As regards the newspapers who decided in favour of human agency, there was further divergence of opinion as regards the motive behind the act. It might be a practical joke, or it might be the act of a man trying to call attention to some new invention. It might—of course—be due to the machinations of Communists subsidised with Russian gold. It might be a trial effort on the part of some potentially hostile power, or it might be due to inadvertence on the part of experts employed in testing secret weapons by the British Government itself.
In fact, all the way up and down Fleet Street that night there was long and anxious debate. Some editors—or proprietors—were for plumping for one theory, some for another. And as no one knew what new development, if any, to expect next day, everyone wanted to play for safety, only to be brought up against the fact that some theory or other must be put forward to satisfy their readers, who had been carefully educated not to think for themselves. Editors everywhere were saying as usual, ‘Who would sell a farm and be an editor?’—and in this case they almost began to mean it.
Yet meanwhile, all the time that these hectic decisions were being taken in Fleet Street, there was quite another development in Printing House Square. Somebody was reading a letter which had been delivered by hand in the course of the afternoon. Somebody scratched his head, looked up at the ceiling to refresh his memory, and finally went over to the ‘waiting’ file and found another letter in the same disguised handwriting. Somebody at last decided to risk it and take the two letters into higher authority. Higher authority heard the facts, hurriedly read the two letters and the long duplicate enclosed with the second and tugged at his chin as he tried to make up his mind. In the end higher authority went in to the highest authority of all, and told him all about it, and ended up with the words: ‘I think there’s something in it.’
Highest authority of all read the three documents, and hesitated long over them. The Times has a sense of responsibility towards its readers; and it also feels a sensitiveness regarding forgeries and unsubstantiated letters dating back to the time of Pigott’s forgery of the Parnell letters. But there was something about the letters which were now under consideration which bore the stamp of truth. And if they were true The Times had a scoop, a watertight, brass-bound, copper-bottomed scoop of the kind every journalist—even those attached to The Times—dreams about in optimistic moments.
‘You know what we ought to do with these if they’re what you think they are?’ said the highest authority of all.
‘No, sir?’ said the other, quite understanding, all the same.
‘They ought to go to the police.’
‘The police? But—but—the fellow hasn’t done anything the police can take cognisance of, has he?’
‘Well, he’s caused an obstruction. The blighters ran me in for that last week when I left my car for five minutes in Holborn. Anyway, it’s silly to deny they’re after him, or would be, if they thought he existed. You know that as well as I do. They ought to be told.’
Yet despite these eminently sensible conclusions, there was a look on both their faces which seemed to belie their words.
‘The police?’ repeated the younger man, doubtfully.
Lesser newspapers than The Times were on intimate terms with the police. News as important as this would leak out for certain, and where would that scoop be, then? The old Times deserved a scoop, if anyone did. The junior editor’s face fell; his disappointment was obvious. His senior saw his expression, and made up his mind then and there.
‘We’ll publish,’ he said, his jaw coming forward. ‘And we won’t let the police see these until four o’clock to-morrow morning. You see to that; it ought to be safe enough then. We’ll be compounding a felony, but we can’t help that. And if we publish at all, we’ve got to give it prominence. It’s taking a chance, but— We’ll have to have a leader on it. Send Bumblethwaite in to me. And Harriman. You’ll have to scrap that article of Macfarlane’s on the scientific point of view. He’s barking up the wrong tree if this is true, and God send it is. I’ll be going out of this office on my ear if it isn’t, and so will you, young man, agreement or no agreement. Get going on some sort of introduction for this stuff. You’d better do that yourself. Come back in half an hour.’
So that next morning when Dr. Pethwick opened his Times at the breakfast table the first thing that caught his eye was a fat column headed ‘London Traffic Obstruction. A Manifesto.’ Dr. Pethwick allowed his boiled egg to grow cold while he read the article. He hunched forward in his excitement. This is what he read:
‘Yesterday afternoon we received the following letter which was delivered by hand at approximately 4.30 p.m.
To the Editor of The Times.
Dear Sir,
I notice that you have not published my letter of the 28th. That was only to be expected, but I hope you will now see your way to publishing it in your next issue, because the present condition of London traffic is sufficient proof of what that letter stated. As a further proof, traffic will be impeded in another part of London for a short period following 10.30 a.m. to-morrow, July 30th.
Yours truly,
Peacemaker.
P.S.—I enclose a copy of my letter of the 28th in case you have mislaid the original.
On investigation (the article went on) it was found that on the evening of the 28th the following letter addressed to the Editor had been received. This had been posted at noon in the London E.C. district. We make no apology for not having published it earlier, because, as our readers will agree, it appeared to be the work of an irresponsible person. But, considered now in the light of recent events, it appears possible that the writer has the power he claims, and we therefore reproduce his letter below. We can only add that both letters are written in a disguised hand, and a photographic reproduction of a part of one of the letters appears on page 14. The originals are now in the possession of the police.
To the Editor of The Times.
Dear Sir,
A method has been discovered whereby it is possible to cause a magnet to lose its magnetism at a point a very considerable distance from the instrument used. This applies not merely to permanent magnets, but to electro-magnets as well. As a result of this, it is now possible to stop the working of all machines which depend on the practical application of electro-magnetic phenomena. For instance, if a motor-car is submitted to this treatment, the spark, which is caused by the electric current induced in a conductor under the influence of a changing magnetic field, ceases to be produced, and the vehicle will stop. If the motor-car obtains its spark by use of an induction coil, there will be no permanent harm done, and the vehicle will be free to move as soon as it ceases to be under the influence of the effect. In the case of a magneto it will be found that the permanent magnet has become demagnetised, and in that case it will be necessary to replace the magneto by a new one or to remagnetise the magnet before the vehicle is again available for use.
It will be noticed that this suggestion is of a destructive nature. It is extremely likely that there may be applications of this invention which may be of benefit to the world, but the present suggestion cannot be considered in that light. It will also be noticed that the first thought called up by this suggestion concerns the application of the invention to warfare, to impede the progress of aeroplanes, warships, and tanks. The discoverer, however, has decided that he would not be pleased to see his invention used in war. He is aware of the argument that this invention would tend to make war more humane by hindering the flight, for instance, of bombing aeroplanes, but he is not convinced by it. What he knows of war seems to prove to him that any attempt to make war more humane is based on unsound data, and that such attempts lead only to hypocrisy.
He also believes that the occurrence of war is facilitated, and its likelihood increased, by the existence of armaments. He believes it to be obvious that money is expended on armaments which could be put to better use. He also believes that armaments are maintained at present contrary to the wishes of
the majority of people. In view of these facts, he has decided to make use of his invention to bring about a reduction in armaments. He is aware that conferences have been held to consider this matter, but he believes that in most cases they were not inspired by the necessary sincerity. Consequently, he proposes to interfere with the traffic of London, and, if necessary, to proceed to further action, until a sincere effort has been made to reduce the armaments maintained by the world to be the lowest point consistent with the policing of the countries concerned.
Yours truly,
Peacemaker.
The queer flush of excitement which Pethwick experienced did not subside easily. It was not the first time that he had seen writings of his in print—the British Journal of Physics had published half a dozen contributions from his pen—but the thrill was still new. He tried to criticise his compositions coldbloodedly. He was aware that there was a touch of the melodramatic about that pseudonym of his, but what could he have done otherwise? He had written the ‘Yours truly’ before it occurred to him that he had to put something after it, and ‘Peacemaker’ was quite in the tradition of Times pseudonyms. It was as good as ‘Paterfamilias’ or ‘Amicus Curiæ’ any day of the week. For the rest, Pethwick could not consider it too bad. It said exactly what he intended.
Pethwick was no literary man; he could not realise the painful effect which might be produced by his laconic sentences. A more skilful writer might have contrived to gild the pill a little, to have wrapped up the bald threat in a trifle of verbiage. But that was not Pethwick’s way. He wanted disarmament. He believed he could enforce it. It had been difficult enough to describe his invention in terms that could be understood by unscientific people; to state his whole project in courtly terms would have been impossible to him even if he had realised the necessity.
He ran his eye down the columns describing traffic conditions in London yesterday, and then turned the pages more aimlessly, until his eye caught sight of the leader which Messrs. Bumblethwaite and Harriman had constructed with such care. It was a shock to him.
Somehow Dr. Pethwick had conjured up a vague picture of himself as spokesman for a majority. He sincerely believed that by far the greater proportion of humanity would be glad if armaments were abolished, and he had fancied that this announcement of his would be hailed with pleasure. He had actually imagined that people would say, ‘What fools we were not to think of this before,’ and that in a week or two the whole business would be settled, and governments would be looking round for suitable purposes on which to spend the half of their budgets which would be on their hands now that they were not spending it on armies and navies. That was his conception of how events would move, even if he had not specifically framed it in such words. His own logical mind was so struck by the absurdity of spending money on armaments that he could not conceive of anyone hesitating, save through sheer inertia, to dispense with them. If any difficulties at all were to be raised, he had assumed vaguely that they might occur somewhere in the distant Balkans, perhaps, where a reactionary government or two might hold out for a space before having to give way before the united demands of their peoples and the economic pressure of the rest of Europe. He only visualised himself as the man who gave the initial tap which started the ball rolling.
But The Times leader disillusioned him. It spoke about ‘Peacemaking extraordinary.’ It spoke about ‘fanatics’ and ‘unconstitutional methods.’ The only caution it displayed was due to a lingering doubt that the two letters from ‘Peacemaker’ might be spurious—it prefaced its wholehearted condemnation of the scheme with a cautious ‘if at ten-thirty to-day we are confronted with proof—’ Apart from that it simply went for Dr. Pethwick wholeheartedly, using much the same language as had once been employed to describe the men who organised the General Strike. It went on to describe ‘Peacemaker’s’ activities as undoubtedly criminal, and it expressed a hope that they would be cut short, promptly and effectively, by the police. It offered cordial sympathy to all those who had suffered loss yesterday from ‘Peacemaker’s’ lunatic behaviour. The leader ended up with the inevitable bit of lip-service to the cause of peace—the mealy-mouthed admission that peace and disarmament were the dearest wish of every thinking person; but ‘actions of this sort discredit the whole movement in favour of disarmament, and only tend to defeat the object which “Peacemaker” professes to be anxious to achieve.’
Pethwick read that leader with a growing uneasiness, and when he read it again the uneasiness grew into indignation; by the time the second reading was finished he was in a state as near to berserk anger as one of his mild temperament could be. He glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. At ten-thirty The Times would be confronted with all the proof they needed. Then he remembered his cold egg, and he looked across the table to find Mary’s eyes on him.
‘Go on and eat your breakfast,’ said Mary. ‘You’re keeping me hanging about when I’ve got such a lot to do.’
Pethwick dug his spoon into his egg as if the viscous yolk were the heart of The Times’ leader-writer. He controlled himself as well as he could, gulping down the luke-warm stuff, and remembering to take bites of his bread and butter—as a child when he had been given as egg the rule had been ‘one little bite of egg and two big bites of bread and butter.’ He drank his cold tea and looked up at the clock again.
‘I want to go to town again to-day,’ he said, as casually as he could, and when he met Mary’s eyes he read in them the expression he dreaded.
‘What do you want to go up there for?’ she said. ‘I was going to have a nice dinner to-day—there’s a joint coming. You won’t be back to dinner, I suppose?’
Mary had noticed his agitation. She had noticed those glances of his at the clock. Suspicions were beginning to germinate within her; and anyway she was in the mood to oppose anything Pethwick wanted to do merely because he wanted to do it. Pethwick tried to put forward the excuse which had served well enough up to now.
‘The University Library!’ sneered Mary. ‘What do you want to do at the University Library?’
Pethwick sighed. He tried mildly to explain the hypothetical research he was thinking of undertaking.
‘Can’t it wait till to-morrow?’ demanded Mary. ‘I was going to have nice ’ot mutton and roast potatoes to-day. Isn’t that good enough for your lordship?’
‘Let’s have it this evening.’ said Pethwick. He thought for a moment that the suggestion was a beautiful piece of tactics, but in fact it only added fuel to the flame.
‘Have it this evening!’ declaimed Mary. ‘Your lordship wants late dinner now, I suppose. I’m to slave all through the heat this afternoon just because you want to be like your grand friends, your Dorothy Laxton and so on, I suppose.’
Mary meant that shaft to hurt, and it did. She saw Pethwick wince. Pethwick pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet, his long gangling length towering over the table. Mary looked at his face again, and for a moment she was afraid. His mouth was shut in a hard line, and his eyes had a stormy brightness. It seemed as if the endeavours of ten years were about to bear fruit, and Mary was to succeed in making her husband lose his temper. She thought he was going to strike her, and she felt a mad pleasure mingle with her fear.
But there was always that clock on the mantelpiece. Mary’s powers of intuition enabled her to sense how her husband thrust his rage back with a powerful hand. She did not know the motives which were influencing him; she had no knowledge of the pressing need of something to be done in Hammer Court at ten-thirty that morning. All Mary knew was that her husband suddenly pulled himself upright and turned away without a word. She heard him take his hat down from the stand in the hall, and open the street door. As he went out she rushed after him and tore the door open again, standing on the threshold with her dressing-gown hanging round her.
‘Ed!’ she called. ‘What time are you going to be back, Ed?’
But Dr. Pethwick was striding off down the street as fast as his ungainly legs would carry him towards
the station.
Chapter Sixteen
There were trains to London Bridge every twenty minutes, and Dr. Pethwick missed the 9.31 by one minute, thanks to the cumulative effect of a late breakfast, a prolonged reading of The Times, and an argument with his wife. He fretted and fumed upon the platform. He hardly paid attention to the fact that every one of the contents bills displayed upon the platform made some reference to yesterday’s traffic conditions in London. He had promised to bring those conditions about again at 10.30 to-day, and he felt instinctively that it would produce a bad moral effect if the Peacemaker should prove to be guilty of a human weakness like unpunctuality—and un-punctuality, anyway, always irritated him.
He fidgeted restlessly when the 9.51 at last took him up to London Bridge, looking repeatedly at his watch. When he reached the terminus at 10.8 he discarded the idea he had momentarily entertained of taking a taxicab, and climbed instead upon a less conspicuous bus. At 10.16 he was hurrying into Hammer Court. Once in his office he began to work feverishly. With map, rule, and compass he laid off a new line upon his horizontal sheet of paper. With plumb-line and protractor he marked a new line upon the vertical sheet. Then, without bustle, but without wasting a moment, he brought his apparatus out of its locked cupboard, and made the connections with quick, steady fingers. Straightening up when his work was done he pulled out his watch and reached for the switch. It was exactly 10.30 when he closed the circuit, and on the instant motor traffic in Cannon Street came to an abrupt halt.