Snow, C.P. - George Passant (aka Strangers and Brothers).txt

by Unknown

  There was a pause.

  "Just over six years ago."

  "And you then joined Mr. Exell in his advertising agency?"

  "Yes."

  "What were the arrangements, the business arrangements, I mean, you understand, Mr. Martineau--when you joined that firm?"

  "I think we worked out the value of the business roughly, and I bought half of it from Mr. Exell."

  "How much did you pay?"

  "Five hundred pounds."

  George had asked the question at random. The answer was directly against us: George and Jack had borrowed half as much again.

  "You ran the business yourself for a time?"

  "I helped, I can only say that. I was also interested in -other fields."

  "You remember the little paper, The Advertisers' Arrow, which the agency used to publish?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Your other interests didn't leave you much time to keep acquainted with it, I suppose?"

  Martineau hesitated for a moment.

  "I think they did, on the whole. I think I knew more about it than anyone else in the firm."

  Many people noticed the dejection and carelessness that George had shown in the beginning of the examination; only a few realized the point at which his manner changed. Actually, it was when he heard this answer. He immediately became nervous but alert, pertinacious, ready to smile at Martineau and the jury. No one understood completely at the time; myself, I suddenly felt that he must be getting a different response from his last night's talk with Martineau.

  "How long were you busy with the agency?"

  "Not quite a year, not quite a year."

  "And towards the end of that time you received suggestions that you might sell again?"

  "Not quite, not quite. It was after I had already got on the move again. We talked over the possibility of other people buying it. You must forgive me if my memory isn't perfect -but it's some time ago and my life has changed a little since." He turned to the judge, who smiled back. "I think that was the first step, though."

  "Whom did you talk over the matter with?"

  "Mr. Passant, chiefly."

  "What kind of conversation did you have with Mr. Passant?"

  Martineau laughed.

  "That's rather a tall order, I'm afraid. I talked to him a great deal then," he looked in a friendly way at George, "and I have talked a good deal since of different things, you know. I can't guarantee to remember very exactly. But I think we discussed the natural things--that is, whether Mr. Passant ought to try to buy this business, and the state it was in, and its likelihood in the future. My impression is, we touched on all those things--"

  "You touched on the Arrow, did you?"

  "Yes, we certainly did that."

  "Did you come to the conclusion that Mr. Passant ought to try to buy the agency?"

  "I think we did."

  "Can you try to recall what you said about its state just then?"

  "That's a little difficult."

  "You stated that you did discuss the--condition at that time?"

  "Naturally he was interested in those matters. I told him all I could."

  "You must have discussed profits and the turnover and the expenses--and the circulation of the Arrow, I expect?" Getliffe was still eager and excited.

  "I think so, I think we did."

  "I'm afraid I've got to push on about the circulation. We should all be clearer if you could remember, do you think you can remember?--if you gave him a definite figure?"

  "I may have done, but I can't be certain."

  "Is it likely you did?"

  "I should have thought I told him in general terms, so that he could make an estimate of the possibilities for himself. I should have thought that was the most likely thing."

  "You think you told him that the circulation was, say, large--or in the thousands, or very small?"

  "That was the way. I'm sure that was the way."

  "Now, Mr. Martineau, can you think what indication you actually gave him? Did you say that it was very small?"

  "No, no."

  "That it was reasonably large?" Martineau smiled.

  "I think I said--something of that nature."

  "If you put it in numbers?"

  "I don't believe we were absolutely exact."

  "But if you had to, what would 'reasonably large' have meant? More than a thousand?"

  "Yes, surely."

  "Several thousand?"

  "Something like that, perhaps."

  "You don't mind repeating that, Mr. Martineau?"

  "Of course not."

  "You're fairly certain that was the kind of number Mr. Passant gathered from your discussions?"

  "Yes, yes."

  "Thank you very much, Mr. Martineau," George said. He sat down, and as he took up a pencil to write a note his fingers were trembling. He leaned close to me: "That's something, anyway," he whispered.

  Porson began in a level voice, spacing the words out: "You said you gave up your profession as a solicitor six years ago?"

  "Yes."

  "How are you earning your living at present?"

  "I'm scarcely doing so at all."

  "You mean, you've retired?"

  "No, no, I mean almost the opposite. It's only since I've left that I've become active--but that hasn't helped me much to make a living," Martineau smiled.

  "Come, My. Martineau, where are you living now?"

  "I've been living in a little settlement. We try to support ourselves and earn our luxuries by selling what we have left over. But, as I said, that doesn't always do so well."

  "You've been there for long?"

  "Nearly two years. But perhaps I may not stay much longer."

  "I think the jury will understand your temporary association with the agency if you will tell us something about your movements. From the time you gave up your profession--first of all, you had a short period with the agency, and then-----?"

  Martineau mentioned his changes: the "Brotherhood of the Road," the solitary vagrancy, some of his humiliations and adventures (someone in the gallery laughed as he mentioned that he slept in casual wards; Martineau turned towards him and laughed more loudly), the settlement. He did not say any word about his future. As the story went on George stiffened into attention. The whole court was tense.

  "Very well," said Porson, "I suppose we can take it for granted you performed this very eccentric behaviour on religious grounds?"

  Martineau nodded his head. "Myself, I should call it trying to find a way of life."

  "Well--you were already trying to do that when you bought part of Mr. Exell's business?"

  "I think I was."

  "You weren't entirely interested in it as a business?"

  "Not entirely."

  "Scarcely at all, in fact?"

  "I couldn't say that."

  "You had every reason not to trouble to get any accurate. knowledge of it at all?"

  "I'm afraid that isn't true," said Martineau. "I knew itpretty well."

  "You won't pretend you seriously thought of this paper for instance--as a business proposition? You don't deny that you wrote religious articles for it?"

  "I thought perhaps I should find others--well, who were trying to find the way too."

  "I'm glad you admit that. You'll also admit, won't you, that you weren't in touch with more prosaic things--like its circulation?"

  Martineau shook his head. "No. I was in touch with them. They were still very close."

  "I hope you'll admit, though, that Mr. Exell still had something to do with it?"

  "Yes." Martineau smiled again.

  "Perhaps even more than yourself?"

  "Very likely he had."

  "Well, then, Mr. Martineau, will it surprise you to know that Mr. Exell has given the court exact information upon the circulation of this paper, and his information was very different from that which you remember--you vaguely remember--giving to Mr. Passant?"

  "It doesn't surprise me so very muc
h," Martineau said.

  "So I put it to you that you were incorrect in your recollection of your talk to Mr. Passant? You told him a figure very much less than you suggested a few minutes ago?"

  "That's not true. Not true."

  "You realize you are contradicting yourself? You have told us you were thoroughly acquainted with the state of the firm."

  "Yes."

  "You've also agreed that Mr. Exell knew it well, as well and better than yourself? I've told you that he gave evidence that the Arrow at no time had a circulation of more than twelve hundred."

  "Yes."

  "Then, Mr. Martineau, I put it to you that either your recollection of your talks with Mr. Passant is untrustworthy or-----"

  Martineau broke in: "No, no, no. Those talks are returning more and more."

  "In that case, you were never acquainted with the real figures? You've been misleading us?"

  "No. I knew them not so badly, not so badly."

  "How can you possibly justify what you have just said?"

  Martineau replied: "Because I should have agreed with Mr. Exell."

  There was an instant of silence.

  "Yet you said you remembered telling Mr. Passant an absolutely different state of affairs? Is it true that you gave Mr. Passant to understand that the paper had a large circulation?"

  "That is also true."

  "While you yourself knew, with Mr. Exell. that it was quite otherwise?"

  "That's true as well. As well."

  "You're now saying, Mr. Martineau, that you were responsible for telling a dangerous lie. You realize you're saying this?"

  "I do." He smiled. "Naturally I do."

  The judge coughed, and said quietly: "Would you mind telling us whether you actually knew the position of your paper in detail at this time?"

  "Yes."

  "On the other hand, you gave Mr. Passant a different estimate, a very much larger figure?"

  "I think I never gave him a figure exactly. I've said before, I don't remember too well. But I let him get an impression of something much larger. I certainly let him get that impression."

  "Can you explain why you did that?"

  "I think so. I've already said, m'lord, that the little paper contained some of my plans to find others on the same -well, 'exploration' as myself, and it wasn't always easy in those days to confess how unsuccessful I'd been."

  The judge pursed his lips into a smile of recognition (not his friendly smile), inclined his head, and made a note.

  Porson kept on, his tone angrier and more hectoring.

  "Was there any reason why a man who had apparently given up something for his beliefs should go in for indiscriminate lying?"

  Martineau said: "I'm afraid I found there was."

  Could he expect the jury to believe this "extraordinary thing?" It was not part of his "new religion" to damage and mislead his friends? The lie might make it more possible to obtain money from his friends, but that was scarcely likely to enter his thoughts? Was the only explanation that Martineau could offer for his "completely pointless lie" simply his own "vanity and conceit"?

  It was commented on as the bitterest cross-examination which the trial had so far seen; Porson seemed full of personal antipathy. Many people in the court felt pleased at the tranquillity with which Martineau answered. He was still calm when Porson asked his last questions.

  "In fact, your way of life has made you a person with no respect for the truth in a sense which the jury and all honest men must understand it?"

  "I don't feel that's true."

  "You're aware, of course, that if the jury believes this story of your lie it may be of some slight advantage to your friend, Mr. Passant?"

  "Yes."

  "There's no more reason for them to trust you now than Mr. Passant had--according to your story?"

  "I hope they will trust me now."

  When Porson sat down, Martineau rested a hand on the box. George asked him the one question: "You can say for certain, Mr. Martineau, that you gave Mr. Passant to understand that the circulation was a largish number, in the thousands?"

  "I'm certain," said Martineau, in a full, confident and happy voice.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  NIGHT WITH THE PASSANTS

  Two more witnesses were called before the judge rose. I stayed with George in the robing-room after Porson had gone out, leaving us with a loud laugh and a good night. George sat on the edge of the table.

  "Old Martineau did us proud," he said.

  I nodded.

  "You're lucky to have known him," he said with a warm, friendly smile. "He's the sort of man who sometimes makes me want to do something different. You can understand my wanting that, can't you?" He was speaking with great eagerness.

  "I knew you would," George said. We took up our cases and walked through the empty hall. Suddenly George took my arm. "I knew you'd understand," he said. "You pretend not to be religious, I know that, of course. But you can't get away from your own nature, whatever you like to call it. You can't pull the wool over my eyes. It's something we've got in common, isn't it?"

  "I don't mean we're better people in one way," he went on. "You know I'm not. You've seen enough of me. I can do--things I'm ashamed of afterwards. You can too, can't you? I expect we can both do more bad things than people who've not got the sense of--'religion. ' In many ways I'm a worse man than they are. But somehow I think there are times when I get a bit further than they manage to. Because I want to, that's all, L. S."

  He laughed. "Take Porson, for instance. I know what they say about his morals, I'm not taking any notice of them. If you rule that out, he's a better man than I am. He's more honest, he wouldn't have to watch himself as I do. Yet there isn't a scrap of anything deep in him. I'll swear there isn't. He's never prayed. He's never wept at night."

  As we walked on through the street, crowded with the first rush of the evening. George said: "What happened to old Martineau, anyway? Did he lie to Passant or did they think of that later?"

  "I think he lied to Passant," I said. I told him of the entry in George's diary: and of that inexplicable chicanery over Morcom's flat years ago--when George had protested, angrily and loyally, that Martineau could never do a dishonest act.

  George said: "I don't know. He's not got much to lose now, of courseand Passant might gain a good deal. He liked Passant, I could tell that. Anyway it's given us a chance: with our friend Porson going all out after that set of figures on paper: he never ought to have made so much of it. But as for Martineau--you know, he might have invented it for Passant's sake."

  "It's difficult to believe," I said. "He was always fond of George Passant--but personal affections mattered less to him than anyone I've ever met. His own story-----"

  "What about it?"

  "You believed him last night?"

  "I fancy I did," said George. "It went just as I told you. It was all a long time ago, he said. He did just remember talking to Passant, but he hadn't any recollection of what they said. He never knew much about the agency or the paper. He had forgotten the little he ever knew. He obviously wasn't going to make any effort to remember, either."

  "Was that all?"

  "That was all I got him to say. Once or twice I did wonder whether he really had forgotten. He seemed to be making it too vague altogether. But I tell you, L. S., I'm certain of one thing. Last night he hadn't the slightest intention of saying what he did today. I don't believe he had any intention of doing it--until he got into the box. It just came to him on the spur of the moment. I should like to know whether he invented it."

  "I'm certain he lied to Passant," I said. "Of course, if he did, Passant would believe him. He would never be suspicious of a friend, particularly of Martineau-----"

  "I don't think I should have been," said George. He smiled at me. Because of these last hours, we were on better terms than we had ever been.

  "I don't know," I said. "You might have believed him for the moment, but as soon as he went away you'd have take
n care to find out."

  "We've got to remember," said George, "that Passant himself must have had his suspicions. He's too able a man not to have seen some snags and--they must all have known for certain there was something wrong. Very soon-----"

  "When?"

  "We can both make our own guess, can't we?"

  Before the money was borrowed, he was thinking. But his imagination had been caught by Martineau.

  "The old chap must have gone through a good deal," he said, "getting no-one to believe in his faith, at that time. I know you will say this is all too cut and dried, L. S.,--but I fancy there is one thing he held on to longer than most. That's his self-respect. And I fancy his performance today had something to do with that."

  "You mean, he might have been trying to free himselfeven from self-respect?"

  "At times--I can imagine doing it myself."

  "But still," I thought aloud, "it's stronger with him than most men--even after today. There's part of it he never will lose. He would be the last man to be able to get free."

  George laughed affectionately.

  "Anyhow, he got rid of a dash of it today."

  At Eden's Olive and Jack were waiting: George had sent for them, to have a last word before their examination the next day. Olive told me that Martineau was leaving the town within the hour.

  Soon I left them, and took a taxi to the omnibus station. George, his father and Roy were standing close to a notice of the services to the North.

  Martineau was on the steps by the conductor, and as I hurried towards them he went inside. The engine burred, they lurched off; Martineau was still standing up, waving.

  "It's a pity he had to go away tonight," Mr. Passant said. Then he burst out: "He never ought to go without an overcoat, going right up there in this weather. He ought to know it isn't doing any good-----"

  We were all sad that he could leave so casually, before the end of the trial. They were angry that he was free of their sorrows. Mr. Passant said several times on the way to the Passants' house: "I should have thought he might have stayed another day or two."

  He repeated it to Mrs. Passant, who was waiting in her front room.

  "I didn't expect much of him," she said.

  "He used to flatter you very nicely, though," said Roy, who had replaced Jack in her favour. For one instant her face softened in a pleased, girlish smile.