Slow Burner

by William Haggard

  Sir Jeremy was conscious of an emotion which after a lifetime in Whitehall he had expected to atrophy: he was simply shocked. He was immeasurably shocked at William Nichol.

  He shivered, but with no personal fear, no regret for the decision which he had almost taken. Fifty or sixty million people, he reflected, and food, at the level of subsistence, for perhaps forty. Industry, Slow Burner apart, a generation out of date. Years of soft living . . . Sir Jeremy shivered again. In such a situation the man who could consider going abroad, selling his knowledge, was worse than a danger, worse than an apostate. Sir Jeremy sought and found the appropriate word, the competent, the devoted administrator’s final condemnation. Such a man was nuisance.

  His mouth hardened, for now he was considering his duty. Duty, he thought and ‘habit’ a private voice whispered to him—‘envy’, ‘self-interest’. He listened calmly to his doubts, for he could tell himself that it was none of these. If Nichol had his way then inevitably there would be another Permanent Secretary at the Ministry. That would be ignominy and a final failure. Sir Jeremy’s mouth hardened again. ‘But I do not care for that,’ he said, and he spoke aloud. ‘I do not care first for that.’

  But Nichol then, he thought—William Nichol himself? Surely there should be a doubt? Do you not hate him? the private voice inquired. Are you not envious? Has not Nichol, intolerably, had the best of both worlds? Nichol who took the Maradox Prize, Nichol who was a figure at the university when you were a drudge. Nichol and his carnations, and the sparkle he could light in some women casually met at a party. Leisurely, easily laughing Nichol. Nichol in manner the amateur and, incredibly against the probabilities, Nichol of a professional competence recognized and materially crowned. You detested him—impossible to deny it; your bile revolted when he crossed you. Very well, there was coincidence here, and in matters of conscience coincidence was suspect. Duty might be clear, but it pointed in the path of inclination. Be careful. Be very sure.

  Sir Jeremy sat motionless, his expression stubborn. ‘It is a coincidence,’ he said at length. His voice was firm and impersonal. ‘It is a coincidence,’ he repeated, ‘but not more. Nichol and myself are irrelevant. I see what must be done and I must do it. I must do my duty,’

  He caught his reflection for a moment in the mirror. It was rather a striking face, he thought without vanity; it was almost a face of a martyr.

  Sir Jeremy would have admitted that the line between sanity and otherwise was tenuous and at times almost beyond definition; he would have admitted, too, that men under pressure, steady pressure, steadily increasing pressure, could step so near to it that God alone could say which side their shadow fell. But he would have been surprised as well as insulted to be told that he himself was across it. Not noticeably, not scandalously. But across it.

  Sir Jeremy was accustomed to assess probabilities and, this afternoon, by habit he did so. What he wished to do was to make a telephone call, and he wished neither that it should be overheard nor that he should be seen making it. That in itself would not be so difficult: he had a simple plan for that, and experience had taught him that the simple plan was usually successful. But he wished to make his call immediately, and that would be complicated. He looked at his clock; it was barely four. It would be unheard of for Sir Jeremy Bates to leave his office at tea-time. Of course he could say that he had an appointment, but in that case it would be inevitable that Marshall should ask him where it was. Ironically Sir Jeremy imagined the conversation.

  ‘I am going out now, Marshall. I have an appointment.’

  ‘But I don’t think there is anything in your engagement book. I hope I haven’t missed something.’

  ‘No, it is quite unexpected.’

  ‘Then can we reach you anywhere? There is that telegram from Amalgamated, for instance. You might like to know immediately what they have decided.’

  Sir Jeremy smiled wryly. It occurred to him that his life was as conditioned as a guinea pig’s in a laboratory . . . or alternatively he could simply say that he was going home. That was certainly a possibility, but there was always the chance that somebody would telephone. Somebody would telephone to the Ministry, and Marshall, if he thought the caller of sufficient standing, would put him through to the flat. And Sir Jeremy was not going to his flat, or at least not directly. Finally he decided, and it was a decision which he had taken more than once, that the safest course would be to tell as much of the truth as was convenient and the minimum, positively the minimum, of what was actually untrue. He rang for Marshall.

  ‘Marshall,’ he said, ‘I am not feeling as well as I might. No,’ he added at once as Marshall started to speak, ‘nothing to worry about whatever. But I think a walk might be a good idea, and after that I shall go home. I hope you won’t have to telephone, but if you do, give me until six o’clock.’

  Marshall hid his surprise, but he permitted himself a proper concern. ‘I hope you will be all right,’ he ventured.

  ‘I shall be,’ Sir Jeremy said. ‘I hope.’

  He walked to the top of Whitehall and took a bus to King’s Cross, for he had decided that a public telephone at King’s Cross would be as safe as anywhere. His colleagues travelled to their suburbs from Charing Cross and from Waterloo and Victoria, and in any case his acquaintances, at four o’clock, would certainly still be working. Nevertheless it would be prudent to minimize the chances of a stray encounter, and for that purpose King’s Cross was excellent. In the world of Whitehall King’s Cross was not a fashionable station.

  Provident in detail, he examined his small change. He would not be caught without coppers. He went into a telephone box and dialled a number in Guilford Street. ‘I want,’ he said, ‘to speak to Mr. Schmidt.’ He waited calmly. ‘Hullo,’ said the receiver at length, ‘this is Schmidt.’

  Sir Jeremy spoke with an urgent precision. He spoke for some time. In answer the telephone protested noisily.

  ‘Your naturalization papers,’ said Sir Jeremy, ‘when it is done. At once.’ It struck him that he was promising something which he had no power to guarantee. Schmidt’s citizenship, i after all, was a matter for the Home Office. He was making a promise which he might easily have to break. With nothing more serious than surprise he discovered that the consideration did not weigh with him.

  The receiver in Sir Jeremy’s hand squeaked on. He listened patiently. ‘Think of Gretl,’ he said at length. For a moment the telephone was silent; then, with startling clarity, it came to life again. ‘Twenty thousand pounds,’ it said.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ said Sir Jeremy.

  ‘It is very cheap. You can get it, can’t you? You can get any money you want.’

  Sir Jeremy remembered that he had not been struck in the j face since he was a boy. Nevertheless the sensation had not been forgotten. He was outraged; he drew a careful breath. ‘If you imagine,’ he said meticulously, ‘that I would use public moneys in a matter of this sort you are mistaken.’

  There was a moment of reflection. ‘Ten, then,’ said the telephone, ‘you can manage ten.’ It was a statement.

  Ten thousand pounds, Sir Jeremy thought—what I have put by over the years. The annuity I would have bought when I retired, and the difference, the world of difference, it would have made. Well, I shall have my pension. Barbara and I can live on it, I suppose. Just.

  Sir Jeremy’s plans for retirement had not included Lady Bates.

  ‘Five thousand,’ he said into the telephone. His voice carried no conviction. In the market place Sir Jeremy was defenceless.

  ‘Ten,’ the telephone said promptly. ‘Or nothing.’

  Sir Jeremy sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘And it must be tomorrow. I have told you his movements. The meeting at Royal Society is at half past two.’

  It was a little after tea-time when Major Mortimer walked into Russell’s room. He was evidently elated, though he was trying not to show it. ‘We have heard from Levison, sir,’ he said. He was making his voice as matter of fact as he could contrive.

>   Russell glanced at him, concealing a smile; he decided that if Mortimer was enjoying his little game it wasn’t for him to spoil it. ‘Really?’ He managed to sound quite incurious.

  ‘Really.’ But Mortimer’s casual manner fell from him suddenly. ‘We’ve been damned lucky,’ he said crisply. He looked at his superior with something which was rather more than respect. ‘Cast your bread upon the waters,’ he began.

  ‘And mostly, in this business, you never see it again.’

  ‘Well, we have. And a little butter on the side.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Russell said calmly.

  ‘Levison remembered Mrs Tarbat very well—very well, I gathered. Her name is Molly, by the way. He said that if only he’d been as prosperous in forty-eight as he is now no damned Englishman would have cut him out.’

  ‘And who was the Englishman?’

  ‘Levison didn’t remember his name off-hand—it’s quite a time ago. He had to go to that machine of his. You know . . . you pull a switch and it begins to hum. Then you press buttons with letters on and turn things with numbers. There are: rods you push in and rods you pull out. Finally you tread on a pedal, and presto, the cards you want are in your hand with just about everything on them. Much better than the Bureau.’

  ‘That’s why we use him. Better and less excitable.’ Colonel Russell smiled. ‘We were discussing cards,’ he suggested. What cards, in this case?’

  ‘Just what you would expect from Levison. One marked Tarbat and the other Parton.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Russell said.

  ‘It is indeed. As it happens there isn’t very much about Parton that we didn’t know already from the Bureau, except the essential that he was something more than friendly with Mrs Tarbat in New York. But there was plenty about Mrs Tarbat.’

  ‘So that the Bureau seems to have slipped up on Mrs Tarbat?’

  ‘No, sir. Mrs Tarbat, as you suggested, isn’t in the least suspect—not in our sense, that is; but she was a friend of both Parton and Levison—he puts everybody into that machine of his, women and all; and she does have a criminal record.’

  ‘Start at the beginning like a good chap,’ Russell said.

  ‘She was in the chorus of a musical called Yes, Madam No the sort of cosy English thing which makes a packet at the Palace and is a foredoomed flop on Broadway. Nevertheless some misguided angel did back it on Broadway. Where it duly flopped. Mrs Tarbat was on the rocks. She knocked about for a bit, then took to casual shoplifting. They make it scandalously easy—worse than we do. She was caught, of course, eventually, and stopped a minor fine or two. Then they got fed up with her and gave her a really swingeing fine—they must have known she couldn’t pay it—or a straight three months in the bin. But she didn’t do her three months. Somebody paid the fine at the last moment.’

  ‘Levison?’ Russell suggested.

  ‘He denies it. Apologetically, I may add. He says that he tried to raise it, but . . .’

  Then Parton?’

  ‘Levison isn’t sure. He thinks it’s entirely possible and he’s making inquiries . . .’

  Russell interrupted. ‘It isn’t essential,’ he said. His voice was decided.

  ‘No,’ Mortimer agreed, ‘I suppose not. We’ve got our connexion.’

  ‘And rather more, surely. Which in case I have got it wrong I propose to recite to you.’ Colonel Russell considered for a moment. ‘We have established,’ he said at length, ‘that Parton knows Mrs Tarbat; and we have discovered that Mrs Tarbat has a police record. It’s a pretty pathetic little record and, as you say, of no interest to us in itself. But it’s a criminal record, and it’s almost certain that Parton knows of it. And Mrs Tarbat lives, rather comfortably I gather, upon three young men—three young men in a merchant bank . . . Mortimer, what is your opinion of merchant bankers?’

  ‘They’re very careful of course. Very conventional. They would shy like stags at anything like a police record.’

  ‘Precisely. And Mrs Tarbat has a boy to consider, I believe?’ Mortimer nodded.

  Charles Russell walked to the window. ‘We’ve been extremely lucky,’ he said out of it.

  ‘You’re very modest, sir.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m modest at all. But we are undeniably in luck.’ Russell returned to his desk. ‘What now?’ he inquired briskly.

  ‘We pull in Parton,’ Mortimer said promptly.

  But Colonel Russell did not at once reply. ‘Perhaps,’ he said finally. ‘There will be difficulties, of course—you understand what they are as well as I do.’ He broke another silence to ask a question. ‘We were speaking of Parton getting away,’ he added. ‘What is your fancy, by the way—East or West? West for the money or East for the . . . well, East for politics?’

  ‘East,’ Mortimer said at once.

  ‘You seem very sure.’

  T am. I’ve read his file. And I’ve met Parton.’

  ‘Money can be very attractive, you know.’

  ‘Not to the Partons.’

  Colonel Russell considered this. ‘I dare say you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘In any case if it was West he’s more or less finished himself. He must realize that his blind has turned against him—against any of the dozen or so men who could have contrived it; he must realize that if he wasn’t being watched too carefully before he certainly is now. And West, to the best of our knowledge, would have meant going under his own steam. There would have been protection, perhaps, if he had reached his destination, but hardly planned assistance to get there. Whereas if it was East . . .’

  ‘If it is East, there’s still the Underground. It got away with You Know Who. I know enough to have the highest respect for it.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘Then pull in Parton,’ Mortimer said urgently.

  ‘But how? We’re satisfied, now, about Parton ourselves—we, the Security Executive. Are you suggesting we could satisfy a magistrate? Do you believe we could get a warrant—as we stand, I mean?’

  ‘No, sir. But the special powers . . .’

  ‘The special powers are of Sir Jeremy.’

  ‘Damn Sir Jeremy,’ Mortimer said vehemently.

  ‘Amen. But it doesn’t help us. I agree that the special powers were intended for something short of legal proof. As this is. Unhappily the question in practice has become whether Sir Jeremy sees them that way.’

  ‘But he must.’

  ‘We can but try.’ Charles Russell filled his pipe deliberately. ‘Just how much elbow room have we?’ he asked.

  ‘A little,’ Mortimer said, though reluctantly. ‘Parton is still in hospital with a reliable man of our own in the next bed. But there’s altogether too much at stake to feel comfortable.’

  ‘I know it. Just the same, you can give me a little time—until tomorrow, for example? I should like to discuss this with Doctor Nichol before we decide our line with Sir Jeremy.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mortimer agreed.

  But he sounded very unenthusiastic.

  ‘Then Nichol is coming to London tomorrow,’ Russell said, ‘and I shall ask him to luncheon. If you haven’t another engagement I should be glad if you’d come too.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Thank you.’

  Charles Russell rose and Mortimer with him. They walked to the door. Mortimer was evidently unhappy and Russell was aware of it. He smiled suddenly. ‘Politics,’ he said, ‘are the curse of tidy administration.’

  ‘I’m not fussed about tidy administration. I’m worried about Slow Burner.’

  ‘So am I, my dear fellow.’ Charles Russell’s handsome face darkened unexpectedly. ‘So I agree with you,’ he added. His voice wasn’t one which he had used before. ‘Damn Sir Jeremy,’ he said.

  ‘Oh hell,’ said Major Mortimer.

  Chapter 7

  On Thursday William Nichol did something which, since he knew it to be discourteous, he seldom permitted himself: he broke an engagement without adequate notice. At ten minutes past one he was sitting in Bratt’s waiting for Russell and Mortim
er, and at a quarter past he was in the street again. He had left a note behind him, but he wasn’t at all happy. Unhappiness indeed had driven him from Bratt’s. He had been thinking about Mary Parton, about the luncheon which he might have been eating with her, and suddenly a meal with Russell and Mortimer had seemed insupportable. He had put down his drink and moved on an impulse to a writing-table; he had given his note to the porter and had taken his hat.

  He walked to a bar, ordering sandwiches and beer; he was completely miserable. Mary Parton, he thought, Mary . . . he remembered with a sour smile that he had been telling himself how unattractive, in a year or two, how boring would be life alone. A widower, a housekeeper . . . Damn it, that had nothing to do with it. It was Mary he wanted. Mary. He realized with a shock that he was in love. He was forty and something more, and he was in love—away over the hill like a boy. He was surprised and miserable and a little proud; he saw no happiness in his estate but still he was a little proud of it. Parton, he thought wretchedly, was Ellis Parton—he wouldn’t free her . . . Not a nice man. Nichol’s expression changed suddenly. He hid it in his beer mug, for it was something which he did not wish the barmaid to observe. He glanced at his watch—there was nearly an hour to his meeting. He ordered more beer, drinking it slowly, watching the clock above the bar. It moved intolerably slowly . . .

  And it did not help to reflect that Charles Russell would be thinking very poorly of him.

  Though in fact he was not. At Bratt’s Russell had read Nichol’s note and put it in his pocket. It had been the note of one old friend to another, and he did not show it to Mortimer. Instead he explained, very simply, that Doctor Nichol had been prevented from keeping his engagement. Then he went with Mortimer into the smaller of the two dining-rooms.