Flashpoint

by Michael Gilbert

  “How many weeks?”

  “I am afraid it’s five weeks. Including this week, that is. Accounts are settled on Friday.”

  “And this one has not been settled for five Fridays? Do you usually allow your guests to run up bills of this size?”

  “I spoke to the Major about it only last Monday. He told me that he was expecting a dividend from his family company. It makes motor mowers.”

  “It will have to be a very large dividend to pay this bill. Five weeks at twenty-four pounds a week. That’s a hundred and twenty pounds. Add the extras. Now what can they be? Mostly drink, I fear.”

  “The Major likes a drink from time to time. He never takes more than is good for him, though.”

  “His excesses are, I am sure, financial rather than alcoholic.” Benz-Fisher was adding up the figures as he spoke. “I make it a hundred and eighty-four pounds. That’s a very large sum of money to be outstanding, is it not?”

  “It’s a large sum. But I feel certain he’ll pay it.”

  “Optimism is a virtue. But it must not be carried to excess. We must beware of the Micawber that lurks in all of us.”

  “I don’t think he’s got anything like that.”

  “Let it pass,” said Benz-Fisher. “I will have a word with the Major. Is he in the hotel?”

  “He’s in the lounge. You could see him in my office. I wouldn’t want any fuss. Most of our guests are elderly and easily upset.”

  “The HPCMA is not the Gestapo, Madam. We employ persuasion, not force.”

  When Major Fairfax was shown into the office Benz-Fisher had stationed himself on the hearth rug, with his hands behind his back, and his head thrust forward, as though he was about to charge. It was a stance he had copied from his housemaster at Marlborough. The Major, receiving the full impact of his personality, appeared, for a moment, to be contemplating flight. Then he came forward, held out a hand, and said, “This is a surprise. Mr Acworth, isn’t it?”

  Benz-Fisher ignored the outstretched hand. He rose slightly on to his toes, and said, “In trouble again?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Running into debt again. Where’s the money coming from? And don’t talk to me about dividends.”

  “It’s true that I am somewhat in arrears–”

  “Two hundred pounds.”

  “Is it as much as that? Oh, dear. Everything is so expensive these days.”

  “You’re an improvident old person. If you don’t mend your ways, you’ll end up in bankruptcy and disgrace. By pure chance, however, a further matter has turned up in which you may be able to assist me. So sit down and pay attention. First, I am going to give you some names and addresses. You can write them down, but when you have learnt them, you will destroy the paper. You had better use your legal name. Stukely. Reginald Owen Stukely.”

  “You think that’s wise?”

  “It may not be wise, but it’s necessary. If you were called upon to give evidence, it might cast some doubt on your bona fides, don’t you think, if the opposition discovered that you were using a – what shall I call it, Major? – a nom de guerre?”

  “I suppose so,” said the Major.

  “Very well. Pay attention. There is a solicitor with offices in Wimbledon. Yes, write this down too, but check him up in the Law List. I think it’s a one-man firm, but if there’s a salaried partner you’d better find out about him, too.”

  “Since you speak of proceedings, do I take it that we are contemplating a Herman operation?”

  “That is correct. I shall be paying you six hundred pounds. With it you will first discharge all your liabilities here. In fact, I will do that for you. I shall explain that the Association is lending you the money, secured on your dividends. You receive dividends from time to time, I understand.”

  “Quite unexpected ones, sometimes,” agreed the Major happily.

  “Very well. The next hundred pounds you will spend on equipping yourself. Your suit, though respectable, has been cleaned and pressed too often for the role I have in mind. There is no time to have one made. Go to Austin Reed’s. They have a wide selection of ready-made suits. Shirts, shoes, an umbrella, a brief-case. I leave the details to you. And you will need a haircut. There are only three barbers in London who cut hair properly. Go to Truscott’s. If you say that I sent you – here’s my card – they’ll fit you in somehow.”

  The Major pocketed the card, noting without apparent surprise that it bore the name of a well-known Northern landowner and racehorse breeder.

  “The balance of the six hundred pounds is for you. I shall also be entrusting you with a further large sum of money. I sincerely hope that you will not be tempted to divert any of it to your own use. The last man who attempted such an indiscretion is in Bedingfield Criminal Lunatic Asylum. He tells the doctors, when they visit him from time to time, that he was framed, by the Secret Service. He assures them of it, with tears in his eyes. The specialists have an extensive file on him. They regard him as an interesting case of compulsive delusion.”

  For a moment the Major seemed to have some difficulty in speaking. In the end he said, “You can rely on me.”

  “I’m sure I can,” said Benz-Fisher.

  When he got back to the office he found Terence waiting for him.

  “Well,” he said. “How did it go?”

  “Application refused.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “If the beak had handled him properly, it might have been all right. I don’t say it would have been, because Killey’s an obstinate bugger if ever I saw one.”

  “And Mr Lyon didn’t handle him with tact.”

  “Tact!” said Terence. “If he’d brought out a hammer and hit him over the head with it, that would have been more tactful. He started by trying to bully him. When he saw that wouldn’t work, he sat back licking his lips, and waiting his turn. Everyone in Court except Killey could see what was coming. Then he delivered a short sermon on the sanctity of the British legal system, refused the application and gave him a parting kick in the pants. The press wasn’t interested in the sermon, but they wrote that last bit down word for word. You’ll see it in all the papers tomorrow.”

  “Did he step out of line far enough for an appeal on the grounds of prejudice?”

  “I’m not a lawyer,” said Terence, “but the idea did cross my mind. I’ve a feeling it occurred to Killey, too.”

  Benz-Fisher said, “That’s a pity.” In moments of real crisis he practised a studied moderation of language. “A lot will depend on how the newspapers treat it. There’ll be something in the later editions of the evening papers, but the real crunch will come tomorrow morning.”

  “That was another thing I noticed,” said Terence. “The men who were there weren’t the ordinary Court reporters. The Express and The Telegraph had their top political men there. And the Watchman had sent – what’s his name? The chap who’s doing a profile on Will Dylan.”

  “Patrick Mauger.”

  “That’s the chap. He was lapping it all up. He looked just the sort of bright-eyed young bastard who’d jump on any bandwagon that was going.”

  “No doubt,” said Benz-Fisher. “But the question is, which way is this bandwagon going?”

  Edward Lambard signed the last of the forty letters on his desk, got his car out of the garage behind the Prudential where it lived during the week, and drove home to his house at Shere. The road south was achock with the coast-going traffic, but at Dorking he was able to shake himself clear. He swung the big Bentley up the hill on to the Godalming road, passing the clock at Abinger Hammer at the exact moment that the man was coming out to hit the bell for seven o’clock. He would be home in good time for a bath and a drink before eating. He hoped that his wife had not invited anyone to dinner.

  There was a Reliant Scimitar in the drive, which he recognized. A battered Volkswagen would have indicated his daughter,
Penelope. The Scimitar meant that his son, Jonathan, had wangled some leave, and was planning to honour them with his presence for the night. He would not waste a whole weekend on them. The girl he was currently pursuing, with intentions which were entirely dishonourable, lived near Brighton and he would doubtless be on the trail early next morning.

  Mr Lambard felt that Jonathan would be easier to take after he had had his bath. He ran the car quietly into the garage, went through the connecting door into the house and made his way, unobserved, to his own bedroom.

  Half an hour later, the grime of London washed away and the dark grey uniform of London discarded in favour of a suit of ancient brown tweed, he came downstairs. As he approached the drawing-room he heard Jonathan’s voice, high-pitched, clipped and intolerant.

  Someone, he gathered, as he opened the door, had been making trouble.

  “Ah, there you are,” said his wife. “I thought I heard you come in. Pour your father a drink, Jonathan.”

  Jonathan moved his long, corduroy-covered legs languidly across the room.

  “Whisky,” said Lambard, “and don’t be stingy with it. Who’s been making trouble?”

  “Chap called Killey. Didn’t you see it? It was splashed in the evening papers.”

  “I might have done, if I could read a paper while I was driving a car. Not too much water.”

  “You used to know him, didn’t you, darling. He was in your firm.”

  “Certainly I knew him. Tom Buller was talking about him the other day. He’s not a bad chap, but he’s got a bee in his bonnet.”

  “The man is a menace,” said Jonathan. He said it in exactly the same conclusive and unappealable tone that his colonel would have used, standing in front of the ante-room fire.

  “Surely he’s not threatening the Blues,” said his father.

  “He’s not big enough to threaten anyone. He’s an appalling little squirt, and he’s engaging in the only sport that he and his sort understand. Mud-slinging. In the ordinary way, it wouldn’t matter. But he happens to be slinging it at a rather important man.”

  “I didn’t know you studied politics, Jonathan.”

  “I know, I know. You think we’re a lot of morons who do nothing but natter about horses and girls. But you’re out of date. We’ve got a very intelligent crowd in the mess. Some of them would surprise you. Tim Lacey is as red as they come. Practically a card-carrying Communist. We used to pull his leg about, it. Of course, he had to give it up when his uncle died, and his father came into the title.”

  Lambard looked at him out of the corner of his eye to see whether he was joking, and decided that he wasn’t. It was an art which fathers acquire.

  He said, “Are we waiting dinner for Penny?”

  “She’s not coming down,” said his wife. “She telephoned this afternoon. She’s standing in for someone at the hospital. It’s too bad. She only gets one weekend off in four.”

  “Time she married some decent chap and settled down,” said Jonathan. “And time we had dinner too. I’m going to bed early. Busy day tomorrow.”

  “Girl-chasing, I suppose,” said his father.

  “Nothing of the sort,” said Jonathan with dignity. “I’m playing polo at Cowdray Park.”

  Other people were dismounting from their camels, pitching tents, spreading rugs and preparing for two days of relaxation at the oasis of the British weekend.

  Jonas joined old Mrs Killey in her flat in Hornsey. Young Willoughby went home to Twickenham, where his father told him for the umpteenth time, to get out and join a decent firm with prospects. Laurence Fairbrass spent the Saturday at Lord’s and Air Vice-Marshal Pulleyne disappeared altogether. Simon Benz-Fisher caught an early morning flight from Heathrow and was met at Nice Airport by a blonde woman, in her early thirties, driving an Aston-Martin coupé. Mr Stukeley spent a very pleasant day shopping and had his hair cut by Mr Truscott in person. Patrick Mauger shut himself away in his flat and hammered out no less than three drafts of his Profile on Will Dylan. It seemed to come out differently each time. Will took his family upriver to Laleham in a motor cruiser, hired a skiff and tried to teach Paul and Fred how to row. They all got very wet.

  I lay in a deckchair in my garden and watched Mutt trying to teach the Archbishop of Canterbury how to walk, an effort which was crowned with no success at all.

  That was the end of the first week.

  9

  “I’ll be plain with you,” said Arnold Markstein. “I wish you hadn’t come.”

  “I’m not asking for help,” said Jonas stiffly. “Only for information.”

  “You’re asking for trouble,” said Markstein. He was barely five feet high, and a slight deformity of his neck and shoulders threw his head forward and gave him a gnome-like appearance. (Not one of those cheerful gnomes in red caps who preside over suburban lawns. A hard gnome, from the wilds of Edal Moor, from the caves and mines of Blackdean Edge and Crookstone Knoll.)

  “If I’d had an ounce of sense, I’d have refused to see you. But you worked for me for five years. Did some good work too, till you got too big for your boots. I owe you something for that.”

  “I’d prefer our relationship to be on a business footing and I’ll pay–”

  “You’ll pay nothing. You don’t seem to understand me. I know what you’re up to. We read it all in the papers over the weekend. I’m against you. If there’s any information I have to give you – anything which you could get out of me on discovery if you saw fit to litigate – then you shall have it.” He took note of Jonas’ reaction to this, and a very slight smile lifted the corner of his lip. He said, “You’ve been down South too long, boy. Up here we say what we mean and say it first time.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m looking for,” said Jonas slowly. “If you’ve read an account of last Friday’s proceedings it must be obvious. I could only produce a photocopy of the last ACAT accounts and a made-up draft of the amalgamation agreement.”

  “Both stolen from this office.”

  “If you care to put it that way.”

  “It’s the truth. And I’ll repeat it in open court if I have to. The judge won’t be happy, I’d guess, about accepting two bits of paper which are second-hand and stolen.”

  “So you admit you’ve got the originals of both documents?”

  “Certainly I admit it. How do you think you’re going to get hold of them?”

  “If those documents are vital to my case, there must be some process–”

  “You’re talking like a baby. My client is MGM. If you were thinking of bringing a case against them, you might be able to force me to produce them. But you’re not, are you?”

  Jonas shook his head. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Your case, if it’s a case at all, which I doubt, is against Dylan. He hasn’t got these documents. And his solicitors won’t have them either. So how are you going to force them to produce them?”

  There was a long silence. At the end of it, Markstein said, “You always were an awkward bugger. In some ways I respect you for it. A bit of what we call ‘okkerdness’ can be useful in our job. But like every virtue it turns into a vice when you carry it too far.”

  Jonas was looking down at the floor. He still said nothing.

  “Another thing, what do you think’s happening to your practice while you’re gallivanting about up North. It’s hard enough to keep a practice going when you give your whole mind to the job. What are your partners going to say?”

  “I haven’t got any full partners, actually.”

  “Worse still. Who’ve you left in charge of the shop? The office boy?”

  “I have a very capable salaried man.”

  There was another silence. Markstein looked at Jonas. He saw a white face, a set mouth, a tight jaw. He sighed, and said. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

  Jonas looked at a piece of paper he had taken out of his pocket. He said, “It would save me a bit of time if you could give me the present address of Rayb
ould, Pentridge and Barming.”

  “Those being the last trustees of ACAT before it got taken over.”

  “Correct.”

  “Raybould is dead, and Pentridge is in Canada.”

  “And Barming?”

  “Sam Barming,” said Markstein thoughtfully. “I believe he lives out at Todmoor, near the ASIA works. He retired last year. I expect people out there will be able to give you his address.”

  “Thank you. And Mr Mason?”

  “You were thinking of seeing him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s a very old man.”

  “But he’s still alive?”

  “Aye. He’s still alive. He lives on Thorpe Common. The quickest way to get there is up the M1 to the second Rotherham exit point. It’s about half a mile back, on the right, down a side road. I’m not sure how you’d get there without a car.”

  “I’m hiring a car tomorrow morning. I shall need one in any event if I’m going out to Todmoor.”

  Markstein stared at him. He said, “They can read, you know.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “The people at Todmoor. They’ve all read the papers too.”

  “I expect they have,” said Jonas. He got up. As he turned to go, Markstein, who had been consulting a black indexed book on his tidy desk said, “Mason’s telephone number is Ecclesfield 0929. I should give him a ring before you go out there. Have a word with his sister. She looks after him.”

  “Thank you,” said Jonas politely.

  When he had gone Markstein sat hunched in his chair, unmoving, for nearly a minute. Then he put out a hand, turned back the leaves of the book from M to B, picked up the telephone and asked for a number.

  The commercial hotel near the station served the meal which they described as tea at half past six. After Jonas had eaten it he went out into the street.

  When he had arrived at midday, Sheffield had been an oven, baking under the sun of that exceptional summer. Now a little coolness had come into the day. Jonas made his way to the bus terminus, and boarded a bus for Owlerton and Framhill.

  The rush hour was over, and the old Corporation two-decker trundled him along, first west, then north through nearly empty streets. As they approached Walkley, Jonas realized that he would pass the end of the street in which he had once lodged. It awoke no feelings of nostalgia. He was not a man who lived in the past.