‘Very little, Mr Nox, beyond divorce. Marital troubles are, as you might say, my bread and butter. Mainly I watch people. A husband for a wife, a wife for a husband. I follow the party here and there, check on liaisons, observe, report. We do get the occasional case of someone who is dodgy in the business world, embezzling and that. And once in a while there is a wretched creature who is being blackmailed. Cases, you know, where discretion is necessary, which the police could not be trusted in. Our telegraphic address is Discretion, London.’
‘Would you watch a man for me?’
Swingler was surprised. Anything was business if it was honest, he said. He laughed nervously.
‘I will make a deal with you, Mr Swingler. I will teach you Italian in return for your professional services. How does that strike you? All fees, except your expenses, to be foregone on either side. Does the proposition interest you?’
‘All propositions interest me, Mr Nox, you know.’ He laughed again, as though apologizing for himself.
‘Good. Then here are the details. There is a man who in the interests of a small proportion of the public must be promptly discredited. I need not dot all the i’s. He seeks a position for which he is unworthy, let us say that and no more. I have reason to believe that there are things in his life which do not bear scrutiny. It may well be that to you the habit I am about to describe is a common one and widely practised, but to the others in this affair it is enough to make them think again. Would you like to make a note, Mr Swingler? The man’s name is Jaraby, he lives at 10 Crimea Road, SW17. Mr Jaraby is in the running for the presidency of a certain society, an association of Old Boys of a certain school. Now a position like that calls for impeccable respectability, as the position of headmaster does, or that of a judge. You understand me, Mr Swingler?’
Swingler nodded sagely, agreeing, and intimating that he understood.
‘This man Jaraby is an old man, older than I am. Say about seventy-two or three. He sees me, rightly, as an enemy and, wishing to ingratiate himself with me, he some months ago offered to do me a favour. Not to put too fine a point on it, he offered to introduce me to a brothel. He claimed it was a good, clean place and went into some details about the nature of the services offered. I declined, but found the information interesting. You may say that Jaraby, having made this offer to me, had given me all I needed. But you do not know Jaraby: he is a wily bird, and it is my word against his. We are all elderly men, Mr Swingler; we see in each other the possibility of poor memory and misunderstood words. Jaraby would talk himself out of my accusation as it now stands. What I need is proof, what I need is your report, signed and sealed and irrefutable. I need it in writing from a disinterested person that Mr Jaraby’s practice is to visit a house of ill-fame.’ Mr Nox had half hoped that Swingler would say that that was easily achieved; that all he had to do, if Mr Nox remembered the name and address of the place, was to sit down and cook the evidence. But Swingler was cagey; Swingler had a lot to lose. He said instead:
‘So you want me to watch Mr Jaraby and – excuse me, Mr Nox – catch him in the act?’
‘To see him enter the place once or twice would be quite sufficient.’
‘You will get no statements from the inmates. They will not give away their clients, or indeed themselves.’
‘That is not necessary. Just your statement on paper in combination with my reported conversation will damn him.’
‘It is a difficult job. I might watch the house for weeks before he made a visit.’
‘Ah, Mr Swingler, that is surely your problem.’
‘It might be simpler for me to approach matters from the other end, to strike up a friendship with one of the girls and get her to tip me off when he was due to arrive – assuming of course that he makes an appointment. It would have to be cunningly done and very sub rosa, if you know what I mean. Like I say, they will not split on their clients, but if I handle with care we might get round that one.’
‘Jaraby pressed the address on me. I can let you have that.’
‘A help, Mr Nox, a help.’
But as events turned out it was little help at all. The girl with whom Swingler struck up a friendship revealed that clients came and went and no one was the wiser. One might serve a man for twenty years and yet not know his name. And there was no appointments system.
‘So there is still nothing to report?’ Mr Nox said on this particular occasion. ‘You are keeping an eye on him, though?’
‘The trouble is, Mr Nox, I cannot cast a wide net. I do not have the personnel to watch the house and our party’s movements constantly. I have chosen certain times and devoted an hour or so to surveillance. He shops himself for vegetables, that I can tell you, but alas, little else.’
‘The vegetables do not interest me at all. It is clear he slips away while you are elsewhere. Now, have you any suggestions?’
‘Sooner or later I should catch him. We call it making a strike. Or what I may do is leave him for a while and then devote a week or more to the business. Except that we do not know how frequently he visits. The law of averages is only half on our side.’
‘Time is running out. I may have to give you more lessons in Italian and ask you to intensify the operation.’
‘I would watch the house you say he goes to rather than his own, except that he may have changed it or likes variety. I think a lot about the case. I feel that light will break sooner or later.’
‘Sooner, Mr Swingler, rather than later. As I say, time is running out.’
‘Or I may have an idea. It may be that we are approaching this from altogether the wrong angle. How would it be if we tempted him?’
‘Tempted him?’
‘With a woman of the kind he fancies. A casual meeting in a café or something.’
‘You know best. We may have to resort to that, but I do not greatly care for the sound of it. It is his own rope with which Jaraby should hang himself.’
‘Any port in a storm, Mr Nox.’
‘I need evidence. I will leave it to you to sort out how you come by it. After all, it is your job.’ But Swingler, who was getting on well with his Italian, was in no hurry.
When his pupil had gone Mr Nox cooked chops for his lunch. He did not like Swingler. He had got into the habit of washing his hands when Swingler left the flat. He did not like him because he could not explain to him. Swingler would not understand if he said: ‘It is simply that I bear a grudge against Jaraby. He is well fitted for the task before him and should acquit himself nicely. To be wholly truthful, I am doing the Association a disservice by attempting to bring all this to light. There are skeletons in all our cupboards, Jaraby’s is no worse than any other.’ He could not admit to Swingler that he cared little himself for the Association, that if a less able man than Jaraby were chosen it would not matter to him as long as Jaraby was shamed in the process. Some devil within him had urged him to get himself on to the committee, so that he might, by some chance that had not then been apparent, cook Jaraby’s goose. Jaraby was an influence in his life, but he could only confess it to himself. Jaraby was a ghost he had grown sick and tired of, which he could lay only by triumphing in some pettiness.
Unlike the other man, Mr Nox was not lonely. He was alone in the world and would die unmourned, but he had faced loneliness as a boy and come to terms with it then. It was like getting over measles, knowing that they had taken their toll but would not return. As he walked about his flat, seeing to his needs, he felt that he had never been young; that his life had been a mere preparation for the state he now found himself in, that this was his realm and was no imposition. As with the heat of the present months, he had the advantage over those who had grown old with him; they at an ebb, he at a flow. When he sighted himself in a mirror he knew that this was as he was meant to be, not the cranky child or the man of middle age. And often when Mr Nox reflected on these things he concluded that in his time of power he should crow over Jaraby, as Jaraby in his power had crowed over him. There was a logic an
d a justice in nature; he could not see that nature might be otherwise. It was not even so much the long memory of the ill Jaraby had done him that caused Jaraby to linger in his mind; it was the redress of a balance that had slumped so far out of true as to offend the senses. To tidy a human situation, that was all Mr Nox desired.
He shredded cabbage and timed its cooking. As he stood by the stove his one nagging regret slipped irritatingly into his thoughts. His life had been ordinary. He would have liked to have written his memoirs, but he knew there was nothing to write. ‘The tragedy,’ he sighed, ‘of those who come into their own too late.’
6
‘Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,’ said the man in the bowler hat. He stood in the sun-lounge of the Rimini, hovering, though not uncertainly. He smiled with gaiety at the seated men. Mr Cridley began the process of identification.
‘I am Mr Cridley, this is my friend Mr Sole. I cannot speak for my friend, but in my case your presence here is somewhat puzzling. We have not met; your face is new to me. How can we help you?’
‘Not you me, but I you,’ the man said smartly. ‘My card, sir. Joseph Harp, heat exchange expert and installation engineer. I come about central heating. You have been in communication with my firm.’
‘Yes –’
‘I have come, in a word, to measure up and deliver you with an estimate. A biggish job, a biggish house. A good day’s work, I hazard. Now tell me, sir, what did you have in mind?’
‘Pray sit down,’ replied Mr Cridley, ‘and take off your hat.’
‘You are wise,’ said the man, obeying these injunctions, ‘to take advantage of our summer terms. Ten per cent off. Naturally enough, a lot of people don’t think of central heating in the middle of a summer like this. Well anyway, a lot of people who are not as far-sighted as you, sir. Pardon me: I’ve taken a liberty.’
‘Not at all, not at all.’
‘I spoke rather personally. I estimated character rather than what I am here to estimate. I have that way with me, gentlemen, and I hope you’ll forgive. My tongue runs away on me, as any of my mates will tell you. Colleagues I should have said; we are told to say colleagues. Again the victim of my tongue. Gentlemen, you’ll pardon me?’
‘Yes, yes –’
‘We are given a short course in salesmanship, every one of us when we join the firm. Say this, say that, never say the other. They tell us how to lead a prospect on, watch for the nibble and time the moment for the kill. It’s very exciting.’
‘What’s a prospect?’ Mr Sole asked, genuinely interested.
The man aimed a wild blow at his thigh, punishing himself for his shortcomings.
‘Forgive me, forgive me,’ he cried. ‘Aren’t I running on like a dose –? Oh my God, you’ll think me a frightful fellow! A prospect is a person, gentlemen. A person you aim to sell something to. A prospect is a customer before, if you follow me, he becomes a customer. A prospect is a prospect is a prospect. That’s a little joke we have in the trade. A kind of a jingle that we call out to each other when we meet.’
‘What does it mean?’ asked Mr Sole.
‘What does it mean? Well – gentlemen, do you know, I don’t know. D’you know, I’ve been saying that for a fair number of years now and –’
‘We are mightily intrigued by all this,’ Mr Cridley interrupted. ‘I think I speak for my friend as well. We are interested ourselves in the world of business, of salesmanship and advertising. We are not professionals, you realize, but we watch and learn. Your advent is little short of a tonic. That is not flattery, Mr Harp. Mr Sole will tell you fast enough I am not given to flattery. No, I feel we could talk together all day –’
‘In the way of central heating, Mr Cridley, just what did you have in mind? We have the Major Plan, the Minor Plan and our –’
‘We are interested, Mr Harp. We are very interested indeed. But my friend and I are of a conservative nature. We do not care to rush things. I call upon you, Mr Sole. Is that not so?’
‘We do not care to rush things, no. It is true we are interested, and we would greatly like to know about your system. We would esteem it a personal favour.’
‘No favour at all, gentlemen,’ Mr Harp retaliated briskly. ‘It is why I am here. Part of the day’s work, part of the job, part of the service. For a house the size of this I would not hesitate to suggest our Major Plan. Warmth, warmth, and more warmth, eh? That’s the ticket in a place like this unless I’m much mistaken. I note you’re in the hotel business. I put it to you, gentlemen, that a snug room is heart’s delight for the weary wayfarer. Am I right, gentlemen, or am I wrong?’
‘Without a shadow of a doubt –’
‘I can mention no prices until I’ve seen the premises. A thorough inspection. Nooks, crannies and how’s your father? Right, gentlemen? The cellars are my immediate interest. It is usual to begin in the cellars, to establish the siting of the boiler. Once the siting of the boiler is out of the way, Robert becomes your avuncular relative. Ha, ha, ha,’ laughed Mr Harp briskly, drawing papers from a briefcase. ‘Lead me to the cellars.’
Mr Cridley and Mr Sole rose slowly, eyeing one another. They followed Mr Harp who had, so he said, a nose for the geography of a house.
In the cellars Mr Cridley coughed and said:
‘You are moving rather fast for us, Mr Harp. Strictly speaking, a lady called Miss Burdock is in charge here. We are at a disadvantage. Mr Sole and I would wish to talk the matter over –’
‘Mr Cridley,’ called Miss Burdock from the top of the stairs. ‘Mr Cridley, what are you doing down there?’
Mr Harp, quick to assess a situation, replied: ‘Miss Burdock. Is that Miss Burdock?’ and began to mount the stairs.
‘I am Miss Burdock. Mr Cridley, who is this man?’
‘Joseph Harp, madam, and here with a purpose. Heat exchange expert and installation engineer. Central heating is my stock in trade. You want it, Harp has it. OK, Miss Burdock?’
‘I do not want central heating, Mr Harp.’
‘This is the Rimini Hotel? The gentleman below, Mr Cridley? I have you on my list.’
‘Be gone, Mr Harp.’
‘Now wait one little minute, madam. Now –’
‘Be gone, please. Promptly and without further argument vacate the space you stand in.’
‘Madam –’
‘I shall not hesitate to complain to your employers.’ She held the door and Mr Harp passed through. ‘Mr Cridley and Mr Sole, do not skulk in the darkness. You must face me and explain all this.’
‘My beautiful Boadicea,’ murmured Mr Sole, stumbling behind his companion up the cellar steps.
General Sanctuary pulled the straw hat over his eyes and fell asleep. He dreamed that he was talking to the Prime Minister on the telephone. ‘There is one man in the country,’ the Prime Minister was saying, ‘who has the know-how and military skill to salvage what is left of this unholy mess. You, General. I know I do not ask you this in vain. Let me hear you say you are ready, General.’ The garden was peaceful in the warm afternoon. Bees and insects droned lazily amongst the flowers. Strawberries ripened. Pods of peas were full and yellow; asparagus shot into seed, its fern delicate against the untidy earth.
The General had been re-reading Henty, the only author he cared for. For the Temple lay open beside his chair, its leaves curling as he slept. He had read the book a dozen times or more. He could quote long passages from all the works of G. A. Henty, and quite often he did.
‘There is only one man I can call upon. You, General Sanctuary.’ The dream was not entirely a fantasy. Once upon a time, many years before, a Prime Minister had addressed him in terms that were not all that dissimilar.
Basil Jaraby set about his weekly task of cleaning the cages of his budgerigars. He slid out the trays and cleaned them one by one. He scrubbed the perches with a wire brush and washed out the water- and seed-cups. He examined with care the toys they played with – pieces of furniture designed for dolls’ houses, bells and little wooden trucks – s
atisfying himself that they had not become damaged and might be a danger. The birds seemed in good spirit, although he spoke to them anxiously, worried in case the heat was affecting them harshly. The room was not ideal for their habitation: there was a danger of draughts if he opened the window, and if he kept it constantly closed he feared for their welfare in an airless atmosphere. He prepared their evening meal of seed and a little grass, put fresh cuttlebone and millet in the cages. He taught the cleverest one how to walk up and down a miniature step-ladder, and began his taming of another, offering it his finger as a perch.
Mr Swabey-Boyns was engaged on a large jigsaw of the Houses of Parliament. It was very difficult and he wondered if he would live to finish it. A month ago, in hospital, he had completed a smaller but no less difficult one of Ann Hathaway’s cottage, and had then upset the whole thing over the bedclothes. The nurses had laughed; and he had laughed later, as he clipped little holes in their sheets with his nail-scissors.
Mr Turtle broke his rule and thought about his wife. She had died during the First World War, when he was in France, after they had spent only two days together. She caught pneumonia, and in the bustle and confusion of wartime no one had been able to tell him how it had all happened or how she had died. Films, to which Mr Turtle was addicted, made such stories romantic, but to him the reality was scarcely sad even: it was ugly and precise and a fact.
Once Mr Turtle had kept photographs of his wife, faded sepia prints that became absurd as the years advanced. There was nothing of her in them, just a face that was now a stranger’s face; for in his mind he had forgotten what she looked like and remembered more poignantly other things about her. He tore the photographs up, without any emotion at all. But often, and more often recently, he found himself weeping. He did not know why until, in a cinema or on the street – because it happened more usually when he was out – he wiped his leathery face with his handkerchief and thought the matter out. Then he knew that some passing detail had reminded him of his wife. He scolded himself and said he was behaving like a child; weeping in the street like that, causing people to pity him, inviting them to approach him and enquire about his welfare. So he made up the rule, promising himself to be on guard against the memory of her.
The Old Boys Page 5