by Sapper
“Only that I’ve solved the real message,” cried Standish savagely.
He got up and shook his fists in the air.
“Solved it,” he muttered. “And we’re helpless. Absolutely helpless.”
Chapter 9
“I trust that everything is to monsieur’s satisfaction?”
The head waiter bowed obsequiously as an underling replaced the gold-foil bottle in the ice bucket. The silver gleamed in the shaded light; a big jar of caviare shone like black velvet in the centre of the table. From outside came the dull roar of the Strand by night; save for that, no sound disturbed the occupant of the suite in the Ritz-Carlton.
“Thank you, Henri. All is excellent as usual. Let my friend be shown up the instant he arrives.”
“I will see to it personally, m’sieur.”
With another low bow befitting a man whose wealth was reputed to be fabulous, and who, unlike some others of the millionaire variety, dispensed largesse freely, Henri marshalled his attendants and left the room, leaving the diner alone.
For a while he ate with the quiet deliberation of a man used to feeding by himself – sparingly and yet with the appreciation of the true epicure. Every now and then his eyes rested on the ormolu clock which occupied the centre of the mantelpiece. They were strange eyes – almost repellent. Very light blue in colour, they protruded slightly, giving the impression of a fish. But what was most noticeable about them was their unwavering stare: they never seemed to blink. Hypnotic, frightening, eyes to which it would take a bold man to lie; eyes which made women turn away with a shudder; eyes which had done more than anything else to make Ivor Kalinsky one of the most powerful forces in Europe.
He finished the caviare, and pouring himself out another glass of champagne, he lit a cigarette. He smoked as he had eaten, slowly and with deliberation, using an amber holder. And after a time he rose and began to pace slowly up and down the room. The clanging bell of a passing fire-engine grew to a crescendo and died away in the distance, but he scarcely heard it: his mind was engrossed in other matters, for Ivor Kalinsky was confronted with the biggest problem of his career. On which side should he tip the balance – for or against another European war?
To the countless thousands hurrying through the streets of London to their favourite cinema it would have seemed fantastic that such a thing could be possible. Had they been asked to swallow such a situation even in their most hectic melodrama, they would have poured scorn upon the mentality of the producer of the film. Governments and politicians made wars – not one lone individual pacing to and fro in a dim-lit sitting-room. Who wanted a war, anyway? Hadn’t the last one been bad enough?
For or against! For or against! Ceaselessly his brain was working, weighing factor against factor, as coldly and analytically as a chemist conducting an experiment. To the moral side of the issue he gave no thought; it simply did not enter into his calculations. To him the matter was a game of chess, and it was imperative that he should not make a false move.
He drew back the curtains and stared out over the city. As always, his room was high up: he preferred it because of the increased airiness. Below him lay the river, grey and sombre, with the reflection of countless lights gleaming from the Surrey side. A tug went past drawing some barges down to the Pool, and he watched it till it was hidden by Waterloo Bridge. For or against! That would not be the only bridge that would have to be reconstructed if the answer was “For.”
In the distance signs shone and glittered – red and white and blue. One showed a glass of port being filled and emptied; another extolled a boot polish. Red and white and blue: was it symbolical? And in imagination Ivor Kalinsky saw another scene. The lights were extinguished, save for beams piercing the sky like pencils from different directions. The noise of the traffic was stilled; another sound had taken its place, and that came from overhead. It was the roar of countless aeroplanes, punctuated every few seconds by the crash of bursting bombs. And in the streets mobs of screaming men and women rushed frenziedly about, trampling, fighting, mad with terror. The tube stations were full – too full; already people were being suffocated to death. And on the platforms below those in front were being pushed on to the lines unable to withstand the pressure of those behind.
Still the bombs came in ever-increasing numbers. Great blinding flashes stabbed the night as houses crashed in ruins, and then, utterly inadequate, came the staccato crack of bursting shrapnel. The anti-aircraft guns at work, manned by the few volunteers who had reached them in time. And suddenly, like a flaming meteor, one stricken aeroplane shot downwards through the night. A pitiful, ragged cheer, and then it crashed, and the bombs it still carried burst in a roar so titanic that the aftermath was silence. The droning above died away; the raiders had departed, the shambles were left. And war had not yet been declared; only a state of tension existed.
A knock came at the door, and Ivor Kalinsky turned round, letting the curtains swing to behind him.
“Come,” he called, and the head waiter entered.
“Sir James Portrush,” he announced, and a portly man of about fifty came in. He was dressed in the conventional morning coat, and he carried his top-hat and a dispatch-case.
“Ah! my dear Mr Kalinsky,” he cried, coming forward with outstretched hand. “I am delighted to welcome you once more to our shores. You had a good crossing, I trust.”
“One or two air pockets, Sir James,” said the financier. “Otherwise quite comfortable. You will have a glass of wine with me?”
Sir James held up a protesting hand.
“Thank you; I never touch it. My digestion, you know. I have to be careful – very careful.”
“A cup of coffee, then?”
“Again no. Just a little weak whisky and water before I go to bed is all I allow myself.”
“Quite a Spartan diet, Sir James,” said Kalinsky with a smile. “That will do, thank you, Henri, and see that we are not disturbed under any pretext whatever.”
“Very good, m’sieur. I will give the necessary instructions.”
The door closed; the two men were alone. And for a space Kalinsky watched his visitor as he settled down. The top-hat was placed carefully on a chair, the dispatch-case on the table. Then, with trousers slightly hitched up and plump legs crossed, Sir James Portrush beamed on his host from his chair. And restraining with an effort a strong desire to say, “Now we’re all ready for a nice cup of tea and a good gossip,” Kalinsky sat down too.
“I am very glad indeed, Mr Kalinsky,” began Sir James urbanely, “to have this opportunity of a chat with you so soon after your arrival. Indeed, the Prime Minister himself would have liked to be present, but an extremely important measure dealing with the totalisator at greyhound racing tracks is occupying all his time at the moment. You cannot perhaps realise the great volume of public opinion in this country that is opposed to betting in any form, and it is very essential to effect some suitable compromise that will prove acceptable to all schools of thought.”
The faintest perceptible smile twitched round his listener’s lips, but Sir James was busy opening his dispatch-case and it escaped his attention.
“At the same time, my dear sir,” he continued, “you must not imagine for one moment that our entire attention is centred on these pressing domestic problems to the exclusion of other matters. And we should indeed be foolish if we were to blind our eyes to the fact that the temper of Europe at the present moment leaves much to be desired: much – ah – to be desired. You agree with me, Mr Kalinsky?”
“I do, Sir James.”
“Good. And though we have, of course, our recognised channels of information, and are closely in touch with the whole situation, it struck me that a little private and confidential chat with you might help matters considerably.”
“You flatter me, Sir James.”
“Not at all, not at all. Your interests are worldwide: you have a finger on every important pulse. Now, in brief, what is your view of the situation? I need hardly say that
any remarks you may care to make will be for the ears of my colleagues and myself alone.”
“Since you have done me the honour of asking me my opinion, Sir James, I presume you want a candid answer.”
“Naturally, naturally.”
“You do not, for instance, want me to prophesy smooth things, so that, with an easy conscience, you can return to your legislation for totalisators on greyhound tracks.”
Sir James ignored the veiled sarcasm, though it did not escape him.
“I am sure that anything you may care to say, Mr Kalinsky,” he remarked with quiet dignity, “will be of great value.”
“I doubt it,” said the financier quietly, “because the gist of what I have to say may be summed up in one question. Why have you gone out of your way to make another European war inevitable?”
Sir James sat up with a jerk.
“Inevitable!” he stuttered. “Inevitable! My dear sir, we have led the way in every disarmament conference that has been held.”
“Which would have been quite admirable if any other country had followed you. Unfortunately they haven’t. They – forgive my saying so, Sir James – have merely laughed.”
“What else could we have done? It was essential to follow the trend of public opinion in this country.”
“Follow! Surely a novel method of regarding your stewardship.”
“You misunderstand me, Mr Kalinsky. It is essential that leaders should sense the temper of those they are called upon to govern. And I say frankly that this country would not stand for another war.”
“I can quite believe you. Which is why, as I said to start with, it makes it even more unfortunate that they have brought it on themselves. Sir James, let us be perfectly frank. You, to day, are in the invidious position of a small boy telling two bigger ones not to fight. And the result in that case is that he gets kicked in the seat of his pants by both.”
Ivor Kalinsky lit another cigarette, whilst Sir James fidgeted in his chair.
“Unpleasant,” continued the financier, “but you asked for the truth. Governments today can be divided into three categories: dictators, knaves and fools. You have no dictator in England, and… Well, what would be the result, Sir James, if I offered you half a million down, here and now, if you would pursue some line of action dictated by me?”
“I should be shocked and horrified, sir.”
“Precisely. But there are many other countries where a man in your position would be shocked and horrified if that offer was not made. And so we are only left with the third category.”
Sir James flushed angrily.
“You speak bluntly, Mr Kalinsky.”
“In God’s name, why not?” cried the other, thumping the table. “If you’d thought bluntly these last few years this situation would never have arisen. England would still have been the deciding factor in Europe. As it is, you are negligible. And your funny little men who preach pacifism, though they have never heard a shot fired in anger in their lives, flatter themselves that they deserve well of their country. No one wants war, Sir James, but the only way to prevent it is to take the line you have not taken. To stop two strong men fighting you must at least be as strong yourself.”
“Come, come, Mr Kalinsky, there is such a thing as an alliance.”
“Who would deny it? Let us, however, look on your value as an ally. Your army is negligible, and there will be no time in the next war to expand it as you did in the last. Your navy is still a magnificent striking force, but, to be perfectly frank, what is it going to strike against? A few sea forts; another fleet? Who cares? The results in the big scheme of things would be negligible. And as a means of defence, out of date. Command of the seas is still important, but command of the air is infinitely more so. And there you simply fade right out of the picture. Just before you arrived, Sir James, I was standing in the window looking out over this great city of yours, and in my imagination I heard the drone of an attacking air fleet. I saw the holocaust below. It was no trumpery raid such as you experienced in the last war, and by which, so it would seem to the onlooker, you still set your standard. They were up there by their hundreds and the raid itself was the actual declaration of war.”
“Really, Mr Kalinsky, it sounds like an extract from the alarmist press. I can hardly believe that you are serious.”
“My dear Sir James, your countrymen never have believed that anything was serious until it actually happened. But in the past you have had time to repair your mistake, and somehow or other to muddle through. In the future you won’t have that time.”
“There certainly wouldn’t be much time if what you have described took place,” agreed Sir James tolerantly. “And should any nation be so inconceivably barbaric, I don’t see how we could prevent them.”
“By one method and one method only: fear of reprisals. And that presupposes existing strength in the air as great if not greater than they possess themselves. Which is what you have not got.”
“But what good would such a senseless act do, my dear fellow? If London was flattened out no other nation would be a penny the better off. Surely the utter futility of war as a road to material gain was amply proved by the last one.”
“And you think that lesson has been learned? I envy you your complacency, Sir James. Further, if that is your considered opinion, why did you come here tonight? Our discussion is purely academic.”
“Touché, Mr Kalinsky, touché. I admit that I fear the lesson has not been learned; and I also admit that we have cut down our fighting forces to the nearest minimum. But the country simply would not stand any large increase in the estimates.”
The millionaire shrugged his shoulders.
“That, of course, is entirely your affair, Sir James, and one on which it would be presumption on my part to express an opinion. If you are right there is no more to be said.”
“But surely you agree with me that another war on a large scale would be an irreparable disaster to the world?”
“Possibly; possibly not. Who can tell? Just as there was no criterion to judge by before the last war, so there is none today. For the next war, Sir James, will be as different from 1914 as 1914 was from your war in South Africa. But in any event, whether it proves an irreparable disaster or not has got no bearing whatever on its coming.”
“You seem to have definitely made up your mind that sooner or later it is unavoidable.”
For a while the millionaire did not reply; then he nodded.
“Yes, I think I may safely say that my mind is made up. Sooner or later war is inevitable. And the whole point, Sir James, is whether it is to be sooner or later.”
Sir James lay back in his chair with a worried look on his face.
“I must confess, Mr Kalinsky,” he said at length, “that such a very definite opinion coming from a man in your position is most disquieting. But surely you and the other big financial interests are against such a catastrophe.”
“Certainly. But we are not all-powerful. Whether we like it or whether we don’t, we can’t stop it. The irresistible urge is there. At the moment it is under control, but believe me that control is very precarious. One spark, and the whole of Europe will be a roaring bonfire. And all that we can do is to try and control the direction of the flames.”
“Grave words, Mr Kalinsky.”
“The situation is grave, Sir James. And England’s unpreparedness makes it all the graver.”
For a while there was silence in the room, then Sir James rose to his feet.
“I must thank you, Mr Kalinsky,” he said quietly, “for the frank way in which you have spoken. Needless to say I shall put your opinions before my colleagues. And I can only utter a pious hope that you may be wrong. Is there no limit to human madness?”
“If there is I fear I have not plumbed it,” answered the millionaire. “Good night, Sir James; I hope to see you again before I leave England.”
The door closed behind his visitor, and Ivor Kalinsky sank back in his chair. From many points of v
iew the conversation had been a valuable one: it had enabled him to crystallise his own thoughts, though it had still not solved his problem. He had said nothing that he did not believe to be the truth; and if he had not said everything that he might have, that was nothing to do with Sir James. One spark would be enough: it was no business of the Englishman if his was the hand that kindled it.
He got up and once again began to pace restlessly up and down the room. Was the time ripe? A hundred different factors had to be weighed in the balance; a hundred conflicting interests taken into consideration – interests which overlapped and interlaced in a way that made their mutual reactions well nigh incalculable.
There came another knock on the door, and his second visitor was ushered in. It would have been hard to imagine a greater contrast to the one who had just left. The newcomer wore a heavy fur coat, though the evening was warm. A silk scarf was wrapped round his neck; an opera hat was on his head. His face was swarthy; his dark eyes gleamed with vitality. And his booked nose proclaimed his race.
“Some more wine,” said Kalinsky as the other flung his coat in a chair, revealing immaculate evening clothes.
“I see you’re a pillar of society, Morgenstein,” he continued with a faint smile.
“I’ve just come from Covent Garden,” said the other. “Carmenita was in perfect voice, and I waited to hear the Swan Song.”
Again the smile flickered round Kalinsky’s lips.
“I, too, have been listening to a Swan Song,” he remarked. “Sung by the excellent Sir James Portrush.”
The Jew eyed him keenly, and then murmured some banality as the waiter returned with the champagne.
“Was he in good voice also?” he asked when they were once more alone.
“He croaked a little towards the end, when he left me to continue vital legislation on greyhounds.”
Kalinsky lifted his glass.
“Well, Morgenstein, and what conclusion have you come to?”
“I have not as yet come to any. It is a grave issue, Kalinsky.”
“That was the croak in Sir James’ Swan Song. He admits, quite frankly, that this country is not prepared for war. Of course that fact is well known to both of us. At the same time it is illuminating when a man in his position says so openly.”