“That’s right.”
Mutt snorted. I said, “It wasn’t crooked. It was just badly worded. The company said it meant the inventor got a sizeable lump sum and a limited royalty. Killey senior said it meant that he had the option to take a smaller down payment and a continuing and escalating royalty. Since the thing was a roaring success the royalty was obviously much the sounder bet.”
“So they went to Court about it, and the only people who made any money out of it were the lawyers.”
“Wrong again,” I said. “The person who made money was old man Killey. He lost in King’s Bench, but he was a sticker. He took it on to appeal and had a hell of a fight, which must have cost him every penny he had. There was no legal aid in those days, remember, and at the end of the day he came out top, with costs in both Courts, and a fat royalty. His widow has been living on it ever since.”
“His widow?”
“That was the sad part about it. The fight seems to have taken too much out of him. He died a few months after the case was over.”
Mutt said, “Humph,” and was clearly on the point of drawing a moral from this tale when the Archbishop started up again and sidetracked her.
5
Dylan said, “I think you ought to know, Minister, that there might be some trouble coming up.”
Bernard Gracey was Minister for Employment at that time. He was the man who dropped the famous clanger at question time in the House. The Honourable Member for somewhere-or-other had asked him how many apprentice pottery hands there were in Staffordshire and how many years it took for them to qualify as potters. Reading rather hurriedly from the slip of paper in his hand he had said, “The answer to the first question is five and to the second question is six thousand seven hundred and fifty.” This had tickled the sense of humour of the members, which rarely rises above schoolboy level. The press had started referring to him as ‘Potter’ Gracey. It was the sort of fatuous thing which a member never seems to live down. It hadn’t done his prospects much good.
The relationship between a boss on the way down and a subordinate on the way up can be prickly but Dylan seemed to get on with him well enough.
The Minister listened to him courteously, and said, “Really, it all seems pretty indefinite. That chap Pilley is a bit of a crank, I believe. Didn’t he have a bee in his bonnet about some Trade Union amalgamation? Remind me about that.” When Dylan had reminded him, the Minister said, “A pity. There’s not a lot one can do to prevent people bringing unfounded charges. A libel action usually does more harm than good. All the same, it could be awkward, just at this moment.”
Dylan looked at him quickly. The coming election was already casting a shadow. That October or the following March were the only real alternatives. The decision would have to be taken soon.
He said, “At least it’s good of you, Minister, to assume that the charges are unfounded.”
“I’ve known you long enough to be certain of that,” said Gracey.
When Dylan had gone he sat thinking about it for quite a long time. Then he picked up the telephone and asked for a number. It was a number which was manned twenty-four hours a day, but which did not feature in any telephone directory or listing, public or private. The people who knew it were expected to memorize it, not to write it down.
A few minutes later he was talking to someone he addressed as Toby.
Air Vice-Marshal Toby Pulleyne, DSO, DFC, was one of those men whom everyone knew, but no one knew much about. Although he had been some years retired he retained an office in the Ministry of Defence. He could be found in the bar of the United Services Club before lunch and at White’s in the evening. After that, being a bachelor and excellent company, he usually had a dinner engagement. He was particularly useful to hostesses on the Foreign Office circuit who had to entertain guests from abroad. He spoke two foreign languages well and half a dozen others quite adequately.
The Air Vice-Marshal switched on a tape recorder when Bernard Gracey started talking. When he had finished, he said, “Seems a lot of balls to me, old man. Do you think I’d better have a word with Dylan? I met him once at a City dinner. Made a bloody good speech. Told all the old stuffed shirts where they got off. And, my God, how they lapped it up.”
“That sounds like our Will. I’d be obliged if you would have a word with him. Get some of the details and look into it. We don’t want any trouble. Particularly just now.”
“See what I can do,” said Toby Pulleyne.
Other men were on the move that morning. Syd Marvin and Ben Thomas came up by Underground from Clerkenwell to Waterloo and by British Rail from Waterloo out to Wimbledon. As midday struck they were ringing the bell in Jonas Killey’s waiting-room.
Mrs Warburton cast an experienced eye over them but could come to no conclusion. Not quite seedy enough for process servers. Too cheerful for debt collectors. But not quite the sort of client the firm catered for.
“Would it be a property matter?”
“Just say private business, love,” said Ben.
“Mr Killey only really sees people by appointment.”
“Perhaps he’ll do us a favour this time,” said Syd.
“I’ll enquire.”
“You do that,” said Ben, and winked at her.
They helped themselves to copies of the Law Journal, and settled themselves down with the air of men who understood how to wait. Mrs Warburton retired defeated.
Jonas was, in fact, busy. He was putting the finishing touches to the application which he was due to make, in person, on the following morning before Mr Cedric Lyon in the West London Magistrates Court. There were documents to be referred to, and four copies had to be available of each. One for the magistrate, one for his clerk, one for Jonas himself and one for his opponent, should he choose to appear.
There was also the opening speech to be considered. Jonas had written it and rewritten it, half a dozen times. He fancied that he now had it right. Not offensive, but by no means subservient. A freeborn Englishman insisting on his rights.
“Who are they?”
“They wouldn’t say, Mr Killey.”
“They didn’t give you any idea?”
“They just said it was private business.”
“Couldn’t Willoughby deal with them?”
“He’s doing a completion.”
“All right. I suppose I’d better see them.”
“Up to you.”
“We don’t want to turn away business, Mrs Warburton, do we?”
Mrs Warburton sniffed but retreated. She soothed her feelings by taking five minutes to finish typing the document in her machine, before opening the hatchway and saying, “You can go in now.”
Jonas Killey took stock of his visitors. He, too, found them difficult to place. They were neither smartly nor shabbily dressed. Passing them in the street he would have put them down as clerks or subordinate employees, but there was something in their faces, and in their voices, which contradicted this; a hint of self-possession, a suggestion of veiled authority.
“And what can I do for you, gentlemen?”
The thinner, and more serious of the men, who had introduced himself as Marvin, said, “Thanks for seeing us, Mr Killey. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
Thomas said, “Mind if we smoke?” He was shorter, thick rather than fat, and had the sort of face which can be seen in thousands any winter Saturday on the terraces of Cardiff Arms Park.
“Certainly,” said Jonas. “I don’t myself, but go ahead.”
“Sure it doesn’t worry you?”
“Not a bit.”
Marvin said, “We heard you were having a bit of trouble – perhaps trouble’s the wrong word – a bit of business with a character called Dylan.”
Jonas stared at him.
“Now don’t jump the gun,” said Thomas. “We’re not going to ask you to give away any professional secrets. Right, Syd?”
“That’s right, Ben.”
“What we came alo
ng to say was this. We know all about Will Dylan. He’s quite a character. Wouldn’t you say so, Syd?”
“I’d say he was quite a character.”
“If what we heard is true – and I only say if, because you can never really tell – and you’ve got something you’re trying to pin on him, then it occurred to Syd and me that you might need some help.”
“By help,” said Marvin, “we don’t only mean money. We mean help in getting hold of documents, getting evidence, that sort of thing.”
“We’re friendly characters,” said Thomas. “People talk to us, you’d be surprised.”
Jonas, who had made a number of attempts to break into this extraordinary crosstalk act, managed it at last. He said, “Would you mind explaining a couple of things. First of all, who are you? Secondly, how did you get this information about my private business?”
“First question first, Ben?”
“Right, Syd.”
Marvin extracted a card from his wallet and laid it on the desk.
Jonas picked it up and read it. He said, “The Workers’ League for Peace. I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it.”
“We blush unseen,” said Marvin. “Down in Clerkenwell. Right, Ben?”
“Like roses on a manure heap,” agreed Thomas.
“Or pike in a fish pond,” suggested Marvin. As he said this he smiled for the first time, and exposed, as he did so, a set of sharp and blackened teeth.
“Could we stop talking in riddles,” said Jonas. “I repeat I’ve never heard of this organization of which you, Mr Marvin,” he peered down at the card, “are secretary, and you Mr Thomas?”
“Assistant secretary.”
“So it really takes us no further, does it?”
“Not a lot,” said Thomas. He did not seem upset about it.
“Now perhaps you’ll answer my second question. How do you know that I am – am contemplating – a certain line of action – against Dylan. And in any case, what has it got to do with you?”
“If what we heard’s right,” said Marvin, “and he’s been up to some sort of fiddle with Union funds, that’s something we’re naturally concerned about.”
“Interests of the workers,” said Thomas. “You must see that.”
“I see nothing of the sort,” said Jonas, rising to his feet. “I see only that someone has been making totally unauthorized statements about something which is entirely my own business. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m extremely busy this morning.”
“Sure you can handle it yourself?” said Marvin.
“Quite sure, thank you.”
“Keep the card. You never know, you might need help. We’ve got a lot of friends. Midlands, up North, all over the place.”
Jonas stared at him for a moment, and then said, rather stiffly, “I should, I suppose, thank you for coming.”
“No need to thank us,” said Thomas. “It’s our job. Interests of the working classes. Right, Syd?”
“That’s right, Ben. We must let the gentleman get on with his work now.”
After they had gone, Jonas went back to his chair and sat down. The papers he had been working on were spread all over the desk. It occurred to him that the stouter of his two visitors, who had sat alongside the desk, must have been able to read them. Probably it didn’t matter. They seemed to know a lot about it already. Odd couple. Like an old-fashioned comedy duo. Not entirely funny, though.
Edward Lambard knocked half an inch of grey ash off his cigar into the butt end of a 25-pounder cartridge case which served as an ashtray on Tom Buller’s desk, and said, “Extraordinary story. I don’t know that I’m entirely surprised, though. Killey is an unusual man.”
“He used to work for you, didn’t he?”
“He was with us for four years. He was very nearly a very good solicitor indeed.”
“Meaning?”
“I mean that he had a hard core of obstinacy which is very necessary in our trade. Give him a case which could be fought, and he’d fight it like a tiger. No. Tiger’s the wrong animal. What’s the obstinate creature that never lets go?”
“A bulldog.”
“Not a bulldog. No. A mongoose. I always thought of Jonas as a mongoose. Bottle-brush tail and pink eyes. And the bigger the cobra, the harder he’d bite. I very nearly offered him a junior partnership.”
“But you didn’t?”
“In the end, no. There was something missing. Balance. Judgement. The ability to compromise when the interests of the client demanded a compromise.”
“Did you know about this Dylan business?”
“I knew he was pursuing a private vendetta of some sort. I didn’t know the details. This embezzlement idea is something new, I gather.”
“It’s new,” said Buller. “And it’s a great deal more dangerous than the old line. It’s a criminal offence, and nothing can stop Killey applying for a summons. If Dylan was a nobody, it wouldn’t signify. I don’t think he’ll get his summons. Cedric Lyon plays everything by the book. He’ll find plenty of reasons for refusing it. But that’s not the point. The press will get wind of it and, win or lose, it’s not going to do Dylan any good.”
“Or Killey.”
“That’s my view.”
Lambard thought about the matter. He was a shortish man, running to stoutness, with an aggressive moustache and an attractively bent nose, the result of a misadventure in the boxing ring in his youth. His hair was grey but he still had plenty of it, and had kept most of his own teeth. He wore glasses for reading the small print on his clients’ contracts.
He said, “What do you want me to do?”
“If Killey will listen to anyone, he’ll listen to you. He thinks a lot of you. I know that.”
“I didn’t sack him,” agreed Lambard. “We parted quite amicably. He might listen to me. I rather doubt it. I don’t think I could chase after him.”
“But if he came to you, you’d do your best.”
“Certainly. Tell me one thing. What’s your interest in this?”
Buller thought about that one for a long minute in silence. Then he said, “I believe that the law is the most important thing in the world today. I don’t mean the practice of lawyers. I mean the law itself. Normally I sleep well. If there’s one thing that can keep me awake at night it’s a vision, which I sometimes have, of this country being ruled by the wishes of its rulers and not by the rule of law.”
“Could it happen here?”
“Of course it could. It’s too bloody easy for a Government to panic and set the law on one side because it happens to be inconvenient. Temporarily, of course. They always mean to bring it back again – some time.”
Lambard looked at his old friend in mild surprise and said, “And just where does Killey come into all this?”
“He comes into it because one of the things which helps the process along nicely is when people start to despise or dislike lawyers as a class. What people are going to see here is a solicitor pursuing a legalistic vendetta, apparently out of spite, against a well-liked member of the Government. The man in the street may not be great on principles, but personalities are things he can get hold of.”
“You may be right.” Lambard killed the end of his cigar and said. “Blast Killey. Why can’t he keep his mouth shut, and get on with his job?”
The Prime Minister looked at Bernard Gracey over the top of the half-moon spectacles which the cartoonists had adopted as his trade mark. It was not the first time that he had doubted whether Gracey was the right man for the job. He was clever, and adaptable, but a Minister for Labour needed more than cleverness and adaptability. He needed guts. More; like Napoleon’s generals, he needed luck. Gracey had been unlucky on more than one occasion. If they got a reasonable majority at the next election he would be tempted to give Gracey’s job to Dylan. It would be exceptional promotion, but there were precedents for it.
He said, “Our organization people tell me that Will Dylan is worth thirty or forty seats to us. Partly by luck, partly by ju
dgement, he’s become a sort of talisman. There are plenty of marginal constituencies in the Midlands and the North where the unpolitical elector, the ‘don’t know and don’t much care’, the man who wins or loses every election, will say, ‘If Will’s on their side, they can’t be as black as they’re painted.’”
“I realize that,” said Gracey.
“What have you done about it?”
Gracey hesitated. There were certain things you told the old man, and other things which you didn’t tell him, because it might be better for him to be able to disclaim knowledge of them at a later stage. The fact that he might have to disclaim you into the bargain was a risk you took.
He said, “I mentioned the matter to Pulleyne.”
“Pulleyne?” said the Prime Minister irritably. “I can’t see what it’s got to do with him. He’s something in Intelligence, isn’t he?”
Gracey nearly said, “You ought to know. You appointed him yourself,” but discretion prevailed. He gathered that this was to be an occasion on which the right hand had no idea what the left hand was doing. He said, “I thought he might be helpful, Prime Minister. Probably I was quite wrong.”
At half past two that afternoon Toby Pulleyne came out of the front door of the United Services Club into the strong sunlight. As he descended the Duke of York’s Steps, an American lady said to her daughter, “Now isn’t that just a typical English gentleman.” Her daughter said, “I’ve certainly seen his picture in the papers, mom. Do you think he might be Lord Mountbatten?” Her mother said no. Lord Mountbatten hadn’t got a grey moustache. She said it regretfully. It would have been very agreeable to her sense of the fitness of things if she had been able to tell the folks back home that she had seen Lord Mountbatten descending the Duke of York’s Steps.
Unconscious of the impression he had caused, Pulleyne proceeded on his way across St James’ Park, up the Cockpit Steps, and into Queen Anne’s Gate. He was making for Petty France, that curious byroad that curls, like an old snake asleep, between Buckingham Gate and St James’ Park Underground station, and seems to be dedicated to the memory of the Iron Duke. One side is flanked by Wellington Barracks. Its two public houses commemorate his victories. The side streets are named after his generals. The second side turning on the left is Picton Street, and a few yards along this stands the square greystone building, considered sizeable in its day, but now dwarfed by its neighbours, named Lynedoch House after the victor of the battle of Barossa.
Flashpoint Page 5