And, from such musings, The Counsellor was born.
In one respect, Mark Brand possessed an essential gift for his self-chosen task. He had a perfect broadcasting voice: clear, expressive, and sympathetic.
And he had also what his friends called “a most infernal curiosity,” though he himself preferred to describe it as a deep interest in his fellow-creatures. The rest was merely a matter of spending money and building up a rapidly-increasing staff fit to cope with the ever-expanding demands of his rôle.
He “hired the air” for an hour each Sunday at Radio Ardennes, which formed his platform. When possible, his private plane took him over to the broadcasting studio; but when the weather made this impracticable, electrical recording served instead. Problems—social, financial, ethical, medical, legal and sporting—rained in upon him through his daily post. Those of most general interest he dealt with over the wireless, whilst the remainder were answered by letter. The demand for a sixpenny postal order with each query had hardly slackened the flood, and it served to keep the system practically solvent. The feat of which he was proudest was that once at least, like his prototype, he had prevented an impending suicide.
Begun in a modest way, The Counsellor’s business had ramified and spread like a weed. Luckily for himself, Brand had a shrewd eye in picking his staff, and a talent for decentralisation which saved him from details except when he required them. His secretarial staff attended to his enormous correspondence, passing on to him only the few letters which had the wide human interest demanded in his broadcasts. In legal affairs, pensions, and insurance problems he was advised by an ex-solicitor of exceptional talent who had been struck off the rolls in circumstances which he scorned to explain. Financial matters were dealt with by another expert; but this was a field into which The Counsellor entered rarely and reluctantly. The Problem Department supplied solutions to cross-word puzzles and the like, week by week. Applicants for its assistance had to forward a shilling postal order instead of the usual sixpenny one. To balance that, the Advertisement Department charged nothing for its services, since its expenses were borne by the firms which sought publicity through it.
The Department on which The Counsellor looked with the kindest eye—as being the one most useful to him in his broadcasts—was known unofficially in the office as Cupid’s Comer; and it was managed by a girl who had got engaged just before she was appointed to it. It was well understood that as soon as she married, her post would fall vacant; for, as The Counsellor said, the sympathetic touch was essential in that branch of his business.
After having considered the problems presented by his morning mail, The Counsellor extracted one document from the set and pressed a bell-push concealed under the edge of his desk. The door of the adjoining office opened and his private secretary appeared, notebook in hand.
“Morning, Sandra,” The Counsellor greeted her, with his friendly smile. “No, no dictation just yet. I want your views on this, first.”
He picked up Perplexed Ivy’s epistle and flipped it across the desk.
“Glance through it, and see what you think.”
Miss Rainham sat down and spread out the letter on her knee. She was chestnut-haired, clear-eyed, alert, and twenty-four. She looked her age, neither more nor less. People spoke of her as charming and unconsciously avoided such adjectives as capable, competent, and efficient. She merited them, but they did not express the more obvious side of her personality. Her good looks were sufficiently above the average to allow her to take them for granted, which perhaps had something to do with her charm.
“Well?” demanded The Counsellor, as she glanced up from the letter with a faint frown.
“Not a very nice case, is it?” retorted Miss Rainham. “The man seems to be worrying her badly, and she’s got this invalid mother depending on her.”
The Counsellor nodded.
“He’ll chuck her out without a character, if he doesn’t get what he wants; and that would leave her and her mother stranded,” he commented unnecessarily.
“I might see her,” Sandra Rainham suggested tentatively.
“It’s a well-written letter,” The Counsellor said, critically. “You’d better see her. Don’t bring her here. Take her to some teashop. You can pick her brains in no time, if she’s what the letter looks like.”
“And then?” Sandra demanded. “No good seeing her, unless we can do something, is there?”
“Trouble is, she’ll need some sort of reference, to get another post. If she’s all right, it’s easy. Tell her to chuck her present job. We’ll take her on here for a few weeks at the same screw. After that, she’s got us behind her when she looks for other work. She can enclose circulars with letters, or something like that. But make it clear that we aren’t an Old Age Pension.”
“She might turn out to be efficient; and we’re going to lose two of our girls very shortly,” Miss Rainham suggested.
“I remember that. Let me know in time to order the cutlery canteens.”
A complete canteen of cutlery was The Counsellor’s invariable wedding-present when any of his staff got married. These things were always useful and his method saved him the trouble of selection.
“No promises to this girl,” he added with finality. “I’m not a charity.”
The secretary smiled as she bent her head to jot down the girl’s address. If Perplexed Ivy proved satisfactory during her probation, Sandra would see that she got a permanency. She had liked that letter.
“I’ll see her and report,” she said.
Sandra Rainham had been one of The Counsellor’s “finds” when he began to gather a staff. She was a distant relation, a third cousin once removed cr something equally remote, left at her parents’ death with just enough money to exist on and a fund of energy which demanded some useful outlet. The Counsellor had seen in this girl of twenty the sort of material he needed; and after putting her through an expensive technical training, he had engaged her as his private secretary. Private secretary she remained in name; but actually she and Wolfram Standish, The Counsellor’s manager, jointly controlled the more mechanical side of the ever-expanding office work. Like The Counsellor himself, she was “interested in humanity”; and in that office an interest in humanity implied an equal keenness in the working of the intricate system. It suited her. She satisfied The Counsellor who, though generally easy-going, was apt at times to develop inquisitiveness about details, which was his way of keeping his finger on the pulse of the business.
The Counsellor picked up the packet of documents from the right-hand tray, and at that signal Miss Rainham opened her notebook. This was the serious stage of The Counsellor’s activities: the making of a rough draft of his next wireless talk from Radio Ardennes. He dictated slowly, with occasional pauses for thought, a shrewd and helpful series of answers to the selected letters, spiced with a dry humour which made his points tell. His style “on the air” was different from his normal snappy sentences, but it had an incisiveness of its own.
He had almost finished his dictation when an office-boy entered with a letter. As The Counsellor took it, he noted the broad vertical line on the envelope.
“Express Delivery? Somebody in a hurry, apparently. Just wait a moment, Sandra.”
He opened the envelope, drew out the letter, and glanced through it. Then, dismissing the boy, he turned to his secretary.
“Rum go, this. Have a look at it.”
He pushed the letter across the desk to Sandra. She glanced at the heading: ‘‘THEIR RAVENSCOURT PRESS, Longstoke House, Grendon St. Giles,” and her eyebrows lifted slightly as though in surprise. Then she began to read the letter itself.
9th September, 1938.
Dear Sir,
I venture to ask for your assistance, since you have facilities for getting in touch with people all up and down the country. As a guarantee of good faith I may mention that I am one of the experts employed by Mr. James Treverton, of the Ravenscourt Press; and I have his permission to approach you i
n this matter.
The facts are as follows. On 8th September, Miss Helen Treverton (Mr. Treverton’s niece) set off in her car, intending to visit Dr. and Mrs. Trulock, who live a few miles away and who were giving a small garden party that afternoon. She did not return for dinner; and when inquiries were made, it was found that she had not gone to Dr. Trulock’s house, as she had meant to do.
Up to the present, she has not returned home, and nothing has been heard of her. No message of any kind has been received from her. She seems to have disappeared completely.
I have Mr. Treverton’s permission to ask you to help. Could you, in your broadcast next Sunday, ask if anyone has seen a brown Vauxhall 12 h.p. saloon, with the number EZ. 1113? Some of your numerous listeners may have happened to notice it. Your assistance may be invaluable.
Yours faithfully,
WALLACE WHITGIFT.
“Think it’s a leg-pull?” demanded The Counsellor, with a shrewd glance at the girl’s face as she finished her perusal. “We’ve had attempts before this, though they didn’t come off.”
Sandra shook her head.
“Hardly likely,” she decided. “I’ll ring up the Ravenscourt Press and get hold of Mr. Treverton, just to make sure. Funny. It was only last week that I bought one of these Ravenscourt reproductions.”
“Good stuff, are they?” inquired The Counsellor. He had no interest in reproductions of the old masters, preferring to buy the work of the younger modern artists to whom sales meant encouragemert.
“Amazingly good,” Sandra assured him. “They beat anything else on the market when it comes to accurate reproduction of tints; and they’ve got some special paper as a basis which seems to help. Of course, they’re not cheap. But they’re worth the money to me.”
She passed Wallace Whitgift’s letter back to The Counsellor and added:
“If it’s all right, I suppose you’ll put it in the broadcast?”
“If it’s all right,” admitted The Counsellor. “But just ask a question, Sandra.”
Miss Rainham smiled rather wearily. She knew that last phrase only too well, for it was one of The Counsellor’s favourites.
“Well, what question?” she inquired.
“Why does Mr. Wallace Whitgift—who seems to be some sort of employee—butt into this business at all? Why didn’t Uncle James write to us himself? Strange, eh?”
“That’s three questions instead of one,” Sandra pointed out. “I can guess the answers. First, Mr. Whitgift may be one of your fans. That would account for his turning to you. Second, Mr. Treverton may never have heard of you. Sorry, Mark, but it’s a fact that quite a number of people don’t know you exist. And if he never heard of you, he probably doesn’t think you’re likely to be of much use. So he lets Mr. Whitgift take the responsibility of raking you in. On that basis, the answer to your third question is: “Not at all.” And, finally, Mr. W. is not just “a mere employee.” He’s a director of the Ravenscourt Press. Also, he’s their expert in the actual reproduction processes. I know that from reading their catalogues.”
“Doesn’t account for his butting in like this,” objected The Counsellor.
“Oh, well, just ask a question,” Sandra parodied. “Is Wallace Whitgift keen on this girl, by any chance? If so, that might account for his zeal.”
“I never butt into our Cupid’s Corner Department,” retorted The Counsellor with dignity. “Still, it’s a rum start: total disappearance of a car with a young damsel inside. Cars get stolen, and girls disappear at times. But they don’t usually vanish in pairs. A car’s fairly identifiable; and when you add a girl to it, it becomes positively too conspicuous to grab easily.”
“What makes you think she’s a young damsel?” asked Sandra drily. “I’ve known nieces of forty-five and upwards.”
“In that case, Wallace wouldn’t be very keen on her, one might suppose. Have it one way or the other, but not both ways at once.”
Miss Rainham became businesslike.
“I’ll put through a trunk call and speak to Mr. Treverton,” she proposed. “Then, if he makes no objection, you’ll put this into the broadcast tomorrow?”
“Yes. No harm in that. And now I’ll give you the rest of the stuff for it.”
He resumed his dictation. When this was completed, Sandra Rainham closed her notebook and left the room. She came back again sooner than The Counsellor had expected.
“I managed to get through fairly quickly,” she explained. “It’s all right, apparently. The girl hasn’t turned up yet. Mr. Treverton has no objection to your broadcast, so you can go ahead.”
“He’s worried, I suppose?” inqfuired The Counsellor.
“Not particularly, so far as I could make out,” Sandra replied in a faintly puzzled tone. “It almost sounded as if he thought Mr. Whitgift was making too much of a fuss about the business. There was a suggestion of ‘Let ’em alone, and they’ll come home . . . ’ about his tone; as if a mislaid niece was a thing that might happen to anyone now and again. Even over the ’phone he doesn’t sound a sympathetic character, somehow.”
“How d’you mean, exactly?”
“Well, he talks as if he were thinking of something else, all the time he’s speaking. I can’t get nearer than that. Nothing of the distracted relative about him.”
“You think so? Well, anyhow, we’ll shove it into the broadcast. Just take this down, please.”
He dictated a further note.
Chapter Two
At Grendon St. Giles
ON the following Monday morning, The Counsellor arrived punctually at his office and spent some time over matters of routine. But his heart did not seem to be in the business; and when it was completed he turned from it with relief, and rang for Sandra Rainham.
“Broadcast all right?” he demanded, as she entered the room.
It was one of her duties to listen to Radio Ardennes when he was speaking from the station and to supply him with any criticisms which occurred to her.
“Quite,” she answered, “except that you’re growing inclined to drop your voice at the end of sentences. You’d better watch that.”
“Right! By the way, have any wires or letters come in about that missing car?”
Sandra shook her head.
“Nothing, so far. Monday’s not usually a busy day for correspondence. Even if they write on Sunday, it doesn’t get here till the afternoon, you know.”
The Counsellor conceded this with a nod. Then he pushed the switch of his desk-telephone over to “RECORD DEPARTMENT” and picked up the transmitter.
“Records? Go through the Sunday papers—yesterday’s, I mean—and see if there’s anything about a girl disappearing last week from Grendon St. Giles. Also, see if we’ve had any correspondents in that place.”
The Counsellor was proud of his Record Department, and especially of its filing system. “Any fact in fifty seconds” was his boast about it, though this estimate was regarded as optimistic by Miss Rainham and others of the staff. On this occasion it was considerably under the mark. A girl cannot scan all the Sunday papers in fifty seconds. However, in a remarkably short time he got his answer. There was nothing in any of the Sunday papers about the disappearance; but in Grendon St. Giles there were two clients of The Counsellor. He picked up the notes which Records handed in.
“Our esteemed correspondents in Grendon St. Giles. Mrs. Sparrick. Anxious about her daughter’s choice of a fiancé. Advised, with satisfactory results. Not much help there. Aha! Inspector Owen Pagnell of the local police. I remember that business. We helped him. Broadcast some message that couldn’t well be put through official channels. He’ll be handy, if he’s got any sense of gratitude.”
“Why all this interest?” demanded Sandra Rainham. “What’s it got to do with you?”
“ ‘I am a man, and nothing human can be foreign to me,’ ” quoted The Counsellor. “Aristotle said that, or was it Polybius?”
Miss Rainham had been as well educated as Mark Brand, and she had a bet
ter memory for quotations.
“Terence,” she corrected acidly.
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Good man, whoever he was, I expect,” averred The Counsellor, quite unabashed. “I’ve just been thinking of taking a hand in that affair about the girl. Helen Treverton, I mean. The one who disappeared last Thursday. I’ve often wanted to probe a mystery and all that sort of thing.”
“You’ve been reading too many detective stories,” Sandra decided, not without some basis for her judgment.
“Well, what else is there to read, nowadays?” demanded The Counsellor, fretfully. “Everybody’s doing it. I have to keep in touch with the Great Heart of the Public. It’s essential to my work.”
“I’d leave it alone, if I were you,” said Miss Rainham in a decided tone.
“You don’t sound encouraging, and that’s a fact,” complained The Counsellor. “If you feel like that, then we must find support elsewhere. We’ll try Standish.”
When The Counsellor began to build up his staff, he found his manager in his own circle. Wolfram Standish was a couple of years younger than Mark Brand, but they were old friends and suited each other. The manager’s rather impassive face, cool manner, and slightly bored drawl made him a perfect foil for the volatility of his chief.
“This is how it is, Wolf,” The Counsellor jerked out as Standish came into the room. And in a few illuminating phrases he laid the matter before his subordinate. Standish listened dispassionately. Then, when The Counsellor had finished, he took out his case and lit a cigarette.
“Well, what do you think of it?” Miss Rainham demanded, with some impatience.
Standish blew out his match, examined it carefully to see that the flame was extinguished, then pitched it into the wastepaper basket.
“I don’t think anything,” he began, and Sandra’s face showed some relief until he continued leisurely, “He’s made up his mind. What’s the good of thinking?”
The Counsellor Page 3
