Scoop

  Other journalists were now crowding round claiming their radiograms. Corker surrendered them reluctantly. He had not had time to open Pigge’s. “Here you are, brother,” he said. “I’ve been guarding it for you. Some of these chaps might want to see inside.”

  “You don’t say,” said Pigge coldly. “Well, they’re welcome.”

  It was like all the rest. BOLSHEVIST MISSION REPORTED OVERTAKEN CONTROL RUSH FACTS.

  The hunt was up. No one had time for luncheon that day. They were combing the town for Russians.

  Wenlock Jakes alone retained his composure. He ate in peace and then summoned Paleologue. “We’re killing this story,” he said. “Go round to the Press Bureau and have Benito issue an official dementi before four o’clock. See it’s posted in the hotel and in the wireless station. And put it about among the boys that the story’s dead.”

  He spoke gravely, for he hated to kill a good story.

  So the word went round.

  A notice was posted in French and English at all the chief European centers of the capital.

  It is categorically denied that there is any Russian diplomatic representative accredited to the Republic of Ishmaelia. Nor is there any truth in the report, spread by subversive interests, that a Russian national of any description whatever arrived in Jacksonburg last Saturday. The train was occupied exclusively by representatives of the foreign Press and an employee of the Railway.

  GABRIEL BENITO

  Minister of Foreign Affairs and Propaganda.

  The Press acted in unison and Shumble’s scoop died at birth. William sent his first Press message from Ishmaelia: ALL ROT ABOUT BOLSHEVIK HE IS ONLY TICKET COLLECTOR ASS CALLED SHUMBLE THOUGHT HIS BEARD FALSE BUT ITS PERFECTLY ALL RIGHT REALLY WILL CABLE AGAIN IF THERE IS ANY NEWS VERY WET HERE YOURS WILLIAM BOOT.—and went out to dinner with the British Vice-Consul.

  *

  Jack Bannister, known at the age of ten as “Moke,” inhabited a little villa in the Legation compound. He and William dined alone at a candle-lit table. Two silent boys in white gowns waited on them. Bannister’s pet, but far from tame, cheetah purred beside the log fire. There were snipe, lately bagged by the first secretary. They drank some sherry, and some Burgundy and some port, and, to celebrate William’s arrival, a good deal more port. Then they settled themselves in easy chairs and drank brandy. They talked about school and the birds and beasts of Ishmaelia. Bannister showed his collection of skins and eggs.

  They talked about Ishmaelia. “No one knows if it’s got any minerals because no one’s been to see. The map’s a complete joke,” Bannister explained. “The country has never been surveyed at all; half of it’s unexplored. Why, look here—” he took down a map from his shelves and opened it. “See this place, Laku. It’s marked as a town of some five thousand inhabitants, fifty miles North of Jacksonburg. Well there never had been such a place. Laku is the Ishmaelite for @I don’t [email protected] When the boundary commission were trying to get through to the Soudan in 1898 they made a camp there and asked one of their boys the name of the hill, so as to record it in their log. He said @[email protected], and they’ve copied it from map to map ever since. President Jackson likes the country to look important in the atlases so when this edition was printed he had Laku marked good and large. The French once appointed a Consul to Laku when they were getting active in this part of the world.”

  Finally they touched on politics.

  “I can’t think why all you people are coming out here,” said Bannister plaintively. “You’ve no idea how it adds to my work. The Minister doesn’t like it either. The F.O. are worrying the life out of him.”

  “But isn’t there going to be a war?”

  “Well we usually have a bit of scrapping after the rains. There’s a lot of bad men in the hills. Gollancz usually shoots up a few when he goes out after the taxes.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Wish we knew. There’s something rather odd going on. Our information is simply that Smiles had a row with the Jacksons round about Christmas time and took to the hills. That’s what everyone does out here when he gets in wrong with the Jacksons. We thought no more about it. The next thing we hear is from Europe that half a dozen bogus consulates have been set up and that Smiles has declared a Nationalist Government. Well that doesn’t make much sense. There never has been any Government in Ishmaelia outside Jacksonburg, and, as you see, everything is dead quiet here. But Smiles is certainly getting money from someone and arms too, I expect. What’s more we aren’t very happy about the President. Six months ago he was eating out of our hand. Now he’s getting quite standoffish. There’s a concession to a British Company to build the new coast road. It was all settled but for the signing last November. Now the Ministry of Works is jibbing and they say that the President is behind them. I can’t say I like the look of things, and having all you journalists about doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “We’ve been busy all day with a lunatic report about a Russian agent who had come to take charge of the Government.”

  “Oh,” said Bannister with sudden interest. “They’ve got hold of that, have they? What was the story exactly?”

  William told him.

  “Yes they’ve got it pretty mixed.”

  “D’you mean to say there’s any truth in it?”

  Bannister looked diplomatic for a minute and then said, “Well I don’t see any harm in your knowing. In fact from what the Minister said to me today I rather think he’d welcome a little publicity on the subject. There is a Russian here, name of Smerdyakev, a Jew straight from Moscow. He didn’t come disguised as a ticket collector of course. He’s been here some time—in fact he came up by the same train as Hitchcock and that American chap. But he’s lying low, living with Benito. We don’t quite know what he’s up to; whatever it is, it doesn’t suit H.M.G.”s book. If you want a really interesting story I should look into him.”

  It was half an hour’s drive, at this season, from the Legation quarter to the center of the town. William sat in the taxi, lurching and jolting, in a state of high excitement. In the last few days he had caught something of the professional infection of Corker and his colleagues, had shared their consternation at Hitchcock’s disappearance, had rejoiced quietly when Shumble’s scoop was killed. Now he had something under his hat; a tip-off straight from headquarters, news of high international importance. His might be the agency which would avert or precipitate a world war; he saw his name figuring in future history books “… the Ishmaelite crisis of that year whose true significance was only realized and exposed through the resource of an English journalist, William Boot…” Slightly dizzy with this prospect, as with the wine he had drunk and the appalling rigors of the drive, he arrived at the Liberty to find the lights out in the lounge and all his colleagues in bed.

  He woke Corker, with difficulty.

  “For Christ’s sake. You’re tight. Go to bed, brother.”

  “Wake up, I’ve got a story.”

  At that electric word Corker roused himself and sat up in bed.

  William told him, fully and proudly, all that he had learned at dinner. When he had finished, Corker lay back again among the crumpled pillows. “I might have known,” he said bitterly.

  “But don’t you see? This really is news. And we’ve got the Legation behind us. The Minister wants it written up.”

  Corker turned over on his side.

  “That story’s dead,” he remarked.

  “But Shumble had it all wrong. Now we’ve got the truth. It may make a serious difference in Europe.”

  Corker spoke again with finality. “Now go to bed, there’s a good chap. No one’s going to print your story after the way it’s been denied. Russian agents are off the menu, brother. It’s a bad break for Shumble, I grant you. He got onto a good thing without knowing—and the false beard was a very pretty touch. His story was better than yours all round and we killed it. Do turn out the light.”

  *

  In his room in the annex Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock co
vered his key-hole with stamp-paper and, circumspectly, turned on a little shaded lamp. He boiled some water and made himself a cup of cocoa; drank it; then he went to the map on the wall and took out his flag, considered for a minute, hovering uncertainly over the unscaled peaks and uncharted rivers of that dark terrain, finally decided, and pinned it firmly in the spot marked as the city of Laku. Then he extinguished his light and went happily back to bed.

  Two

  Tuesday morning; rain at six; Jakes’s typewriter at a quarter past; the first cry of “Boy” soon after.

  “Boy,” shouted Corker. “Where’s my boy?”

  “Your boy in plison,” said William’s boy.

  “Holy smoke, what’s he been up to?”

  “The police were angry with them,” said William’s boy.

  “Well, I want some tea.”

  “All right. Just now.”

  The Archbishop of Canterbury who, it is well known, is behind Imperial Chemicals… wrote Jakes.

  Shumble, Whelper and Pigge awoke and breakfasted and dressed, but they scarcely spoke. “Going out?” said Whelper at last.

  “What d’you think?” said Shumble.

  “Not sore about anything are you?” said Pigge.

  “What d’you think?” said Shumble, leaving the room.

  “He’s sore,” said Pigge.

  “About his story,” said Whelper.

  “Who wouldn’t be?” said Pigge.

  Sir Jocelyn made himself some cocoa and opened a tin of tongue. He counted the remaining stores and found them adequate.

  Presently William and Corker set out to look for news.

  “Better try the station first,” said Corker, “just in case the luggage has turned up.”

  They got a taxi.

  “Station,” said Corker.

  “All right,” said the driver, making off through the rain down main street.

  “Oh Christ, he’s going to the Swede again.”

  Sure enough, that was where they stopped.

  “Good morning,” said Erik Olafsen. “I am very delighted to see you. I am very delighted to see all my colleagues. They come so often. Almost whenever they take a taxi. Come in, please. Have you heard the news?”

  “No,” said Corker.

  “They are saying in the town that there was a Russian on the train on Saturday.”

  “Yes, we’ve heard that one.”

  “But it is a mistake.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Yes, indeed it is a mistake. The man was a Swiss ticket collector. I know him many years. But please to come in.”

  William and Corker followed their host into his office. There was a stove in the corner, and on the stove a big coffee pot; the smell of coffee filled the room. Olafsen poured out three cupfuls.

  “You are comfortable at the Liberty, yes, no?”

  “No,” said William and Corker simultaneously.

  “I suppose not,” said Olafsen. “Mrs. Jackson is a very religious woman. She comes every Sunday to our musical evening. But I suppose you are not comfortable. Do you know my friends Shumble and Whelper and Pigge?”

  “Yes.”

  “They are very nice gentlemen, and very clever. They say they are not comfortable, too.”

  The thought of so much discomfort seemed to overwhelm the Swede. He gazed over the heads of his guests with huge, pale eyes that seemed to see illimitable, receding vistas of discomfort, and himself a blinded and shackled Samson with his bandages and bibles and hot, strong coffee scarcely able to shift a pebble from the vast mountain which oppressed humanity. He sighed.

  The bell rang over the shop-door. Olafsen leapt to his feet. “Excuse,” he said, “the natives steal so terribly.”

  But it was not a native. William and Corker could see the newcomer from where they sat in the office. She was a white woman; a girl. A straggle of damp gold hair clung to her cheek. She wore red gum boots, shiny and wet, spattered with the mud of the streets. Her mackintosh dripped on the linoleum and she carried a half open, dripping umbrella, held away from her side; it was short and old; when it was new it had been quite cheap. She spoke in German, bought something, and went out again into the rain.

  “Who was the Garbo?” asked Corker when the Swede came back.

  “She is a German lady. She has been here some time. She had a husband but I think she is alone now. He was to do some work outside the city but I do not think she knows where he is. I suppose he will not come back. She lives at the German pension with Frau Dressler. She came for some medicine.”

  “Looks as though she needed it,” said Corker. “Well we must go to the station.”

  “Yes. There is a special train this evening. Twenty more journalists are arriving.”

  “Christ.”

  “For me it is a great pleasure to meet so many distinguished confrères. It is a great honor to work with them.”

  “Decent bloke that,” said Corker, when they again drove off. “You know, I never feel Swedes are really foreign. More like you and me, if you see what I mean.”

  *

  Three hours later Corker and William sat down to luncheon. The menu did not vary at the Liberty; sardines, beef and chicken for luncheon; soup, beef and chicken for dinner; hard, homogeneous cubes of beef, sometimes with Worcester Sauce, sometimes with tomato ketchup; fibrous spindles of chicken with gray-green dented peas.

  “Don’t seem to have any relish for my food,” said Corker. “It must be the altitude.”

  Everyone was in poor spirits; it had been an empty morning; the absence of Hitchcock lay heavy as thunder over the hotel, and there was a delay of fourteen hours in transmission at the wireless station for Wenlock Jakes had been letting himself go on the local color.

  “The beef’s beastly,” said Corker. “Tell the manageress to come here…”

  At a short distance Jakes was entertaining three blacks. Everyone watched that table suspiciously and listened when they could, but he seemed to be talking mostly about himself. After a time the boy brought them chicken.

  “Where’s that manageress?” asked Corker.

  “No come.”

  “What d’you mean @no [email protected]?”

  “Manageress say only journalist him go boil himself,” said the boy more explicitly.

  “What did I tell you? No respect for the Press. Savages.”

  They left the dining-room. In the lounge, standing on one foot and leaning on his staff, was the aged warrior who delivered the telegrams. William’s read:

  RESUME YOUR STEPTAKING INSURE SERVICE EVENT GENERAL UPBREAK.

  “It’s no good answering,” said Corker. “They won’t send till tomorrow morning. Come to think of it,” he added moodily, “there’s no point in answering anyway. Look at mine.”

  CABLE FULLIER OFTENER PROMPTLIER STOP YOUR SERVICE BADLY BEATEN ALROUND LACKING HUMAN INTEREST COLOUR DRAMA PERSONALITY HUMOUR INFORMATION ROMANCE VITALITY.

  “Can’t say that’s not frank, can you?” said Corker. “God rot ’em.”

  That afternoon he took Shumble’s place at the card table. William slept.

  *

  The special train got in at seven. William went to meet it, as did everyone else.

  The Ishmaelite Foreign Minister was there with his suite. (“Expecting a nob,” said Corker.) The Minister wore a bowler hat and ample military cape. The station-master set a little gilt chair for him where he sat like a daguerreotype, stiffly posed, a Victorian worthy in negative, black face, white whiskers, black hands. When the camera men began to shoot, his staff scrambled to get to the front of the picture, eclipsing their chief. It was all the same to the camera men, who were merely passing the time and had no serious hope that the portrait would be of any interest.

  At length the little engine came whistling round the bend, wood sparks dancing over the funnel. It stopped and at once the second- and third-class passengers—natives and near-whites—tumbled onto the platform, greeting their relatives with tears and kisses. The station police got in a
mong them, jostling the Levantines and whacking the natives with swagger-canes. The first-class passengers emerged more slowly; they had already acquired that expression of anxious resentment that was habitual to whites in Jacksonburg. They were all, every man-jack of them, journalists and photographers.

  The distinguished visitor had not arrived. The Foreign Minister waited until the last cramped and cautious figure emerged from the first-class coach; then he exchanged civilities with the station-master and took his leave. The station police made a passage of a kind, but it was only with a struggle that he regained his car.

  The porters began to unload and take the registered baggage to the customs shed. On the head of the foremost William recognized his bundle of cleft sticks; then more of his possessions—the collapsible canoe, the mistletoe, the ant-proof wardrobes. There was a cry of delight from Corker at his side. The missing van had arrived. Mysteriously it had become attached to the special train; had in fact been transposed. Somewhere, in a siding at one of the numerous stops down the line, lay the newcomers’ luggage. Their distress deepened but Corker was jubilant and before dinner that evening introduced his elephant to a place of prominence in the bedroom. He also, in his good humor, introduced two photographers for whom he had an affection.

  “Tight fit,” they said.

  “Not at all,” said Corker. “Delighted to have your company, aren’t we, Boot?”

  One of them took William’s newly arrived camp bed; the other expressed a readiness to “doss down” on the floor for the night. Everyone decided to doss down in the Liberty. Mrs. Jackson recommended other lodging available from friends of hers in the town. But, “No,” they said, “We’ve got to doss down with the bunch.”

  The bunch now overflowed the hotel. There were close on fifty of them. All over the lounge and dining-room they sat and stood and leant; some whispered to one another in what they took to be secrecy; others exchanged chaff and gin. It was their employers who paid for all this hospitality, but the conventions were decently observed—“My round, old boy.” “No, no, my round”…”Have this one on me.” “Well the next is mine”—except by Shumble who, from habit, drank heartily and without return wherever it was offered.