The Dust and the Heat

by Michael Gilbert

  “I think you’ve put your finger on it,” said Crake.

  “I only hope he’s been well paid for this little job. He’ll have to live on it for a long time because, as far as advertising’s concerned, he’s had it. In this country or in America. We’ve got associates there and I’ll make it my business to have him black-listed wherever he goes.”

  “You’re locking the stable door after the horse has gone,” said Mr Crake. “Not that I’m opposed to it. That young man’s earned a kick on the cruppers and we’d better see he gets it. Now, let’s get down to cases.”

  “The first thing,” said Mallinson, “will be to draft a circular to all our retailers. ‘Owing to last-minute difficulties over international patent rights’ – I think that’ll do as well as anything – ‘we regret that we have to ask you to postpone’ – take this down, will you, Jennie?”

  When the others had gone he said, “There’s so much to do. I hardly know where to start.”

  “The best thing,” said Jennie, “when you feel like that, is to have a cup of coffee. I’ll go and make it.”

  Mallinson laughed for the second time that morning. This time there was some genuine amusement in it.

  11

  “We’ve got to do something about Derek Wibberley,” said Dumbo.

  “He’s old enough to look after himself,” said Oliver.

  “I meant it,” said Dumbo; his normally good-natured face was pink with embarrassment and determination.

  “But why?”

  “Because we’ve dropped him into the mud for our own ends, and I don’t see why he should be the one to carry the can when we’ve scooped the pool.”

  “That’s one of the finest mixed metaphors I’ve ever heard,” said Oliver, “but I still don’t quite see what you’re getting at.”

  There was an undertone of wariness in his voice. He knew Dumbo well enough to realize that a crisis of some sort was impending.

  “What I’m getting at,” said Dumbo, “is this. First you persuaded Derek that he ought to be given a seat on the Board at Bargulders. Then you got together with Bargulder and arranged that when he asked for it he was to be kicked downstairs with a flea in his ear. And you knew that when this happened he’d resign and that the opposition would snap him up and that, as likely as not, he’d tell them all he knew about our Tendresse campaign – might even take copies of the stuff with him.”

  “Quite right,” said Oliver. “Exactly what he did.”

  “And because the stuff he gave them wasn’t the stuff you were going to use, his new employers have jumped to the conclusion that he’s double-crossed them and have sacked him and blacklisted him so that he can’t get another job.”

  “Incidentally, how do you know all this?”

  “Derek came to see me.”

  “And cried on your shoulder?”

  “All he wanted us to do was to tell Pedersen the truth.”

  “It’d be an interesting exercise,” said Oliver. “What do you suggest we actually say? Wibbers is quite a decent chap really. A double-crosser maybe, but not a treble-crosser?”

  “If you won’t discuss this seriously,” said Dumbo, getting up, “I’m sorry I’m wasting your time.”

  “I am discussing it seriously. I’m asking you what you suggest we do for Wibbers. Pedersen won’t take him back. If we told him the truth he wouldn’t believe it, and if he did believe it, he’d still be furious with Wibbers. You don’t love a Trojan horse even when you realize it wasn’t all the poor animal’s fault.”

  “All right. But we ought to do something for him.”

  “Pension him?”

  Dumbo was still standing, and his face had gone white. He said, quite quietly, “Is this firm Quinn & Nicholson or is it Quinn & Nugent?”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I’ve been wondering. If you had an elaborate plan like this hatched up, why didn’t you let your fellow directors in on it? Why did you have to play the whole hand alone?”

  “Wilfred and Bill Blackett knew about it.”

  “Then why was I left out?”

  “Because,” said Oliver, “I was perfectly certain that you wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Dumbo said, “I don’t believe in outstaying my welcome. You can have my resignation in writing.” He went out.

  Oliver sat looking after him in silence. Then he started to swear very softly.

  “It’s a great pity,” said Blackett, “but I suppose it had to happen sooner or later.”

  Harrap said, “It was a bloody awkward decision to have to make. Dumbo’s a good chap. He’s the ideal person to run a small family firm. Everyone would like him, and respect him, and know that they’d get a square deal from him. It’s just unfortunate that he’s got out of his depth. There’s no room for sentiment in a public company. It’s eat or be eaten. Two more like the last, please, Bob.”

  Blackett waited until the barman had brought the drinks and retired out of earshot before he said, “You often got the same choice during the war, didn’t you? Whether you’d prefer to serve under a complete shit who knew his job or a nice chap who might wobble at the critical moment.”

  “And you always opted for the shit.”

  “Mind you, I’m not saying that Oliver–”

  “No, of course not,” said Harrap. “He’s got a lot of good points. You realize that he could quite easily have ridden Dumbo off?”

  “How?”

  “For a start, he could have given him the real reason for not telling the opposition the truth about Wibbers. If they’d once grasped the fact that he was a fool and not a knave, they might have started looking round for the person who really was giving away their secrets.”

  “True,” said Blackett. He sipped at his whisky. It was the second of the two drinks which he allowed himself before dinner and he liked to take it slowly. “Why didn’t he?”

  “There’s a streak of ruthlessness in him. Ruthlessness for its own sake. He enjoys setting his own objectives and going straight for them, no matter whose toes he treads on.”

  “He’s a bit like Monty in some ways,” said Blackett. He thought about Oliver for a moment and added, “only in some ways, of course.”

  As Oliver approached the steps leading to Brett’s Club, a figure detached itself from the darkness and lurched forward. Oliver stood still.

  “Wanna word with you.”

  “Oh, it’s you, is it? If you want to see me, come to my office in business hours.”

  “Don’t give me that stuff,” said Wibberley. He was swaying on his feet under the joint influences of anger and alcohol. “You know bloody well if I come to your office I’ll be given the about turn. I wanna talk to you now, and you’re bloody well going to hear what I’ve got to say to you. You’re a twister. Do you hear me? A bloody twister. And I’m going to follow you into that bloody club of yours and say it to all the stuck-up sods inside there too. I’m going to tell them you’re a twister. How are you going to like that?”

  “We shan’t like it at all,” said Oliver gently. He was balanced on his feet, peering forward, in the dim light from the lamp above the steps, at the figure swaying in front of him.

  “I thought you wouldn’t. But that’s what I’m going to do.” Wibberley put out a hand and caught Oliver by the lapel of his coat, as much to steady himself as to detain his victim. “I’m going to follow you round and tell everyone what you are. You’re a bloody crook.”

  Oliver said, “What you want to do, old son, is go to bed and get a long night’s rest. Come and see me again in the morning.”

  He disengaged the clutching fingers, side-stepped past him, walked quickly up the steps and disappeared through the swing doors of the club. Wibberley followed more slowly.

  In the lobby a large man in porter’s uniform barred his way. He said, “Excuse me, sir, but are you a member of this club?”

  “If you imagine for a bloody moment that I’d be a bloody member of this
bloody club, you can think again.”

  “In that case, sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

  Five seconds later Wibberley was picking himself up from the pavement.

  Oliver, watching from the window of the club, saw him get up, make an attempt to get back up the steps, think better of it and start away down the pavement, walking as if he had unequal weights attached to his feet. He went to the telephone and dialled a number.

  “Wimbledon Police Station? My name’s Nugent and I’m speaking from Brett’s Club. There’s a man outside who’s been annoying several of the members. His name’s Wibberley. I’ll spell it for you. That’s right. I think he has a house in Lodge Road. You might watch out for him. He’s much too tight to be in charge of a motor car. I thought you ought to know. I only hope he doesn’t kill someone on the way home.”

  The voice at the other end thanked Mr Nugent for his public-spirited behaviour and said that the matter would be attended to.

  Sylvia Nicholson said, “Can’t you see, Oliver? Dumbo was simply bluffing. He lost his temper, that’s all. If you would take a single step in his direction he’d come back at once.”

  Oliver said, “It’s a month since he left the Board and I haven’t heard a word from him. Not a letter or even a telephone call. I’ve had to assume – we’ve all had to assume – that his decision was final.”

  “He hasn’t said anything because he’s too proud to do it. If he knew I’d come round here this evening he’d slay me.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t do anything so silly. And please won’t you sit down and take your coat off and have a drink so that we can talk this over.”

  Sylvia shook her head. She was a nice dumpy person, half girl, half woman, and, Oliver suspected, a stronger character than Dumbo in almost every way.

  She said, “There isn’t a lot to talk over really. If you invite him back, he’ll come. If you don’t, he’ll stay out. And don’t misunderstand me. We’re not starving. He’s still got his shares in the Company and I’ve got money of my own. It’s just that he’s miserable. He’s too young to retire. If he’s got nothing to do he’ll go mad. Or do something silly like putting all our money into a chain of bingo parlours.”

  “I sympathize with that,” said Oliver. “If I had nothing to do I’d go mad myself. Or start some really serious drinking. Look, Sylvia, why can’t you leave this alone for a bit? Give it time. We’ll think something out for him.”

  “A branch managership? He’s not a boy, you know. His grandfather founded this firm, and his father put it on its feet. It’s been the family’s business now for nearly a hundred years. I’m not asking for much. A word from you and he’ll come back.”

  “It’d be very easy to say yes.”

  “Then why not say it?”

  “All right,” said Oliver. “I’ll tell you why, but only if you’re sure you want me to. You probably won’t like it.”

  “I’ll risk that.”

  “If I’d had to explain everything I was going to do to Dumbo, and get his approval, we couldn’t have gone through with the last fight. I told Blackett and Harrap because they’re natural bastards and they understand that sort of thing. And that was really why Dumbo flew off the handle. He was huffed because I’d taken them into my confidence and left him out. That’s the truth. And if I go to him now and beg him to come back, the assumption would be that I’d have to take him into my confidence in future. That’s why I said wait. In a year or two when we’ve finished with Mallinsons and we’re in smoother waters we could afford to have someone as nice as Dumbo on the Board. But we haven’t got there yet. We’ve won a battle. We haven’t won the war. And I can’t fight in the way I have to fight if I’ve got to carry Dumbo’s conscience. I should be weighted out of the race before I started. You asked for it and there it is.”

  Sylvia listened in complete silence and then said, “I think that’s the most absurd explanation I’ve ever heard.”

  “All right. It’s absurd. The truth’s often absurd.”

  “Why not be honest? Why not say that the only thing you’re interested in is being boss? Harrap and Blackett are your creatures, but Dumbo isn’t. He might stand up to you occasionally. That’s why you want him out. That’s the real truth, isn’t it?”

  “If it’s a comfort to you to think of it that way,” said Oliver politely, “by all means do.”

  “You know,” said Sylvia, her lips trembling “you ought to stop sometime and take a look at yourself. At what you’ve done, and the way you’ve done it. Then you mightn’t be so damned happy about yourself.”

  “Please, Sylvia.”

  “No, I’m going to say this now because I probably shan’t see you again. You really ought to carry a notice round your neck: ‘Keep off. Danger’. You use people. And when you’ve used them up, you hurt them or kill them. I heard all about Derek Wibberley. Drunk in charge and assaulting the police. Thirty days. That was a laugh, wasn’t it? Well, at least he didn’t end up with his head on a railway line like poor Len Williams.”

  For a long time after she had gone, Oliver sat perfectly still. Only his eyes were alive and dark and angry.

  The flat was very quiet.

  Without moving his head he could see the exact spot on the sofa where Philippa had sat curled up, her head resting on the join between the arm and the back. The room was clean, orderly and airless. Like a very expensive room in an exclusive nursing home. He wished now that he hadn’t stayed up in London. He wished he had gone home. He wished he had refused to see Sylvia.

  Vivi was a girl of originality and enterprise. Driven off the pavements of Soho by the Street Offences Act, she had not, like many of her sisters, retreated into the doorway of the nearest near-beer hall, but had moved East, into the quiet streets which lie between Southampton Row and Gray’s Inn Road. She had argued that police surveillance would be a lot less strict in these respectable quarters and she knew that quite a few business and professional men had flats in this area.

  She spotted Oliver as a possible customer as soon as he turned the corner. It was something to do with the way he was walking. A man by himself either walked fast as if he had somewhere to go and intended to get there, or he strolled. Oliver was strolling.

  Vivi moved out under the street lamp. She had a small, not unattractive face and was wearing a chinchilla coat with a big turn-up collar, fur-lined suède boots and nothing else at all.

  Oliver stopped in front of her and said, “Well?”

  Vivi thought, “Damn. He’s sozzled to the eybrows. Pity. Promising customer.” She said, “It’s a cold night, duckie. Oughtn’t you to be in bed?”

  As she said it, she swung the front of her coat wide open.

  Oliver was swaying slightly on his feet. He examined her with as much interest as a housewife pricing fish on a slab. Then he said, “How much?”

  “I’m expensive, dearie. Probably more than you’ve got.”

  “How much?”

  Vivi was puzzled. From the way he was walking and standing he was tight. On the other hand, his voice was clear and unslurred. Maybe he wasn’t as drunk as she’d thought.

  “For a nice boy like you,” she said, “twenty pounds.”

  Oliver felt in his pocket. Very deliberately he extracted an envelope, opened the top and shook out a dozen photographs on to the pavement.

  “Take your pick,” he said. “They’re all whores.” Then he turned on his heel and wandered back down the street.

  Second Interlude

  Oliver at Home (Sevenoaks)

  During the years I had spent in America with Manson, Fulweider, Glanz, Cotton & Hicks I got generous vacations which I often spent skiing in the Adirondacks. And I thought I knew something about the game, but I had found the snow at Gstaad faster and the runs more tricky than anything I had met there, and I limped into my flat that February afternoon with a twisted knee and the after-effects of concussion.

  There was a pile of letters inside the door, mostly unwanted circular
s and unpaid bills, but one of them caught my eye. It had a well-bred look about it, a good-quality envelope, the name and address put on with an electric typewriter, common enough in America but not so common in England at that time. Also it spelt my name right, which a lot of people don’t do. It was from Oliver. It said that he had heard from friends that I was back in England and planning to stay put, and would I drop in and have a word with him before committing myself in any other direction?

  I guessed, of course, that he meant to offer me a job, and that was something that needed thinking about. I was tired of working for other people and had come back to England to find a partnership I could buy into with the capital I’d saved in the States. I wanted to be my own boss. However, that was no reason not to go and see him.

  The London office of Quinn & Nicholson (Holdings) Ltd., as they now called themselves, was in the big new block with that odd statue in the forecourt opposite the Pearl in High Holborn. I saw from the plates in the lobby that this was also the registered office of Quinn & Nicholson Ltd., Sandberg & Freyer Ltd., Quinn & Nicholson (Sales) Ltd., Quinn & Nicholson (Properties) Ltd. and Basset & Munk Ltd.

  I went up to the fourth floor, was taken in hand by a commissionaire, shown into the Managing Director’s outer office and handed over to a brunette, whose horn-rimmed glasses seemed to be a form of protective camouflage. (The female bark-beetle of Colorado has similar circular markings on the face, but in her case they are thought to attract rather than repel the male.)

  She smiled sweetly at me, relieved me of my coat and hat, straightened my tie for me – or perhaps that was my imagination – and allowed me in.

  Oliver jumped up from behind his desk, came across and grabbed my hand. “The return of the native,” he said. “Sit down. What have you done to your leg?”

  I told him, and he said, “Lucky devil. I haven’t had a real holiday for three years.”