But it was not possible. The physical voice made that completely clear and his body slumped in resignation.
‘Very well, if our plans are threatened, and there is no one else available, I will try to do my duty.’ Through the window he saw a Number 10 bus draw up at the stop and start to take on passengers. He held his right hand to the light, watching its trembling fingers and the beads of sweat gathering in the palm.
‘But pray for me, my friend. This man is a stranger, he has done me no injury, and I am a coward and a weakling. I shall need God’s help very badly.
‘Thank you, and I had better go now.’ The bus had pulled out from the kerb and was lurching off down the street. In a few minutes he would board another Number 10 and be carried away on his own private road to Calvary. ‘Remember your promise, though. Pray that I may be given enough strength to kill him.’
‘Me Lords, ladies and gentlemen. What you are looking at is no mere demonstration of man’s skill and determination, it is the fulfilment of a dream.’ The Mayor paused impressively and pointed towards the wall on which was projected a photographic panorama of the city of Randelwyck. The town sprawled along the banks of a narrow, fast-flowing river, its centre hemmed in by factories and warehouses and dominated by the seven tall ridges that formed the valley and had once prompted a Victorian novelist to describe the place as ‘the Rome of industrial England’. Up the lower slopes of the valley ran the lines of grim terraced houses known locally as ‘the long rows’, and above them waste land stretched away to the moors. A mean city, save for one recent feature: two slender pillars standing out on the eastern horizon.
‘Aye, a dream, a vision of one man which must teach our people to live in harmony and friendship. You all know how ruddy urgent that is.’ His Worship might be a coarse and longwinded speaker, but his audience was certainly with him on that point, and he broke off before a chorus of hear-hears. During the last six years Randelwyck’s coloured population had swollen to the highest percentage in the country, the housing shortage had become acute, and schools and hospitals so cramped as to be almost unmanageable. Tension was at breaking point, and the Reverend Martin Judson, a nonconformist minister of near-Fascist views, had happily prophesied serious racial conflict in the near future.
‘Michael Mallory, a man whom we all hold in honour as one of our great city’s most worthy sons.’ The Mayor bowed to his right, and halfway down the table Paul Gordon stifled a yawn. The meal had been heavy, the drinks plentiful and the speeches long. As a representative of Messrs Spender-Wade, civil engineering contractors, he had been bound to attend, but he would be very glad when the banquet was over. Beside him he heard Professor Lansberg belch and pull greedily at his cigar.
‘My friends, I give you a toast.’ The Mayor raised his glass, the projector was zoomed, and the picture on the wall became a close-up showing what the pillars were: two vast blocks of white concrete, fifty storeys high and connected by four slender bridges, towering over the head of the valley. ‘Let us drink to Mallory Heights and their creator.’
‘To Mallory Heights.’ Obediently and with relish the toast was drunk. By Paul’s boss, Colonel Jonathan Wade, flushed with pride for his firm’s part in the project. By Sir George Strand, its architect. By aldermen and councillors, and the bishop, and the city’s two members of parliament, and a hundred other well-wishers. By Paul Gordon himself though he knew that he had already drunk too much; he always seemed to drink too much these days.
‘Thank you, Mr Mayor. Thank you one and all.’ Alderman Michael Mallory, chairman of the Housing Committee, was on his feet now. Though a war hero, a sportsman of international fame, a self-made millionaire who had made four fortunes and given three away, and a man regarded by some as a saint and by others as an irresponsible do-gooder, he looked very mild and unassuming as he stood smiling down the tables.
‘I shall not burden you with a speech. I shall merely ask you to thank God that, to all intents and purposes, the project is complete. In the teeth of human opposition and natural difficulties, our towers stand, and soon they will be occupied.’
He’s right about the opposition and difficulties, Paul thought, toying with his glass. The Heights had been resisted from the word go. The Finance Committee and the council majority had wanted more conventional structures, while Mallory and George Strand had demanded a really inspiring edifice which would dominate the whole city. The Reverend Judson had protested that the building was an insult to the white population, and a leader of the coloured community had feared that the Heights might increase rather than lessen racial tension. Even the lunatic fringe had protested; one of them who signed himself with the initials G.T.S. had pasted a notice on the door of the town hall warning potential tenants that the building was an abomination before God and would shortly be destroyed.
The natural and technical difficulties: Paul knew all about those, and he looked with respect at the huge figure of Sir George Strand who sat slumped at Mallory’s left, as though too tired to take any interest in the proceedings. This would probably be Strand’s last major undertaking, and his reputation would rest on it.
‘Let us therefore forget the past and think only of the future.’ Mallory spoke quietly, but his voice was a beautifully trained instrument and every word was clear. Paul sensed a little of the power that had overawed the council and persuaded Strand to lend his genius to the project.
‘I give you one final toast. To the well-being of our city and the future tenants of the Heights.’
‘Yes, Mr Gordon, it is impressive. A design almost unique, to the best of my knowledge.’ Professor Lansberg knocked back his port and beckoned for the waiter to refill the glass. He was a stoutish jovial man and looked as sleek as a sea-lion in his suit of dark-blue gaberdine. ‘You must be very proud of having a part in such a creation.’
‘A very small part, Professor. I am only a quantity surveyor employed by the contractors, you know.’ Though Paul spoke humbly he did feel a sense of pride as he looked at the photograph of the gleaming pillars and the bridges which joined them together. For Mallory Heights was a triumph – a triumph for Sir George Strand who, though old and now crippled by a recent stroke, had proved that his genius was undiminished when he drew up the plans and produced a design which was not merely revolutionary, but a model of strength, compactness and economy. A triumph for Spender-Wade, too, who had secured the contract against the keenest competition and completed the structure well within schedule. Above all, a triumph for Michael Mallory. Two towers, each five hundred feet high, containing six thousand flats and supporting four bridges.
The bridges were the main feature of the scheme, of course. Mallory’s dream was that his brain-child would wipe out hatred and strife between the races. ‘People are different,’ he had said when he first proposed the scheme to the council. ‘They have different beliefs and habits and customs, and it is hard, perhaps impossible, for them to live together without practice. So, let us give them the chance to integrate slowly. Build two separate units and let one be occupied by coloured tenants and its neighbour by white. But join those units together by bridges and the seeds of understanding will grow.’
Each bridge provided a place of meeting: an infant school, a recreation ground, a social hall, and an inter-denominational church. The separate races would live apart but be drawn together and find unity by communal activities. That was Michael Mallory’s plan, and soon the tenants would move in and prove whether or not it would work.
‘A quantity surveyor, Mr Gordon. I would have said that quantities were all-important in such a tall structure.’ Lansberg took another gulp of port. He had been drinking even more heavily than Paul and his face was puffy. ‘Tell me something frankly, please. Do you personally approve of the scheme?’
‘In design or conception?’ Paul frowned at the question. He had been told that Lansberg was a pretty eminent man: Professor of Civil Engineering at a Berlin university, architect of several important
works ranging from canals to office blocks, and at present engaged on a thesis concerning system-building techniques throughout the world. Paul had felt pleased to be seated next to him, but there was a mocking conceit in the German’s manner that had begun to irritate him more and more at each course.
‘In design and construction naturally. We are not politicians, Mr Gordon.’ Lansberg nodded towards Sir George Strand, who had left his seat and was walking slowly to the door with the help of a stick.
‘A fine man that. One of the dying generation of architects and engineers which relies on a natural genius and . . . and . . . what is the English expression? Yes, rides roughshod over the fears of little men; ein Meister.
‘But so old now, and that stroke has left its mark. His left hand is almost paralysed, and look how feebly he walks. How fortunate that the stroke came after he had finished his plans.’
‘Naturally, but why should anyone feel fear, Professor Lansberg?’ Paul’s irritation rose like a pressure gauge. ‘Strand may be ill, but he is still one of the greatest architects in the world. Are you criticizing his design?’
‘No, not yet, though I may, Mr Gordon. Yes indeed I may.’ Lansberg chuckled and again beckoned to the waiter.
‘When I was in South America, the Republic of Nuevo Leon last year, I discovered something rather disturbing. And today I wonder if the same phenomena may not exist here in the fair city of Randelwyck.’ His speech was slurred, and Paul realized that he was becoming very drunk.
‘I mentioned my suspicions to some of your civic dignitaries just now, and they either laughed or were very angry with me. One of them said I was as crazy as that lunatic who stuck up a warning notice stating the building would be destroyed by God. Let us hope they are right, Mr Gordon.’ Lansberg made no effort to conceal a louder belch and Paul saw the Lady Mayoress frown in their direction.
‘They are beautiful, aren’t they, those towers? The work of an old man, but so tall and impressive and functional. Over one hundred and fifty metres of steel and concrete rearing up into the sky. Palaces in which creatures of different races will learn to live in love and harmony.’ The gathering was breaking up, the projector had been switched off, but Lansberg still stared at the blank wall with slightly glazed eyes. ‘How I hope my fears are unjustified.’
‘What are your fears?’ The man might be drunk, but Paul saw a disturbing sincerity in his face. ‘You think there is something wrong with the building? Every technical paper in the world has praised it.’
‘Not the actual building, Herr Gordon, and I must consider the . . . the evidence before I say more. But in two days’ time I am to address a civil engineering conference in London. Before then I shall know what statement to make.’ He pushed aside his empty glass, stubbed out the cigar and stood up.
‘What shall I say to that conference, Herr Gordon? Shall I praise Mallory Heights as a masterpiece of design and construction, or tell them that the man who put up that notice had reason for concern?’ Lansberg swayed and clutched the table for support.
‘That before long your so beautiful building will become . . . what is the word . . . Abfall, Trümmer? Ja; smoking rubble.’
‘The London train leaves at twelve minutes past the hour, you say?’ Erich Lansberg had paid his hotel bill, counted the change and picked up his suitcases.
‘Many thanks.’ He knew that he was drunk, so he walked slowly across the foyer, placing his feet with care and nodding stiffly to the porter who held the door open for him.
‘No taxi, thank you. For once your English weather is quite pleasant, and I need some fresh air.’ He paused on the pavement and looked up at the clear sky. The sun was bright on the surrounding hills and gleamed on the tall towers of the Heights, soaring up above the grimy buildings, the factories, and the squalid lines of the ‘long rows’.
‘Well, what are you, Sir George Strand? Genius or dummer Kerl, stupid fellow?’ Lansberg grinned foolishly as he asked himself the question.
‘To hell with you, Sir George, and also my compliments to you.’ Being a citizen of the new Germany, Lansberg was expected to disapprove of anybody as right wing and inflexible as Strand, but in private he shared his views. Stroke or no stroke, Strand had been a colossus, a Bismarck amongst engineers, in the great tradition of Alfred Krupp and Isambard Brunei and he deeply respected the type. Lansberg raised his hand towards the towers in a half-mocking salute. He was a fool to have revealed his anxieties at the banquet – first to a group of people in the reception hall, and then to that young surveyor; but the smugness, the self-satisfaction of Randelwyck’s dignitaries had infuriated him. He was paid to create trouble when possible, but only if the charges could be substantiated, and he worked for exacting masters. He would have to watch his tongue if he wanted to go on eating well in future.
‘Yes, you were drunk and foolish, Erich, my boy.’ His feet felt as though lead weights were attached to them, and his body swayed as he crossed the pavement. ‘You are still drunk, but tomorrow you will be sober. Tomorrow you will consider the evidence very carefully indeed and you will know exactly what to say to that conference.
‘For the moment just concentrate on catching your train. Don’t stumble, don’t bump into anybody, and don’t draw attention to your condition.’ There was a pedestrian crossing before him, but, conscious of the drink he had taken, Lansberg halted and waited for the traffic to thin or stop for him.
‘Two private cars, a big lorry, a motor-cycle, and then I may go. And in the morning my head will be clear and I shall marshal my facts and know what to tell the conference and the newspaper reporters.
‘No, wait. Still more traffic; a bus, a smaller lorry, another car, a black van. After the van you can cross.’ Lansberg watched the line of traffic pass, prepared to step off the pavement and did so – but much sooner than he had intended.
Something slammed into his back and he lurched forward, hearing a scream of brakes merge with his own scream, seeing the bonnet of the van hurtle down on him, and the face of its driver with his mouth wide open. Those were the last things Erich Lansberg did see. The bumper threw him down, a wheel crushed his neck, and he was dead when the ambulance men arrived.
1
‘Noisy black beasts.’ Mrs Hilda Baxter tried in vain to shut her mind to the blare of pop music from the next-door radio and the shouts of children playing in the street.
‘He’s right too; dead right.’ Mrs Baxter nodded approvingly. The Reverend Martin Judson had again given tongue on Randelwyck’s colour problem and the local paper had reported his speech in full.
‘He may be no oil painting, but what he says is the plain truth.’ She studied the photograph of a bald-headed, bottle-nosed clergyman with heavy jowls bulging over a dog-collar which looked as though it had been inserted into the flesh by some horrible surgical operation.
‘Send the lot of ’em packing. Let them stink out their own countries.’ Though the window of her sitting-room was open she could not escape from the smell of curry which pervaded the whole building.
Shelley Street had never been a paradise, of course, she admitted to herself – just one of the ‘long rows’; but it had been pleasant enough before they came. A friendly, neighbourly place with folks of one’s own kind to chat to and join for a drink at the Crown or the Miner’s Arms. Now half the faces in the street belonged to Spades or Pakistanis, and the latter were the worse of the two evils in Hilda Baxter’s opinion. Naturally they were starving in their own country. As her Jack often remarked, ‘They won’t eat beef, they won’t practise birth control, and they’re too ignorant and idle to cultivate the ground. The sods bloody well deserved to starve.’ Decent folk wouldn’t be seen dead in any of the local pubs nowadays and she and Jack had to go into town for a Saturday night out.
‘Aye, that’s true enough. “Future generations will curse this irresponsible government which allows such a plague to flourish unchecked.” ’ She read Mr Judson’s closing words aloud and with relish befor
e turning to the next page.
‘ “FATAL ACCIDENT IN DUKE STREET.” ’ Jack was working near there and he’d told her he’d seen an ambulance and a lot of police about the other day.
A verdict of Accidental Death was recorded by the coroner on Professor Erich Lansberg of Berlin who was killed outside the Crown Hotel last Wednesday afternoon.
The hall porter, Mr Henry Knott, stated that Herr Lansberg left the hotel at 3.45, intending to catch the 4.12 train to London. He refused Mr Knott’s offer to call a taxi, saying that he felt in need of fresh air.
Who wasn’t? Mrs Baxter sniffed in disgust. That lot on the ground floor were cooking their stinking fru-fru again.
The street was crowded at the time and several witnesses testified that the professor, who had been waiting at a pedestrian crossing, suddenly stepped off the pavement into the path of a delivery van driven by Archibald Stubbs, aged 18. Mr Allan Trevor, a sales representative, stated that Stubbs braked promptly but had no chance to avoid the collision.
‘Oh, no, not again.’ Hilda Baxter shook her fist at the wall. A shuffling, thumping noise had joined the music and the floor shook. The bastards had started dancing though it was only early evening. Half of them were out of work and had nothing to do but amuse themselves. Lolling away on National Assistance, while decent men like her Jack had to slave to support ’em. She hoped Jack would get home in good time today. They were the only white people left in the building now and she felt nervous being on her own when it got dark. Horrible things the beasts did. Mrs Parker at Number 18 had had filth smeared on her door handle, and old Mr Larkin at Number 34 had fallen over a slop pail that had been deliberately planted on the stairs.
Earlier that day, Professor Lansberg, an international expert on ferro-concrete and system-building techniques, had been attending a banquet at the Town Hall given in honour of Alderman Mallory and Sir George Strand, the creators of Mallory Heights.
Blow the House Down Page 2
