What’s Bred in the Bone tct-2

by Robertson Davies

  Certainly this political cat would not jump toward fascism, which was essentially a bourgeois concept, under the guidance of people like Hitler and Mussolini who wanted to found strong nations—even empires—on the impossible foundations of some version of capitalism. Only a Marxist world, which was to say a world in which the primary doctrines of Marx had been refined and hammered out through trial and error, had any chance of survival. Was it not time for anybody who had his eye on that jumping cat to throw in his lot with the side that would dominate the civilized world, probably in less than ten years? Wasn’t it every intelligent man’s duty to push things along?

  Francis could be of help, perhaps of very great help, but until he had made a firm decision, it was not possible for Buys-Bozzaris to say precisely how it was to be done. Francis was, as Buys-Bozzaris knew—oh, yes, he was not so much the simple student of international law as a casual observer might think—a young man with a certain background. He had money; that was easily to be seen, if you knew what money was, and Buys-Bozzaris knew. He had an invaluable possession in his Canadian citizenship and his Canadian passport, because with those credentials he could go almost anywhere without arousing suspicion. Surely Francis knew that Canadian passports were greatly valued in the world of international espionage? The genuine article, capable of surviving any amount of probing, was a gift of the gods. If Francis chose, he could be immensely useful, and in the course of time his usefulness would not go unrewarded. Had Francis any idea what he was talking about?

  Francis admitted that he could dimly guess what lay behind such conversation. But it was such a novel idea. He needed time to think. Gee, it had never been put to him quite that way before. (Francis thought “Gee” a good stroke; it was just what somebody like Buys-Bozzaris would expect a Canadian to say, when the heavens of political opportunity were opened to him.) Could they talk further? He had to get it sorted out, and in such matters as this, he was a slow thinker.

  Take plenty of time, said Buys-Bozzaris.

  Francis did take plenty of time. He did not want to attract the attention of the Bulgarian count, who seemed to watch all his comings and goings, by doing anything uncommon. So he waited until the Easter vacation to meet Colonel Copplestone and tell him all he knew. Once again they lunched at the Athenaeum. Francis understood that the Colonel thought a crowded room, with lots of noise, the best place for confidences. Two people leaning across a table, talking as quietly as possible, attracted no attention. The Colonel listened to all he had to say.

  “Your man is quite well known to the profession,” he said, when Francis had finished. “Not a very serious person. Rather an ass, in fact. Quite a common type; he has no important contact with the people he talks about, and no real influence. But he likes to suggest that he has a lot of power. Of course, he scorns the out-in-the-open student Communist group: he likes subtlety and secrecy and all the allurement of the classy spy. He isn’t one, believe me. Your fellow-Canadian is much more interesting, really. Hot-heads like that can reveal quite a lot by what they do, or try to do, rather than what they know. Keep me posted.”

  “I’m sorry not to have been more useful,” said Francis. This was his first attempt to show that he was worthy of the profession, and it was disappointing to find that he had not really uncovered anything.

  “Oh, but you have been useful,” said the Colonel. “You’ve corroborated some information, and that’s useful. My job needs an enormous amount of work that isn’t at all dramatic, you know. Don’t be influenced by novels that suggest that extraordinary things are done by some wonderful chap working entirely on his own.”

  “Aren’t there any wonderful chaps?”

  “There may be. But there are far more who just get on quietly, noticing something here, something there, corroborating something for the fifteenth time.”

  “Wasn’t Father wonderful?”

  “You should ask him. I can guess what he’d tell you. His best work was understanding and collating things he heard from dozens of chaps who were doing what you’re doing. He was awfully good at putting two and two together.”

  “And I’m likely to go on doing this for quite a while?”

  “Quite a while, I should say. Yes.”

  “I’m not likely to be a permanency, then?”

  “Paid, you mean. Oh, my dear fellow, don’t be silly. Chaps with incomes like yours don’t get paid for the kind of thing you’re doing.”

  “I see. That seems to be the English way. A while ago I was talking to the chief of the curators of the Ashmolean, asking if there were any chance of my getting an appointment there when I’ve taken my degree. ‘What private income have you?’ he asked, very first thing. Listen, Uncle Jack, suppose BBB were to offer me a job—a job with money—wouldn’t it be a temptation?”

  “Not if you’ve got any brains at all. He won’t, you know, but if he did, you should tell me at once. Because you’d never get away with it. You aren’t as much alone, or as unknown, as you might suppose. But why are you fussing about money? You’ve got plenty, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but everybody seems to think I’m to be had cheap. Everybody thinks I’m a money-bags. Haven’t I any value, apart from my money?”

  “Of course you have. Would I be talking to you now if you hadn’t? But nobody gets rich in the profession. And nobody who is once in it—even as far in as you are, which isn’t far—ever quite gets out of it. Do you think for a moment that your man has lashings of money from his side, to pass out to people like you? He’s probably being squeezed, and that can be very uncomfortable. Now, you just get on with what you’re doing, and if the time ever comes when we should talk about money, I’ll bring the subject up myself.”

  “Very sorry, Uncle Jack.”

  “Don’t mention it, Francis. And I mean that in every sense of the words.”

  There had been a look in Colonel Copplestone’s eye that surprised and humbled Francis. The benevolent uncle had suddenly turned tough.

  It was the fourth week of the Oxford summer term; Trinity Term, as the ancient custom of the University called it. It was Eights Week, when the colleges raced their boats to determine which college should be Head of the River. Francis was taking a leaf out of Colonel Copplestone’s book, and he was having a very important conversation with Ismay in the open air, sitting comfortably on the upper deck of the Corpus barge, amid a din of cheering, as they ate strawberries and cream and watched the sweating oarsmen.

  “I had a queer message from my bank a couple of days ago.”

  “I never get anything but queer messages from my bank.”

  “I’m not surprised if you go on the way you’re going.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I think you know very well what. A cheque made out to you and signed by me, for a hundred and fifty pounds.”

  Ismay seemed to be chewing a difficult strawberry. “What did they say?”

  “Called me in to have a look at it and inquire a little.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, we just chatted. Banker and client, you know.”

  “Frank, you’ve got to understand about this. My bank cashed the cheque and I haven’t got the money.”

  “I didn’t suppose you had. Charlie’s got it, hasn’t he?”

  “Do we have to talk here?”

  “Why not? Just keep your voice down, and if you have anything particularly important to say, whisper it when I’m shouting ‘Well rowed, Corpus!’ I’ll hear you. I have excellent hearing.”

  “Oh for God’s sake don’t be so facetious! Do you suppose I’m a forger?”

  “Yes. And if you want to know, I’ve suspected it for some time. Do you think I was taken in when you admired my elegant Italic hand suddenly, and wanted me to show you how it was done? You’re one of Nature’s scrawlers, Ismay; if you wanted to learn Italic, it was so you could write like me. Enough to change a cheque, for instance. And why would you want to do that, you little twister?”

  “Why did the ba
nk ask you, anyway?”

  “The banks all have an agreement with the Proctors that if a junior member of the University cashes a particularly big cheque they will tip the Proctors off. It’s a way of keeping an eye on gambling. I suppose the money went to pay off Charlie’s debts to Buys-Bozzaris?”

  “It will. But you’ve got to understand; Charlie was being threatened.”

  “By the fat count? Don’t be funny.”

  “No, by some other chaps—real thugs. Frank, Buys-Bozzaris is a crook.”

  “You amaze me! Crooks on all sides! You make me tremble!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake be serious!”

  “I am serious. These races stir the blood. Listen to those people shouting, ‘Well rowed, Balliol!’ Doesn’t that excite you?”

  “Some terrible toughs came to see Charlie and threatened him. They had all his IOUs that he gave to Buys-Bozzaris. That fat bugger had sold them!”

  “Mind your language. This is the barge of the College of Corpus Christi, and we must not disgrace our sacred name. Are you surprised that BBB sold the IOUs? I suppose he needed ready cash and sold them at a discount.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything like it!”

  “Oh, but you will, Ismay, you will. When you’ve gone a little farther in the forging game, you’ll hear some things that will astonish you. The conversation in prison is most illuminating, I’m told.”

  “Be serious, Frank. Please!”

  “I can be awfully serious about a hundred and fifty nicker. That’s an underworld expression, by the way; you’ll pick up the lingo soon.”

  “What did you tell the bank about the cheque?”

  “As they’d cashed it, I didn’t think I needed to say much. They were looking very coy, you know the way bankers do when they think you’re a perfect devil of a fellow.”

  “You mean you didn’t tell?”

  “And shame my bank? When you had done such a lovely job, neatly transforming that birthday cheque for ten quid? How could they have faced me, if I’d told them it was a forgery?”

  “Oh, Frank, you are a darling!”

  “A darling or a complete mug, do you mean?”

  “Well—it was one of those tight squeezes. I’ll make it up to you, honestly I will.”

  “Honestly you will? What could you do honestly, Ismay? Sleep with me, do you suppose?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “You know it’s what I want. But not with a price on it, the price being Charlie’s skin. I don’t think that would have quite the right romantic savour, do you? Though, let’s see: woman sacrifices herself to the lust of her wealthy pursuer, to save the honour other lover. Rather good, isn’t it? Only I don’t like the casting; either I’m the lover and Charlie is the villain, or it’s no deal. May I get you some more strawberries?”

  Francis was looking forward to his visit to Buys-Bozzaris. His confusion and ineptitude which had made it impossible to cope with a blow in the face or a kick in the rump at Carlyle Rural was long behind him; he was prepared to be moderately rough with the fat count if that should be necessary. His banker’s blood, which he had not known he possessed, was running hot, and he wanted his money. After dinner at Corpus he made his way the short distance back to Canterbury House, and knocked on the familiar door.

  “Cornish? Happy to see you. Let me give you a drink. Am I to suppose that you have made up your mind about joining us in our political work? You can talk freely Roskalns here is one of us, and this isn’t a poker-night, so nobody else is likely to drop in.”

  “I’ve come about those IOUs that Charlie Fremantle gave you.”

  “Oh—no need to worry. That’s all over. Charlie has paid, like an honest chap.”

  “Come on, Basil. You flogged those notes.”

  “Well—same thing, isn’t it? Charlie is clear.”

  “No, Charlie bloody well isn’t clear. The money to pay came from a cheque that was forged in my name. I want a hundred and fifty pounds from you.”

  “A hundred and fifty—Oh, come, Cornish, Charlie owed me exactly ninety-seven pounds, fourteen and elevenpence, and I haven’t had it yet. I am expecting a visit from the collectors, this evening, as a matter of fact. Did that naughty boy sophisticate a cheque for a hundred and fifty? That wasn’t very honest of him, was it?”

  “No, and it wasn’t very honest of you to give those notes to collectors, as you call them, who are shaking Charlie down for a hundred and fifty, out of which you will presumably get your ninety-seven, fourteen and eleven. I want the names of those fellows. I’m going to turn them over to the Proctors.”

  “Now, now, Cornish, you’re heated. You wouldn’t do that. There are rules, unwritten rules, among gentlemen about debts of this sort. Not bringing in the Proggins is almost Rule Number One. Of course Rule Number One is, always pay up.”

  “But not with my money.”

  “What about my money? Why are you talking to me? Talk to Charlie. He’s the naughty boy.”

  “I’ll certainly talk to Charlie. But I’m out a hundred and fifty, and I thought you might have been paid already.”

  “Not a bean. I’m waiting, as I told you. And I shall have something to say to those collectors. A hundred and fifty pounds for a debt of ninety-seven, fourteen and eleven. It’s outrageous!”

  “Yes, and so is selling IOUs. Why didn’t you collect yourself?”

  “Oh, Cornish, you’re impossible. One has a certain position. One doesn’t go about with a little greasy book, rapping on doors. Or do they, where you come from?”

  “Never mind where I come from.”

  This might have become rancorous, if there had not been a tap on the door. If Francis had not been so busy with Buys-Bozzaris, he could have heard shuffling and whispering outside. Roskalns answered, tried to shut the door after he had peeped through a crack, and was flung backward, as two determined men thrust their way in. In Oxford there are several gradations of society: members of the University, in all their diversity, attendants and servants of members of the University, in all their diversity, and people who are not associated with the University, who are also various, but look entirely different from the other two classes. These men were very plainly of class number three.

  “Look here, Mr. Booze-Bozzaris, this will never do. Young Fremantle has scarpered.”

  “You mean he has gone?”

  “What I said. Scarpered.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well then, let me put you straight. We visited him, as per arrangement, and he said, gimme a little time to get the money together, and we said rightyho, but no funny stuff, see? Let’s have it, and in cash. Because we are well aware that there can be dishonesty in these matters of collection, and we didn’t want none of that. So we kept an eye on the place, and he came and went, and came and went, quite normal. It’s one of the colleges he’s in; New College. Whenever we inquires, the porter says he’s in. But those fellows would say anything. When we didn’t see him yesterday we went quiet up to his rooms, and the long and short of it is, he scarpered.”

  “You’re telling me you can’t pay me?”

  “What do you mean, pay you, Mr. Booze-Bozzaris? We paid you fifty quid on account for those notes, agreeing to make up the rest of the ninety-seven, fourteen and eleven after we’d collected from Fremantle—”

  “After you collected a hundred and fifty quid from him, you mean,” said Buys-Bozzaris.

  “That’s by the way. We have to have something for our trouble and risk, haven’t we? But now we shall have to ask for that fifty quid back, because we been diddled.”

  “But not by me.”

  “Never mind who by. Let’s have it.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Now look, Mr. Booze-Bozzaris, we don’t want trouble in any shape nor form, but it’s pay up now or my colleague here may have to do a little persuading.”

  The colleague, who said nothing, cleared his throat softly, and flexed his hands, rather like a pianist. F
or the first time the collector who did the talking spoke to Francis. “You’ll want to leave, sir,” he said; “this is just some private business.”

  “Not private from me,” said Francis. “I have some money to recover from Charlie myself.”

  “This is getting too complicated altogether,” said the collector. “We got no time to waste. Now just stand perfectly still, Mr. Booze-Bozzaris, and you two other gents keep out of the way, while my colleague makes a search that will be perfectly polite and easy, so long as there is no resistance.”

  The colleague moved toward Basil gently but firmly, his hands extended as if he might be going to tickle him. Buys-Bozzaris backed toward a corner, and as he did so his hand went to the pocket of his jacket.

  “Oh no you don’t!” said the talking collector. The colleague seized the arm that Buys-Bozzaris jerked upward. The pistol caught in the top of his pocket, went off with a roar that was like a cannon in the room, and Buys-Bozzaris fell to the floor with a scream that was louder still.

  “Christ! Shot himself!” said the collector.

  “Shot off his goolies!” said the colleague, speaking for the first time. The two rushed to the door, through the small hall and into the street, and were gone.

  Gunfire in Oxford is uncommon. The University Statutes strictly forbid it. In a few seconds Mr. Tasnim Khan from the first floor, Mr. Westerby from the second, Mr. Colney-Overend from across the hall, and the landlord were all in the room, shouting contradictory advice. It was Francis who lugged Buys-Bozzaris into a chair, and it became apparent that he had shot himself, not very seriously, in the foot.

  Half an hour later the injured man, moaning like a cow in labour, had been taken by Roskalns to the Radcliffe Infirmary in a taxi. Francis had been with the landlord to hunt up the Proctors, and give an account of the affair which said only that two men had visited the Bulgarian, demanded money related apparently to a debt, that nobody had fired a gun at anyone, and the wound was pure accident. The Junior Proctor, who heard it all, raised his eyebrows at the word “pure”, took names, warned Francis not to leave Oxford until the matter had been fully investigated, and called the hospital to say that Buys-Bozzaris was not to be released until he had been questioned.