Mortimer considered. ‘It isn’t very easy,’ he said. ‘There are dozens of Percival-Smiths, with and without the hyphen. We made him drop it, by the way, when he came to us. We called him Percy Smith. They’re the salt of the earth. Pretty well educated, short of the frills. The sort which never does anything particularly brilliant but equally never makes a mess of anything you give it to do. Conscientious and thoroughly decent.’
‘Can he hold his tongue?’
‘It seems he has so far.’
‘Excellent.’
‘And I can vouch that he was no babbler on Guest Nights. He could hold his liquor. And he wasn’t given to boasting.’
‘Thank you. He sounds secure enough.’ Russell lit his pipe again and considered his decision. ‘He will do,’ he said finally. ‘You may tell him that if he can see his way to exercising his talents on Number Twenty-Seven there are eminent persons who will be very greatly obliged.’
‘What is he to steal?’
‘Nothing whatsoever.’ Russell allowed himself a momentary irritation. ‘Though I agree it may not be easy to explain. He is to look for anything in the nature of a laboratory—any sort of scientific apparatus. It might be chemical, something like the usual school laboratory, or it might be electrical, or both. It could be quite small, and he will have to look thoroughly. We can give him a diagram of the house, I don’t doubt, and a certain amount of information about the habits of the lady who lives there. He will need that to time his visit,’ he added drily. ‘There is also a small boy to be considered. But we can’t satisfy any curiosity about the reason for our interest in the establishment, and finally I needn’t say that there will be no sort of protection if things go wrong, though your friend will guess that from the fact that we’re asking him to help at all. Nevertheless you are to make the point.’
‘That is all I can tell him?’
‘That is all I can tell you.’
Mortimer in turn considered. ‘You will understand, sir,’ he said at length, ‘that I’m not particularly intimate with Percival-Smith. It isn’t impossible that he will come to the conclusion that the whole story is an elaborate hoax. I can’t, I gather, refer him to you.’
‘Certainly not. But we can give him through you the same sort of information about the house and the people in it as any competent housebreaker would try to obtain before he committed himself. Also we can see that our own men are conveniently elsewhere for the time he chooses to operate, and I dare say contrive that not too many people happen to be around. Beyond that your Percival-Smith is on his own. He will have to be quick, too.’
‘I understand, sir. Whether Percival-Smith will understand I don’t know.’
No, Mortimer reflected as he climbed the steps of the Armoured Vehicles, he did not know at all. Charlie Percival-Smith, it was his private opinion, could be forgiven if he declined so clumsy an attempt to make a fool of him. Mortimer was uncomfortable. He had no reason to make a fool of Percival-Smith who would certainly, and properly, resent what he might think was the attempt. He himself would look an ass which, since he had worked for the Security Executive, had happened before; and an ill-bred and insensitive ass, which had not. The fact was the Percival-Smiths were not the kind of men with whom you ran a risk that they might think you were pulling their leg; not, that is, if you had any instinct for your fellow men. Percival-Smith, Mortimer thought, innocent of patronage, was a thoroughly decent little man. He had told Russell that he was the salt of the earth. And so he was. He regretted that in an hour or so Percival-Smith might, and with reason, be considering him a cad. Well, if one chose to be a policeman . . .
But over glasses of sherry in the bar he began to feel a little less uneasy. Without exactly saying that he worked for the Executive he conveyed a connexion. Percival-Smith was interested, even a little wistful. They chatted of experiences shared. It was clear that to Percival-Smith the war had not been without compensations. Mortimer let it be known that he had heard something of his career after he had left the Seventh/Seventeenth on secondment. Percival-Smith was surprised and flattered. He told Mortimer in return that working in a shipping office, though he wasn’t grousing, could be very pedestrian; he envied anyone who still seemed to have a finger in perhaps one or two of the familiar pies. By the second glass of sherry, Mortimer was almost confident. He saw that he might have underestimated the potency of habit. Once a Cloak and Dagger man, he reflected, apparently always so.
Nevertheless when they went to table Mortimer still went warily. His fish, he thought, was interested, but he would only scare him by working the bait injudiciously. It was a pity, he said, that somehow they did not seem to see more of each other, but that could be remedied. He ordered an elegant Hock with the sole and, with a deprecatory something about celebrating old times, a solid claret with the pigeon pie. Presently Percival-Smith spoke again of the war and of what for him had emerged from it. He was nostalgic now, too polite and too well trained to ask a question, but clearly envious of the connexion with the irregular at which Mortimer had hinted. Mortimer watched Percival-Smith and he watched the bottle. He did not wish to make him drunk nor even a little fuddled—a fuddled consent would be useless. But he saw that he was as receptive now, as mellow as he would allow himself to become. Mortimer disclosed that he was permanently upon the staff of the Security Executive. Percival-Smith received this without surprise. ‘I thought you had meant me to guess as much,’ he said. ‘It’s all very professional nowadays. There’s no place for the part-timer.’
‘You say so,’ Mortimer said.
There was a considerable silence. Percival-Smith finally broke it. ‘Are you,’ he said, ‘are you by any chance asking me a question?’
‘I am.’
‘I might not say no. You would have to trust me, of course, in case I did.’
‘Naturally.’
They went with coffee into the library and Mortimer, in a dozen sentences, told Percival-Smith the little he had to tell. It sounded, he thought, a very unlikely tale indeed. But Percival-Smith received it without comment, and when he spoke, his questions were entirely practical. Who was in the house? He would have to have a preliminary look around. A house built in the twenties? Good. Mostly very poor stuff. A semidetached? Much less good. Telephone? Regular police beat? He spoke without excitement, professionally. Mortimer was impressed. ‘It’s only fair to tell you,’ he said, ‘that if this is to be done at all it’s to be done very soon. An emergency, in fact.’
‘It always is.’
‘But if I said tomorrow evening, for instance, wouldn’t that surprise you?’
‘It would make it more difficult, of course; but it wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘And it wouldn’t surprise you to be told that you will be entirely on your own? If anything goes wrong, I mean.’
‘No, no. Of course not.’ Percival-Smith displayed a quick impatience. ‘I didn’t expect my late masters to explain that they could give no formal instructions to break the law—other countries’ laws as often as not—and I don’t expect the Executive to do it either.’ His irritation subsided. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ he explained.
‘Not at all.’ Mortimer went on to insist, very carefully, that he had been speaking upon instructions. ‘Time wasted with you,’ he added, ‘but they were orders.’ Percival-Smith accepted a cigar and smoked for a time in silence. When he spoke it was to ask whether he could use some of the Club’s writing-paper. He moved with decision to a table and wrote for five minutes. He handed three sheets to Mortimer. ‘If you can give me any sort of brief on that,’ he said, ‘I will do what I can. If you really want me to go to work tomorrow night I shall have to have it as early as possible tomorrow morning.’ His voice had an edge, an authority resumed.
Mortimer read the three sheets deliberately. ‘I think we can give you most of that,’ he said.
‘Excellent. Would ten o’clock tomorrow morning be too early?’
‘We’ll try. Should we meet again here? It seems as goo
d a place as any, and at that hour it will be empty.’
‘Very well.’ Percival-Smith smiled unexpectedly. ‘I’m doing a very foolish thing,’ he said. ‘What I ought to say is that I’m delighted if I can help you, but in fact I haven’t any creditable motives at all. Just put me down as an addict.’
They met again at the Armoured Vehicles next morning and Mortimer handed Percival-Smith two envelopes. ‘These are the best answers we can give you to what you asked last night,’ he said, ‘and a bit more we thought you might find useful. Ignore what you don’t want—they’re in no sense instructions. I shall have to have them back, of course, but I can wait here until you’ve finished with them. And if there are any fresh points, I will try to get answers for you.’
Percival-Smith stood for a moment with the envelopes in his hand. He laid the larger on the table, indicating the second. ‘And this?’ he asked with reserve.
‘Let us call that taxi money.’
‘I don’t want any money.’
Mortimer’s reply was given very quickly. ‘I know it,’ he said, ‘and I am going to tell you something which perhaps I should not.’ His manner became formal. ‘My principal mentioned several hundred pounds. He was obliged to—it is a rule, you know. But I told him something about yourself and he agreed to waive it. Just the same, he insisted on expenses. We cannot have you out of pocket.’ His manner became more formal than ever. ‘I should like to add,’ he went on, ‘that in my opinion that is perfectly correct.’ He waited, and Percival-Smith regarded him with interest. He was thinking that, he was very much the Regular Officer—very regular indeed. ‘Very well,’ he said at length. ‘You put it very delicately.’ If his voiced hinted at an irony, Mortimer did not appear to notice. He was looking very relieved.
‘I take it this envelope does contain only pocket money?’
‘Yes,’ Mortimer agreed. ‘Ten pounds. And while we are on the mechanics of it, there’s one other thing. You don’t give the impression that anything is at all likely to go wrong, but in case it does, and after the dust has settled, we will put you down anywhere you like in the Sterling Area with a modest nest egg. That again is quite usual.’
Percival-Smith’s expression did not change. ‘You’re much more generous than the Army,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to seem curious,’ he went on, ‘but you mentioned the Sterling Area. May I ask . . .?’
‘Dollars,’ Mortimer said promptly. ‘The Treasury, you know. There’s a fuss about dollars and . . .’
‘I see,’ said Percival-Smith. ‘I see.’ It was impossible to read his thoughts, but he was thinking that he had made a mistake. It had been a mistake to suppose that he would have liked a permanent Commission. It would have been purgatory . . . Impossible, invaluable Major Mortimer. You couldn’t have too many of them, especially in war. You couldn’t have too many of them, but it was evident that you couldn’t imaginably live with them. To fight with, yes—they were without peer; but to live with—no and no again. He recollected himself, and the brisk competence of the evening before returned to him. ‘Shall we sit down?’ he suggested. They sat together on a sofa and for an hour Percival-Smith read and read again; occasionally he asked a question; and finally he handed back the papers to Mortimer. ‘I will do what I can,’ he said.
Sir Jeremy took a bus next morning to his office and arrived at twenty-five minutes to ten. He was five minutes late because the traffic had delayed him. He was annoyed, for he liked to set an example. Civil servants of the Administrative Grade, he considered, took great liberties over time-keeping. The tradition was of respectable antiquity and certainly they stayed very late at their offices, but Sir Jeremy disapproved. Of course if he had had a Ministry car sent to his flat . . . but of that he disapproved even more. One or two of his colleagues, a little sneakingly, might do so, but Sir Jeremy was firmly of the older school: Government transport upon Government business, and then only when it could be justified as a saving to Government. And no silly excuses to oneself. A car to and from one’s home—that couldn’t possibly be Government business. So Sir Jeremy went on an omnibus and arrived a little late.
He took the private lift to his room and opened his engagement book—a meeting at half past ten and another at three. A note from Wasserman to inquire about Amalgamated Steel. There wouldn’t be a great deal of time for routine business. He looked at the papers upon his desk, and imperceptibly his mouth drooped. It was incredible, he reflected, it was merciless. You stayed till all hours clearing your tray, and in the morning miraculously the pile had renewed itself. Prometheus, he thought . . . His secretary came in quietly.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good morning, Marshall.’ Sir Jeremy suppressed a smile. He knew that Marshall would be aware of the custom of the Service—one simply did not call people sir. But Marshall did: occasionally and with discretion he called Sir Jeremy sir. Sir Jeremy did not object. If one were very senior perhaps, very senior indeed, then the tradition might be relaxed. But it had to be done properly. Sir Jeremy shuddered as he remembered that it hadn’t been so long ago that a Principal had called him Sir Jeremy. Sir Jeremy! As though the fellow had been a butler. Marshall would be incapable of that. His sirs were discreet and impeccable sirs. They were not exactly predictable, but Sir Jeremy wondered whether Marshall was aware that when he called him sir it was usually to preface something unusual and often awkward. He looked at his secretary expectantly. Marshall seemed to be hesitating. ‘The Minister would like to see you,’ he said at length. ‘At once, if it is convenient.’
Sir Jeremy was surprised. His Minister was considerate; he had established times for seeing him; and they did not include Saturday mornings. The Permanent Secretary, a few selected janissaries, might still work on Saturdays, but Ministers . . . Sir Jeremy collected his considerable powers. ‘Tell the Private Office, please,’ he said, ‘that I will come immediately.’
He was more than a little disturbed.
Mr Gabriel Palliser was a very good Minister—more than sufficiently good to appreciate Sir Jeremy. He had not sent for him idly: Palliser had himself forgone a morning’s golf to do so. He was a handsome man, a little florid, and beautifully dressed. He would not have been annoyed to have been called worldly. He turned from the window and his superlative clothes followed his movements easily. He sat in the chair at his splendid desk and thought that it was a pity that Bates and Nichol did not get on together. It complicated a situation already decidedly complicated.
Gabriel Palliser was a politician and he deplored complications. He thought again that it was a great pity Bates couldn’t seem to hit it off with Nichol.
They never had, he remembered. The three of them had been in College together. Bates hadn’t been thought a particularly gifted boy. But he had worked and he had worked. That business of the Maradox Prize, for instance: Bates had desired it, Bates had been working for it, Bates had intended to possess it. And Nichol hadn’t been in the running, for Nichol, far from working for school prizes, was having some difficulty in keeping both a place in the Eleven and a position in form which, for a Scholar, could with a stretch be regarded as respectable. Then Nichol had gone down with something or other—German measles, Palliser thought he remembered—and had been sent to the Sanatorium. Bored, he had asked for his books . . . Bates had taken it rather well, come to think of it. He had shown no sign of disappointment, but Palliser was certain that he had not forgotten. It had been an unconscious taunt, a bitter reminder that gifts were of God. To slave, to devote oneself, to have the highest imaginable sense of duty—these were excellent things, things of great merit. Merit—solid worth: it was unavailing against the sudden flash and bang, the inexplicable manifestation of talent. People did not easily forgive it that to you, not to them, had the gift been given.
Talent, inescapably, bred enemies; and so did wearing learning lightly. Palliser smiled, for he was reflecting that William Nichol had been a Doctor of Philosophy when he had become interested in the philosophy of mathematics. Soo
n he had become a very good mathematician and, not too long afterwards, almost without noticing his path, a physicist of the first rank. Soon he had been on equal terms with men who had begun their science in their teens. Surprisingly soon, indecently soon. It might have been better, Palliser thought, wiser even, if Nichol could have contrived the impression that science had been a great deal more difficult than in fact he had found it. The scientists had resented this almost casual rape of their mysteries. It was a jealous world, the world of science, jealous and close and unremittingly competitive. You slipped for a moment from the raft; there was a snapping and a swirl of blood, and it was over.
Nor was it only scientists who thought that Nichol had been lucky—lucky to have arrived at Colton a year before Slow Burner had emerged. Palliser knew better. Slow Burner certainly hadn’t been invented. He had more than an inkling of the years of unrewarded research, the mountains of knowledge which were the background to such a discovery. But equally he knew that it had not discovered itself. No analysis of the material could have produced it as a matter of course: an instinct had been needed, a divine discontent. The thing was there, but a man had had to salt its tail. Holsteiner could have gripped it, for instance, or perhaps a dozen others. They had not done so. Particularly not Holsteiner. Gabriel Palliser grimaced. Holsteiner was an ass; Holsteiner had been so long playing politics that he had forgotten whatever he had known. He was fit, now, for nothing but a Knighthood and a seat on the Development Commission.
The Minister’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his Permanent Secretary. Sir Jeremy walked across the room holding out his hand. It was one of his few idiosyncrasies. He knew that to shake hands daily with a man whom you daily met was not an English custom. His colleagues despised it, but he considered that it defined precisely, defined conveniently, his relations with his Minister. He would hold out his hand and the Minister would take it. He would ask him to sit down . . .
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