The Confidential Agent

‘I couldn’t tell you, but you’ve seen the paper, I suppose. You’ve got to go up by the midnight train. With me. I won’t mind taking a look at London, I can tell you.’

  D. said, ‘Would you mind telling me – that explosion – was anybody hurt?’

  The policeman said, ‘Some kids set the explosive shed off up at the mine. But nobody was hurt – for a wonder. Except old George Jarvis – what he was doing up there no one knows. He complains of shock, but it would need an earthquake to shock old George.’

  ‘Then the damage wasn’t great?’

  ‘There wasn’t any damage – if you don’t count the shed and some windows broken.’

  ‘I see.’

  So even the last shot had failed.

  PART FOUR

  The End

  [1]

  The magistrate had thin white hair and pince-nez and deep lines around the mouth – an expression of soured kindliness. He kept on tapping his blotter impatiently with his fountain pen. It was as if the endless circumlocutions of police witnesses were at last getting his nerves frayed beyond endurance. ‘We proceeded to so-and-so . . .’ ‘On information received . . .’ He said with irritation, ‘What you mean to say is, I suppose . . .’

  They had allowed D. to sit down in the dock. Where he sat he could see nobody but a few solicitors and policemen, the clerk at a table under the magistrate’s dais, all strangers. But as he had stood at the entrance of the court waiting for his name to be called all sorts of familiar faces had been visible – Mr Muckerji, old Dr Bellows, even Miss Carpenter was there. He had smiled painfully towards them as he climbed into the dock before he turned his back. How puzzled they must be – except, of course, Mr Muckerji, who was certain to have his theories. He felt inexpressibly tired.

  It had been a long thirty-six hours. First the journey up to London with an excited police officer who kept him awake all night talking about a boxing match he might or might not get to at the Albert Hall. And then the questioning at Scotland Yard. At first he had been amused – it contrasted oddly with the sort of questioning he had had in prison at home with a club. Three men sat or strolled about the room; they were meticulously fair, and sometimes one of them would bring in tea and biscuits on a tray for him – very strong cheap tea and rather sweet biscuits. They also offered him cigarettes, and he had returned the compliment. They hadn’t liked his black strong kind, but he noticed with secret amusement that they unobtrusively made a note of the name on the packet – in case it should come in useful later.

  They were obviously trying to pin Mr K.’s death on him – he wondered what had happened to the other charges, the false passport and Else’s so-called suicide – not to speak of the explosion at Benditch. ‘What did you do with the gun?’ they asked. That was the nearest they came to the odd scene at the Embassy.

  ‘I dropped it in the Thames,’ he said with amusement.

  They pursued the point very seriously – they seemed quite prepared to employ divers, dredgers. . . .

  He said, ‘Oh, one of your bridges . . . I don’t know all their names.’

  They had found out all about his visit to the Entrenationo soirée with Mr K. and a man had come forward who said that Mr K. had made a scene because he was being followed. A man called Hogpit. ‘He wasn’t being followed by me,’ D. said. ‘I left him outside the Entrenationo office.’

  ‘A witness called Fortescue saw you and a woman . . .’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Fortescue.’

  The questioning had gone on for hours. Once there was a telephone call. A detective turned to D. with the receiver in his hand and said, ‘You do know, don’t you, that this is all voluntary? You can refuse to answer any questions without your solicitor being present.’

  ‘I don’t want a solicitor.’

  ‘He doesn’t want a solicitor,’ the detective said down the ’phone and rang off.

  ‘Who was that?’ D. asked.

  ‘Search me,’ the detective said. He poured D. out his fourth cup of tea and asked, ‘Two lumps? I always forget.’

  ‘No sugar.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Later in the day there had been an identification parade. It was rather disillusioning to a former lecturer in the Romance languages to see the choice of faces. This – it seemed to indicate – is what you’re like to us. He looked with distress down a line of unshaven Soho types – they looked, most of them, like pimps or waiters in undesirable cafés. He was amused to find, however, that the police had been only too fair. Fortescue suddenly came through a door into the yard, carrying an umbrella in one hand and a bowler hat in the other. He walked down the seedy parade like a shy young politician inspecting a guard of honour and hesitated a long while before a blackguard on D.’s right – a man who looked as if he would kill you for a packet of cigarettes. ‘I think . . .’ Fortescue said. ‘No . . . perhaps.’ He turned pale earnest eyes towards the detective with him and said, ‘I’m very sorry, but, you know, I’m short-sighted, and everything here looks so different.’

  ‘Different?’

  ‘Different, I mean, to Emily’s – I mean Miss Glover’s flat.’

  ‘You aren’t identifying furniture,’ the officer said.

  ‘No. But then, the man I saw was wearing a plaster dressing . . . none of these . . .’

  ‘Can’t you just imagine the dressing?’

  ‘Of course,’ Fortescue said with his eye on D.’s cheek, ‘this one’s got a scar . . . he might have been . . .’

  But they were very fair. They wouldn’t allow that. They had led him out and brought in a man in a big black hat whom D. vaguely remembered having seen . . . somewhere. ‘Now, sir,’ the detective said, ‘can you see here the man you say was in the taxi?’

  He said, ‘If your man had paid proper attention at the time instead of trying to arrest him for drunkenness . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes. It was a mistake.’

  ‘And a mistake, I suppose, hauling me into court for obstruction?’

  The detective said, ‘After all, sir, we’ve apologised.’

  ‘All right, then. Bring out these men.’

  ‘They are here.’

  ‘Oh, these, yes.’ He asked sharply, ‘Are they here willingly?’

  ‘Of course. They get paid . . . all except the prisoner.’

  ‘And which is he?’

  ‘Why, that’s for you to say, sir.’

  The man in the hat said, ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ and strode rapidly down the line. He stopped in front of the same scoundrelly-looking fellow as Fortescue and said firmly, ‘That’s your man.’

  ‘Are you quite sure, sir?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ They hadn’t brought anybody else in after that. Perhaps they felt they had so many charges against him that they had plenty of time ahead to pin on to him the most serious charge of all. He felt complete apathy; he had failed, and he contented himself with denying everything. Let them prove what they wanted. At last they left him alone again in a cell and he slept fitfully. The old dreams were returning with a difference. He was arguing with a girl up and down a river bank – she was saying the Berne manuscript was of much later date than the Bodleian one. They were fiercely happy, walking up and down by the quiet stream. He said, ‘Rose . . .’ There was a smell of spring, and over the river very far away the skyscrapers stood like tombs. A policeman was shaking him by the shoulders. ‘There’s a solicitor to see you, sir.’

  He hadn’t really wanted to see the solicitor. It was too tiring. He said, ‘I don’t think you understand. I haven’t got any money. That is to say – to be accurate, I have a couple of pounds and a return ticket.’

  The solicitor was a smart agile young man with a society manner. He said, ‘That’s all right – that’s being seen to. We’re briefing Sir Terence Hillman. We feel that it’s necessary, as it were, to show that you are not friendless, that you are a man of substance.’

  ‘If you call two pounds . . .’

  ‘Don
’t let’s discuss the money now,’ the solicitor said. ‘I assure you we are satisfied.’

  ‘But I must know, if I’m to consent . . .’

  ‘Mr Forbes is taking care of everything.’

  ‘Mr Forbes!’

  ‘And now,’ the solicitor said, ‘to go into details. They certainly seem to have chalked up a good few charges against you. Anyway, we’ve disposed of one. The police are satisfied now that your passport is quite correct. It was lucky you remembered that presentation copy at the Museum.’

  D. thought, with a slight awakening of interest: good girl, trust her to remember the right thing and to go for it. He said, ‘And that child’s death . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, they never had any evidence there. And as it happens, the woman’s confessed. She’s mad, of course. She went off into hysterics. You see, an Indian living there had been going round among the neighbours asking questions. . . . No, we’ve got more serious things to guard against than that.’

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘Saturday evening. It was in the last edition of the Sunday papers.’ D. remembered how, driving across the Park, he had seen a poster – something about a sensation, a Bloomsbury sensation – a Bloomsbury tragedy sensation, the whole absurd phrase came back. If only he had bought a copy he might have let Mr K. alone and all this trouble would have been saved. An eye for an eye, but one didn’t necessarily demand two eyes.

  The solicitor said, ‘Of course, in a way our chance lies in the number of charges.’

  ‘Doesn’t murder take precedence?’

  ‘I doubt if they can charge you with that yet.’

  It all seemed to D. abysmally complicated and not very interesting. They had got him, and they could hardly fail to get their evidence. He hoped that Rose would be kept safely out of it: it was a good thing she hadn’t visited him. He wondered whether it was safe to send a message by the solicitor, and then decided that she had a lot of sense, enough sense to stay away. He remembered her candid statement, ‘Don’t think I’d love you if you were dead,’ and he felt a slight unreasoning pain that you could depend on her now to do nothing rash.

  She wasn’t in court either. He was sure of that – one glance would have been enough to pick her out. Perhaps if she had been there he would have paid more attention to the proceedings. One tried to show off with quickness or bravado if one was in love, if he was in love.

  Every now and then an elderly man with a nose like a parrot’s got up to cross-examine a policeman. D. supposed he was Sir Terence Hillman. The affair dragged on. Then, quite suddenly, it all seemed to be over: Sir Terence was asking for a remand. His client had had no time to get his evidence together . . . there were issues which were not clear lying behind this case. They were not even clear to D. Why ask for a remand? Apparently he hadn’t yet been charged with murder . . . surely the less time the police were given the better.

  Counsel for the police said they had no objection. He smirked sardonically – an inferior bird-like man – towards the distinguished K.C., as if he had gained an unexpected point through the other’s stupidity.

  Sir Terence was on his feet again, asking that bail should be allowed.

  A prolonged squabble began in court which seemed to D. quite meaningless. He would really rather stay in a cell than a hotel room . . . and, anyway, who would stand bail for so shady and undesirable an alien?

  Sir Terence said, ‘I do object, your Worship, to the attitude of the police. They drop hints about a more serious charge. . . . Let them bring it, so that we can see what it is. At present they’ve mustered a long array of very minor charges. Being in possession of firearms . . . resisting arrest . . . and arrest for what? Arrest on a false charge which the police hadn’t taken the trouble to investigate properly.’

  ‘Incitement to violence,’ the bird-like man said.

  ‘Political,’ Sir Terence exclaimed. He raised his voice and said, ‘Your Worship, a habit seems to be growing on the police which I hope you will be the means of checking. They will put a man in prison over some trivial offence while they try and get their evidence together on another charge – and if they fail – well, the man comes out again and we hear no more about those weighty reasons. . . . He has had no chance of getting his witnesses together. . . .’

  The wrangle went on. The magistrate said suddenly, impatiently, stabbing at his blotting paper, ‘I can’t help feeling, Mr Fennick, that there’s something in what Sir Terence says. Really there’s nothing in these charges at present which would prevent me granting bail. Wouldn’t it meet your objections if the bail were made a very substantial one? After all, you have his passport.’ Then the arguments began over again.

  It was all very fictitious; he had only two pounds in his pocket – not literally in his pocket because, of course, they had been taken away from him when he was arrested. The magistrate said, ‘In that case I’ll remand him for a week on bail in two recognisances of one thousand pounds each.’ He couldn’t help laughing – two thousand pounds! A policeman opened the door of the dock and plucked his arm. ‘This way.’ He found himself back in the tiled passage outside the court. The solicitor was there, smiling. He said, ‘Well, Sir Terence was a bit of a surprise for them, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t understand what all the fuss was about,’ D. said. ‘I haven’t the money, and, anyway, I’m quite comfortable in a cell.’

  ‘It’s all arranged,’ the solicitor said.

  ‘But who by?’

  ‘Mr Forbes. He’s waiting for you now outside.’

  ‘Am I free?’

  ‘Free as the air. For a week. Or until they’ve got enough evidence to re-arrest.’

  ‘I don’t see why we should give them all that trouble.’

  ‘Ah,’ the solicitor said, ‘you’ve got a good friend in Mr Forbes.’

  He came out of the court and down the steps; Mr Forbes, in loud plus-fours, wandered restlessly round the radiator of a Packard. They looked at each other with some embarrassment, not shaking hands. D. said, ‘I understand I’ve got you to thank – for somebody they call Sir Terence and for my bail. It really wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Mr Forbes said. He gave D. a long unhappy look as if he wanted to read in his face some explanation. He said, ‘Will you get in beside me? I’ve left the chauffeur at home.’

  ‘I shall have to find somewhere to sleep. And I must get my money back from the police.’

  ‘Never mind about that now.’

  They climbed in and Mr Forbes started up. He said, ‘Can you see the petrol gauge?’

  ‘Full.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  ‘Where are we off to?’

  ‘I want to call in – if you don’t mind – at Shepherd’s Market.’ They drove in silence all the way – into the Strand, round Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly. . . . They came into the little square in the middle of the market and Mr Forbes sounded his horn twice, looking up at a window over a fishmonger’s. He said apologetically, ‘I won’t be a minute.’ A face came to the window, a little plump pretty face over a mauve wrap. A hand waved: an unwilling smile. ‘Excuse me,’ Mr Forbes said and disappeared through a door next the fishmonger’s. A large tom-cat came along the gutter and found a fish-head; he spurred it once or twice with his claws and then moved on: he wasn’t all that hungry.

  Mr Forbes came out again and climbed in. They backed and turned. He gave a cautious look sideways at D. and said, ‘She’s not a bad girl.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I think she’s really fond of me.’

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Mr Forbes cleared his throat, driving on down Knightsbridge. He said, ‘You’re a foreigner. You won’t think it odd of me – keeping on Sally when – well, when I’m in love with Rose.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘A man must live – and I never thought I had a chance – until this week.’

  ‘Ah!’ D. said. He thought, I’m beginning to ta
lk like George Jarvis.

  ‘And it’s useful, too,’ Mr Forbes said.

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘I mean – to-day, for instance. She is quite ready to swear that I spent the day with her if necessary.’

  ‘I don’t see why it should be.’ They were silent through Hammersmith.

  It wasn’t until they were upon Western Avenue that Mr Forbes said, ‘I expect you’re a bit puzzled.’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Well,’ Mr Forbes said, ‘you realise, of course, that you’ve got to leave the country at once – before the police get any more evidence to connect you with that unfortunate affair. The gun would be enough . . .’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll find the gun.’

  ‘You can’t take any risks. You know, whether you hit him or not, it’s technically murder. They wouldn’t hang you, I imagine. But you’d get fifteen years at the least.’

  ‘I daresay. But you forget the bail.’

  ‘I’m responsible for the bail. You’ve got to leave tonight. It won’t be comfortable, but there’s a tramp steamer with a cargo of food leaving for your place tonight. You’ll probably be bombed on the way – that’s your own affair.’ There was an odd break in his voice; D. glanced quickly at the domed Semitic forehead, the dark eyes over the rather gaudy tie: the man was crying. He sat at the wheel, a middle-aged Jew crying down Western Avenue. He said, ‘Everything’s been arranged. You’ll be smuggled on board in the Channel after they’ve cleared the customs.’

  ‘It’s very good of you to take so much trouble.’

  ‘I’m not doing it for you.’ He said, ‘Rose asked me to do my best.’

  So he was crying for love. They turned south. Mr Forbes said sharply, as if he had been accused, ‘Of course I made my conditions.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That she wasn’t to see you. I wouldn’t let her go to the court.’

  ‘And she said she’d marry you in spite of Sally?’

  ‘Yes.’ He said, ‘How did you know she knew . . . ?’

  ‘She told me.’ He said to himself: everything’s for the best. I’m not in a condition for love: in the end she’ll find that – Furt – is good for her. In the old days nobody ever married for love. People made marriage treaties. This was a treaty. There’s no point in feeling pain. I must be glad, glad to be able to turn to the grave again without infidelity. Mr Forbes said, ‘I am going to drop you at a hotel near Southcrawl. They’ll see you are picked up there by motor-boat. You won’t be conspicuous – it’s quite a resort – even at this time of year.’ He added irrelevantly, ‘Climate’s as good as Torquay.’ Then they sat in gloomy silence, driving south-west, the bridegroom and the lover – if he were a lover.