The Confidential Agent

  Suddenly up from the central chair rose a big man with a bullet head and a mass of grey-black hair and the jaw of an equestrian statue. He said, ‘Mr D.?’

  ‘Lord Benditch?’

  He waved his hand at three other chairs – ‘Mr Forbes, Lord Fetting, Mr Brigstock.’ He said, ‘Mr Goldstein could not come.’

  D. said, ‘I think you know the object of my visit.’

  ‘We had a letter,’ Lord Benditch said, ‘a fortnight ago warning us.’ He flapped his hand towards a big desk of inlaid wood – it was a mannerism to use his hand like a signpost. ‘You will forgive me if we get to business straight away. I’m a busy man.’

  ‘I should like it.’

  Another man emerged from an arm-chair. He was small and dark and sharp-featured with a quick doggish air. He began to arrange chairs behind the desk with an air of importance. ‘Mr Forbes,’ he said, ‘Mr Forbes.’ Mr Forbes came into view. He wore tweeds and carried very successfully the air of a man just up from the country; only the shape of the skull disclosed the Furtstein past. He said, ‘Coming, Brigstock,’ with a faint air of mockery.

  ‘Lord Fetting.’

  ‘I should let Fetting sleep,’ Mr Forbes said. ‘Unless, of course, he snores.’ They ranged themselves on one side of the desk, Lord Benditch in the middle. It was like the final viva voce examination for a degree. Mr Brigstock, D. thought, would be the one who gave you the bad time; he would hang on to a question like a terrier.

  ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ Lord Benditch said heavily.

  ‘I would,’ D. said, ‘if there were a chair on this side of the frontier.’ Forbes laughed. Lord Benditch said sharply, ‘Brigstock.’

  Brigstock swarmed round the desk and pushed up a chair. D. sat down. There was a horrible air of unreality about everything. This was the moment, but he could hardly believe it – in the fake house, among the fake ancestors and the dead mistresses; he couldn’t even see Lord Fetting. This wasn’t the sort of place where you expected a war to be decided. He said, ‘You know the amount of coal we require between now and April?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can it be supplied?’

  Lord Benditch said, ‘Granted I am satisfied and Forbes and Fetting . . .’ He added, ‘And Brigstock,’ as an afterthought.

  ‘A question of price?’

  ‘Of course. And confidence.’

  ‘We will pay the highest market price – and a bonus of twenty-five per cent when delivery is completed.’

  Brigstock asked, ‘In gold?’

  ‘A proportion in gold.’

  ‘You can’t expect us to take notes,’ Brigstock said, ‘which may be valueless by the spring – or goods which you may not be able to get out of the country.’

  Lord Benditch leant back in his chair and left it all to Brigstock: Brigstock had been trained to bring back the game. Mr Forbes was drawing little Aryan faces on the paper in front of him – girls with big circular goo-goo eyes, wearing bathing shorts.

  ‘If we get this coal there is no question of the exchange falling. We’ve maintained an even level now for two years of war. This coal may mean the complete collapse of the rebels.’

  ‘We have other information,’ Brigstock said.

  ‘I don’t think it can be reliable.’

  Somebody suddenly snored out of sight behind a chair-back.

  ‘We must insist on gold,’ Brigstock said. ‘Shall I wake Fetting?’

  ‘Let him sleep,’ Mr Forbes said.

  ‘We will meet you half-way on that point,’ D. said. ‘We are prepared to pay the market price in gold, if you will accept the bonus in notes – or goods.’

  ‘Then it must be thirty-five per cent.’

  ‘That’s very high.’

  Brigstock said, ‘We take a lot of risk. The ships have to be insured. A lot of risk.’ Behind his back was a picture – flesh and flowers in a pastoral landscape.

  ‘When would you start delivery?’

  ‘We have certain stocks . . . we could begin next month, but for the quantity you need we shall have to reopen several mines. That takes time – and money. There will have been depreciation of machinery. And the men will not be first-class workers any longer. They depreciate quicker than tools.’

  D. said, ‘Of course you hold a pistol to our heads. We must have the coal.’

  ‘Another point,’ Brigstock said. ‘We are business men. We are not politicians or crusaders.’ Lord Fetting’s voice came sharply from the fire, ‘My shoes. Where are my shoes?’ Mr Forbes smiled again, drawing goo-goo eyes, putting in the long lashes. Was he thinking of the girl in Shepherd’s Market? He had a look of healthy sensuality: sex in tweeds with a pipe.

  Lord Benditch said heavily and contemptuously, ‘Brigstock means that we may get a better offer elsewhere.’

  ‘You may, but there’s the future to think of. If they win they will cease to be your customers. They have other allies . . .’

  ‘That is looking very far ahead. What concerns us is the immediate profit.’

  ‘You may find their gold is less certain than our paper. After all, it’s stolen. We should bring an action. . . . And there’s your own government. To send coal to the rebels might prove illegal.’

  Brigstock said sharply, ‘If we come to terms – we should be prepared to take thirty per cent in notes at the rate prevailing on the last day of shipment – you must understand that any commission must come from your side. We have gone as far as we can towards meeting you.’

  ‘Commission? I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Your commission, of course, on the sale. Your people must look after that.’

  ‘I was not proposing,’ D. said, ‘to ask for a commission. Is it the usual thing? I didn’t know, but in any case I wouldn’t ask for it.’

  Benditch said, ‘You are an unusual agent,’ and loured at him as if he had expressed a heresy, had been found guilty of some sharp practice. Brigstock said, ‘Before we draw up the contract we had better see your credentials.’

  D. put his hand to his breast pocket. They were gone. It was incredible.

  He began in panic-stricken haste to search all his pockets . . . there was nothing there. He looked up and saw the three men watching him. Mr Forbes had stopped drawing and was gazing at him with interest. D. said, ‘It’s extraordinary. I had them here in my breast pocket . . .’

  Mr Forbes said gently, ‘Perhaps they are in your overcoat.’

  ‘Brigstock,’ Lord Benditch said, ‘ring the bell.’ He said to the manservant, ‘Fetch this gentleman’s coat.’ It was just a ceremony: he knew they wouldn’t be there, but how had they gone? Could Currie possibly . . . ? No, it wasn’t possible. Nobody had had a chance except . . . The manservant came back with the coat over his arm. D. looked up at the trusty paid impassive eyes as if he might read there some hint, but they would take a bribe as they would take a tip without registering any feeling at all.

  ‘Well?’ Brigstock asked sharply.

  ‘They are not there.’

  A very old man appeared suddenly on his feet in front of the fire. He said, ‘When’s this man going to turn up, Benditch? I’ve been waiting a very long time.’

  ‘He’s here now.’

  ‘Somebody should have told me.’

  ‘You were asleep.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ One after the other, D. searched the pockets: he searched the lining: of course there was nothing. It was no more than a rather theatrical gesture – to convince them that he had once had the credentials. He felt himself that his acting was poor, that he wasn’t really giving the impression that he expected to find them.

  ‘Was I asleep, Brigstock?’

  ‘Yes, Lord Fetting.’

  ‘Well, what if I was? I feel all the fresher for it. I hope nothing is settled.’

  ‘No, nothing, Lord Fetting.’ Brigstock looked smug and satisfied; he seemed to be saying, ‘I suspected all the time . . .’

  ‘Do you really mean,’ Lord Benditch said, ‘that you’ve come out without
your papers? It’s very odd.’

  ‘I had them with me. They were stolen.’

  ‘Stolen! When?’

  ‘I don’t know. On the way to this room.’

  ‘Well,’ Brigstock said, ‘that’s that.’

  ‘What’s what?’ Lord Fetting asked sharply. He said, ‘I shall not give my signature to anything any of you have decided.’

  ‘We’ve decided nothing.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Lord Fetting said. ‘It needs thinking over.’

  ‘I know,’ D. said, ‘you have only my word for this – but what possibly have I to gain?’

  Brigstock leant across the desk and said sharply, venomously, ‘There was the commission, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Oh come, Brigstock,’ Forbes said, ‘he refused the commission.’

  ‘Yes, when he saw that it was useless to expect it.’

  Lord Benditch said, ‘There’s no point in arguing, Brigstock. This gentleman is either genuine or not genuine. If he is genuine – and can prove it – I am quite prepared to sign a contract.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Forbes said. ‘So am I.’

  ‘But you, sir, will understand – as a business man – that no contract can be signed with an unaccredited agent.’

  ‘And you will also understand,’ Brigstock said, ‘that there’s a law in this country against trying to obtain money on false pretences.’

  ‘We’d better sleep on it,’ Lord Fetting said. ‘We’d better all sleep on it.’

  What am I to do now? he thought, what am I to do now? He sat in his chair, beaten. He had evaded every trap but one . . . that was no comfort. There remained only the long pilgrimage back – the Channel boat, the Paris train. Of course at home they would never believe his story. It would be odd if he had escaped – with no effort on his part – the enemy’s bullets to fall against a cemetery wall on his own side of the line. They carried out their executions at the cemetery to avoid the trouble of transporting bodies . . .

  ‘Well,’ Lord Benditch said, ‘I don’t think there’s any more to be said. If, when you get to your hotel, you find your credentials, you had better telephone at once. We have another client . . . we can’t hold matters up indefinitely.’

  Forbes asked, ‘Is there nobody in London who would answer for you?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  Brigstock said, ‘I don’t think we need keep him any longer.’

  D. said, ‘I suppose it’s useless telling you that I expected this. I’ve been here less than three days – my rooms have been searched – I have been beaten up.’ He put his hand to his face. ‘You can see the bruises. I have been shot at.’ He remembered, while he watched their faces, what Rose had warned him – no melodrama. Benditch, Fetting, Brigstock – they all became expressionless as if he had told a dirty story in unsuitable company. Lord Benditch said, ‘I’m prepared to believe you may have lost the papers . . .’

  ‘This is a waste of time,’ Brigstock said. ‘This shows.’

  Lord Fetting said, ‘It’s nonsense. There’s the police.’

  D. got up. He said, ‘One thing more, Lord Benditch. Your daughter knows I was shot at. She has seen the place. She found the bullet.’

  Lord Fetting began to laugh. ‘Oh, that young woman,’ he said, ‘that young woman. The scamp . . .’ Brigstock looked nervously sideways at Lord Benditch; he looked as if he wanted to speak and dared not. Lord Benditch said, ‘What my daughter may say is not evidence in this house.’ He frowned, staring down at his big hands, hairy on the knuckles. D. said, ‘I must say good-bye, then. But I haven’t finished. I do implore you not to be rash.’

  ‘We are never rash,’ Lord Fetting said.

  D. went the long way back across the cold room: it was like the beginning of a retreat – nobody could say whether a stand was possible before the cemetery wall. In the hall L. was waiting; it was a small satisfaction to feel that he had been kept a few minutes like someone of no account. He stood there rather too deliberately aloof, examining Nell Gwyn among the cherubs. He didn’t turn his head; he was the former patron forced by cruel circumstances to administer the cut direct. He leant closely to the canvas and inspected the backside of the Duke of St Albans.

  D. said, ‘I should go carefully. Of course, you have a lot of agents, but two can play at your game.’

  He turned sadly away from the cherub to face a man with no social sense. He said, ‘I suppose you’ll be catching the first boat back – but I shouldn’t go further than France.’

  ‘I’m not leaving England.’

  ‘What good can you do here?’

  D. was silent – he had no ideas at all. His silence seemed to disconcert L. He said earnestly, ‘I do advise you . . .’ Then there must be some angle from which he was still dangerous. Was it the simplest of all? He said, ‘You’ve made mistakes. That beating-up – Miss Cullen will never support you that I had stolen the car. And then the shooting – I didn’t find the bullet. Miss Cullen did. I am going to bring a charge . . .’

  A bell rang; the manservant appeared too quickly and too silently. ‘Lord Benditch will see you now, sir.’

  L. took no notice of him at all (that in itself was significant enough). He said, ‘If only you would give your word . . . there would be no more unpleasantness.’

  ‘I give you my word that my address for the next few days will be London.’ His confidence began to come back; the defeat had not been final. L. was shaken – about something. He seemed prepared to plead; he had some knowledge which D. did not possess. Then a bell rang, the servant opened the front door, and Rose came into her home like a stranger. She said, ‘I wanted to catch . . .’ and then saw L. She said, ‘What a gathering!’

  D. said, ‘I have been persuading him that I didn’t steal your car.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’

  L. bowed. He said, ‘I mustn’t keep Lord Benditch waiting,’ the servant opened the door, and he was engulfed in the big room.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you remember what you said – about celebrating.’ She faced him with bogus bravado. It couldn’t be easy – your first meeting again after telling a man you loved him; he wondered whether she would introduce some reason – ‘I’ve got such a head. Was I very drunk?’ But she had an appalling honesty. She said, ‘You haven’t forgotten about last night?’

  He said, ‘I remember everything if you do. But there’s nothing to celebrate. They got my papers.’

  She asked quickly, ‘They didn’t hurt you?’

  ‘Oh, they did it painlessly. Is the man who opened the door new here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Surely . . .’

  She said, ‘You don’t think, do you, that I live in this place?’ But she swept that subject aside. ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘All the melodrama?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I warned you. How did Furt take it?’

  ‘Furt?’

  ‘Forbes. I always call him Furt.’

  ‘I don’t know. Brigstock did most of the talking.’

  ‘Furt’s honest,’ she said, ‘in his way.’ Her mouth was hard as if she were considering his way. He felt again an immense pity for her, standing harshly in her father’s house with a background of homelessness, private detectives and distrust. She was so young; she had been a child when he married. It takes such a short time to make appalling changes. She said, ‘Isn’t there anybody who’ll answer for you at your Embassy?’

  ‘I don’t think so. We don’t trust them – except perhaps the Second Secretary.’

  She said, ‘It’s worth trying. I’ll get Furt. He’s not a fool.’ She rang the bell and said to the servant, ‘I want to see Mr Forbes.’

  ‘I’m afraid, madam, he’s in conference.’

  ‘Never mind. Tell him I want to speak to him urgently.’

  ‘Lord Benditch gave orders . . .’

  ‘You don’t know who I am, do you? You must be new. It’s not my business to know your fac
e, but you’d better know mine. I’m Lord Benditch’s daughter.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, miss. I didn’t know . . .’

  ‘Go in and take that message.’ She said, ‘So he’s new.’

  When the door opened they could hear Fetting’s voice, ‘No hurry. Better sleep . . .’ She said, ‘If he stole your papers . . .’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  She said furiously, ‘I’ll see he starves. There won’t be a registry office in England . . .’ Mr Forbes came out. She said, ‘Furt, I want you to do something for me.’ He closed the door behind him and said, ‘Anything.’ He was like an oriental potentate in plus-fours, ready to promise the most fantastic riches. She said, ‘Those fools don’t believe him.’ His eyes were moist when he looked at her; whatever the detectives reported, he was a man hopelessly in love. He said to D., ‘Excuse me, but it is a tall story.’

  ‘I found the bullet,’ Rose said.

  Away from the others, standing up, he looked older and more Jewish – there was the shape of the paunch as well as the shape of the head. He replied, ‘I said a tall story, not an impossible one.’ Very far back in the past was the desert, the dead salt sea, the desolate mountains and the violence on the road from Jericho. He had a basis of belief.

  ‘What are they doing in there?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Not much. Old Fetting is a wonderful brake – and so is Brigstock.’ He said to D., ‘Don’t think you are the only man Brigstock distrusts.’

  Rose said, ‘If we can prove to you that we are not lying . . .’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, we.’

  ‘If I’m satisfied,’ Forbes said, ‘I’ll sign a contract for as much as I can supply. It won’t be all you need, but the others will follow.’ He watched them anxiously, as if he were afraid of something: perhaps the man lived in perpetual fear of the announcement to the press – ‘A marriage has been arranged,’ or of the ugly rumour, ‘Have you heard about Benditch’s daughter?’