, Father?’
‘Of course not. You know me. A sandwich later on, that’s all.’
‘A sandwich would be fine by us.’
‘That’s settled then. Where is the Colonel?’
‘In the car, outside.’
‘Bring him in at once. This isn’t any way to treat a guest.’
Since Forrester had been in Karak, Macartney had been an invalid and a recluse. It was the first time the Colonel had been inside the house. He looked slowly round him.
‘I’ve heard so much about your place. Now that I’m seeing it, I’m not surprised. Ah, you play chess I see.’
‘A good hobby for an old man.’
‘We must have a game one day.’
‘What would you like to drink, what kind of sandwich would you like?’ Forrester curled himself up in a long chair.
‘A gin and lime would be fine by me, and any kind of sandwich that is easy. I’d prefer ham if you have it. You have; that’s just the job. A relief I can assure you. Half-afraid I was going to miss lunch altogether. Spent my whole time on the roads the day before yesterday; yesterday too and now again today. Too much for an old man, much, much too much. I wanted to retire two years ago. His nibs assured me that coming here would be as good as retirement; nothing to do and no responsibility. Nothing to do indeed. I suppose you heard about that trouble at the eil camp yesterday?’
