“I said, ‘Good God.’
“‘Well, I advised against it and said I’d see what you said.’
“‘I trust you didn’t mention my name.’
“‘Oh, no. But I said that you knew the ropes and that your advice would be sound.’
“‘Well, tell him this,’ said I. ‘Tell him to expunge the word “fly-paper” not only from his vocabulary, but from his brain – until you have won your case and the Balsams are free.’
“‘I thought you’d say that,’ says Rentoul.
“‘Gervais,’ I said, ‘be your age. Whether anyone can die of drinking fly-paper water, I do not know: but I know I wouldn’t drink it for fifty thousand pounds. And, if you purchase a fly-paper, you must sign the poison-book. That rather looks as if they were dangerous. More. Poison-books can be produced in court. And if anyone connected with Balsam were to sign a poison-book at this moment, when every paper in England is splashing this case – well, two and two do make four, and any number of people can do that simple sum.’
“Rentoul thanked me and left.
“But I’ve always found it strange that, within the same hour, the Crown should have told me of the door which they could not unlock, and the Defence should have come to me and shown me the key.” With that, I got to my feet. “We must go to bed.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Daphne. “You can’t leave it there. What happened?”
“That’s the end of my tale,” said I. “Everyone knows the rest.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Jill. “ Go on.”
I sat down again.
“My advice was ignored. A few days later, casually enough no doubt, the solicitor asked one of his daughters if she was going out. She said she was. ‘Then get some fly-papers,’ he said. ‘There seem to be a great many flies about.’ That afternoon his daughter went forth to shop. On the way home she fell in with the elder Miss Balsam. The two were old friends. They were heading for home, when the solicitor’s daughter stopped dead. ‘Oh, there now,’ she said. ‘I’ve forgotten something. Father told me to get some fly-papers.’ ‘Oh,’ says Miss Balsam. ‘I know where you can get them. I got some for Daddy not very long ago.’ So the two turned back together.”
I saw Daphne cover her mouth.
“Yes,” said I. “It really is rather dramatic. Miss Balsam took her friend to a chemist’s shop. Her friend asked for some fly-papers. The chemist said no, he had none. ‘Well, you had,’ says Miss Balsam, ‘because I got some here.’ ‘When was that?’ says the chemist, staring. ‘About six months ago.’ ‘Not here,’ says the chemist. ‘You’ve made a mistake in the shop.’ ‘I did,’ says Miss Balsam. ‘And I signed the poison-book.’ So the chemist takes it down. ‘What name?’ he said. ‘Er, Balsam.’ The chemist stiffened. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Balsam. And now I remember you.’ He opened the book and looked back. ‘On the fourth of June?’ he said. ‘Is that your signature?’ ‘Yes.’ He shut the book. ‘Well, I haven’t got any now.’ As the girls left the shop, he picked up the telephone…
“The following afternoon the Treasury sent Travers Humphreys the proof which he so much desired.”
“How awful,” said Jill.
“Just Fate,” said I. “Fate saw that justice was done. Mrs Balsam was found ‘Not Guilty’. But I saw Balsam sent down. I shouldn’t have gone, but there was a man in my chambers who wanted to see the case. And they wouldn’t let him in. But I was known. And so I took him there. By then it was almost over. The jury was out. But he wanted to see Balsam. Then the jury came back and Balsam re-entered the dock. And then he realized that Balsam was about to be sentenced. ‘Take me out,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ I whispered. ‘It’s too late now.’ So Rentoul never made his name. But he did quite well. He was made a Police Magistrate. Marylebone, if I remember. But that was several years later, after the war.”
5
“Last night,” said Berry, “you made an observation which was not commonplace.”
“I’m glad of that,” said I.
“I don’t suppose you realized it,” said Berry, “but you did. And what you said reminded me of an occasion which I am happy to record. You said that Judge Rentoul used to write letters on the Bench, but you submitted that that pursuit did not affect his administration of justice.”
“I could never see that it did. His summings-up were sound and he never missed any point.”
“That was because his control of his brain was such that he was able to do two things at once. In the course of the first great war I was taking part in a military exercise in Egypt. And one of my duties necessitated the ‘occupation’ of some station upon some railway line. It was only a gesture, of course: the working of the railway went on. I walked into the telegraph office. There was the station-master dealing with a message in Morse. He was an Egyptian. Now I could read and send Morse in those far-off days; and so I stood by his side. And then I saw what he was doing. A receiver was strapped to his ear: with his right hand he was writing a message down: with his left he was sending it on to somebody else: his left was about ten letters behind his right. I suppose you might call that killing two birds with one stone: but if you can beat it, I can’t. And I saw it done.”
“Incredible,” said Daphne.
“But true. The art of concentration brought to a perfect pitch. We obey our brains: his brain obeyed him. After all, the biggest shots at the Bar were pretty good in that line.”
“That’s perfectly true,” said I. “Their powers of concentration bewildered the average man. The answer is, of course, that they were supermen. Take F E Smith, for instance, afterwards Birkenhead. I’ve seen him come into the robing-room after an all-night sitting at the House. Cigar in his face and looking as fresh as paint. As like as not, he’d be leading in three big cases that day. He’d sum up for the plaintiff in one. The instant he’d finished a really remarkable speech, he’d leave for another court: there he’d cross-examine a defendant – and that, quite brilliantly. Whilst he was still on his feet, his clerk would be pulling his gown, for another Court was ready to hear him argue a difficult point of law. He might or might not have done by half-past four, when the Court would rise. Smith would leave at once for his chambers, there to hold consultations on three or more different cases soon to be tried. And about half-past six he would return to the House.
“I may be wrong, but I don’t think that sort of life could be led by the average man. I mean, all Smith touched, he distinguished. The point of law which he argued could not have been argued so well by anyone else. (Perhaps I should except Danckwerts, for he was the greatest lawyer of them all.) I confess that nothing he did compares with the station-master’s feat, but I think you may fairly say that Smith made his brain obey him. And he was but one of several, almost as good.”
“Supermen all,” said Berry. “About that, there can be no doubt. Their power of concentration resembled a spotlight which they could focus first upon one case and then upon another, to the complete exclusion of everything else. And now let me add a rider, which may make some people think. How was Smith able to do as much as he did? To sit up all night in the House and pull such a hell of a weight on the following day? Because he was perfectly served – waited on hand and foot. A chauffeur to drive him: a valet to help him undress and prepare his bath: other servants to produce his breakfast… Because he was spared every atom of physical effort. If he’d had to stoke his own furnace, before he could have a bath; clean his own shoes; help his wife to get breakfast and help her again to wash up before he went off; drive himself to the Temple – well, a very great man would never have left the ruck. Of such is the price of the death of domestic service. No man, they say, is a hero to his own valet. That may or may not be true. But no man becomes a hero who hasn’t got one. Conceive the one and only Arthur cleaning his own boots on the eve of Vittoria.”
“Or Waterloo,” said Daphne.
“Ah, he was a Field-Marshal then. And I think a Field Marshal has a share in a batm
an today. And now it’s Boy’s turn. My gorge must be allowed to subside.”
“You said last night,” said my sister, “that you put Monseigneur Dixon into two of your books?”
“So I did.”
“The portrait was unmistakable?”
“I can’t say that. You see, I didn’t know him so very well. But I had him full in my mind.”
“And you did it again,” said Berry, “with that very prince of masters, Norman Kenneth Stephen of Harrow School.”
“As well you know – in the Prologue of The Berry Scene.”
“And that was recognized?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don’t think so. Bell in the Chandos books was inspired by the second ‘first servant’ I had in the first great war. He was – perfection. But every one of my characters is a composite picture of persons I’ve seen or known.”
“Even Aunt Harriet?” said Jill.
“In Ann? Yes.”
“Ann,” said Berry, “is the very best short story you ever wrote. Most are tripe, so that isn’t saying much. But Ann—”
“They aren’t,” shrieked Jill. “Boy’s never written tripe.”
“Well, mediocre, then.”
“And that’s untrue,” said Daphne. She looked at me. “How long was your name put first?”
“On the covers of magazines? For exactly twenty years. To tell you the truth, I’m rather proud of that.”
“Where was it put after that?”
“Not even inside,” I said. “You see, I stopped writing short stories before I lost my place.”
“Very wise,” said Berry. “ Did you always insist upon being given precedence?”
“I never once raised the point. The editors did as they pleased.”
“Are short stories easier to write than novels?”
“I wouldn’t say that they were. The two are entirely different. When I’m writing a novel, after a very few pages the book takes charge.”
“That is a saying,” said Daphne, “I never can understand.”
“Well, I become an amanuensis. I don’t know what’s coming next. That’s why, when American editors used to ask me for a synopsis, I never could give them one: for I’d no idea of the line which the book would take. So I used to make one up: but I always said, ‘But it mayn’t turn out like this’ – and, of course, it never did.”
“Look here,” said Berry. “I am a reasonably credulous man. But I’m not a damned fool. D’you mean to sit there and tell me that, when you wrote She Fell Among Thieves you didn’t bring Jenny in to be Chandos’ second wife?”
“Certainly,” said I. “I never suspected her existence, till Chandos saw her in the distance by the side of the pool. And, when she walked into their arms, I thought she was going to marry Mansel. It never occurred to me that she liked Chandos best.”
“Well, either you’re mental,” said Berry, “or else you’re the biggest liar I ever met.”
“Let’s say I’m mental,” said I. “D’you remember Blind Corner?
“No woman in it,” said Berry. “The best thing you ever did. Not that that’s saying much.”
“Be quiet,” said Jill.
“At the end of the penultimate chapter, the faithful party is stuck. Stuck good and proper. Am I right?”
“Yes,” said Berry, “I suppose you might call it ‘stuck’. They’re only entombed alive. Ten yards or so of their tunnel have fallen in, and they have no shovels or picks: the other way out is barred – by four bars which they cannot move: beyond the bars is a passage which leads to the bottom of a well, in which the water is rising very fast: and the well is ninety feet deep. And you call it ‘being stuck’.”
“Well, I wrote the last words of that chapter late one night. When I read them through the next morning, I almost lost my nerve. I remember saying aloud, ‘My God, I’ve done it now.’ For I could not see how any men could emerge from such a predicament. Then I calmed down. ‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘the book has brought me so far: the only thing I can do is to go straight on.’ And so I did. And the book brought them out all right, without any fuss. And The Times said ‘The escape from the great well is story-telling of a high order.’”
“So it was,” said Berry. “I give the book best. And when you write a dud, that’s the book’s fault, too?”
“I suppose so,” said I. “I only do as I’m told.”
“But not in short stories?” said Daphne.
“Not to the same extent. I can usually see the outline. Though I don’t think I did in Ann. I certainly never foresaw her husband’s death.”
“How long did Ann take you to write?”
“Exactly six weeks. I always remember that.”
“That’s very slow,” said Berry.
“I’ve always been very slow. Red in the Morning went quickly – I don’t know why.”
“A rotten title,” said Berry.
“Beast,” said Jill.
“Not one of my best, my darling.”
“So was This Publican.”
“To be honest,” said I, “This Publican was one of the very best titles I ever chose. But it was too subtle. Lots of people thought that it was a religious book.”
“I do hope,” said Berry, “they sent it to their maiden aunts. They’d have enjoyed Rowena, wouldn’t they?”
“Lower Than Vermin,” said Jill, “was one of your best.”
I shook my head.
“Thousands didn’t get it,” I said. I glanced at my wrist. “Just look at the time we’ve wasted. It’s Berry’s turn.”
“But this must go in,” said Daphne.
“Not into the book?”
“Of course it must,” said Jill.
“I think it should,” said Berry. “Among those of little taste, you have acquired a certain low reputation for delivering the goods. You’ve never written a classic, like Forever Amber: and you’ve never rammed home sex, as every novelist should. That very convenient epithet, so often preceding ‘fool’, does not appear in any of your books. You’ve never belonged to The Savage Club: you never came out of Fleet Street: you know no other author and you know no critics at all. You’ve never lectured in America. You never fought for the Communists in the Spanish Civil War, and you have never patronized the Café Royal. You have always lived your own life and have always sat down to meals at the accepted time. You dislike publicity, and you’ve never used your pen-name except on the covers of your books. In short, you have broken every rule that Fleet Street lays down. You are a black marketeer. Yet, as I say, to the less exacting, you issue a furtive appeal. They derive an unlawful pleasure from reading your rotten books. And I think it only right that they should be shown the horrid nature of the ground upon which they venture to tread.”
“I’ve been speaking off the record,” said I.
“Bung it in,” said Berry. “Mother knows best. And what’s the Newgate Calendar done?”
“One moment,” said Daphne. “Titles. What shall you call this book?”
“CONVERSATION PIECE,” said Berry.
“Glorious,” said Jill.
“So it is,” said I. “And it’s exactly right. Unhappily, it has been used – as the name of a play.”
“What does that matter?” screamed Berry. “Is every inspiration I have to be cast into the draught?”
“If it’s second-hand – yes.”
“But I never knew it had been used. I created the blasted thing.”
“Sorry,” said I. “But it’s been created before. And now try again.”
Berry expired. Then–
“‘Try again.’ This isn’t a spelling-bee. Flashes of genius are not to be controlled. What about REGURGITATION?”
“Whatever’s that mean?” said Jill.
“A gushing-back,” said Berry. “You see the idea? Our memories have gushed back.”
“I don’t like the sound of it,” said Daphne.
“Neither,” said I, “do I. It’s so
metimes used of drains, which have been stopped up.”
“I know,” said Berry. “CUD.”
“CUD?” screamed Daphne. “You can’t call any book CUD.”
“But that’s what it is,” said Berry. “This book is the cud which Boy and I are chewing. When a cow crops grass, it doesn’t masticate; it shoves it straight into its stomach. Then it lies down, and the stomach regurgitates the grass into its mouth for it to chew. That grass is then called cud. The analogy is exact.”
“You really are bestial,” said Daphne.
“All right,” said Berry. “You choose one.”
“What about PRIVATE VIEW?”
“That’s quite good,” said I.
“It’s one of your chapter-headings.”
“I know. But it suits the book.”
“I think it’s rotten,” said Berry. “PRIVATE VIEW. What of?”
“Well, it hasn’t been used,” said I, “–so far as I know.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Berry. “And I don’t want to be the first. You might as well call it PUBLIC PRINT.”
“Well, I think it’s good,” said Jill. “It is a private view of the things you both saw and heard.”
“I doubt if we’ll beat it,” said I. “Of course, it isn’t as good as CONVERSATION PIECE.”
“Not in the same suburb,” said Berry. “What if that has been used as the name of a play?”
“That knocks it out,” said I.
Berry expired again. Then –
“What about THE BLAST IN THE BELLOWS?”
“People wouldn’t get it,” I said, laughing.
“I don’t see what it means,” said Jill.
“There you are,” I said. “He has, my sweet, THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS in mind.”
“PERSONAL PROPERTY,” said Daphne.
“That’s a very good title,” said I, “but it wouldn’t fit. You see, we’re trying to suppress our personalities. As Berry and I were saying, before we began—”
“There you are,” roared Berry. “There you are. AS BERRY AND I WERE SAYING. And can you beat that?”
“Well done,” said I. “And that’s how a title should come.”
As Berry and I Were Saying Page 8