The Postmaster General

by Hilaire Belloc

  In order, I suppose, to test him, Williams, as he mounted in his rapidly successful career, had arranged that the man who had now become his dependant should be subjected twice to similar temptation. In each case he had fallen again, and in each case Williams had forgiven him. My readers will not doubt me, however, when I say that after such experiences Mr. Gunter was devoted to his benefactor, and was ever ready to do his bidding.

  The relations between the two men were rendered the easier by the contrasts in their characters; for Gunter, the ready victim of temptation, was a weak little man in physique as in will, and had taken to drinking rather too much since he had given up all hope of success in his humble life. Jack Williams had got him a small post and kept him in it by influence: he quite rightly did not think himself bound to add to the restricted but sufficient income upon which the Gunter family was supported. On the other hand, though the Home Secretary in his private capacity sometimes required Mr. Gunter’s services, he did not strain them. Mr. Gunter was normally of use to him principally as an agent whose name could be used in buying and selling stock by orders given over the wires. It was only on particular occasions that he was summoned—and this was one of them.

  The Home Secretary took Mr. Gunter into his study, got him ready for dictation, and then read out to him for taking down first the document signed Halterton and then the document signed McAuley.

  “There, Gunter,” he said, when the copies were finished and the dependant had looked up for further orders, “that’s all I want, except your signature here. Just write at the bottom of each, if you please, ‘ Copy made by me, Henry Gunter, of two documents presented to me for transcription on Friday, March the 6th, 1960, at 9.55 a.m. I hereby testify that I have read the originals and that these copies are exact.’

  “That’s all. Thank you, Gunter.”

  Jack Williams nodded. It was a cheerful, kindly nod, nothing patronizing about it, worthy of the man. Gunter’s task was accomplished, and he went out.

  But there was one more thing for the Home Secretary to do before he went off to attend to the affairs of the nation. And what he did next I also particularly recommend (for the last time) to such of my readers as may be contemplating an entry into public life, in spite of the burdens which their services to their country at Westminster may entail.

  Jack Williams darkened the room, and took from the cupboard two medium-sized printing frames for photographs. Into each he put photographic paper. On each he carefully laid one of the documents, face downwards, then closed the top, then clamped down the whole. For a time, which he exactly judged, stop watch in hand, he subjected them to a brilliant little light which he had among his apparatus, and when he had turned it off there was nothing left to do but to fix the prints. He then had a permanent negative record of the typescript and of Halterton’s signature, and of McAuley’s holograph note. He washed and fixed the sheets. Dried them with one of the new rapid driers, put them in an envelope, and his work was finished. He put the two prints and Gunter’s transcript with the same packet as the envelopes, got his apparatus back into the cupboard and locked it. He then went off to the station for his office a serene and contented man.

  Chapter VIII

  In the Clarence flat of the Postmaster-General north of the Park, in the McAuley flat by the Marble Arch not a mile away—in each flat a perplexed and angry and disappointed man determined to recover his possessions. Each lay awake the better part of that Thursday night. Each came, with very different aptitudes, to the same conclusion. Each decided that he must most cautiously, stealthily, watch the movements of the other, himself remaining unobserved, and snatch his moment for recovering that one of the respective papers which was for each a matter of life and death.

  Wilfrid Halterton only got to sleep when he had decided for the fiftieth time that by bending all his energies to it even he, who had little experience in such things, could count upon re-possessing the document, the damning document on which he had left the pencilled phrase which put him into the other’s power. James Haggismuir McAuley decided, at once and remained decided, that he certainly would recover not one but both the documents which had been in his possession those few hours ago.

  It was too early for gentlemen to be astir on the Friday morning when James McAuley and Wilfrid Halterton were, each in his own lair, preparing for the chase. Indeed, it was barely seven o’clock, but each was afoot, for each had told himself it was the early sleuth that caught the sinner; and as the Postmaster-General was beginning to slink along westward over the deserted pavement which fringes the Park, James McAuley was pursuing the same pace eastward towards the door whence the Postmaster-General had emerged.

  It was the intention of the one to wait patiently at some corner whence he could command the exit from the Marble Arch flat; of the other to wait patiently at some corner whence he could observe the emergence of his quarry from the main door of the flat north of the Park.

  But let something be noted in the action of James McAuley; indeed, I grant to Wilfrid Halterton the superior genius in obtaining high ministerial rank, I see in James McAuley another form of genius— the commercial. For while Wilfrid Halterton moved all exposed through the empty, shivering world, under the fire of any eyes that might be moving in the vast expanse of solid Park or through the desert of the Bayswater Road, James McAuley slithered in and out by passages and mews and back streets on his parallel progress. Hence, in spite of their common resolution, they did not meet.

  But that accident could not be long delayed. The Postmaster-General, having reached the Marble Arch, had lingered and shuffled for some ten minutes, moving but slowly to and fro, watching the porch of James McAuley’s flat, when a policeman, eager for advancement, told him, without courtesy, what he thought of the proceeding. The Postmaster-General waived the privilege of his office and most reluctantly moved off westward again, still glancing now and then over his shoulder at the forbidden exit.

  With James McAuley things fared even worse. For the houses of Cabinet Ministers are not to be watched with impunity, except of course by people wealthier or even more important than themselves, and even then it must be done through known agents. Therefore the policeman spoke to Mr. James McAuley some five minutes before his colleague had dealt so severely with Wilfrid Halterton, and the policeman who spoke to James McAuley was not only without courtesy but actually rude, bidding him to hop it and never let him see his ugly face again. There was nothing for James but to regain his native door overlooking the Marble Arch; and after all, it was high time to get some coffee. He was at an age when it is not good to take long walks on a raw March morning before breakfast. He took the direct road back along the Park.

  The same idea had occurred to Wilfrid Halterton, for coffee was also his beverage. He also went back along the Bayswater Road the way he had come.

  Each took it for granted that the other was still in bed, when, about half-way between the two flats, James Haggismuir McAuley caught sight, at 350 yards range, of the unmistakable tall figure. Happily for him, Wilfrid Halterton’s head was for the moment in the air. He often carried it so in moments of anxious doubt; the rest of the time, which was rather given to depression, he would cast his eyes upon the ground.

  James McAuley turned abruptly round and gazed through the palings of the Park, which he was following. He made little doubt that his back view would be a sufficient concealment. He was wrong. Wilfrid Halterton had spotted his prey. There was no mistaking the inward turn of the toes and the separation of the heels, the special stance of James Haggismuir McAuley.

  The Postmaster-General with unaccustomed rapidity of decision popped down the steps of an open area until his eyes were just on a level with the pavement as he stood tiptoe on the steps, craning his head backward and playing the observant submarine over the level sea of the roadway. In that attitude he watched the further movements of the foe.

  James Haggismuir McAuley stood by the railings with his back turned, stock still in the cold for an unconsci
onable time; then, very cautiously, he peeped round over his shoulders; it was with much the same gesture as is adopted by the domestic cat when it desires to observe without being observed. To his immense astonishment, Wilfrid Halterton had disappeared—for the two and a half inches of top head (the hat had been removed) which Wilfrid Halterton was showing like a periscope above the vast level of the London pavement did not catch McAuley’s eye. He said to himself: “The man’s gone home—but what was he here for?” For the moment the financier had half a mind to return and watch that flat again; but he bethought him of the policeman, and also of the coffee that waited him in his flat near the Marble Arch. “I’ll even let it bide,” he said to himself. “It’ll keep.”

  Then he stepped out boldly and briskly westward in no further fear of being followed.

  Wrong again. If the Postmaster-General had had any hesitation, it was dispelled by a rude shock. An elderly but decided domestic had seen from the window of her kitchen below two long legs on two large tiptoe boots obscuring the morning light. She had armed herself with a sooty brush, rushed out, and struck home. The great statesman turned in confused terror and leapt like a boy to the level — there he stood quaking and hesitant. Breakfast called him, but so did business. Business conquered appetite. Wilfrid Halterton sacrificed his coffee and followed after the master of Billies at a vast distance.

  The pavement was still so deserted that visibility was good. Halterton from far off saw his fox take cover in the Marble Arch flats, and then hesitated a moment what to do. He could not begin watching the door again, it might lead to all sorts of things. But there was nothing to prevent his going in and trusting to fortune. It is a common trust with men whose genius does not lend itself to rapid calculation.

  The first time the lift went up it bore to his sixth floor the considerable though fasting burden of James Haggismuir McAuley. Next time it went up it bore the tall, spare, and also fasting figure of Wilfrid Halterton.

  What was to be done next? It is not I who ask you the question, perfect reader. It would be no good asking you. You cannot move the people in this story at your will. That is my privilege. No, it was Wilfrid Halterton who asked himself the question—and like Mack at Ulm, Napoleon III at Sedan, and the Heavy Weight at the Count Eight—he was floored, without an answer. He could think of nothing better than to pace up and down the corridor, hoping that when his quarry came out he would be able to see without being seen. After all, thought the P.M.G., the moment the door began to open he could always pop round the corner of the corridor.

  The Postmaster-General had to wait a full half-hour, during which the lift went up and down more than once, and during which there passed him no less than five times, with increasing curiosity, the lady whose duty it was to sweep, dust, clean and hang about that particular floor.

  At last the door opened, at a moment rather unfortunate for the Postmaster-General. It did not find him near any convenient corner in the course of his pacings, but on the very edge of the stairs, in the three yards between the lift and James McAuley’s door. He heard McAuley’s voice within; he could not risk running back; he dashed down the six flights of stairs with a rapidity worthy of a better cause and of more agile years.

  Statesman keeping a still more cautious eye on a financier.

  James McAuley, all innocent of the flight downstairs, rang solemnly for the lift, awaited it, shot down in it, and behold, even as he came out and moved to the porch of the flats, there was the rapidly retreating figure of Wilfrid Halterton already upon the pavement.

  The Postmaster-General had the imprudence to look round. Their eyes met, and with a strange cry which considerably startled the few people in the neighbourhood, Wilfrid Halterton ran down Park Lane as fast as he could for some twenty yards, at the end of which the Fates provided him with a taxi-cab. He jumped into it, shouting the first address that occurred to him —Victoria. The deliberate taxi-driver was fain to ask which of the two stations; a monstrous piece of routine, for they had long been one.

  “Any station!” yelled the agonized Minister. “Brighton if you like!”

  The taxi-driver had no tastes in the matter. But the delay had given the hunt its chance; James McAuley was following in another similar vehicle which he directed in masterly fashion through the open window:

  “Double fare!” he said, “double fare! … Drive faster, you idiot! No! Don’t drive fast … just keep him in sight. Now … just keep him in sight.”

  In his anxiety the great financier kept on popping his head out every two or three seconds to make sure that all was well; and as rapidly popping it in again on those numerous occasions when Wilfrid Halterton upon his part popped his head out, with the object of seeing whether he were pursued. He was not quite certain. Sometimes he thought he was, sometimes he thought he was not. He arrived at Victoria—and then he conceived—it is greatly to the credit of such a man that he could make such a plan so rapidly—he conceived, I say, this excellent ruse.

  The telephone boxes, which even for the wireless telephones of 1960 stand very much as they did in 1932, are, as ever, provided with glass doors. By a happy chance they are so dark during the daytime that an inhabitant thereof can see better what is going on outside than one outside can see what is going on inside. It is to the honour and credit of Wilfrid Halterton in these first hours of his new career as tracker that he bethought him of the telephone boxes.

  He was rewarded. He had not shut the glass door thirty seconds when he saw James Haggismuir McAuley approaching from the pavement where the cab had set him down.

  But what was this? James Haggismuir McAuley was doing something which might end in stalemate, and which perplexed his former friend sorely. For James McAuley in his turn had sidled into a telephone box three places down the same row, and thence looked out eagerly for his quarry among the gathering throng.

  J. was just growing anxious at the apparent disappearance of that quarry amid the crowd of slaves whom the suburban trains were disgorging, when, by the chance of a side glance, he saw through those intervening thicknesses of the three telephone boxes and six panes of glass, what could not but be the eminent Cabinet Minister, so lately his partner in negotiations of great importance to the State.

  James McAuley debated in himself whether Wilfrid Halterton had seen him, decided that the Postmaster-General had failed to connect, crept out of the telephone box with soft step and bent knees, and crawled round the corner of the nearest wall. His superior initiative inspired Wilfrid Halterton to behave in exactly the same fashion, and cautiously peering all round, he took cover round the opposing corner. There each stood and awaited developments.

  You may, or you may not believe it, but it is perfectly true, that there came at this moment upon the scene a figure equally familiar to you with those of the two watchers; the genial, good-natured, brisk figure of Honest Jack Williams. It was often his custom of a fine Friday when he was usually up earlier at the office because of the earlier meeting of the House, to walk from the station cheerily through St. James’s Park, observing the quaint birds which are harboured there and comparing their features with those of his colleagues—a comparison which was to him a source of unfailing amusement. Thus it was that he ran plump into Wilfrid Halterton.

  “Wilfrid—my dear fellow!” he said. “Is that you?”

  It would have been futile to deny it. Jack Williams, hooking his hand into the arm of his victim, bore him away. But even as he did so his unfailing eye had caught, sideways and to the right, a face which he also knew very well—the face of the gentleman with whom Jack Williams had played billiards last night; and at that sight the active genius of Jack Williams—a genius which I frankly confess to be far superior even to that of Wilfrid Halterton or James McAuley—began to work like a turbine.

  By the time the two, arm in arm, had got half-way down the Buckingham Palace Road opposite that sculpture of the horses on the Royal Stables which is one of the best things in London, Jack Williams, cheerfully chatting all the way,
had thoroughly solved the problem.

  These two Johnnies were watching each other! He was tempted to laugh out aloud! “And why were they watching each other?” asked Jack Williams inwardly, of Jack Williams. “Why,” answered Jack Williams to Jack Williams, “because each of them thought the other had the letters.” And as that final solution disclosed itself in all its radiance it was impossible for the Home Secretary to restrain a loud bellow of open laughter. He stopped in the street, with his arm still linked in his colleague’s, and laughed his fill.

  “Halterton,” he said when he took up his stride again, “that was one of the funniest things I’ve heard in my life.”

  “What?” said the distracted and (alas!) foodless Halterton. He half resented being thus carried off, but also was half relieved by it; for the strain of the combined chase and hiding had already begun to tell on him. “What did I say that you thought funny?”

  To tell the truth, he had not the least idea of what he had been saying, he had been answering at random. Jack Williams’s sufficient retort was: “Slyboots!”— with which word he dug the Postmaster-General in the ribs and led the conversation rapidly on to one thing after another until it was miles away from McAuley and the memory of McAuley.

  They parted at the Home Office door. Halterton, having nothing better to do, made his way to his room in the House of Commons, close at hand, and there got some coffee at last. He needed it.

  . . . . . . .

  Jack Williams had not long been seated at his desk before he got hold of the opening price of Billies, just as the market opened. They were still soaring. They were going to 50, eagerly bought on a rising market. His Mr. Gunter, who had just rung up the Home Secretary according to orders, assured him that “they” were safe—good for 60 before the end of the day. Mr. Gunter had been told that on the wire and repeated it like a parrot, with very little understanding what it meant. Mr. Gunter mournfully considered that if he only knew what “they” referred to he also might have had his little flutter. But he had his ungrateful duty to fulfil, and he reported that “they could safely be held until 60 at least.”