He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. His friend dared not shake it off, though he would have liked to do so.
“Get ye home and put down whatever it is in black and white, sign it, and send it along to me; then I’ll answer you. That’ll be all square, won’t it?”
“You deny that you gave me that letter?” answered Wilfrid, in tones higher up the scale than he had yet used. Then he jumped three notes, into B flat, and repeated: “You deny you …”
“My dear fellow,” implored the financier, “don’t shout!” (Squeak would have been more accurate, for shriek is too grand.) “Just write it down, as I say. Write it down here, if you like.”
Wilfrid Halterton had grown white and passionate.
“Very well,” he said in a lower voice, half muttering, half hissing. “Very well. Very well. My word! I think I’m beginning to understand. But don’t you make too sure! I shall find it, J. … Remember. … I shall find it!”
By way of answer J. caught the tall man’s two hands and held them closely in his firm grasp.
“Look here, Wilfrid,” he said, as he gazed wisely and benignly at him, but with great gravity in his expression, “I’ve known ye for some months now, and we have been good friends, I think? There’s no one admires ye more than I do. But one can’t have a fine brain working double pressure like yours without paying the price. Be advised by me. Get you back home. Get that brain of yours quiet again, and, as I say, put down on paper what you think happened; or if you don’t like to do that, write down what you want me to do, anyway. You may be sure I’ll meet you. There!”
Still holding the wrists of those two hands in his own firm right grasp, he again put his left hand on the Minister’s shoulder.
“Do what I tell ye,” he said. “Ye are your own worst enemy, sometimes, Wilfrid. But no one wishes ye well more than I do.”
I cannot describe to you Halterton’s mood, for he could not have told you himself what it was. Bewilderment, anger, a misdoubting of himself and of his own senses, flashes of reminiscences from books he had read about dark intrigues—these and all manner of other zigzag emotions were playing forked lightning within him as he went off. That moment of intense anger had now turned to something too confused to analyse. By the time he had got down into the street his thoughts were beginning to settle. The fresh March morning, with the rain just hanging off, calmed him somewhat and appeased him; but he walked on in long strides down the Park towards Westminster, to give himself time to see things clearly. His secretary would be waiting for him in his room at the House of Commons; there was plenty of work waiting for him that morning. It would distract him: and it would settle his mind. But one thing he had fairly fixed by the time he had entered the Green Park, he would certainly put down nothing on paper himself. And he was wise.
Before he got to the Houses of Parliament half-formed questions and answers arose in his mind. Why had J. denied giving him that letter? The letter had been given, after all. He couldn’t have dreamt it. Why had J. denied giving him that letter? He wanted to back out of the bargain. But suppose the letter was found? Well, perhaps J. was thinking of trying his luck—chancing it that the letter would not be found; and so keeping his freedom to appoint whom he would, and also his freedom to bargain further and to prevent the Post Office from backing out. J. had seemed reluctant to give him that letter at all, anyhow, at the beginning of all this.
The Postmaster-General’s reflections had got as far as that by the time he was seated at his desk and his secretary was beginning to put his documents before him. He got no further in the course of the morning, for he was not one of those who can think of two things at once; and, indeed, the tension upon him was relieved by his pre-occupation with business and the taking of his mind from an anxiety which he was finding insoluble.
So things went on till an early lunch, which he ate by himself in the dining-room of the House of Commons. He was back in his room before two, and still worked on. There was plenty of work, and his secretary was a whale for work. Halterton worked right through the early afternoon, till the House met.
There were a few questions down for him early, after prayers, and he was on the front bench by three o’clock, facing the rather full benches of the Opposition, and finding some half a dozen of his colleagues at his side. By some coincidence Honest Jack Williams was lounging next to him on his right. Honest Jack Williams had seen a Young Friend of his, deputed for other duty, and his Young Friend had brought him the news: Billies had closed at 42s.; but honest Jack Williams decided to hold.
He had to decide on something more than holding the shares. He had to decide whether the boom had come to stay. James McAuley had got his contract all right. But was it pegged down? Or might it not come unstuck? No doubt the type was already set up to put it on the order paper. Perhaps the copies had even been struck off. But—though voting on Government orders is pretty well a matter of course— especially if (as he guessed) the Chief Whip was interested … yet … yet—nothing is certain till its been voted.
One or two men had told him casually in the Lobby that Halterton was looking worried. Honest Jack Williams, darting half a second’s sharp glance towards his left along the front bench, without moving his head, caught the Postmaster - General’s expression. Yes, James McAuley had the contract, but something had gone very wrong with the P.M.G.
There were questions asked of the Postmaster-General, and more than one person wondered whether a question with special notice could not have been got through in time asking him about the condition of the Television Contract; for there is nothing in which even private members are more interested than the movement of stocks and shares: and Billies had been blazing all day.
But the questions which the great statesman had to answer were of a simpler sort. Had his attention been called to the delays in the delivery of letters in the Derby district?
His attention had been called to it, and the proper steps had been taken.
Arising out of that reply, what steps had been taken?
No answer was returned.
Could the Postmaster-General give a date when he would introduce the long-promised measure for including the Antarctic Continent in the Postal Union? (The South Polar Golconda, I may say, though for the moment abandoned, was to be reopened again very shortly.)
The P.M.G. was giving the matter his fullest attention.
Arising out of that reply, was the Postmaster-General aware that the wireless service established in the previous year on the Antarctic Continent had broken down?
No answer was returned.
Had the Postmaster-General’s attention been called to the insufficiency of the cable service to the Orkneys, and would he take immediate steps to double the line?
The answer to both questions was in the affirmative.
Arising out of that reply, was he aware that after a delay of more than three months nothing had been done?
No answer was returned.
Indeed, Wilfrid Halterton might be excused for not answering so many supplementary questions. The Treasury Bench was not very high, and bobbing up and down on it like a jack-in-the-box is, for a man over fifty, a bit of a trial.
His ordeal was over, and the questions now being fired were aimed at the Minister for Fine Arts, the old and popular Lord Papworthy: an Irish title—for though the name Papworthy has an honest Anglo-Saxon ring about it, Papworthy Castle and town have also a native name which was restored to it by the Irish Government after our splendid act of generosity in 1921.
Had the Noble Lord, the Secretary of State for Fine Arts, refused to purchase “Oblongs”?
Arising out of that reply, was it a fact that “Oblongs” was going to America, as that other masterpiece, “Rhomboids” had gone?
And arising out of that reply, and arising out of that reply, and arising out of that reply.
Lord Papworthy stood up well to the volleys. The old boy remained amiable with his high, rich voice, though the private member who was putting
the questions to him was angry, and even loud. The private member spoke from behind the Treasury Bench, and the Minister for Fine Arts, that amiable cherub of a man, with his benign, round face, had to play rubber-neck and look round over his shoulder, and though he still smiled, it irked him. The House, which is easily amused, was vastly amused.
The opportunity for Jack Williams was excellent, and he whispered, during the hubbub of “Answer! Answer!” a discreet word into Halterton’s ear.
“It looks all right with Billies?”
Halterton only looked embarrassed.
“Does it?” he whispered back. “I’d like to have a word with you, Jack.”
Williams was the man for embarrassed men to go to. Williams could always advise sanely and at once—and he was always right.
“When you like,” he answered quickly and in the same low voice.
“All right. Would it do now?” said the other. “But don’t come out immediately after me.”
“My dear Wilfrid, you’ll find me in my room when you like. I’ll be there all the time. There’ll be nothing but old Mother Boulger, when questions are over; and you’ve no more to say, anyhow.”
So out went Williams, behind the Speaker’s chair, slowly and sauntering, and saying a word or two to one of the permanent officials under the gallery, just to show that he was in no hurry.
Then after a due interval, and after passing plenty of remarks with this man and that as he left, Wilfrid Halterton rose in his turn and walked towards the main door to the outer Lobby, the door opposite that by which Williams had left. He had business apparently in the Lobby, and as he passed out through the swing glass doors he looked over his shoulder and saw Mrs. Boulger rising in all her ample majesty to make answer to the terrible attack which had been delivered from the Opposition back bench the day before by Mr. Boulger’s nephew by his first marriage, a promising lad.
Wilfrid Halterton buttonholed a man in the inner Lobby, spent a moment at the Post Office pretending to ask for a message there, and then turned down the steps and sought the Home Secretary’s room, still unhurried. He found Williams alone, as he had promised to be.
“Now, Wilfrid,” said Jack Williams heartily, and turning his chair half round, to face the newcomer, “what is it? How are things going? What’s all this about Durrant’s? I suppose it’s that you want to see me about? Sit down.”
“I do, Jack,” said Halterton, as he pulled up a chair. “I do indeed.”
He swung his clasped hands between his bony knees, and gazed down at the carpet, thinking what he should say next. Then he looked up.
“You know, Jack,” he said, “everybody always comes to you when there’s a hitch.”
“Thank you,” said Williams.
“And there’s been a hitch, Jack. You must have guessed that.”
“It don’t look much like a hitch,” replied Williams a little dryly. “Billies are blazing.”
Halterton got up and paced the room, after the manner usual to him when that mighty brain was fairly at work.
“Well, look here, Jack, it’s like this” (and for perhaps the tenth time in forty-eight hours he looked at the door. It was shut securely enough). “It’s like this …” He sat down again, and actually tapped the Home Secretary upon the knee. “I don’t feel happy about J.”
“What’s the matter with J.?” asked Williams serenely. He didn’t mind being tapped upon the knee; and he didn’t mind what happened to him so long as he knew what was going on before anyone else did. “What’s the matter with J.? He’s in clover. One can see that. And what’s more, he hasn’t been keeping his mouth shut—he thought it better to talk, eh?”
Wilfrid Halterton had read in many books that when one was in a tight place and has asked for advice one should be quite candid and get it all over in the first burst. He honestly meant to follow the judgement of the books, but it was difficult.
“Yes,” he said, “J.’s all right. … But I’m not all right.”
“Well, Wilfrid, he hasn’t got the thing, whatever it is, without a proper bargain, I hope.”
“No. … But you see … you see …”
“Look, Wilfrid,” answered Jack Williams kindly and with due patience, but not without a little sigh, “you are asking me for advice, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” said the miserable Wilfrid, with a hint of tragedy in his voice, which the other duly noted.
“You’re asking me for advice, and you’re quite right. For I think I know what’s the matter, and what ought to be done.”
It was said at random, but it hit the bull’s eye. He could see that, so he leant forward earnestly, putting a new note into his voice.
“And look here, Wilfrid, in things of this kind men must stand together. … You aren’t quarrelling with J., I hope?”
“No, no,” answered Wilfrid quickly, “not that!”
“Well, now tell me the whole thing clean out, and I’ll give you the best advice I can. I shall probably be able to tell you what’s the matter in five minutes.”
“The matter,” said Halterton, his hunger for sound judgement overruling his hesitation, “the matter is about J.’s letter.”
“You mean,” said Jack Williams (to whom this sort of thing was as familiar as his own face in the shaving-glass), “you mean some letter or whatever it was that J. gave you as against the contract, or promise of the contract? You mean—his arrangement with you?”
Halterton nodded. “More or less,” said he. “That kind of thing. … His acknowledgement, you know. His acknowledgement. All that sort of thing. … And the bother of it is, I wrote a memorandum of my own on the top of the letter in pencil, just to make sure.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” said Williams grimly. “A very useful precaution!”
“Yes. And now it’s gone, with that writing of mine on it.”
“Gone!” said Jack, really startled. “That’s awkward! Things like that oughtn’t to be left lying about.”
He looked Halterton hard in the face, but then recovered from his surprise at the news and smiled so genially that there was no hint of blame.
“No, by Jove!” muttered the Postmaster-General.
“Well, there’s one thing you’ve got to do, obviously. Ask J. for another one.”
“I have,” said Wilfrid, speaking slowly and solemnly —“and he refused.”
“Refused!” jerked out Williams, with a sudden movement of the eyebrows.
“Yes,” said Halterton, “refused—and what’s more, he says he never gave me anything.”
The Home Secretary yielded to habit and gave that low whistle which he had acquired in earlier days of Trade Union politics, whenever he had come across something that “had put him on to it.”
“O-o-o-h!” he said. And then he leaned his chin on his hand, still looking steadily at Halterton, and added, “D’you know what’s happened?”
“No, I can’t imagine,” answered Halterton, not meeting the other’s eye. “I’ve looked everywhere. I even looked under the carpet—though I don’t see how it could have got there. … I didn’t look in the lining of my coat. … I’m sure, though, that the lining wasn’t torn. There’s nowhere it could get under in the hall. Unless—perhaps,” he added, as a bright thought struck him, “unless perhaps there was room for a bit of paper under the umbrella stand. I’ve not looked there.” There was new hope in his voice.
“My dear Wilfrid,” answered the Home Secretary, in a rather lower and very even voice, “it is not under the carpet. It is not under the umbrella stand. Nor is it in the other world. Shall I tell you where it is?”
“But you don’t know!” wailed the other plaintively.
“It is on the person of James Haggismuir McAuley.”
“What I”
“On the person, I said,” repeated Williams a little severely, “on the person of James Haggismuir McAuley. In a pocket, I should say. Perhaps sewn on to his vest. But more likely in a pocket. And on the whole, I should say the inside left-hand
breast-pocket of his morning coat—for it’s still the middle of the afternoon.” Then he leaned back and continued, with humour in his eyes: “There now, Wilfrid! I’ve told you. And so you know.”
Halterton looked at his colleague in a dazed way. Williams had been called the Wizard: Hiram Buggs, formerly of Warramugga and now First Baron Desportes had given him that name in his paper, just after getting his title. Though the Postmaster-General knew that Williams had helped him to get the peerage, he had never understood the admiring nickname. He began to understand it now; and great as was his own position, the fruit of his own great achievements, he felt an awe coming upon him at the genius of the statesman who sat before him so self-possessed and simple, yet wielding so tremendous an instrument of intelligence.
“Ah,” he said, after some moments to take it all in. “The breast-pocket—the inside breast-pocket … of the morning coat he was wearing … the left-hand one, I think you said?”
The Home Secretary nodded.
“That’s right,” he agreed.
“Well! Upon my word! So you say he’s got it? … Well. … I’m beginning to understand now.”
“I’m glad of that,” said the other, and the smile returned for a moment.
“Yes, I’m beginning to understand. … I see. For some reason or other he wanted to get the thing back.”
“Yes,” said Williams. “For some reason or other, he did.”
The Postmaster-General pondered, staring at the table. Then he looked up, and added, after a sudden thought: “But why do you think he has kept it? Why shouldn’t he have destroyed it? I can see why he said he didn’t remember anything about it. I can see all that now. But then, why didn’t he destroy it?”
“Because your pencil note on it is a valuable record. It gives him a hold on you.”
Halterton felt as though he had received a moderate blow in the pit of the stomach.
“Hold on me!” he faltered. “Yes. … I see. I begin to see … yes …”
“Besides which,” continued the Home Secretary cheerfully, “he liked to feel free to decide who to give the job to, eh?”
“What job?” said the other suspiciously. “I’ve heard of no job. … I never said anything about a job!”
The Postmaster General Page 5