The Cummings Report

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  “When he was a small child, his parents (who were, as you probably know, eventually divorced) used to take him with them to the country most week-ends from their flat in London. Being well-off, they invariably travelled in a reserved first-class compartment. On these journeys they would quarrel ceaselessly, shouting abuse at each other and throwing all manner of scenes.

  “On one such occasion they were in the middle of one of their usual squabbles when the carriage began to rock dangerously. Soon it began to heel right over. The train was travelling at speed. The mother screamed; Cummings, the small child, was thrown into her arms. The father, being concerned exclusively, it seems, for his own safety, hung on to the corridor partition on the other side of the compartment, the side of the carriage that was not tipping towards the track, and therefore the safest.

  “The lights went out, and the train began to plough up the track. When it came to a stop, the carriage was turned completely on its side. Then there was silence, through which could be heard the faint moans of some of the trapped victims.

  “Cummings says he remembers only one thing that was said, all that time ago. While his mother (who had miraculously escaped serious injury) lay helpless on what had been the side of the carriage (but was now, so to speak, the floor) his father, also untouched, yelled out at her, no doubt in a fit of frightened anguish (he doesn’t seem to have been a particularly brave man), and Cummings recalls the words clearly. What he said was this: ‘You fool! It was all your fault! I didn’t want to come, anyway, but you insisted. And now, see what happens!’

  “An idiotic and unbelievably unjust and childish thing to say, you may think! But it is not difficult to see what effect it would have on a small and sensitive child. A sequence was established:ugly scene and harsh words—railway crash—father tells mother it is her fault. Thus the row in the compartment was the cause of the crash! The subconscious mind gets a hold of this idea and builds on it. What do we get? Well, later in life the subject is exposed to other emotional disturbances. He meets a girl. They have rows. They have noisy scenes. What is the subconscious mind remembering? Naturally, a scene must result in a crash — his own father said so!

  “The emotional disturbance of the row’ with the girl upsets the slightly epileptic state of the brain. The room begins to spin round, as the railway carriage did. The memory is reconstructing the crash. Cummings blacks out. It is inevitable and logical.

  “And the cumulative effect of all this? Well, naturally, the emotional insecurity of the man increases. Every time he has a row with his girl there’s a memory of a voice that shouts: ‘You fool! See what happens?’ And the vertigo sets in.”

  The great man eased himself out of his chair and addressed the meeting from the fireplace.

  “Now you have asked me, against all professional etiquette and ethics, to tell you about my patient. I have done so because of the very unusual circumstances, and because I know that you will all treat this as highly confidential. But I have another reason. And it is this:I do not believe Joel Cummings is guilty. It simply doesn’t fit the facts.”

  Jill had gone dead white and Sir George did not fail to notice it. He gave her a tiny glance of understanding and turned to Miles again. “But of course, Prescott-Healey, in fairness and honesty, I cannot claim that I have an infallible knowledge of Cummings’ innocence. But I feel able to speak with the utmost assurance — indeed I am glad to do so, in the interests of my patient; and that is why I decided to break all the rules and take you into my confidence.”

  “I am very grateful to you, Sir George,” said Miles. “Naturally the interests of your patient are, very properly, your first concern.”

  Alice was aghast at this rephrasing of Horrocks’ statement; and, surprisingly, it was she who came to the rescue now. “Miles!” she exclaimed, “that isn’t what Sir George said at all!”

  Horrocks cut in quickly ...”I entirely understand what Mr. Prescott-Healey’s feelings are,” he said smoothly. “Naturally he would assume I would try to protect my patient. After all, it could look, couldn’t it, that I might be trying to cover up my patient in order to save my own reputation?”

  Miles was equal to the situation. He spoke with great charm and complete sincerity. “I do assure you, Sir George, that nothing could be further from my mind. So far as I am concerned, and I am certain it goes for us all, your reputation in your field is unequalled. But I also know what a good doctor you are; and that being so, it is not unnatural for me to think that you might be, perhaps, just a little biased in Cummings’ favour? Let me put it to you in this way, then. Could it not be, as a release from these ‘tensions’ that you describe, that Cummings might have sought an emotional outlet for his troubles in ... political ideas — the sort of ideas that were exciting and imaginative enough to appeal to a creative mind? Communism, when studied purely theoretically, can appear to be a most noble and altruistic creed. Is it not possible that a man, whom we know to have been unhappy at the time, might have poured all his hopes and beliefs into a political idea in an attempt to do a little ‘load shedding’?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Butunlikely?” urged Alice.

  “Highly unlikely,” asserted the specialist, without emotion. He was merely stating what he considered to be a fact.

  Cy Harford leaned forward in his seat, and peered penetratingly at Horrocks. “What makes you so sure,” he demanded, “on this particular point?”

  “Because,” answered Horrocks, “Cummings always appeared to me to be very much a man who had his head screwed on, if that doesn’t sound frivolous in the circumstances. He struck me as being a realist — not an escapist. Anything but, in fact! For until he suffered his ‘nervous breakdown’” — Horrocks used the expression with obvious distaste — “he had no escape at all. He did not drink — in the pathological sense — or take dope. His life was never a dream; far from it — he made a lot of money, and that’s proof enough! And besides all that, it would have been almost impossible for him to keep anything from me; for a psychiatrist is a very close confidant — perhaps the closest there is, except possibly a Father Confessor.”

  There was a knock on the door. Miles frowned. He had given orders not to be disturbed under any circumstances.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the intruder. “This urgent message came for Inspector Ferguson.”

  Miles took the message, and the man left.

  “For you, Inspector,” said Miles.

  Ferguson, who had kept silent throughout the discussion so far, slit open the envelope and rapidly read the contents. Then he showed it to Prescott-Healey.

  There was a tense silence in the room for a moment. Even the man from M.I.5, who, like the Inspector, had said nothing throughout the whole meeting, was drumming nervously on the edge of the chair with the tips of his fingers.

  Miles finished reading the document, folded it, and handed it back to the Inspector. Then he addressed the specialist once more.

  “Sir George,” he said. “I am most deeply indebted to your coming here today. But I am afraid we are forced to take the more serious view. Matters are at stake of extreme international significance, and we cannot take a chance.

  “Cummings’ flat has been searched, and I am afraid some rather conclusive evidence has been found concealed in the piano. It does not leave much doubt, I am afraid, as to his political views.”

  “Whatever it was could have been planted there,” said Alice, without much conviction.

  “If these papers were put there to incriminate him, then we will eventually find out,” said Miles flatly. “Meanwhile, we will have to assume that they are genuine. You see, it also says in this unpleasant little bombshell I have here that Cummings has been seen in the United States of America, which means that he is in a position to do further harm. The F.B.I. are already searching for him.”

  Jill looked round the room at those set faces hopelessly, angrily. Miles, quietly severe, his mind made up ... the man from M.I.5, as inscrutable a
s ever, writing something down on a pad ... Inspector Ferguson, with his heavily lined face set like a well-pitted rock ... even Alice wavering now in doubt and uncertainty; and Cy Harford, whose powerful spectacles gave him, she thought, an inhuman and impassive appearance, gazing across the room at her without changing his expression. He looked away abruptly. Only Sir George remained unconvinced.

  Suddenly Jill spoke out — very quietly, but crisply, with an inner conviction that commanded attention. “I am sorry I have to say this,” she began, challenging the occupants of the room with fierce, flashing eyes, “and I shall probably get fired. But I have to say it.” She stood up and faced them squarely.

  “But you’re all blind — utterly blind! That is” — she cast a grateful look in Horrocks’ direction — “all except one of you. When this business started,” she continued in that taut, trembling voice, “you were all taken in by Fenton and his gang, and yet you are allowing it to happen all over again! Is Joel to be the scapegoat for your mistakes? Or are you so ‘security minded’ that you can’t see what is right in front of your eyes?” Surprised and confused by the vehemence of her outburst, Jill felt the colour rising to her face. But she had gone so far; she had nothing to lose by finishing what she had to say. “If Joel is in America,” she continued more calmly, “it must be because they took him there — and for some good reason. By looking for him and hounding him you might be doing the very thing they want you to do. You might even be endangering his life!”

  She stood there for a moment, glaring at them defiantly.

  “I’m sorry,” said Miles quietly, “we can’t take the risk.” It was final.

  Jill turned on her heel abruptly and walked towards the door, but stopped in her tracks before she reached it, unable to decide what to do. Alice went over and said something to her.

  “Poor kid,” said Miles. He began to say something else but Horrocks interrupted him.

  “I know,” said the specialist, his pompousness suddenly disappearing, “I’ll give her a sedative and take her home. This isn’t very pleasant for her. She can’t understand, of course, that no matter what we think we must be completely impersonal.” At the same time he was telling himself that Miles Prescott-Healey was a complete bloody fool. Even a babe in arms could see that Cummings was innocent ...

  *

  Blissfully unaware that all this was going on in my honour, I was enjoying the hospitality of the Robdales in New York.

  I always enjoyed being with them; and even now it was hard to remember at times that my visit to New York wasn’t entirely social.

  After dinner Susan mysteriously disappeared (in the way that the best-trained wives do) and David and I fell to discussing more serious matters.

  I said my piece as Robdale lit one of his disgusting cigarettes. “Look, David, I can’t possibly stay here. It was incredibly generous of you to offer me hospitality, but it would be completely irresponsible for me to accept.”

  David said something very rude.

  “Hear me out!” I insisted. “The people I am up against are extremely clever. If I have succeeded in eluding them (and we don’t even know that) it cannot be for long. They didn’t bring me over here just to let me slip through their fingers in two minutes. They’ll find me all right — even in this English castle. Besides, there’s Susan to think of.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten,” said David, with a slight smile. It was a rebuke. He went on: “We’re perfectly willing to take a chance. And what would you do if you didn’t stay here? Obviously you can’t go back to the hotel with your new hair-do !”

  “No. I should disappear. Take a room somewhere inconspicuous and await developments.”

  “You might have to wait for next Christmas if you hide yourself away.”

  “I can still keep in touch with you. Then if you manage to find out about the launch — or anything else, for that matter — we could act on it.”

  “If you happen to be alive at the time,” he said. “Granted. But they don’t seem to want to bump me off just yet. After all, they’ve had plenty of opportunities. Now, how about a communicating address?”

  “Well, let’s see!” He pushed the port across the table to me. “How about Herbert Jolson, Junior, care of theKing Edward Hotel? I can make arrangements with the manager. If you want to send a message for me you can leave it there in that name. Similarly, if I’ve got anything for you I will leave it with him and you can telephone him daily. Call yourself Mr. Joel.”

  I likedHerbert Jolson,Jr. It had a pleasant, melodramatic sound. And theKing Edward Hotel(though unpleasantly near theAjax), was just the right address for such a man. Obviously some distant relative of the great Al, who liked music and had a secret yearning to revive minstrel shows. Not very much like his alias — Lord Rob-dale — perhaps; but if I could think of him in this way it would minimize the risk of involving the Robdales.

  “One thing I do advise,” he added, “if you won’t stay in my flat: give me a chance to find out about your motor-boat before you go around drawing attention to yourself for the benefit of your unpleasant friends.”

  I agreed to this compromise, and to keep out of trouble — if possible — for a period of three days. I didn’t hold out much hope of his tracing either the boat or Peter Ghent, but it was obviously worth trying.

  The clocks were striking midnight when I went down in a very smart elevator and out into the wealthiest residential street in the world. I set myself a brisk pace; I even felt quite gay. Things might have been much worse. New York, as everybody knows, never goes to bed; so I felt far from conspicuous as I walked down the Avenue on my way downtown ...

  *

  The lodgings I found weren’t exactly theWaldorf Astoria, but I was in no position to be choosy, and I felt my best plan was to get lost among the artistic riff-raff of the Village.

  I paid ten bucks in advance, went up a flight of rather smelly stairs, and bedded down on one of the creakiest beds I can remember. That may have been the reason why I couldn’t sleep. I just lay there, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and thinking.

  Thinking. Not, strangely enough, about my present predicament, but about the chain of events that had led up to it. It was fascinating to work out which factor, among the many, had been actually responsible for my being where I now was — in a creaky bed in lower Manhattan, instead of my own comfortable one in Belgravia.

  What had been the real key to the sudden change in my life? The fact that it had rained that day in Oxford Street? The fact that I knew Alice — who, in spite of everything, had never known me? Or trusted me? What was it she had said on my second visit to her office? — “In this business you can’t be sure of anybody. For all I know, Murtha House might be a den of thieves!” The thought made me angry, even now. But that was ridiculous; it needn’t any longer — there was Jill. Jill of the uncomplicated mind. Darling Jill.

  I lit another cigarette and peered out of the window. I could see down the darkened street, right to the corner of 7th Avenue, where the traffic lights went through their diminutive repertoire — red ... green ... and red again. No sleep for them either, I thought.

  I drifted round to thinking about Alice again; you can’t just cut your mind off clean, like a switch on a television set when you are bored with the programme. Not that Alice had ever been boring. That was not one of her faults. But she had an unhappy facility for finding weaknesses in other people, and making them despise themselves for them. Certainly she had made me wretchedly conscious of my shortcomings; that is how she had me on the hook. For the discovery that a woman has found you wanting in some way is the most humiliating experience of all; and the male reaction is eternally to try and prove that there is no fault, or that the fault has been mended, instead of just accepting it as part of the human make-up and saying: “That is what I am: like it or lump it.”

  My own particular flaw — a flaw which showed in itself that Alice and I could never have been happy for long — was simply that I could not dominate her. And
Alice was a person who needed to be dominated. Whenever it came to the test, I failed hopelessly and inevitably. This had been my undoing. In the end, this was what sent an ambulance hurrying through London in the dead of night, because an overwrought brain could not handle an emotional crisis ...

  The lights on 7th Avenue turned to red again, and there was a squeal of agonized brakes as a car was pulled up abruptly. The squeal of brakes ...

  I had jammed them on viciously outside my flat that: night, the night of the flop. In silence I had taken Alice up in the old lift to the third floor. I had fixed the drinks while Alice glowered at me, tense but frighteningly desirable in that brand-new, breath-taking gown. We were in for another pointless, knife-edged wrangling match.

  I sat down at the piano, but the chords were raw and jangling as I stabbed the keyboard in a futile expression of my feelings.

  “ForGod’s sake!”

  I stopped abruptly at the interruption. “Yes?” I demanded. “Don’t you like my music any longer?”

  “You know damn well you’re just playing like that to annoy me, and you know damn well you’re so jealous of Richard that you can’t think straight any more!”

  “Richard!” I slammed down the piano lid. “I thought it was a delightful touch, your turning up at my opening with him!”

  “Why not? I’m not your property! That’s your trouble; you couldn’t make up your mind, and now it’s caught up on you!”

  “How he revelled in the fact that the show laid an egg! It was a double triumph for him, and a double humiliation for me.”

  She got up suddenly. I had never seen such fury on her face. “Humiliation! That’s all you ever think about. You never have thought about anything but your own precious, personal pride. Half the time I get the feeling that you only air me in public because my appearance does you credit. Well, you won’t have the chance to do it any more!”

  “What the devil do you mean by that?”