Noose

by Bill James

  ‘Yes, the postman doesn’t always ring twice.’

  ‘Jimmy Cain. A great film and book.’

  ‘Or then again, as to literature,’ Ian replied, ‘there’s “a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune,” but, not taken, the result is shallows and misery.’

  ‘Good old Julius Caesar. The theatre can often deliver a truth. Think of this new play by John Osborne, Look Back in Anger, with its obvious flaming, bitter disgust at the Britain we live in now. The flagrant lack of good leadership, the absence of a philosophy to live by. The loss of an empire and nothing to take its place and conserve our collective pride. How many does he speak for, I wonder?’

  ‘Yes, do you find Britain disgusting, Mr Skeeth?’

  ‘Milton. How I wish I’d been offered the privilege of producing that play.’

  ‘It chimes with your thinking, does it?’

  ‘There’ll be other works along the same lines from different writers, I expect,’ Skeeth said.

  ‘You believe this is a general view, do you, contempt for the way our country is governed at present?’

  ‘A prevailing dissatisfaction.’

  ‘Warranted?’

  ‘It’s certainly there.’

  ‘Perhaps we should meet?’ Ian said.

  ‘I wondered if you might call at my house for a drink.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  Again there was a pause as if he thought Ian knew the address but wouldn’t admit it, because that would indicate research into Skeeth had already been done. And it had been. Did he suspect this? Did it scare him? ‘Feder Road, Chelsea, number twelve,’ Skeeth said.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘We’ll be here all this evening.’

  Which ‘we’ would that be? Was Jeff with him – Jeff who could be unhelpful and frightening? But Ian didn’t ask. He’d prefer not to sound confrontational. Skeeth might be frightened off. Charteris recalled that sketch Driberg did of him as a great null, uncommitted nothingness which the customers were conned into thinking they should transform into a something by coughing all their intimacies to him. Yes, a smart old printman, Driberg, and political with it.

  When the phone call had ended, Ian talked to Lucy about it. He would like another view. Correction: he wanted not just another view; he wanted her view, which was sure to be wise and sharp and to do with basics. ‘What exactly is it that Emily and Ray Bain suspect him of?’ she said. ‘It ties in with what you told me Driberg hinted at, does it? I mean Driberg’s state-of-the-nation analysis, not his scabbily slanderous analysis of you.’

  ‘They believe that if the Suez situation keeps on going disastrously wrong for us, as seems likely, the country will slip into chaos and become more or less ungovernable – bad for everyone, but especially bad for those with a lot to lose, such as Skeeth and his family and the family boodle, properties and business. There’d be a small but formidable part of the population like that. They favour strong governance – thrive under it, are cosseted and protected under it, hold peerages and knighthoods and courtierships under it – and if it’s not available they’ll try to supply it.

  ‘To get what they want they might form alliances with working-class folk like Dill and the folk Dill represents, who could erupt on to the streets and make trouble, but trouble that remains controlled, so no factories or plant belonging to the Skeeth family and similar are arsonized. Some of the Dill brigade have special talents – one called Malcolm dug out my name from a supposedly secure police source. This is infiltration on quite a scale. They can discover supposedly secure data, including the ownership of my car. Hence, the Skeeth phone call. I get an inkling of an organization already in place and functioning effectively, frighteningly.’

  ‘The Dills and Malcolms will be cut adrift, of course, once power is secured, will they?’ Lucy said.

  ‘Naturally. Emily, Ray Bain and Driberg think something like this Right-Left line-up of forces was rumoured in 1936, at abdication time. They believe there could be a repeat now, but with a much better chance, because they don’t have to depend on the king, who bolted in ’thirty-six. Although Skeeth’s tone was sort of jokey and flippant on the phone just now, he spoke seriously about chances that might be caught or missed. I said the postman doesn’t always ring twice. Sometimes he might, though.’

  ‘But any putsch would need the military wouldn’t it? Or at least the threat of the military.’

  ‘Of course. Many of the people on the Right would have experience of command. Perhaps the plot already has some of the military. Maybe there are generals, and admirals, and air marshals who feel disgust at the prospect of an illegal invasion and Suez war – Operation Musketeer it’s called, I hear from a Times Whitehall correspondent. Eden and the government know how unpopular the idea of conflict is. How could they not know? There are continuous battles inside the government about the legality or not of the war. As Mr Times describes it, the attorney general, Manningham-Buller, has decided an invasion is unlawful. But Eden ignores his views, and the Solicitor General’s, Harry Hylton-Foster. Kilmuir, Lord Chancellor, will try to cook up some sort of justification instead. Confidential, so far.’

  ‘Is that a job for a Lord Chancellor?’

  ‘Doubtful. Manningham-Buller, Hylton-Foster and some of their staff are livid. There are resignation threats.’

  ‘Provable?’

  ‘Possibly not. In any case, it’s the way Prime Ministers have always behaved, I suppose, leaning on subordinates for an OK, and probably the way a Prime Minister will behave in the future if we land in another illegal war. Mr Times says there are officers in a basement office at the Air Ministry planning an Allied Air Force Task Force. The room is so hidden away they’re known as “the troglodytes”. They are very unhappy, he tells me, about the confusion of political and military objectives. This uneasiness might be widespread in the armed forces, and exploitable.’

  ‘But the 1936 element?’ Lucy said. ‘What’s a supposed plan – very supposed – what’s a supposed plan for an uprising then got to do with now? Have Emily and the others galloped to see resemblances? It’s as if they’ve concocted a new shadow situation from a past state of things that nobody’s altogether sure about, anyway. To me it sounds like figments on figments, guesses on guesses, fantasy on fantasy.’

  ‘It’s possible, though.’

  ‘Likely?’ she said. ‘Could Emily, Bain and Driberg all have been listening to the same source – the same faulty source? They seem to confirm one another, but actually they’re all starting from the same wrong spot.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s a new, 1956 factor. Skeeth mentioned the Osborne play Look Back in Anger and its raging suggestion that there’s something rotten in the state of present-day Britain. OK, it’s probably bullshit: most likely Britain is more or less the same as it always was. But the accusation gives a writer something to hang a nicely worded tirade on. I asked Skeeth if he agreed about the rottenness. I don’t think he answered. Do they want to clean up – in all senses, get once glorious GB back on track, ruling the waves etcetera? Do we detect a kind of perverted patriotism?

  ‘The conversation wasn’t total playfulness and banter. And where it seemed to be playfulness and banter I got the idea occasionally that he was terrified. He couldn’t understand how I’d located Dill and the others, nor what the result might be. He kept on with what sounded like farcical questions about the country pub and my noticing the dogs, and being a terriers fan, but which really weren’t so farcical. He thinks my knowledge of their scheme is better than a journalist’s.’

  ‘And he’s right, isn’t he?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The file shows plainly enough how you got on to Dill and the others. It’s simple.’

  ‘Yes, Skeeth’s under watch and Dill is noted calling at the Chelsea house. But, of course, Skeeth doesn’t know this. And neither does Dill,’ Ian said. ‘Dill still thinks Jimmy Cagney wa
s a film star, and that’s all.’

  ‘You hope. Ah, and you think Skeeth is afraid Dill will suspect he – Skeeth – mentioned them to you, pointed you towards the dogs and Dill?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘He’s scared of Dill. The upper-crust are always scared of the lower crust, and the lower crust never fully trusts the upper crust. There are fine historical precedents.’

  ‘But why would Skeeth betray them?’ Lucy said. ‘That’s what it would be, isn’t it, betrayal?’ She was lying on a settee, wearing an old sweater and elastic waisted trousers. She spoke to him over the good mound of her pregnancy. Her brain was, as ever, fully directed at his problems, ordered, alert to all the possibilities, entirely clear. She frowned a little through concentration, grinned occasionally when she got a kick from the kid, but generally looked as serene, confident and lovely as ever. ‘In the chat after the pub, Dill turned suddenly very reticent, virtually hostile,’ Ian said. ‘Next step, Malcolm does a check on me. They become vigilant, disbelieving, they examine all the likelihoods, none comfortable – for them.’

  ‘Well, of course they’d be vigilant – some obvious, officer-qualities city lad descends on them and wants lessons in the art of badger hunting. Credible? Likely? It’s more or less preposterous, isn’t it? As you say, they probably think you’re one of Emily’s lot, doing some would-be subtle penetration.’

  ‘Yes, they might. And they’ll ask how this one of Emily’s lot found them in their country pub. They’ll wonder, won’t they?’

  ‘By a tip-off from Milton Skeeth? You think that’s what they decide? But I come back to the same question, why would he betray them?’

  ‘In fact, he wouldn’t and hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t. He told me nothing except he knew Dill, and, of course, he’s coughed nothing to Emily or Bain or their people.’

  ‘You’re one of their people, aren’t you?’

  ‘For the moment. But he’s done no coughing to me, either, just a sort of PG Wodehouse chit-chat, though with undertones.’

  ‘It’s not negligible that he’s told you he knows Dill,’ Lucy replied.

  He delighted in that precision from her, the ‘not negligible’. It was like a seminar. ‘But he thinks I know already that he’s matey with Dill. He deduces that’s why I’m out badgering.’

  ‘Yes.’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘You have come to sound like an undercover agent.’

  ‘I am. Skeeth will also believe that Dill and co. won’t be able to see any other path to them but dear Milt. They probably sensed from the beginning that the toffs and tycoons might ditch them when they felt like it. They’re not stupid. Most likely they’d know some of that relevant history – wars bringing death and suffering to ordinary folk, and riches and lands to the high-born and the arms dealers. The Workers’ Education Association probably points out that kind of dire process, and so it should. Perhaps Dill and the rest imagine the conspiracy has been rumbled by Emily’s squad, and Skeeth under questioning sang and sang, involving everyone. The conspiracy, if it exists, has been rumbled by Emily’s squad, but Skeeth hasn’t done any singing, as far as I know. He’s done some waggish conversation with me.’

  ‘Yes, as far as you know. But wouldn’t Skeeth explain to Dill you were a journalist, not a spy?’

  ‘He might. He’s not convinced of that himself, though. In any case, a journalist is just as bad from their angle, isn’t he? What do journalists do? Expose people. They want to get front-page headlines that start with very upper case, REVEALED: and then the dirt in detail on whatever it is – secrets laid out for their readers’ enjoyment. I think it’s all partly a class thing. Dill and friends are working class. Journalists, Skeeth and those with Skeeth, are at least middle class and perhaps higher. The working class is used to being screwed and let down by their supposed superiors.’

  ‘I don’t think you should go round to his house,’ Lucy replied.

  ‘It’ll be all right. You don’t get violent skulduggery in Chelsea. This is the home of a famous theatre man, and member of an eminent family. Anyway, Emily’s people are in the street, watching.’

  She grimaced, didn’t even get near to swallowing this. ‘How would they know if things had gone wrong inside the house, gone wrong for you? The outside of the house would look as it ever did. And it might be too late if they did eventually suspect something was amiss inside.’

  ‘I think I ought to see him. I feel a sort of duty.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Always, darling, you’re imagining yourself in moral debt to someone.’

  ‘It’s my nicer side,’ Ian said. ‘Emily obviously feels a debt to me because of my dad. So, I get the Sword of Honour and now the file. I have to do a bit of reciprocity. That Driberg sketch of my personality – the perfect reporter because a total blank, a great fillable emptiness, inconstant with no positive drive or—’

  ‘Don’t. I’d rather not hear anything else from the rude swine,’ Lucy said.

  ‘I’d like to show I’m not like that,’ Charteris said.

  ‘Show whom? You don’t have to show me. I know it’s bloody rubbish.’

  ‘Show myself. I’d like to be rated good at coping with a big newspaper story, but something beyond that, too.’

  She shook her head. ‘Egomania. But, OK. You can’t go alone, though. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d talk in front of you – suppose he’s going to talk plain at all, which is doubtful.’

  ‘I’ll stay in the car and keep an eye on things from the street.’

  ‘There are already people keeping an eye on things from the street.’

  ‘Yes, but they won’t be interested in you. They’re present to chart what Skeeth does, and where he goes, and who his visitors are.’

  ‘I’ll be one of his visitors.’

  ‘I meant dubious visitors.’

  ‘I’ll be a dubious visitor. Very dubious.’

  ‘Not as dubious as some.’

  They drove to Chelsea. ‘Might Emily’s daughter be here with him?’ Lucy said.

  ‘I don’t know who might be. He did say “we”.’

  In opulent-looking Feder Road they saw several high-priced and elegant parked cars and a silver van that nominally belonged to ‘Gerald Smart and Sons, Carpet Merchants and Fitters’ according to red lettering on its side. There appeared to be nobody in the driving cabin. Ian would have liked to get closer and check whether any of the wordage disguised observation holes – the o in Sons and all those a’s. For now, he’d assume they did. He drove the length of the road slowly, then went around the block and came back. Nothing seemed to have changed during this absence, no sign they’d been noted, no adjustments made.

  He decided not to go to the house at once. It was well-lit. He wanted to watch for a while. And he needed to prepare some sort of plan to deal with all the possibilities – Skeeth in the house alone, Skeeth with Jeff and perhaps the other hunters, Skeeth with Daphne West, Skeeth not there at all. He and Lucy waited. It was a midwinter evening and dark. Lucy said: ‘Will Gerald Smart and his sons be inside one of the big houses doing a bit of carpet laying?’

  ‘Perhaps Gerald Smart lives there. Carpets might be booming. He can afford Chelsea.’

  ‘They wouldn’t like him leaving his work van in a street like this.’

  ‘Perhaps Gerald doesn’t care.’

  After about ten minutes, a taxi turned into the road and stopped outside number twelve. Only the driver was in the car.

  ‘This doesn’t seem right,’ Ian said.

  The driver left the cab and was about to go through the front garden and knock on the door. Before he reached it, though, all lights in the house were switched off simultaneously, as if by a mains switch. The driver paused. After a moment the door was opened by a man who must be Skeeth, of middle height, slim, grey-haired, nimble. He seemed dressed in outdoor clothes. ‘He’s very, very ready,’ Lucy said.

  Alongside Skeeth was a young woman Ian did not reco
gnize. She, too, had a street coat on. The driver picked up two large suitcases. Skeeth carried two more, the woman one. Skeeth pulled the front door to and with a key locked what seemed to be a mortise. He looked up and down the road, perhaps taking in Gerald Smart and Ian’s Ford with the known Malc-retrieved number plate. They loaded the taxi and climbed in. At once, it moved swiftly away.

  Immediately, the rear doors of the Gerald Smart and Sons van opened and a couple of men emerged from the back. Gerald and a Son? Unlikely. One of them closed the doors and they both ran around to the driving cabin. The vehicle started up and seemed to follow the taxi.

  ‘Skeeth’s baling out,’ Lucy said. ‘He’s decided he doesn’t need to meet you. He knows enough already.’

  ‘Panic.’

  ‘He’s become certain they’re in danger,’ Lucy said, ‘either from Emily or Dill or both.’

  ‘Who’s the woman?’ Ian replied. ‘Not Daphne West.’

  ‘It’s Fay Doel, isn’t it?’Lucy said. ‘I’ve seen her face on film posters. And wasn’t she in that Importance Of Being Earnest we saw last year? She’s mentioned in the file, I think, as “actress, a sometimes companion” of Skeeth – meaning, I imagine, sometimes Fay Doel, sometimes Daphne West, sometimes who knows?’

  ‘He’s more scared of Dill and crew than I thought.’

  ‘Should you try to get after them?’

  ‘No, I’ll hear where they’ve gone. The airport, probably. Gerald Smart and Sons will report to Emily and Ray Bain. We’ll hang on here a while.’

  ‘God, but so masterful. I think you really, really have turned into a secret agent.’

  After about half an hour a much older and more battered van than Gerald Smart’s, with no lettering on the side, drove into Feder Road and pulled up about twenty yards from number twelve. You could imagine terrier dogs travelling in this kind of grubby banger. The distance must be a tactic: they wanted to reach the house without a warning noise directly outside. Dill and Malcolm Ivins came from the front and walked as though casually back towards the house, chatting, arms swinging in true relaxed style, though not truly relaxed. The absence of lights in twelve would probably unsettle them. Did it speak of finality? A man Ian recognized as Norman Vernon Towler got out from the back of the van and ran down a service lane, obviously to reach the rear of the house, perhaps to try for entry there, or to stop anyone from escaping that way.