I and My True Love

  Clark waited. Then, suddenly, “How did the reporters get hold of Pleydell’s name?” he asked.

  Minlow’s face became utterly blank. At last, “Perhaps the gossip about Sylvia and Brovic?” he countered.

  That, Clark thought, was an agile recovery: he couldn’t risk a straight answer (the reporters could give it the lie), so what he offered us was a very plausible explanation. He said, very evenly, “Perhaps.”

  “No one is going to blame Pleydell,” Minlow said quickly. “All his friends know he never would give anything away.”

  He’s now quoting himself, thought Clark. Did he use that honest indignation to the reporters, too? “Yes, that’s true enough,” he said equably. “But what about strangers—what will they think of Pleydell?”

  “If he’s blamed, then it’s just another damned injustice,” Minlow said angrily.

  “Did you never hear Pleydell talk about his work?”

  “He didn’t discuss it.”

  “Not even sideways?”

  “He never discussed his work.”

  Whiteshaw stirred restlessly, and then sat very still. He said nothing. He studied the row of titles in the bookcase beside him.

  “Not consciously, perhaps,” Clark suggested. “But you know how it is—even an intelligent man can talk too much if he thinks he is among friends. After all, if we trust them, our guard is lowered.”

  Minlow’s lean face flushed. “If that’s a snide hint that he told me something that I passed on to Brovic, then it’s a damned lie.”

  “Did I mention you at all?” Clark looked amazed.

  Minlow’s anger grew. “What about his secretary? Didn’t Miss Black deal with all Pleydell’s private papers? And what about the other men who were working on this treaty? Pleydell wasn’t the only advisory expert in his department. Why pick on him?”

  “We’re checking on all angles,” Clark said, his own anger rising. With an effort, he controlled it. “Miss Black has worked for the Department for almost thirty years. She’s worked honestly and well. She’s all right. She’s completely loyal.”

  “She keeps saying she is.”

  “She keeps proving she is.”

  “And I don’t?”

  For a moment, they faced each other. Then Clark said, “I didn’t think we were discussing you. I only asked for your ideas on the way this classified information could have leaked out.”

  “And I’ve given you them. As usual, you don’t pay much attention.”

  I’m paying much more than you realise, Clark thought. But now, he was well under control again. He could smile and shake his head.

  Whiteshaw said quickly, “Look, the damage has been done. We’re only trying to find out how it was done, so we can all be on guard the next time.” He looked at Clark as if he were appealing to him. “Whatever we say here isn’t going to be publicised.”

  “The less publicity the better,” Clark acknowledged. “My own point of view is this: someone made an error in judgment. If that’s admitted, then we know what happened. And a lot of innocent people will be cleared without any further trouble. Sylvia Pleydell, in particular. As things stand now, she will get all the blame.” It was his last appeal, but he took care not to look at Minlow.

  “That’s possible,” Minlow agreed. His anger had left him. He looked thoughtful. “Of course, it’s also possible that Brovic was sent over here to contact her. You know the information that a handsome military attaché can get out of an ambassador’s wife. It isn’t the first time that old trick has been used.”

  Whiteshaw said, “Sylvia knew nothing to give away.”

  Minlow shrugged his shoulders.

  “She knew nothing,” Whiteshaw insisted.

  “She’s Pleydell’s wife,” Minlow said. “She’s a natural target for Brovic.”

  Martin Clark said quietly, “You were Pleydell’s friend. You could have been a natural target for Brovic, too.”

  “Nonsense. I spoke very little with Brovic. Vlatov was much better informed. I concentrated on him and got the essential facts about Czechoslovakia. But Brovic—” He shook his head. “To tell you the truth, Brovic isn’t half such good company as he used to be.”

  “But he’s still alert enough to get information from Sylvia?”

  “Women always liked him,” Minlow said with a touch of contempt.

  “You really think, then, that Sylvia is to blame?”

  The direct question troubled Minlow. “I don’t want to believe it,” he said at last.

  “But—?”

  “Well,” Minlow said awkwardly, “that paragraph in this afternoon’s paper... It all adds up, in a rather hideous way.”

  “You believe the gossip columns?”

  “I dislike such things, of course.”

  “Of course. And yet—”

  Minlow didn’t answer and admitted his belief.

  Whiteshaw said angrily, “It was a coincidence. You just said you can’t condemn anyone for a coincidence.”

  “It’s odd,” Clark said, his voice still quiet, expressionless, “it’s odd that you should believe the worst about Sylvia so readily. Aren’t you the man who’s always been the first to denounce rumours? Aren’t you the man who’s always talking about ‘smear’?”

  Minlow rose to his feet. “Now we’re back to insults,” he said coldly. He looked at Whiteshaw. “Time to leave.”

  But Whiteshaw didn’t move.

  “Or,” Clark persisted, “is Sylvia not worth defending because she doesn’t share your political opinions?”

  “You’re really out to pin the blame on me, aren’t you?”

  “No. But I’d like some frankness. We all make mistakes, God knows. And if we’ve been wrong and won’t admit it, what chance have we of ever being right?”

  Minlow’s eyes didn’t waver. His lips were tight. “What I did was my own personal business. I can see anyone I want to see. I can talk to anyone I want to talk to.”

  “It might have been wiser to limit your own freedom,” Clark said quietly. “What we want, as individuals, doesn’t always coincide with what is best for a hundred and fifty million other people who have got to endure living with us.”

  “I gave away no information whatsoever.” Minlow was equally quiet, grave-faced. His eyes were as frank as his voice. “I knew nothing to give away,” he added, and now Whiteshaw, who had been lighting a cigarette, looked up at him sharply.

  Minlow went on, “Will you accept my word for that? Or, as usual, will you doubt me?” He looked at Clark with a mixture of dislike and contempt. The match held in Whiteshaw’s hand burned to his fingertips. He exclaimed and dropped it.

  “I don’t doubt your loyalty, but I doubt your intelligence,” Clark said sharply. “You’ve displayed very little of that.”

  “Have you a cigarette?” Minlow asked Whiteshaw.

  Clark said, “Was it good judgment to let Vlatov use you?”

  Minlow lit the cigarette carefully. When he spoke, he looked only at Whiteshaw as if Clark had been whisked from the room. “Vlatov didn’t use me. And I got results, didn’t I? If you would stop building the Communists into a bogey, you might get on with them better. They’re human beings, like the rest of us. What are you afraid of? There’s nothing to fear except fear itself.”

  “This is a bad night to misquote that again,” Clark said, his anger beginning to break. “I’ve seen too many kinds of fear today, and none of them laughable. I’ve seen the fear that comes when we watch a friend being caught in a trap. I’ve seen the fear that comes from guilt lying within us, from the mistakes we’ve made and can’t unmake. And I’ve seen the cheapest fear of all—that of a man who has smothered his conscience and is only afraid of one thing, discovery.”

  “Come on,” Minlow said to Whiteshaw. “I’ll drive you home.” This time, he didn’t wait but walked over to the door.

  Whiteshaw didn’t rise. “It isn’t far,” he said. “A block or two, at most. I think I’ll walk.”

  Minlow halted
and stared back at him.

  “I’ve still some questions to ask,” Whiteshaw said lamely, retreating now.

  “And a set of damned foolish answers you’ll get. Suit yourself.” Minlow opened the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  Whiteshaw looked embarrassed. He hesitated. Then he nodded.

  Minlow closed the front door, and they could hear him whistling as he went downstairs.

  It was a good act, Clark thought, listening to the jaunty tune as it diminished until the house was left in silence. Or wasn’t it an act? Was Minlow convinced he was right?

  “I’d better see him tomorrow,” Whiteshaw said. “After all— ” He looked at Clark.

  “—He’s your friend,” Clark said wearily.

  Down in the street, a car started abruptly.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Whiteshaw said. “Not that I can undo any of the damage, but—” He hesitated again. “Perhaps he will be more careful in the future.”

  “Not as long as he thinks he’s always right.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. After all, he’s my friend, as you said. I just can’t ditch him.”

  “And if he won’t listen?”

  There was a short silence. “Then he has ditched me,” Whiteshaw said. He rose then. They walked to the door together. “Of course,” he added as he shook hands with Clark, “Payton Pleydell could clear Sylvia.”

  “He could.” But it would only prove that his judgment about his friends was very far wrong. “Do you imagine he wants to clear Jan Brovic, too?”

  “But surely—” Whiteshaw stared at him, unbelieving.

  “We’ll see,” Clark said. “Meanwhile the first newspapers are already on the delivery trucks. We’ll see, too, if they mention Brovic. Or will that only appear in later editions?”

  Whiteshaw looked puzzled.

  Clark explained. “If the reporters heard Pleydell’s name tonight, they’ll follow straight through to Sylvia and Jan Brovic.”

  Whiteshaw said slowly, “There, I think you are doing Minlow a grave injustice.”

  “That could be.”

  “You’re assuming too much,” Whiteshaw said stiffly. “Good night.”

  No, not assuming too much. I just said too much, Clark thought as he watched the other’s sudden hostility. Seemingly, there was just so much revelation that a man could assimilate at one time. “I hope you’re right,” he said.

  “You hope you’re wrong?” Whiteshaw asked disbelievingly.

  “Yes,” Clark said abruptly. “For Sylvia’s sake. Good night.”

  He returned to the room, slumped into a chair, and began to think this problem out. The truth had to be found. But was he prejudiced against Minlow, just as Whiteshaw was prejudiced for him? Neither of them could hope to find the truth. It was Minlow himself who must do that.

  If Minlow were to question himself honestly, cruelly, what would he admit? Some information picked up from conversation with Pleydell, repeated innocently? Had he realised that blunder afterwards, been worried about it secretly, felt the full shock tonight when two reporters had suddenly talked about the Czechs? It would have been instinctive selfprotection to drop Pleydell’s name, perhaps even by justifying him—“Of course Pleydell is absolutely trustworthy. So even if he was connected with this treaty, he’s certainly above suspicion.” Yet by mentioning Pleydell, he’d make sure that the reporters would remember Sylvia and today’s gossip. Was Sylvia the sacrificial offering, so useful because she was already delivered up to public opinion?

  I can be wrong, all wrong, Clark told himself gloomily.

  And yet men, when they fought for themselves, could lie and cheat. Not all men. The guilty ones lied. The innocent had no reason to lie. And the more guilty a man was, the more he’d use every lie, every twist and evasion. So where did that place Minlow?

  No, I could be wrong. And yet, and yet—how did the reporters know that Pleydell had been working on that particular trade treaty? Very few people, even in the Department, were aware of that fact.

  That was the trouble about suspicion: a mean, ugly word. You hated it so much that even when you did hit the truth you’d recoil from it, you’d persuade yourself truth could be a lie just because it was founded on suspicion.

  He rose, telling himself that he had some telephoning to do. He reached the hall. Then, he remembered Kate.

  She was half asleep over the half-read book, in spite of the coffee she had drunk and the hardness of the kitchen chair. She got up as he opened the door; she moved stiffly, stretching her back, repressing a yawn.

  “All clear,” he announced and wished it were so. “Now, let’s quell that revolting couch. I’m just in the mood to do it a serious injury.”

  Kate’s eyes, shadowed with exhaustion, drawn with worry, tried to read his impassive face as she came into the living-room.

  He seemed to guess her thoughts. “You’re right,” he said. “There isn’t much use asking me questions. I haven’t got the answers. Not now. Let’s wait until tomorrow, until we see the newspapers. Then we’ll know what we have to worry about.”

  “Is it something to do with Sylvia?” she had to ask.

  “It could be.”

  “Something new? Not just that gossip paragraph?”

  “Something new,” he said gloomily. “Thank God Sylvia is on a train right now, and knows nothing about it. The whole story may be straightened out before she can even hear of it.”

  “But what if the papers print this new story?” Sylvia could buy papers at Chicago, Denver, Salt Lake City, Oakland, or would she?

  “The newspapers may have very little to report,” Martin said reassuringly. “Sylvia need never know that there’s new trouble to worry about.”

  Kate became less anxious. “Everything could be straightened out?” She watched him carefully, but he didn’t seem to be worrying very much.

  “As far as Sylvia is concerned—yes. Cheer up, Kate. We’ll take care of it.” He smiled and was relieved to see that she became still more reassured.

  “Now,” he said, turning to the recalcitrant couch, “what about taking care of this?” He aimed a well-placed kick, and this time the couch startled him by obeying. He looked up at Kate to see her smiling. “Well, that’s better,” he said approvingly, rubbing his foot. He limped towards the door, and behind him he heard Kate laugh. “Good night, Kate.”

  “I’m sorry,” she called after him. “I’ve a rude sense of humour. Good night, Martin. And thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said with a grin. “It isn’t often I can play the funny man.”

  “I didn’t mean—” She broke off, and her smile was still there. “But thank you for that, too.”

  As she unfolded the bed linen, she heard the murmur of a voice from the hall. At first, she thought Amy had awakened and that Martin was answering questions. And then she realised that it was Martin telephoning quietly.

  23

  Kate had gone to sleep with the curtains undrawn to help her wake early. But it wasn’t early enough. She opened her eyes that Sunday morning to see Martin Clark, already dressed, bringing in the Sunday newspaper from the front door. There was pale sunlight filtering through the windows, the streets were oddly silent outside as though the country had invaded the city, and the room lay heavily inanimate as if the chairs and tables only came to life when people sat and talked there. Clark unfolded the paper quietly and, still standing in the little hall, held it to catch the light from the living-room.

  “What does it say?” Kate asked. She sat up, pulling the blankets around her shoulders.

  Martin Clark came into the living-room and spread the paper out on the coffee table. “It isn’t on the front page, anyway,” he said, with some relief.

  Kate watched him as he bent over to scan each page carefully. He looked white and tired, but he had shaved and dressed carefully to disguise the fact that he had slept little. Now, he had found something, for he was studying it carefully, the square line of his jaw set rigid, his q
uick blue eyes expressionless. Then he drew himself up, his hands on his hips, his lips tightening. “They’ve dealt with it cautiously,” he said. To begin with, at least. “You’d better read it, yourself. I’ll start the coffee.”

  He went towards the kitchen and paused at its door. “Kate,” he added, dropping his voice, “don’t talk about this to Amy. Or about last night. I’m—I’m a little worried about her. Minimise the whole thing, will you?” Then he closed the kitchen door behind him.

  His brusqueness made Kate equally business-like. She found the paragraph:

  It is reported that confidential information, dealing with important decisions on certain aspects of U.S. export and import trade, has reached the Czechoslovakian representatives here through channels which are still undisclosed.

  Then she washed and dressed quickly, thinking over what she had read. By the time she appeared in the kitchen where Martin had got a tray ready for Amy, she was feeling less worried and more confident, but increasingly puzzled and curious. What had that paragraph to do with Sylvia? Nothing, as far as she could see. Take your cue from Martin, she told herself: he isn’t in a mood this morning for unnecessary questions.

  “Amy’s awake,” she told him. “She wanted to know if there was any more gossip about Jan Brovic.”

  “Well, that’s easily answered,” he said thankfully.

  Kate nodded. “What do you want for breakfast? Boiled eggs? It’s Easter Sunday.”

  “Traditionalist,” he said, half smiling. “But that will do.”

  “Amy wants to go to church.”

  “Not this Easter. Twins in the vestry would be a little upsetting.” He selected the front page of the paper and added the social section to take it with the tray. “Damn that ’phone,” he said, as he heard its insistent ring from the hall.

  When he came back, Kate had breakfast ready, and the remains of the newspaper divided between them at their plates as much as to say, “No conversation, I agree.”

  “Thanks,” Martin said, noticing, and they fell into a perfect breakfast silence. But as he lit a cigarette for his final cup of coffee, he pushed the newspaper aside and began talking. “First, I’ve got to go down to the office. With luck, I’ll be back this afternoon. Keep Amy cheerful, will you, Kate? What plans had you anyway?”