Slow Burner

by William Haggard

  Mrs Tarbat drank again. ‘Very much nicer,’ she agreed.

  Charles Russell took the other armchair beside her. They were sitting not by his desk but in comfortable chairs before the fire. Russell stirred it reflectively. ‘There is a type of investigator,’ he began, ‘a lawyer as often as not, who asks people to come and see him. He then asks a great many questions, most of which would bring a Court about his ears like a hundredweight of bricks. His visitor becomes confused and sooner or later says something he would have preferred not to. Whereupon the investigator takes advantage of it.’ Colonel Russell smiled. ‘What I am trying to convey is that I’m not that variety of investigator.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were,’ Mrs Tarbat said composedly.

  Thank you. Then I can propose an honourable exchange. May I start by telling you what we know of Mrs Tarbat? We know that you were acquainted with Ellis Parton in America; we know that you had some trouble or other in New York; and we are all but certain that Parton knew of that trouble.’ Colonel Russell paused. ‘It is our impression of Ellis Parton,’ he said slowly, ‘that he was a man quite capable of using another’s troubles. And Ellis Parton is now dead.’

  ‘I know,’ Mrs Tarbat said. ‘I saw it in the papers yesterday, though they didn’t say very much.’ She drank a little more sherry. ‘I’m delighted,’ she added simply.

  ‘Then we were hoping . . .’

  ‘But of course. It’s a stupid little story, really, and much as you seemed to have guessed. I’ve seen as little of Ellis since New York as I could manage. You will have gathered that I didn’t like him. But he came to me one day with what he called a proposition. He said he had invented something—something electrical, something quite new. He wanted to test it secretly and he wanted me to help him. I didn’t like it. I knew Ellis Parton—not as well as you do, I expect—but I couldn’t help knowing who some of his friends were. I was suspicious; I hated the idea; I refused. So he told me that if I didn’t play, didn’t cooperate . . .’

  Russell waved a hand. ‘We needn’t go into that,’ he said.

  ‘You’re very considerate. It ended with his putting something into the attic. I was terrified. I knew it was there and I’m sorry I had to say that I didn’t. But I knew nothing else about it. It scared me stiff. Ellis was perfectly capable of landing me with something dangerous—physically, I mean, quite apart from getting me into trouble with . . . well, with you. And that is all I knew. I didn’t know, for instance, that this thing went on and off with the attic light. That,’ Mrs Tarbat added, ‘that was typically Ellis Parton.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  Mrs Tarbat hesitated. ‘And now I suppose I’m in serious trouble again,’ she suggested.

  Colonel Russell poured her a second glass of sherry. ‘Not at all,’ he said concisely.

  ‘You really mean it?’

  ‘But why shouldn’t I? Your story, if I may say so, is the story I had hoped you would tell me. If I were anxious to pursue you I should have some difficulty in finding a law which you had broken. We were more than merely interested in Parton, of course. But Parton is dead.’

  Mrs Tarbat, staring into the fire, reflected for some time. ‘You’re a gentleman,’ she said finally.

  ‘Thank you. Then you embolden me to ask a very ungentlemanly question.’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘One thing has puzzled me, for it doesn’t tally with Mrs Tarbat. Who, may I say, I like very much. When that man of ours first broke in . . .’

  ‘Charlie, you mean?’

  Russell’s eyebrows rose, and Mrs Tarbat laughed. Nevertheless she dropped her eyes as she answered. ‘We were talking about people taking an advantage of each other,’ she said. ‘Call it blackmail for short. Ellis had the advantage of me and I was terrified. I was afraid of trouble sooner or later, and when Charlie broke in . . . Well, he didn’t look at all like a burglar, you know.’

  ‘I’m not very sure that I follow.’

  Mrs Tarbat sighed. She was thinking that men, even an obviously intelligent one, could be surprisingly obtuse. ‘I am trying to explain,’ she went on, ‘that I was expecting trouble with the police. Charlie, I thought, was a policeman of a sort. So I thought I’d better get the drop on him.’

  Charles Russell picked his cigarette up. ‘You’re a very shrewd woman,’ he said. He was looking at Mrs Tarbat with open admiration.

  ‘Ye . . . es. Perhaps. It hasn’t come out that way, though. Charlie and I are going to get married.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Mrs Tarbat said politely.

  ‘Of course I don’t. I congratulate him. I congratulate both of you.’ Charles Russell rose. ‘You must ask me to the wedding,’ he said.

  ‘We should be delighted. It wouldn’t,’ Mrs. Tarbat added demurely, ‘it would hardly be a proper wedding without you.’

  Charles Russell, that evening, was a little shocked by William Nichol’s appearance, for he still looked decidedly ill. His face was puffed and blotchy, and he hadn’t been able to shave. Clearly he hated it. ‘I’m full of adrenalin,’ he explained, ‘and another drug whose name seems to mean the opposite of what they tell me is its purpose. I’m afraid you won’t be able to stay as long as I should wish. Doctor Bigge is allowing me half an hour—half an hour for the two of you.’ He began what might have been a grin but stopped a little suddenly. He discovered that it hurt him; he stroked his unshaven chin. ‘I wish I could have shaved,’ he said complainingly, ‘before she sees me.’

  ‘Women,’ Charles Russell said, ‘are surprisingly understanding.’ But he wasn’t thinking of Mary Parton. He considered for a moment. ‘How much have they told you,’ he asked, ‘about recent events?’

  ‘The barest facts. There was an explosion in the back of Sir Jeremy’s car. It broke the Slow Burner canister and the epsilon killed Parton. It must have been instantaneous. I wasn’t there myself because of this stupid allergy, and as I couldn’t go Sir Jeremy decided to go home. Fortunate Sir Jeremy. But Mary was in the car with Parton, or would have been but for an accident. My God,’ Nichol said vehemently, ‘it makes me sweat.’

  Russell nodded comprehendingly. ‘It was lucky, yes,’ he said. ‘And she was fortunate to get that lift. They tell me the thing takes a little time to build up, but without that pick-up, if she had had to walk . . .’ Charles Russell shrugged.

  ‘Without that pick-up she could easily be dead.’

  ‘But she isn’t. And nor is anybody else. Except Parton, of course. Thanks to a quite exceptional performance by your Crash Crew. They did a little under two miles in a little under a hundred seconds. And thereafter the right, the practised thing. Just the same, everybody was lucky. It was lucky there was nobody else about, lucky another car didn’t choose to come by. Another mile or so, on to the main road . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘I do not propose to. I am thinking instead that, luck apart, your Crash Crew did a remarkable job.’

  ‘I have told them so. And tomorrow I hope to do some telephoning—to the appropriate numbers, you understand.’

  ‘They deserve it.’

  William Nichol seemed to be hesitating. ‘Charles,’ he said finally, ‘I have been wondering . . .’

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ Russell said. ‘Not yet, at any rate.’

  ‘But Charles—explosions in the back of a respectable official’s motor-car, a car, I may remind you, which I ought to have been riding in myself. And that affair on Thursday at Burlington House. I had assumed the fellow was merely drunk, but now . . .’

  Russell held up his hand. ‘Parton is dead,’ he said.

  ‘I agree—he’s very dead indeed. But I hardly suppose he planned to kill himself.’

  ‘And nor do I. I was trying to say that with Parton’s death the Executive, as such, is something more than satisfied. There will be inquiries to be made, of course: there may be a lead to one or other of his friends and perhaps, though I doubt it, something in his p
apers. We should welcome anything of that; we shall go after it. But Parton is dead and with him what he knew; he can no longer betray it; he can no longer betray Slow Burner. The rest—who killed him, who, if I may read your thoughts, might have killed you—the rest is police work.’

  ‘Oh condemn the police.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that myself. They’re pretty good at murder.’ Charles Russell looked at his watch. ‘I mustn’t overrun my ration of your time,’ he said smiling; he rose to his feet. ‘I can see that I’m going to be busy,’ he added, ‘going to weddings.’

  ‘You have more than what I hope will be my own?’

  ‘Yes indeed. There’s Mrs Tarbat’s, for instance.’

  ‘Mrs Tarbat? You don’t say.’

  ‘But I do. She’s marrying Percival-Smith.’

  ‘Marrying him?’

  ‘So she told me this morning. I gather the arrangement is entirely regular. Did I mention that we have taken Smith on as a permanency? He’s much too good to be wasted outside. Reliability, resource . . . And Mrs Tarbat, I imagine, has a bit of money. She’s earned it. I don’t disapprove—it’s two for the price of one, you know. We don’t always know as much about Mrs Tarbat’s world as we should like to. I haven’t any objection at all to one of my officers marrying into it.’

  ‘You’re a terrible old cynic.’

  ‘I’m a policeman—of a sort.’

  William Nichol met Russell’s eyes squarely. ‘Who seems,’ he suggested, ‘rather surprisingly uninterested in an explosion in a motor-car carrying Slow Burner. And, if I do not sound , too personal, which might have been carrying myself as well as Sir Jeremy.’

  Charles Russell returned his inspection blandly. ‘We shall find him,’ he said. ‘I suspect that it will be awkward and that it will take a little time. But we shall nail him.’

  But no man nailed Sir Jeremy Bates. He had remembered very little of how he had spent his Sunday. He remembered an intolerable fury when he had discovered that in London, upon a Sunday, he could buy no alcohol before noon. He had gathered that it was something to do with the hours of Church services, and he had cursed Church services comprehensively. But at noon he had bought his bottle, and Sunday, somehow, had passed. On Monday he had returned to the Ministry. It hadn’t been his intention to do any work, but habit had been too strong for him. There had been a couple of cases which had interested him, and it had been tea-time before he had found leisure. He crossed the room to the cupboard in the corner, taking from it his whisky. The first measure he drank greedily, the second almost with appreciation. This, clearly, was final; this he could not ride. He helped himself to another whisky but for the moment put it aside. There was something still to be done, and it must be done decently. He drew a sheet of paper towards him and began a letter to Gabriel Pailiser. He explained that he had had a most unpleasant shock: his doctor had given him the gravest of news, and he must put himself unreservedly in his hands. He had no option but to offer his resignation, and in the circumstances he must ask that it should be regarded as effective immediately. Pailiser, he wrote, would understand that only the most serious of warnings would justify so urgent a decision. He was sorry for the inconvenience which he feared he would be causing, but he had confidence in Wakeman’s ability until permanent arrangements could be made. He thanked his Minister for his unfailing cooperation. He wrote rapidly and without erasure; he signed his name. The letter he put into an envelope and the envelope he gave to Marshall for immediate delivery. He returned to the whisky with relief.

  His private telephone interrupted him. Wakeman was speaking urgently, and Sir Jeremy listened with a patience approaching indifference. ‘Yes,’ he said at length, ‘an extraordinary story.’ The whisky pricked him with a moment almost of mischief. ‘We must consider,’ he said slyly, ‘the next step. May I ask what you suggest?’

  ‘

  ‘We ought to speak with the Security Executive. Russell may wish to see us, and at once.’

  ‘Yes . . . Yes. No doubt. Russell is a dutiful officer, but really I do not feel quite up to seeing him this evening. Let us see him tomorrow . . . no, upon reflection, you see him tomorrow. Good-bye.’

  ‘Good-bye.’ Wakeman, it was obvious, was hesitant, and Sir Jeremy waited, smiling. ‘Bates,’ Wakeman said at length, ‘you will forgive my asking, but are you entirely well?’

  ‘Never better, I thank you. Good-bye again.’

  ‘Good-bye, then.’

  ‘And Wakeman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have a good night’s rest tonight. There’s nothing like a good night’s rest against a difficult day.’

  Sir Jeremy replaced the receiver, his smile broadening. It occurred to him that he was treating Wakeman abominably; his behaviour was inexcusable. He discovered that he did not care a damn. He poured himself a fourth whisky, drinking, now, with relish. He considered another. No, he decided, that would be better done at home, and he had still to get there. He put the bottle, half empty, into his brief-case, and with it the few private papers which he kept at his office. He looked at his magnificent clock—that too was indeed his personal property. They could send it along to him later. Time, he reflected, wasn’t going to be very important in the future.

  Well, at least it wouldn’t be a very long one. A bottle a day, he considered, should do the trick, and if it didn’t he could increase it to two. At that rate it wouldn’t be protracted. Not with that father; not with that grandfather; not when, all your life, you had sat with a conscious effort upon the lid. Just the same, he thought, Russell was intelligent, Russell and the police . . .

  He went to his cabinet again, taking from it a lean glass tube. His doctor had prescribed it in one of his recurrent bouts of sleeplessness. The instructions pasted upon the phial were categorical: one tablet, they said, under Doctor’s instructions only. In no circumstances . . .

  Sir Jeremy counted the tablets carefully. There were eleven left.

  He decided that they should be ample.

  The thought struck him that it would be a squalid ending; undignified; in no way appropriate to Sir Jeremy Bates. He shrugged, looking round the familiar room with a smile. Sir Jeremy Bates was dead. In this room he had worked and lived, and in this solidly, this importantly furnished room he had, this afternoon, died insignificantly. What was left was something which must be disposed of, but it was not Sir Jeremy. A sound escaped him which was almost a giggle. A squalid ending, then—even a beastly; but at least not untidy. Sir Jeremy would not have approved of anything untidy.

  The nurse showed Mary Barton into William Nichol’s room and left them. Mary sat down. William looked at her, not speaking, for a very long time. He was thinking how much he wanted her. He saw that she wore nothing of black. She had a figure, he thought, which a draughtsman could get his pencil around or a man an arm. He fingered his stubbly chin.

  Mary rose slowly, smiling. She crossed to the bed and leant over him. ‘No,’ William said urgently. ‘No, I haven’t shaved.’ Mary paid no attention; she kissed him comprehensively.

  William at last let her go. ‘If you’ll have me like this,’ he said, ‘you’ll have me any way.’

  ‘I’ll have you any way.’

  ‘And Mary . . . Mary . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t make it too long.’

  ‘No,’ Mary said. ‘Not too long.’