by Nevil Shute
I smiled. “There may not be,” I put in quietly. “I’ve had concussion recently, you know.”
He turned and eyed me for a moment. “Yes, I know.” And then he said a damn queer thing. He said: “Do you believe in God?”
I knew Fedden to be a deeply religious man—many soldiers are. I had had this sort of thing from him before, but that didn’t prevent it coming as a fresh surprise. “Well,” I said, a little awkwardly, “I don’t go to church much. But I’ve been to sea a lot. I’m a master mariner, you know.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, I know.” And then he said: “Personally, I believe every word you’ve said, but I’m not so sure that Carter will. I believe God sent you to help us clean up this affair.”
I couldn’t keep my end up in a conversation conducted upon theological lines, and so I asked:
“Who is Carter?”
“Sir David Carter,” he replied, “the Chief Commissioner.”
Better than God, I thought, and to direct his mind into more mundane channels I asked how he had spent the last two days. It seemed that he had been most of the time in consultation with the sleuths at the Yard. Some aspect of the matter that he had learnt there had upset him seriously, but what it was, he would not say. Finally, at about midnight, he went back to his own place to sleep, having secured me for the following day.
I went to Scotland Yard with Fedden next morning after breakfast, and for a time I sat in a lobby waiting for him while he went about his business. Presently a sergeant came to fetch me, and I was ushered down long stone passages till we stopped before an office door.
It was a fair-sized, decently furnished room in the government style; very high and rather bare, strewn with heavy mahogany desks and furniture, with mournful leather chairs and a settee belonging to a bygone age. Fedden was waiting for me there with two other men. One of them was a keen-faced, youngish man of about my own age; this was a Major Norman. The other was a serious, white-haired man, not very old. I shouldn’t say that he is more than fifty, though he is quite white. That was Sir David Carter.
I told my disconnected little tale again in reply to a sort of questionnaire from Fedden, and this time it seemed thinner, more unlikely than it had ever seemed before. I was ashamed to tell it. It seemed to have lost the quality of realism here; what was clear and definite at home, in sound of the sea and almost within shouting distance of the sandhills, seemed no more than the wildest guesswork and hypothesis in Scotland Yard.
Fedden came to an end at last, when he had extracted from me all that I had to say. The other two had listened to us in perfect, disconcerting silence; it was impossible to tell how they were taking it. At the end the man called Norman glanced at his chief, stirred, and took up the task of questioning me, and for a further quarter of an hour took me backwards and forwards over the story till he was satisfied that I could tell him nothing more. And then there was a silence in the room.
Sir David Carter, sitting behind a very massive desk, tilted back his chair and sat staring up at a cornice of the ceiling, immersed in thought. At last he said:
“This is a very unusual story, Commander Stevenson. I must thank you for coming up to give it to us so readily.”
I cleared my throat. “You must understand that I can vouch nothing for its truth. Colonel Fedden will have told you that I’ve recently been ill.” I paused. “Each time I tell this story it seems more likely that I may be wrong about it all—that I’m imagining things.”
He tilted his chair forwards till it rested on its legs again, and faced me steadily across the desk. “On the contrary,” he said courteously, “we are very much afraid it may be true.”
I did not know what to say to that, and presently he went on:
“It fits very closely with information that has come to us from other sources.” I wondered what the other sources were, but he did not enlighten me. He was quiet for a little then, but presently he spoke again.
“Commander Stevenson,” he said, “I must tell you that it is not our custom here to take witnesses into our confidence. So much you will appreciate. In the normal course of affairs I should now thank you for your courtesy in coming to us, and I should send you home. If I do not follow that procedure now, it is exceptional.”
He paused for a minute, and went on: “Sometimes a witness becomes so deeply involved in the investigations which we carry out that it becomes necessary for us to break our rule. In such a case, we demand the most complete discretion. Colonel Fedden has told us that he regards you as a discreet man, not much given to talk.”
I stirred in my chair. “I don’t go gossiping about the place,” I said. “I don’t particularly want to be mixed up in anything, but having this evidence, I thought somebody ought to know about it. If I can give you any further help I should be very glad to do so. Otherwise, I’m quite ready to go home.”
He nodded slowly. “We appreciate your attitude very much.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and began to talk to me in very general terms. I sat there listening to him, puzzled. I couldn’t imagine what he was driving at, why he was talking to me in that way. He was giving me a little discourse on gun-running and its objects, couched in the most general terms.
“In this instance,” he went on, “the problem cannot be very difficult to solve. If a rising, or revolution, were contemplated in this country to-day, the source from which it emanated would not be very difficult to trace. So many sources may be discounted that the field becomes narrow. For example, it would be difficult to imagine an armed revolt in this country for the purpose of overthrowing the monarchy—to-day.”
I was beginning to understand. “I see what you mean,” I said. “There’s only one revolutionary agency in England today—or only one obvious one. You mean Russia, I suppose. Communism.”
He inclined his head. “I think it very likely that if these arms are really smuggled in we should find such an agency in the background.” He paused for a moment, and then he said:
“I should not have indicated this conclusion to you if it had been merely speculation on our part. Unfortunately, we have had other evidence, apart from this affair, that something of the sort might be in train.”
I stared at him. “Do you know where those guns were going?”
The man called Norman stirred by the fireplace. “We know no details,” he replied. “We only knew that something of the sort might be on foot.”
I nodded. “Stenning may be able to tell you some more about where the guns came from,” I observed. “But as for where they were going to, you want the driver of the lorry.” I was silent for a minute then, thinking of that painted, kindly girl serving her profession to the beating rhythm and the changing lights.
Sir David Carter nodded: “Exactly so. In fact, our next step should be to secure a little more information than you have been able to give us from the woman in Leeds. The professional dancer, Miss Gordon.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s easy enough.”
Fedden coughed. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said dryly.
I eyed him in surprise. “Well,” I said, “you can have her up and ask her where her brother is?”
The man called Norman spoke up then: “You must understand, Commander Stevenson, that the police have no power to interrogate a witness. They can invite the witness to make a voluntary statement, but the whole conduct of these matters is not so easy as it was.”
Sir David Carter leaned forward in his chair. “I see no reason for dissembling,” he said. “Frankly, Commander Stevenson, we find ourselves faced with a difficulty in this investigation. I will put it to you as briefly as I can.”
He paused for a little time, and then he said: “I would have you understand that in this office our business is to keep the peace. To surprise and to suppress any rising whatsoever that may be attempted against the elected government of the country—no matter what political aspect that rising may assume. Our business is to keep the peace of the cou
ntry.”
He considered for a moment. “In this instance the disturbance which we suspect is identical in character with the Left Wing of the Government. I see no point in mincing matters. We have in this country a moderate Labour Government, and here, in the seclusion of this office, we suspect that these guns are intended to arm a Communist rising of some sort.”
I nodded slowly. I was beginning to see something of the difficulty.
Sir David continued: “I trust most sincerely that further investigation will show that our suspicions have no foundation in fact. But if they should have such foundation, then I have confidence that the Government will allow no political complexities to interfere with the proper suppression of any attempt against the peace of the realm, and with the punishment of the offenders. I have that confidence.”
He eyed me for a moment. “Supposing, however, a mistake were made in this affair. Suppose that from this office we made public our suspicions of a rising in the Communist interest, which events proved to be groundless. It is not difficult to see the play which would be made with such a mistake by the Left Wing. In this matter, we must have a cast-iron case before publicity occurs.”
“I see that,” I said.
“I do not think that anyone would describe this as a cast-iron case at the moment,” he remarked dryly.
He paused for a minute, and then he went on: “Therefore, we cannot afford to give any publicity to this matter at the moment. And now we come to a further difficulty. You spoke just now of the possibility that we might interrogate this woman in Leeds about the movements of her brother. I wonder if you realise our difficulties, to-day, in the interrogation of feminine witnesses?”
I stared at him for a moment, and then I realised what he was driving at. “I see,” I said. “You mean Lord Lee’s Commission.”
He inclined his head. “Exactly. Consider our position in this matter. If we were to interrogate this woman in the manner which occurred to you—and as we might have done a year ago—what should we be doing? We should be taking information from her which might lead, in the end, to the arrest of her brother upon a criminal charge. In all probability we should not have indicated to her the result of any statement she might have been persuaded to make. That would not further our interests, you see—which are, to catch criminals.”
He paused. “The British public is very chivalrous, Commander Stevenson—too chivalrous for its own safety. Methods of crime detection which were adequate a year ago, to-day are hampered and restricted. If we were to interrogate this woman in such a way to-day, to-morrow the whole matter would be in the hands of her local Member of Parliament. And then … publicity.”
The window was open at the top; through the opening I could hear the noises of the traffic in Whitehall, and a girl singing, and a piano, in some building near at hand. There was a bee on the window-pane, and I wondered where the devil he had come from. I sat on my Victorian leather chair and stared around, at Fedden, at Norman, at Sir David Carter. All of them seemed to be studying me, as if they found in me the solution to their difficulties.
“I see that this case is not an easy one,” I said quietly. “What I don’t see at the moment is why you have told me about it in this way.” And I stared at Carter.
He smiled a little. “Such a question is justifiable. We have told you about it, because in our opinion the matter can most readily be solved with your assistance. I should say that you are at perfect liberty to refuse to assist us, in which case we shall only ask for your discretion when you leave this office.”
I stared him in the eyes. “What do you want me to do?”
He bent forward and toyed with a pen upon his desk. “I believe the information that you have given us to be most valuable,” he said at last. “We want only one more light upon the case before we take the matter up in earnest. We want to know something more about the woman’s brother, the man who runs the motor-lorry. Where he is usually to be found, the name of a friend who knows his whereabouts, the address to which a letter should be sent to reach him—almost anything will serve our purpose. Once we have access to the man we can proceed upon our usual lines without the grave risk of interrogating the woman.”
He raised his head. “This woman spoke to you about her brother when you were dancing with her before. We should like you to go to Leeds and dance with her again.”
The bee still buzzed upon the window-pane, the dull thunder of the traffic still sounded from Whitehall. I was about to speak, but he stopped me.
“One moment. I have said that you are at liberty to refuse us this service, but I should like you to give it full consideration before you speak. This importation of arms is a serious matter for the country, Commander. It means—it may mean civil war. Imagine it for a moment, if you can, civil war in England, at this time. The country pulling round and becoming prosperous again—industry finding its feet. And then—this thing.” The pen-holder snapped in two between his fingers, but he did not seem to notice it. “For myself, I cannot bear to think of it.”
He raised his head. “This is a distasteful service that we are asking of you, but a very small one. Even so, I should not have suggested it but for the fact that in you we have a man whose record is—quite out of the ordinary.”
I met his eyes and stared him down. “I murdered thirty German sailors in the war,” I said harshly. “I suppose that’s what you mean. Seems to me that’s a damn good credential for a job like this.”
Nobody moved when I said that, and for a minute nobody seemed to know quite what to say. I didn’t help them; I was busy with my own reflections. I was thinking of the girl in Leeds, and how decent she had been to me that night. I was thinking of how she had been afraid that I was spending more than I could easily afford.
At last I broke the silence myself. “Let me get this right,” I said. “You want me to go to Leeds and dance with this girl again, and get her to talk. You want me to find out some information which will set you on to her brother, without letting her know that this is a police matter. That’s what you want?”
The man called Norman stirred. “That is what we want. Some means of finding the brother when we want to pull him in.”
I stared at him. “I should be glad if you would talk English. Some means of finding the brother when you want—to do what?”
He flushed angrily, and Sir David Carter interposed. “It is very necessary that we should be able to keep the brother under observation,” he said smoothly. “You will appreciate that. If this man is simply the driver of the lorry and no more, I doubt if it would be necessary to take any further steps in regard to him.”
I sat there for a minute, deep in thought. “What happens if I can’t find out anything at all?”
“Then we shall have to deal with the matter with our usual machinery,” he said. “It means a grave risk of publicity. And frankly, I do not consider that this case, at present, is strong enough to bear a critical examination.”
I nodded. “So that if I don’t go to Leeds, you’ll have that girl up and interrogate her?”
“In all probability,” he said.
I sat there resting my chin upon one hand and staring into the fireplace. I was thinking of the life that I had been living since the war, what I had done and what I had achieved. It wasn’t very much—a few old sailing ships gathered into a barely economic trade. It seemed to me that the life I had been leading for the last ten years had done little good to me or anybody else. One must live steadily and do what one can. As for this matter of the girl who had been kind to me—well, that was just my luck.
I raised my head and glanced across at Carter. “All right,” I said quietly, “I should be very glad to go.”
I got away from there as soon as possible, and went back to my club. Fedden walked back with me, but I had little to say to him, and presently he went away. I lunched and went out to the Academy, and there I put my name down for the little study of seagulls that now hangs in the library above my desk. Then back to the
club to spin my dinner out over an hour and a half, and read Surtees till I went to bed.
Next morning I took the Bentley after breakfast and set out up the Great North Road, lunching in Newark with the best part of the journey done. By tea-time I was back in that garish, over-furnished place in Leeds, sitting and smoking in a corner of the lounge, watching the young business men and brokers with their girls, who thronged the place. There was nothing else to do, and I sat there till dinner, wondering what was going to happen to me that night. I dined alone, and went out immediately afterwards to the Palais.
The place was fairly full. I sat for a little while at a table alone, watching the dancers and wondering how to set about the business I had come upon. The girl was there. I could see her sitting in the pen, reading a magazine and now and then passing a desultory glance around the room. I knew that she had noticed me, and presently I went and fetched her out to dance.
It seemed to me that she was changed in the weeks that I had been away. The set phrases, the fixed smile were all the same, but beneath it she seemed listless and depressed. I took her out for a waltz; she danced beautifully, but there was no life in it; it was as if she had lost all heart and interest in her work. I cursed myself for a fool that I had ever come upon a crazy job like this, took her back to my table, ordered her a cup of coffee, and gave her a cigarette.
She roused a little when the coffee came, and made a definite effort to entertain me. “I’m so glad you’ve come in again,” she said. “I often thought about you, and wondered if you’d come back. I said to Phyllis only the other day, I said I wondered if you were coming back again ever. It’s ever so nice when people come back.”
I smiled. “Who’s Phyllis?” I inquired. I didn’t particularly want to know, but I did want to make it easy for her to talk about the things she knew.
