The Crack In the Teacup

by Michael Gilbert

  Anthony got up. His face was white and strained.

  “I assume that there is some reason for him being called out of turn.”

  “Certainly, sir. The document I am going to ask him to produce only came into his possession late last night. It is a personal letter, to him, from the late Town Clerk, James Sudderby, whose name has already been mentioned to you.”

  The silence in the room was painful.

  “How—?”

  “I should explain, sir,” said Mr. Hiscoe, who had dropped his bantering note, and was speaking with great simplicity, “that owing to his engagements Mr. Brydon had not been home between early on Monday morning and yesterday evening. He did not, therefore, see a letter which had been posted late on Friday night and, as sometimes happens with local deliveries, did not reach him until Monday morning. With your permission I will ask him to read it. I will put in the whole document of course. But since parts of it are personal, I will ask Mr. Brydon to read only from the top of the second page.”

  In a voice drained of all feeling Anthony read out the paragraphs which he now almost knew by heart.

  “—I think it is time that everyone knew the truth. There were three of them in it. Southern, Macintyre and Ashford. There were other, smaller people too, but I see no point in dragging their names into it now. And I’m not trying to excuse myself, either. I did what I was told. If I hadn’t—”

  Anthony stopped, looked at the Inspector, and said, “The next bit deals with an incident in Mr. Sudderby’s past. I don’t want to read that now—”

  The Inspector nodded.

  Anthony read on. “These three men were all in it for what they could make out of it. Macintyre had a controlling share in the underground garage, which he extracted from the developers as his price for getting the development through the Council. He also undertook to use his official position to stop rival garage development as far as possible. Inspector Ashford was taking a cut from the profits of the Pleasuredrome, which was put up by the same developers. If it hadn’t been paid, he could have found half-a-dozen ways of making life difficult for the proprietors, possibly of closing it down altogether. Southern knew about both of these schemes, although, to the best of my knowledge, he took no money out of either of them. As Vice-Chairman of the Council he was useful to Macintyre and Ashford, but he was after much bigger game for himself. Some years ago he formed a company called Carlmont Properties. His own interest in it was buried under a network of nominee shareholdings and I doubt if more than three people knew of it. This company already held a substantial slice of land north of Haven Road, and Southern was planning, with Macintyre’s help, to drive the owner of Castle House School out of business and pick up his property cheap. If the eastern development plan went through, both these pieces of land would be worth between four and five thousand pounds an acre—” Anthony had been aware, as he read, that his voice was starting to compete with other sounds. He was now drowned by the scraping of chairs and the stamping of feet. The representatives of the press were fighting their way through the over-crowded exit. Ambrose was second out of the room. He was beaten by a short head by the stranger in the corner.

  Southern sat in his office on the north side of Connaught Square behind a desk that was as neat as he was. He was listening, a half-frown of concentration on his face, to what an angry and agitated Mr. Grey of Greyslates was saying to him on the telephone.

  “It wasn’t a question of timing,” he said, at last. “Brydon left his house before the post arrived on Monday and didn’t go back until Wednesday evening. There was nothing more to it than that.”

  Mr. Grey said something impatient, and Southern’s frown deepened. He said, “It’s very unfortunate, I agree. But it may have come too late to do any harm. These things take time to sink in, you know. I might lose my seat tomorrow, if the ordinary voter hears about it – which he may not – and if he cares about it – which he probably won’t. But it won’t necessarily affect anyone else. Provided my colleagues keep their heads, we’ll get this scheme through all right.”

  “Is that guaranteed?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it’s guaranteed. I can’t answer for all my associates. They suffer from a wobbly form of morality. They don’t mind making money on the side as long as it looks all right, and particularly as long as no one finds out about it. If there’s any sort of publicity, they’ll wash their hands of it quicker than Pontius Pilate.”

  “Ambrose’s editorial should make interesting reading tomorrow,” said Mr. Grey. It was a tribute to Southern’s calming influence that his voice sounded almost normal again.

  “I told you that I always missed any excitement that was going,” said Ann. “I’d slipped out for a quarter-of-an-hour whilst Lincoln-Bright was saying his piece, and when I came back it was all over. What happened?”

  “The Inspector adjourned the meeting. He hadn’t much option, really. It had practically adjourned itself.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything. I read this out to them. It’s a copy. Hiscoe has got the original.”

  Ann read it in silence. Then said, “Poor little Mr. Sudderby. You were fond of him, weren’t you?”

  “He was very kind to me.”

  “He’s certainly put the cat among the pigeons. Not that pigeons is a very good word for them. Rooks. Crooks.” She paused for a moment, and said, “Macintyre and Ashford. No surprise there. But fancy it turning out to be Southern. I always thought he dressed too well.”

  Anthony said nothing.

  “You’ll have lost yourself a client over this, I suppose.”

  Anthony still said nothing.

  “However, if he’s a crook, he’s no great loss to us.”

  She thought Anthony was going to pass that one up too, but in the end he said, with a note of anger in his voice, “My father once described Southern to me as an honest crook.”

  “There’s no such animal.”

  “What he meant was that Southern never wrapped up what he was doing. He’s out for his own ends, but he keeps inside the letter of the law. Not for any ethical reasons, but because it’s easier, in the long run, to work with the law than against it.”

  “You can talk as much as you like,” said Ann, “but you can’t get round the fact that he was using his seat on the Council to push through this development, which was going to put hundreds of thousands of pounds into his pocket.”

  “How do you know?”

  Ann looked surprised.

  “How do you know which way he voted in the Council?”

  “Well, of course I don’t. But whichever way he voted, he ought to have told people he owned the land.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “Why—? Well, if you can’t see it—”

  “All you’re saying is that he was out for himself. Who isn’t? Sellinge is on the Council. He’s fighting just as hard for his own pocket. So’s Ambrose. He isn’t doing this as a crusade. He’s doing it to boost the Gazette, and boost himself into Fleet Street.”

  Ann, who was as angry as Anthony now, said, “You’re just saying this because Southern was a friend of your father’s, and you happened to admire him.”

  Anthony came round the desk to where she was standing. She thought he was going to slap her face, and put her right hand up quickly. Anthony caught her wrist with his own left hand, pulled her towards him, got his right arm behind her shoulders, and kissed her savagely.

  As soon as she got her mouth away she said, “That’s no argument.”

  Anthony kissed her again, more gently this time, and felt the unmistakable, intoxicating, answer.

  They were so deeply absorbed in each other that neither of them heard the door open, and shut again.

  Arnold, who was a downy youth of sixteen, hurried back to report to Bowler.

  “Snogging,” he said. “So busy kissing her, he didn’t see me come in nor go out.”

  “You’re making it up,” said Bowler.

  “Th
at I’m not,” said Arnold. “Go and see for yourself, if you like. I don’t suppose they’ll leave off for hours. Mind you, I don’t blame him. She’s quite a dish. I wouldn’t mind having a bite myself.”

  “The trouble with you, Arnold,” said Bowler, “you’re over-sexed.”

  As opponents had discovered to their cost, Southern was at his best when he was up against it. And for all his confident talk to Mr. Grey, he realised, none better, the trickiness of his position.

  First he summoned Lincoln-Bright and Crawford. If he had tried to go and see them, they would probably have avoided him. Since he sent for them, they came; Lincoln-Bright embarrassed and inarticulate, Crawford truculent.

  “If you were going in for that sort of fiddle,” said Crawford, “you might have had the decency to stand down from the Council first.”

  “And let in one of our opponents?”

  “There’s that, of course,” said Crawford, thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps I’ve got old-fashioned ideas,” said Lincoln-Bright, “but it seems to me that what you did was absolutely unethical.”

  “Stop talking like a Boy Scout,” said Southern. “If I’d offered you a share in Carlmont you’d have snapped it up. And so would Jack Crawford here—”

  “You never gave me a chance,” said Crawford. “Anyway, it’s too late now. The fat’s in the fire.”

  “It’s only too late if you sit down and howl,” said Southern.

  “You’re not withdrawing as a candidate, then.”

  “Good God, no. I’m going to fight this election—and I’m going to win it. There’s a built-in Conservative majority in the Victoria Park Ward. You can’t change people’s convictions overnight. Half the voters won’t hear about this at all, and half the people who hear it won’t believe it. I’m going to talk to Anderson and Furlong now—they’re organising my campaign for me. The line I’m telling them to take is—‘Don’t believe malicious gossip’—”

  After an hour of this Southern’s fellow-candidates went away, if not entirely reassured at least happier than they had come.

  Before they had left the room Southern was on the telephone. It was eight o’clock by the time he had finished with his campaign managers. No time to spare for dinner. There were friends to telephone, waverers to chide, supporters to rally. Then there was Mr. Pitt, the Deputy Returning Officer, who telephoned to remind Southern that, as acting Mayor, he was now Returning Officer and would have to conduct certain formalities. Did he intend—

  “Of course,” said Southern, shortly. “Why not?”

  Mr. Pitt said, “I only thought—” and then, sensing from the silence at the other end that he had said the wrong thing, “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow morning, then.”

  “Ten o’clock,” said Southern and rang off.

  He started to dial Anthony’s office number, realised that the office would be shut, and tried his home number. When he got no answer there he jotted down a note on his pad, thought for a moment and looked up Arthur Mentmore’s home number. He found him finishing his dinner, apologised briefly, and put a question to him, which seemed to cause that elderly solicitor some difficulty.

  He had hardly rung off, when the telephone went again. This time it was Hamish Macintyre, who said, “Do you suppose they’ve got this telephone bugged?”

  “I’ve been expecting to hear from you,” said Southern. “No, I shouldn’t think so.”

  “What line are you taking about all this?”

  “I’m taking the line that my private affairs are my own business and no one else’s.”

  “It’s all very well for you. You’re a bloody councillor. I’m just a wage slave. I’ll be losing my job over this.”

  “I should have thought you’d got enough money not to care.”

  “No one can ever have enough money.”

  “No? Then I’ll tell you an easy way to make yourself some more. I’ve just been having a word with Mentmore. He tells me that planning enquiries aren’t privileged occasions.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that as long as Ambrose just quotes Sudderby’s letter, he’ll be safe. If he starts to comment on it, he’ll let himself in for damages for libel.”

  “What makes you think he’ll comment?”

  “You know our Ambrose.”

  Southern heard a belly laugh the other end of the line. He guessed that Macintyre would not be unduly worried by the turn of events. He would have foreseen what had happened and would have made his plans well in advance.

  When he had rung off he sat for a long moment before making his next call. Then, with a grimace, he dialled a number. Unexpectedly it was a woman’s voice that answered.

  Southern said, “Oh, Miss Ashford. I wonder if I could have a word with your brother.”

  “It’s Mr. Southern, isn’t it. I’m afraid my brother’s out.”

  “Have you any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “He didn’t say. He took his car out about an hour ago. He—he hasn’t quite been himself lately.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Southern smoothly.

  “It was Pilot. That was the last straw—”

  Southern knew Pilot, a leggy Alsatian that Inspector Ashford was training.

  “What happened to Pilot?” he said.

  “He ran out into the road, this afternoon. A car hit him. It broke both legs.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “My brother had to put him down. The vet was out. Poor Pilot was in agony.”

  “A thing like that would upset anyone.”

  “He had to shoot him, himself.”

  “It must have been horrible,” said Southern. “When he does get back, would you ask him to give me a ring—at home. It doesn’t matter how late—”

  As he rang off, he realised how tired he was.

  It was partly atmospheric. There had been a metallic glint about the sun all day, and it had gone down into a film of cloud. A clear warning of thunder to come.

  He walked across to the window and looked out. Connaught Square stood empty under its orange neon street lamps. A few lights still burned in the municipal buildings on the east side of the Square but the other three sides were offices, and their windows were black and quiet.

  As Southern turned to the door he thought he heard a sound.

  There was a back door and a flight of steps leading directly up to his first-floor office. He sometimes used it himself to escape importunate clients. The door, at the foot of the stairs, was closed on a catch, and was usually kept locked. As he thought about this he heard a stair creak. Somebody was coming up and was taking care to make as little noise about it as possible.

  Unwillingly, and for a moment, Anthony stopped kissing Ann. Their car was parked, once again, in the lay-by on the cliff road to the east of the town.

  “It’s gone eleven,” she said. “If I don’t get home soon, mother will be ringing up the police.”

  “Have you broken it to her—about us?”

  “I haven’t had a chance,” said Ann. “Do you realise, that with one very brief pause for food, we’ve been kissing each other for about six hours.”

  “I’ve got a lot of time to make up.”

  “When shall we get married?”

  “Soon, soon.”

  “I’d better tell mother early September. She’ll need a month to get her wits about her.”

  “Have we got to wait till then?” said Anthony, putting his arm back round Ann’s shoulders. He had found that if he slid his arm under hers, fairly high up, his hand lay over her right breast without any fuss; and that this was a splendid position for the start of further gentle exploration.

  Ann stiffened under him.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “Look,” she said. “Look. Down there. What is it? What on earth’s happening?”

  Below them spread the twinkling lights of Barhaven. Into this firmament a new, and fiercer sun was rising.

  Anthony stared
for a moment, and then he said, “Christ! It’s the Gazette Printing Works. They’re on fire. Come on.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Friday

  Anthony remembered the next bit as a sort of nightmare; flames, billowing smoke, the sharp smell of burning woodwork and hot metal, sparks climbing into the air as the high-pressure hoses hit the building; Ambrose, in tears, at his side. Captain Weekes, the Chief Officer of the Fire Brigade, saying with professional detachment, “She’s well away, isn’t she?” just as the floor of the print shop fell in, and a heavy press lurched through, to drop into the inferno of the dispatch department. And then, around one o’clock in the morning, a flash which overawed the flames, a roar which drowned the roaring of the lire and the heavens were opened as the long threatened storm burst across Barhaven. In ten short minutes the elements achieved what the united fire brigades of Barhaven, Hastings, Folkestone and Seaford had failed to do in two hours. Under the weight of water poured down upon them, the premises of the Barhaven Gazette were reduced to a sullen, smoking shell.

  Ambrose, shivering with cold and hysterical with rage and shock, had to be restrained by force from bursting his way in.

  “You’ll not be able to handle a thing in there for two or three hours,” said Captain Weekes. “Even then it won’t be at all safe. Better leave it till it’s light.”

  “Has anyone any idea how it happened?” asked the Chief Constable, who had arrived in his official car five minutes after Anthony, and seemed very wide awake.

  “We know when it started, sir,” said Inspector Knox. “A youngster and his girlfriend were walking home, past the building, just before midnight. They saw flames coming out of a first-storey window, and rang up the brigade from a call-box.”

  Ambrose said, “I was last out. We’d finished by half-past eleven. We’d got the whole of tomorrow’s edition printed, and stacked. I locked the place up myself.”

  “Half an hour,” said the Chief Constable. “That’s not very long. Suppose someone had dropped a cigarette – something like that – it’d take time, surely—”