by Andrew Garve
“The third,” said Hind with a smile.
The Leader Writer stirred, scenting a topic for editorial comment. “There’s no case,” he said with Olympian certainty. “The whole thing was thoroughly thrashed out by the Cadogan Committee and they were very emphatic.” He proceeded to outline the Committee’s main findings and a lively discussion started. Ede was always interested in matters of principle—far more than in the technicalities of newsspaper production. Hind sat back with his head sunk in his shoulders and grinned at the Sports Editor. He was far more interested in technicalities than he was in matters of principle. Jackson had his eye on the clock.
The lines of a leader comment were soon sketched out. Hind was folding up his statement. Ede said, “Is that the lot, Joe?”
“That’s about all,” said Hind. “Oh, except for a report of buried treasure under an old windmill in Norfolk. I don’t know whether there’s anything in it but I’ve sent Golightly up to have a look. It’s an exclusive so far.”
“Good man,” said Ede.
Now it was Jessop’s turn. He sat bolt upright with an expressionless face and began to read out the items typed on the foreign news statement in a voice that at times was barely audible. He stuck closely to his brief—he hadn’t Hind’s flair for dramatic public recital and his one aim was to get through quickly and without incurring criticism. In spite of the revelation that had come to him during the night and the knowledge—reinforced by the rectangular tin in his right-hand pocket—of his superiority to those in authority here, the habits of years were not to be discarded in an instant and he still appeared nervous. As he read he fidgeted with the statement, shifted in his seat, and wondered if people were listening to him. Ede sensed his embarrassment and made a mental note to announce Cardew’s appointment that day, if only in fairness to Jessop. The man could hardly be expected to make much of a showing when the colleague who had been preferred to him was sitting beside him. All the same, Ede felt confirmed in his decision. Jessop simply hadn’t the personality for a top-ranking job.
One or two people began to stir restlessly. Hardly anyone was interested in the foreign statement, particularly when it was about conferences rather than wars. When Jessop twice stumbled over a Polish name—with good reason, for it was Skrzypczynski!—Hind began to laugh, soundlessly, shaking the table. Jessop shot him a look of hatred and his right hand went to his pocket, finding comfort there. Perhaps Providence would take note of the episode.
“Better get through the rest quickly,” said Ede to Jessop, not without sympathy. “What about this Note to Hungary that the F. O. is taking so seriously?” Jessop was about to explain, but Ede was restive and turned to Cardew. “You’ve got something on that, haven’t you, Lionel?”
“Yes,” said Cardew, “the position is this …” In a few rapid sentences the Diplomatic Correspondent summarised the Foreign Office document. He was a tall, slender young man with fair wavy hair that was brushed as flat as possible to his neat head. He had a pale, rather distinguished face, with high cheekbones and an engaging smile—though to-day he seemed rather solemn. Young though he was—he was still in his late twenties—it was obvious as soon as he began to speak that he had a quick and comprehensive grasp of the matter he was talking about. His analysis was brilliant.
Ede nodded approvingly—that was all plain sailing. Lionel, he knew, would turn in an interesting piece in impeccable prose.
Jessop listened to the recital with averted eyes and a sardonic twist of his mouth. Cardew was slick and fluent—he would take anyone in. As the Diplomatic Correspondent concluded, he said, “There’s nothing else of importance,” and screwed up his statement, which was covered with doodles. Hind pushed back his chair hopefully and the columnist managed to get a signal of dismissal from Ede and crept out. The Sports Editor spoke up about the Big Fight and got the space he wanted. A tinkle of glass in the adjoining room reminded Ede that Munro would soon be arriving. He caught the Art Editor’s eye. “Pictures downstairs, Fred. I can give you five minutes. Right, that’s all.” The conference was over.
Jessop got up, timing his movements with care. He allowed one or two people to leave ahead of him, but was careful not to be the last out of the room. At the lift, where there were already more of his colleagues than could be accommodated in one load, he muttered something about not being able to spend the whole day there and plunged down the stone stairs to the next floor. Then he turned along a little-used corridor and climbed up by the back stairs to the floor he had just left. He waited a moment or two, to give time for any stragglers to get clear, and again approached the conference room, this time from the opposite direction. The door stood open, the room was empty. He stepped in quickly and walked over to the inner door that led to the Directors’ Dining Room. He listened. No sound came from inside. He wrapped a handkerchief round the door knob and opened the door a fraction, peeping in. The room was prepared for luncheon and the far door into the restaurant was closed. He slipped inside, emptied the contents of his tin on to a plate, carried the plate to the sideboard in his handkerchief, and slipped out again. He had done it! He felt a pleasant tingle of excitement, nothing more. Providence, he knew, was watching over him. He had nothing to fear.
Chapter Six
Dawson Munro, Governor and Commander-in-Chief of the scattered group of possessions known as the Outward Islands, was the last of a long line of colonial administrators. His forebears—hard, thrusting Empire-builders for the most part—had believed in the Divine Right of the Munros to administer, and Dawson had inherited the doctrine so completely as to be unconscious of the fact. He was, however, superficially aware of the requirements of a changing world and practised a benevolent paternalism where his ancestors would have relied on a sharp kick in the pants. His liberalism—with a small “l”, for it was from the Labour Government that he had received his rapid advancement—took the form of a rather patronising goodwill towards all his fellow-men and an often-expressed belief that even the most murderous of his coloured subjects were “not bad chaps at heart.” He was erudite, conscientious, and up to a point able, but he suffered from a monumental complacency and a limitless capacity for self-deception. Scurrilous attacks on him in the vernacular Press of Port Sargasso had not shaken his conviction that he enjoyed the goodwill of the underdog, nor had recent developments in the Outward Islands undermined his certainty that he knew what was best in all circumstances. He was the sort of man who blandly refuses to believe that he has any enemies, and in fact has few friends.
Munro had accepted Ede’s invitation to lunch at the Morning Call more as a magnanimous return for the useful editorial backing the paper had given him in a critical hour than because he had any nostalgic desire to revisit the scene of his early literary labours. Now that he held a responsible public position his former association with what was, after all, a rather sensational popular daily was slightly embarrassing. Indeed, if the subject of his early career ever arose in the course of conversation—and as he enjoyed talking about himself it quite often did—he usually managed to convey the impression that his scholastic triumphs at Harrow and Trinity had been followed almost at once by membership of the House of Commons and a successful Under-Secretaryship. To-day, as he strode behind a somewhat grubby urchin on his way to the Editor’s room, there was nothing in his expression of benevolent interest to indicate that he was familiar with every inch of the place. Nor would his greeting to Miss Timmins, amiable though it was, have revealed to a stranger that they had once been troupers in the same company.
The Editor poured sherry at a small cocktail cabinet in his room and smilingly handed Munro his glass. The Governor was a tall man with a large frame that had not as yet filled out—he was barely forty. To remedy this defect—for he already thought of himself as an elder statesman—he had a habit of thrusting out his stomach, which with his stooping donnish shoulders, gave his figure the shape of an elongated letter S. He boomed in cultured accents, his head patronisingly inclined from long ha
bit, his mild gaze focused to shrewdness by thick lenses. In a surprisingly short time he was embarked on a recital of his recent activities.
Ede sipped his sherry, observed his man closely, and politely waited for an opportunity to get a word in. He was no sycophant, and a Governor qua Governor meant nothing to him, but it was almost a physical impossibility for him to be rude to anyone.
“By the way,” he managed to say at last, “I thought I’d ask Iredale to join us for lunch, as you assured me you had no objection. You’re certain that’s all right?”
“Quite all right, my dear fellow,” said Munro heartily. “I shall be delighted to see him again. Some people might find him a bit abrupt, perhaps, but I know he’s a good chap at heart. He seemed to me to have ability, too.” The Governor fingered the heavy gold chain—a family heirloom—that lay across his waistcoat. “At the same time, Ede, I think you were wise not to use those articles of his. He showed them to me, you know—very properly, in the circumstances. They exhibited rather more heat than light, I thought. I didn’t object to the personal criticism in the least—in my position you get a good deal of that from the less well-informed section of the Press—but I felt it wasn’t quite the moment to rock the boat.”
“I dare say not.” Ede was slightly annoyed by Munro’s tone. It was one thing to make his own decision on a matter of policy—though he wasn’t so sure of the soundness of that decision now that he had had an opportunity to reflect on what Iredale had said—but quite another to have it so loftily approved by an interested party. “I gather,” he said, “that you and Iredale had one or two rather heated encounters.”
“Oh, nothing to speak of,” said Munro with the good-humoured tolerance of a headmaster discussing a boy’s minor peccadillo with a parent. “Personally I like to see a newspaperman taking his assignment so seriously. So many of them, unfortunately, are far too frivolous. How is Iredale feeling about it all now?”
“Still ruffled, but cooling down. If you happen to feel like talking shop after lunch—and I frankly hope you will—I think I can promise you there’ll be no broken heads. By the way, how long are you staying in England?” The Editor’s tone was casual. He knew perfectly well that the answer depended on what the Secretary of State had had to say to Munro that morning.
“I expect to fly back on Tuesday,” said the Governor complacently.
“Ah! Speculations disproved, in fact?”
“They were always groundless, my dear fellow. I really don’t know why the Press always has to take a melodramatic view whenever a Governor is recalled for consultations. As a matter of fact, this whole business has been exaggerated out of all proportion. It’s been very unfortunate, of course—very unfortunate indeed—and shocking bad luck for the Clintons.” He gave a reminiscent shake of his head. “The family was wiped out, you know. Still, these things do happen in the best-regulated colonies, and between ourselves there was a certain amount of provocation. The Clintons were not the most liberal planters in the colony.”
“Would it have made any difference if they had been?” Ede’s feelings towards the absent Iredale were growing friendlier every moment.
Munro appeared to bend his whole judicial capacity to the question. “M’m—yes, I think it might have done. Mind you, I’m not blaming the planters—at least, not altogether. They have their difficulties—one has to admit that. But they don’t move with the times, and I must say some of them are extremely headstrong. They give me a great deal of trouble.”
“Iredale tells me a few of them actually threatened you.”
“Yes, that is so, but I can’t feel they meant what they said. Probably their nerves were a little frayed. Two or three of them called at Government House—a sort of unofficial deputation—demanding what they called ‘strong measures’. Naturally I wasn’t prepared to give them assurances under pressure. Then one of them made the very improper observation that if I wasn’t careful my body would be found floating in the lagoon! I know him well—he’s a hot-tempered chap with a very trying wife, but he’s a good fellow really. He’ll probably ask me over for a drink as soon as I get back.”
“I can’t say I envy you your job,” said Ede. “It almost sounds as though you’re conducting a war on two fronts.”
“I have to hold the balance. Naturally, a job like mine has its dangers, but someone has to carry on the public service. Three of my ancestors were assassinated, you know …” Munro mentioned the fact as though it were the first time in his life he had told anyone. “But then, I daresay they deserved it. Getting on with people is an art. My rule is to try to see the good points of the other fellow, and always to shake hands when the row’s over.”
Ede smiled. “Admirable counsel! If you ever get tired of your islands, Munro, you might come back and do a little peacemaking here. I assure you that planters have nothing on newspapermen when it comes to temperament.” He glanced at the clock. “Well, let’s go upstairs, shall we, and see if the restaurant has improved at all since your time. Lionel Cardew will be joining us—he’s our new Foreign Editor from to-day. You’ll find him very well-informed.
I’ve asked Joe Hind, too—he’s always good company. You remember him, I expect?”
“The Falstaff of the Morning Call? Yes, I remember Joe. A capital fellow. Is he drinking as hard as ever? I’m afraid that’s a thing I can’t agree with …” As Munro followed the Editor to the lift, the echoes of his voice boomed round the lower corridors.
Chapter Seven
There is no more disturbing influence in a newspaper office than a roving foreign correspondent home on leave between assignments. The office draws him irresistibly, but he has no work to do there unless some emergency arises, no hours to keep, not even his own desk to sit at. He haunts the Foreign Room, in it but not of it. He browses through the morning papers, restlessly scans the tape, flirts with the secretary and wisecracks with anyone who comes in. When he is obviously becoming an unbearable nuisance he drifts out disconsolately and wanders idly from room to room, looking in vain for a colleague with sufficient leisure to join him in a “quick one”. He is a mild joke around the place. People meeting him in corridors say, “Good Lord, are you still here?—I thought you’d gone to China,” and he grins sheepishly and says he expects to be in China by Thursday. Then they slap him encouragingly on the back, their minds clearly elsewhere, and rush away. Long before lunch-time, he profoundly wishes he were already in China.
It was in something of this frame of mind that Bill Iredale made his way back to the Foreign Room at about the same time that the Editor was pouring out Munro’s first glass of sherry. Miss Burton, the secretary-typist, had gone to lunch, and so had the tape-machine boy. Edgar Jessop was there alone, sitting quietly at his desk, waiting for the sudden hubbub that would tell him his plan had worked. He stirred as Iredale entered. He was quite glad to see Bill—in fact he felt as though he would like to take Bill into his confidence. Bill would understand—he had had a raw deal too. He knew what it felt like to be humiliated. But then, Bill hadn’t had the revelation. Better, perhaps, to keep his own counsel.
Iredale drew up a chair, stuck his feet on a desk, and felt for his pipe. This was the first opportunity he had had of a quiet téte-á-téte since Jessop’s interview with the Editor on the previous evening.
“Any news, Ed?” he asked. “About you, I mean?”
“I didn’t get the job,” said Jessop in a flat tone. It wasn’t so important now, of course, but it wouldn’t do to let that be seen.
“Oh, bad luck!” Iredale felt genuinely sorry. His friendly relationship with Jessop was so old-established, so deeply-rooted in common professional experience, that he had long taken it for granted. They both belonged to the depleted Old Guard of the paper—and ink, like blood, was thicker than water. As reporters they had collaborated on the same stories, sharing triumphs and failures; jointly, they had faced sudden crises in the early morning hours; they could recall the same great occasions, the same people, the same office joke
s; they had passed through the same exacting school. Even after Iredale had gone abroad, the bond had continued, for Jessop in the Foreign Room had often handled his dispatches and had kept in constant touch by cable. That had meant a great deal to Iredale during the war, when the friendly encouraging telegram from London had been like air to a diver. Of the two, Jessop had had the more positive sentiment, for in the early days he had felt something like hero worship for Iredale’s independence and self-reliance, the qualities he lacked. He had been eager and hopeful then; Iredale couldn’t fail to notice that he had become shut-in and morose and bitter, but he was well aware of Jessop’s professional disappointments as well as of his recent personal loss, and continued to think of him as he had been, rather than as he was now. As he looked at Jessop’s drawn face, he felt the old twinge of compassion for a man whose hopes had always outrun his achievements and who lacked the blessing of the strong—inner repose. The fact that Iredale could well see Ede’s point of view in passing Jessop over for the job of Foreign Editor didn’t lessen his sympathy for his old stable companion.
He prodded the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully. “Who is getting the job?” he asked. “Do you know?”
“Cardew, of course. To get anywhere on this paper you have to make love to the Editor’s wife and then she sees that you get promotion!”
Even Iredale, hardened though he was to newspaper scandal, looked a bit taken aback at that. “Easy, old man! That’s going rather far, isn’t it?”
“It’s true,” said Jessop. “You wouldn’t know about it, you’ve been out of the country, but everybody else does. Cardew’s always taking her out—and this is his reward. Just imagine it—Cardew!” He drew fiercely on his cigarette. “Why, only a year or two back I was teaching him his Fleet Street ABC. Do you know, when he came here he hardly knew the difference between a galley and a spike. I remember Ede bringing him in …” Suddenly the Editor’s fruity, confident voice seemed to fill the room as Jessop plunged into bitter mimicry. “‘Oh, Jessop, I want you to meet Lionel Cardew. He’s just joined the staff and he doesn’t know much about newspapers. I want you to teach him all you can about the technical side. Take him under your wing, there’s a good fellow.”’