The Human Factor

by Graham Greene

  ‘I can see you agree with me,’ the man said to Daintry. ‘And you?’ he asked the barman. ‘Your business would go to pot, wouldn’t it, if you couldn’t say what four times seven was?’

  The barman wiped some spilled beer off the bar and said, ‘Uh.’

  ‘Now you, sir, I can guess very easily what profession you follow. Don’t ask me how. It’s a hunch I have. Comes from studying faces, I suppose, and human nature. That’s how I came to be talking about arithmetic while you were on the telephone. That’s a subject, I said to Mr Barker here, about which the gentleman will have strong opinions. Weren’t those my very words?’

  ‘Uh,’ Mr Barker said.

  ‘I’ll have another pint if you don’t mind.’

  Mr Barker filled his glass.

  ‘My friends sometimes ask me for an exhibition. They even have a little bet on it now and then. He’s a schoolmaster, I say, about someone in the tube, or he’s a chemist, and then I enquire politely – they don’t take offence when I explain to them – and nine times out of ten, I’m right. Mr Barker has seen me at it in here, haven’t you, Mr Barker?’

  ‘Uh.’

  ‘Now you, sir, if you’ll excuse me playing my little game just to amuse Mr Barker here on a cold wet evening – you are in Government service. Am I right, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Daintry said. He finished his whisky and put down his glass. It was time to try the telephone again.

  ‘So we’re getting warm, eh?’ The customer fixed him with beady eyes. ‘A sort of confidential position. You know a lot more about things than the rest of us.’

  ‘I have to telephone,’ Daintry said.

  ‘Just a moment, sir. I just want to show Mr Barker . . .’ He wiped a little beer from his mouth with a handkerchief and thrust his face close to Daintry’s. ‘You deal in figures,’ he said. ‘You are in the Inland Revenue.’

  Daintry moved to the telephone box.

  ‘You see,’ the customer said, ‘touchy fellow. They don’t like to be recognized. An inspector probably.’

  This time Daintry got the ringing tone and soon he heard Doctor Percival’s voice, bland and reassuring as though he had kept his bedside manner long after he had abandoned bedsides. ‘Yes? Doctor Percival here. Who is that?’

  ‘Daintry.’

  ‘Good evening, my dear fellow. Any news? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at Berkhamsted. I’ve seen Castle.’

  ‘Yes. What’s your impression?’

  Anger took the words he meant to speak and tore them in pieces like a letter one decides not to send. ‘My impression is that you’ve murdered the wrong man.’

  ‘Not murdered,’ Doctor Percival said gently, ‘an error in the prescription. The stuff hadn’t been tried before on a human being. But what makes you think that Castle . . .?’

  ‘Because he’s certain that Davis was innocent.’

  ‘He said that – in so many words?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he up to?’

  ‘He’s waiting.’

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘Something to happen. His wife’s left him with the child. He says they’ve quarrelled.’

  ‘We’ve already circulated a warning,’ Doctor Percival said, ‘to the airports – and the sea ports too of course. If he makes a run for it, we’ll have prima facie evidence – but we’ll still need the hard stuff.’

  ‘You didn’t wait for the hard stuff with Davis.’

  ‘C insists on it this time. What are you doing now?’

  ‘Going home.’

  ‘You asked him about Muller’s notes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘You’ve done an excellent job, Daintry. But why do you suppose he came clean like that to you?’

  Daintry put the receiver down without answering and left the box. The customer said, ‘I was right, wasn’t I? You are an inspector of the Inland Revenue.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You see, Mr Barker. I’ve scored again.’

  Colonel Daintry went slowly out to his car. For a while he sat in it with the engine running and watched the drops of rain pursue each other down the windscreen. Then he drove out of the yard and turned in the direction of Boxmoor and London and the flat in St James’s Street where yesterday’s Camembert was awaiting him. He drove slowly. The November drizzle had turned into real rain and there was a hint of hail. He thought, Well, I did what they would call my duty, but though he was on the road towards home and the table where he would sit beside the Camembert to write his letter, he was in no hurry to arrive. In his mind the act of resignation had already been accomplished. He told himself he was a free man, that he had no duties any longer and no obligations, but he had never felt such an extreme solitude as he felt now.

  5

  The bell rang. Castle had been waiting for it a long time and yet he hesitated to go to the door; it seemed to him now that he had been absurdly optimistic. By this time young Halliday would surely have talked, the Toyota was one of a thousand Toyotas, the Special Branch had probably been waiting for him to be alone, and he knew how absurdly indiscreet he had been with Daintry. A second time the bell rang and then a third; there was nothing he could do but open. He went to the door with his hand on the revolver in his pocket, but it was of no more value than a rabbit’s foot. He couldn’t shoot his way out of an island. Buller gave him a spurious support, growling heavily, but he knew, when the door opened, Buller would fawn on whoever was there. He couldn’t see through the stained glass which ran with the rain. Even when he opened the door he saw nothing distinctly – only a hunched figure.

  ‘It’s a shocking night,’ a voice he recognized complained to him out of the dark.

  ‘Mr Halliday – I wasn’t expecting you.’

  Castle thought: He’s come to ask me to help his son, but what can I do?

  ‘Good boy. Good boy,’ the almost invisible Mr Halliday said nervously to Buller.

  ‘Come in,’ Castle assured him. ‘He’s quite harmless.’

  ‘I can see he’s a very fine dog.’

  Mr Halliday entered cautiously, hugging the wall, and Buller wagged what he had of a tail and dribbled.

  ‘You can see, Mr Halliday, he’s a friend of all the world. Take off your coat. Come and have a whisky.’

  ‘I’m not much of a drinking man, but I won’t say No.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear on the radio about your son. You must be very anxious.’

  Mr Halliday followed Castle into the living-room. He said, ‘He had it coming to him, sir, perhaps it will teach him a lesson. The police have been carting a lot of stuff out of his shop. The inspector showed me one or two of the things and really disgusting they were. But as I said to the inspector I don’t suppose he read the stuff himself.’

  ‘I hope the police have not been bothering you?’

  ‘Oh no. As I told you, sir, I think they feel quite sorry for me. They know I keep a very different kind of shop.’

  ‘Did you have a chance to give him my letter?’

  ‘Ah, there sir, I thought it wiser not. Under the circumstances. But don’t you worry. I passed the message on where it truly belongs.’

  He raised a book which Castle had been trying to read and looked at the title.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Well, sir, you’ve always been, I think, under a bit of a misunderstanding. My son never concerned himself with things in your way of business. But they thought it just as well – in case of trouble – that you believed . . .’ He bent and warmed his hands in front of the gas fire, and his eyes looked up with a sly amusement. ‘Well, sir, things being as they are, we’ve got to get you out of here pretty quick.’

  It came as a shock to Castle to realize how little he had been trusted even by those who had the most reason to trust.

  ‘If you’ll forgive my asking, sir, where exactly are your wife and your boy? I’ve orders . . .’


  ‘This morning, when I heard the news about your son, I sent them away. To my mother. She believes we’ve had a quarrel.’

  ‘Ah, that’s one difficulty out of the way.’

  Old Mr Halliday, after warming his hands sufficiently, began to move around the room: he cast his eye over the bookshelves. He said, ‘I’ll give as good a price for those as any other bookseller. Twenty-five pounds down – it’s all you are allowed to take out of the country. I’ve got the notes on me. They fit my stock. All these World’s Classics and Everyman’s. They are not reprinted as they should be, and when they do reprint, what a price!’

  ‘I thought,’ Castle said, ‘we were in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘There’s one thing I’ve learned,’ Mr Halliday said, ‘in the last fifty years is to take things easy. Once start being hurried and you are sure to make mistakes. If you’ve got half an hour to spare always pretend to yourself you’ve got three hours. You did say something, sir, about a whisky?’

  ‘If we can spare the time . . .’ Castle poured out two glasses.

  ‘We’ve got the time. I expect you have a bag packed with all the needful?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you going to do about the dog?’

  ‘Leave him behind, I suppose. I hadn’t thought . . . Perhaps you could take him to a vet.’

  ‘Not wise, sir. A connection between you and me – it wouldn’t do – if they went searching for him. All the same we’ve got to keep him quiet for the next few hours. Is he a barker when he’s left alone?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s not used to being alone.’

  ‘What I have in mind is the neighbours complaining. One of them could easily ring the police, and we don’t want them finding an empty house.’

  ‘They’ll find one soon enough anyway.’

  ‘It won’t matter when you’re safe abroad. It’s a pity your wife didn’t take the dog with her.’

  ‘She couldn’t. My mother has a cat. Buller kills cats at sight.’

  ‘Yes, they’re naughty ones, those boxers, where cats are concerned. I have a cat myself.’ Mr Halliday pulled at Buller’s ears and Buller fawned on him. ‘It’s what I said. If you are in a hurry you forget things. Like the dog. Have you a cellar?’

  ‘Not a soundproof one. If you mean to shut him up there.’

  ‘I notice sir, that in your right pocket you seem to have a gun – or am I mistaken?’

  ‘I thought if the police came . . . There’s only one charge in it.’

  ‘The counsel of despair, sir?’

  ‘I hadn’t made up my mind to use it.’

  ‘I would rather you let me have it, sir. If we were stopped, at least I have a licence, with all this shoplifting we have nowadays. What’s his name, sir? I mean the dog.’

  ‘Buller.’

  ‘Come here, Buller, come here. There’s a good dog.’ Buller laid his muzzle on Mr Halliday’s knee. ‘Good dog, Buller. Good dog. You don’t want to cause any trouble, do you, not to a good master like you have.’ Buller wagged his stump. ‘They think they know when you like them,’ Mr Halliday said. He scratched Buller behind the ears and Buller showed his appreciation. ‘Now, sir, if you wouldn’t mind giving me the gun . . . Ah, you kill cats, eh . . . Ah, the wicked one.’

  ‘They’ll hear the shot,’ Castle said.

  ‘We’ll take a little walk down to the cellar. One shot – nobody pays any attention. They think it’s a back-fire.’

  ‘He won’t go with you.’

  ‘Let’s see. Come on, Buller, my lad. Come for a walk. A walk, Buller.’

  ‘You see. He won’t go.’

  ‘It’s time to be off, sir. You’d better come down with me. I wanted to spare you.’

  ‘I don’t want to be spared.’

  Castle led the way down the stairs to the cellar. Buller followed him and Mr Halliday tailed Buller.

  ‘I wouldn’t put on the light, sir, a shot and a light going out. That might arouse curiosity.’

  Castle closed what had once been the coal chute.

  ‘Now, sir, if you’ll give me the gun . . .’

  ‘No, I’ll do this.’ He held the gun out, pointing it at Buller, and Buller, ready for a game and probably taking the muzzle for a rubber bone, fastened his jaws around it and pulled. Castle pressed the trigger twice because of the empty chamber. He felt nausea.

  ‘I’ll have another whisky,’ he said, ‘before we go.’

  ‘You deserve one, sir. It’s odd how fond one can get of a dumb animal. My cat . . .’

  ‘I disliked Buller intensely. It’s only . . . well, I’ve never killed anything before.’

  6

  ‘It’s hard driving in this rain,’ Mr Halliday said, breaking a very long silence. The death of Buller had clogged their tongues.

  ‘Where are we going? Heathrow? The immigration officers will be on the look-out by this time.’

  ‘I’m taking you to a hotel. If you open the glove compartment, sir, you’ll find a key. Room 423. All you have to do is take the lift straight up. Don’t go to the desk. Wait in the room until someone comes for you.’

  ‘Suppose a maid . . .’

  ‘Hang a Don’t Disturb notice on the door.’

  ‘And after that . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir. Those were all the instructions I have.’

  Castle wondered how the news of Buller’s death would reach Sam. He knew that he would never be forgiven. He asked, ‘How did you get mixed up in this?’

  ‘Not mixed up, sir. I’ve been a member of the Party, on the quiet as you might say, since I was a boy. I was in the army at seventeen – volunteered. Gave my age wrong. Thought I was going to France, but it was Archangel they sent me to. I was a prisoner for four years. I saw a lot and learnt a lot in those four years.’

  ‘How did they treat you?’

  ‘It was hard, but a boy can stand a lot, and there was always someone who was friendly. I learnt a bit of Russian, enough to interpret for them, and they gave me books to read when they couldn’t give me food.’

  ‘Communist books?’

  ‘Of course, sir. A missionary hands out the Bible, doesn’t he?’

  ‘So you are one of the faithful.’

  ‘It’s been a lonely life, I have to admit that. You see, I could never go to meetings or walk in marches. Even my boy doesn’t know. They use me when they can in little ways – like in your case, sir. I’ve picked up from your drop many a time. Oh, it was a happy day for me when you walked into my shop. I felt less alone.’

  ‘Have you never wavered a bit, Halliday? I mean – Stalin, Hungary, Czechoslovakia?’

  ‘I saw enough in Russia when I was a boy – and in England too with the Depression when I came home – to inoculate me against little things like that.’

  ‘Little?’

  ‘If you will forgive me saying so, sir, your conscience is rather selective. I could say to you – Hamburg, Dresden, Hiroshima. Didn’t they shake your faith a bit in what you call democracy? Perhaps they did or you wouldn’t be with me now.’

  ‘That was war.’

  ‘My people have been at war since 1917.’ Castle peered into the wet night between the sweeps of the wipers. ‘You are taking me to Heathrow.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Mr Halliday laid a hand light as an autumn Ashridge leaf on Castle’s knee. ‘Don’t you worry, sir. They are looking after you. I envy you. You’ll be seeing Moscow I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Have you never been there?’

  ‘Never. The nearest I ever came to it was the prison camp near Archangel. Did you ever see The Three Sisters? I saw it only once, but I always remember what one of them said and I say it to myself when I can’t sleep at night – “To sell the house, to make an end of everything here, and off to Moscow . . .”’

  ‘You’d find a rather different Moscow to Chekhov’s.’

  ‘There’s another thing one of those sisters said, “Happy people don’t notice if it’s winter or summer. If I lived in Moscow I woul
dn’t mind what the weather was like.” Oh well, I tell myself when I’m feeling low, Marx never knew Moscow either, and I look across Old Compton Street and I think, London is still Marx’s London. Soho’s Marx’s Soho. This was where the Communist Manifesto was first printed.’ A lorry came suddenly out of the rain and swerved and nearly hit them and went on indifferently into the night. ‘Shocking drivers there are,’ Mr Halliday said. ‘they know nothing’s going to hurt them in those juggernauts. We ought to have bigger penalties for dangerous driving. You know, sir, that’s what was really wrong in Hungary and Czechoslovakia – dangerous driving. Dubcek was a dangerous driver – it’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Not to me it isn’t. I’ve never wanted to end up in Moscow.’

  ‘I suppose it will seem a bit strange – you not being one of us, but you shouldn’t worry. I don’t know what you’ve done for us, but it must be important, and they’ll look after you, you can be sure of that. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t give you the Order of Lenin or put you on a postage stamp like Sorge.’

  ‘Sorge was a Communist.’

  ‘And it makes me proud to think you are on the road to Moscow in this old car of mine.’

  ‘If we drove for a century, Halliday, you wouldn’t convert me.’

  ‘I wonder. After all, you’ve done a lot to help us.’

  ‘I’ve helped you over Africa, that’s all.’

  ‘Exactly, sir. You are on the road. Africa’s the thesis, Hegel would say. You belong to the antithesis – but you are an active part of the antithesis – you are one of those who will belong to the synthesis yet.’

  ‘That’s all jargon to me. I’m no philosopher.’

  ‘A militant doesn’t have to be, and you are a militant.’

  ‘Not for Communism. I’m only a casualty now.’

  ‘They’ll cure you in Moscow.’

  ‘In a psychiatric ward?’

  That phrase silenced Mr Halliday. Had he found a small crack in the dialectic of Hegel, or was it the silence of pain and doubt? He would never know, for the hotel was ahead of them, the lights smudging through the rain. ‘Get out here,’ Mr Halliday said. ‘I’d better not be seen.’ Cars passed them when they halted, in a long illuminated chain, the headlamps of one car lighting the rear lamps of another. A Boeing 707 slanted noisily down on London Airport. Mr Halliday scrabbled in the back of the car. ‘There’s something I’ve forgotten.’ He pulled out a plastic bag which might once have contained duty free goods. He said, ‘Put the things out of your case into this. They might notice you at the desk if you go to the lift carrying a suitcase.’