George Passant

by C. P. Snow

  24: The First Inquiries

  MORCOM was away that weekend. I asked Roy to tell him that I had been in the town, and had called on George and Olive.

  Through the autumn, a busy time for me, I was often uneasy. The visit had not brought anything like reassurance; but there seemed nothing I could do. As the months passed, though, I began to feel that my anxieties had run away with me. I heard nothing more until a Friday night in December.

  I was tired after a day’s work, lying on my sofa with a novel, which, when those moments came to have a significance they did not then possess (through the memory of action, so to speak, which is halfway between involuntary memory – recalled for instance by a smell – and that which we force back), I remembered as Thomas Wolfe’s first book. The telephone bell rang. It was a trunk call, and among the murmurs, clangings, and whispers of the operation, I had the meaningless apprehension that sometimes catches hold as one listens and waits.

  Then I heard Roy’s voice: ‘Is that, you, Lewis?’

  The words were precise and clear, isolated in sound.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should come down tonight. There’s a train in half an hour. It would be good if you caught that.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You should come at once. Morcom and I are certain you should come at once. Can you?’

  ‘Can’t you tell me? Is it necessary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can’t you tell–?’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the station.’

  Through the carriage window the lights of villages moved past. As my anger with Roy for leaving me uncertain became sharper, the lights became circled in mist and passed increasingly slow. We stopped at a station; the fog whirled under its lamps. At last the platform. The red-brick walls shone in the translucency; as I got out, the raw air caught at the throat.

  Roy went quickly by, missing me in the crowd. I caught him by the arm. He turned and his face was serious and excited.

  ‘Well?’ I said.

  ‘They’re inquiring into some of George’s and Jack’s business. They questioned them this afternoon – and took away the accounts and books.’

  It sounded inevitable as I heard it. It sounded unlike news, it seemed something I had known for a long time.

  ‘I couldn’t say it on the telephone,’ Roy was talking fast, ‘my parents were too near.’

  We went into the refreshment-room on the platform. Roy’s tumbler of whisky rattled in his fingers on the marble table, as he described the last few hours. Morcom heard from Jack, saw Roy immediately and insisted that he let me know. Then Roy called at George’s office, a few minutes before he telephoned to me. George had said: ‘Yes, they’ve had the effrontery to ask me questions,’ and stormed.

  ‘He was afraid though,’ said Roy. ‘He was anxious to prove that they parted on civil terms.’

  ‘Morcom didn’t know the best thing to do,’ he said. ‘He had no idea of the legal side. So you had to be fetched.’

  ‘I’d better see George at once,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve arranged for him to meet you in my study,’ said Roy. ‘It’s quicker than his lodgings.’

  Actually, George’s rooms were nearer. It was a strange trick for Roy to fix this meeting in his father’s house. Yet he was as concerned as I.

  His study reminded me that he was the only son of a prosperous family. It was a room more luxurious than one expected to find in the town: and then, again unexpectedly, the bookshelves of this spoilt young man were packed with school and college prizes. I was looking at them when George entered. He came from the door and shook hands with a smile that, on the moment, surprised me with its cordiality, its show of pleasure.

  When the smile faded, however, the corners of his mouth were pulled down. Our range of expression is small, so that a smile in genuine pleasure photographs indistinguishably from a grimace of pain; they are the same unless we know their history and their future.

  ‘This is an unpleasant business,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. But still–’

  ‘One’s got to expect attacks. Of course,’ George said, ‘this happens to be particularly monstrous.’

  Roy made an excuse, and left us.

  ‘We ought to go into it,’ I said. I added: ‘We don’t want to leave anything to chance. Don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s got to be stopped.’

  ‘Yes. Can’t you tell me what they wanted? It’d be useful to both of us.’

  George sat down by the writing-desk. His fingers pushed tobacco into his pipe, and his eyes gazed across the room.

  ‘It’s absurd we should have to waste our time,’ he said in an angry tone. ‘Well, we may as well get it over. I’ll organise the facts as we go along.’ He began to speak more slowly than usual, emphasising the words, his tone matter-of-fact and yet deliberate with care.

  ‘Jack Cotery made a suggestion over four years ago–’ George thought for a second and produced the year and then the month. ‘He’d been considering the advertising firm that Martineau went into. He produced some evidence that if it were run more efficiently it could be made to pay. There was a minor advertising paper attached, you remember, called the Arrow. I talked to Martineau when he came back to clear up his affairs. That was the summer of 1928. The paper reached a fairly wide public; some thousands, he convinced me of that. Jack’s case was – that if we could raise the money and buy Exell out, we could pay interest on the loan and make an adequate profit. I saw nothing against it – I see nothing to make me change my view’ – George suddenly burst out – ‘I can’t be expected to live on a few pounds a week and not look round for money if I can get it without sacrificing important things. You know well enough that nothing’s ever made me take money seriously. I’ve never given much attention to it. I’ve never made any concessions for the sake of money. But I’m not an anchorite, there are things I could buy if I had money, and I’m not going to apologise for taking chances when they meant no effort and no interruption to my real activities.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘I’m glad you accept that,’ George said as his voice quietened. I knew that, at moments, I or anyone must be numbered with the accusers now; it was strange to feel how he was obliged to justify the most ordinary contact with the earth. ‘So on that basis I was ready to co-operate. Naturally, I hadn’t any capital of my own. I was able to contribute about fifty pounds, chiefly by readjusting all my debts. Anyway, my function was to audit the accountancy side, and see how good a property it was–’

  ‘You did that?’ I said.

  ‘There wasn’t much evidence, which isn’t surprising when you think of the two partners. There were a few books kept incompetently by Exell and the statement by Martineau. The statement was pretty definite, and so we considered it and proceeded to action. Olive raised a little. Her father wasn’t dead then, so she couldn’t do much. By the way, you might as well understand that this business has been consistently profitable. On a small scale naturally, but still it’s brought in a pleasant addition to my income. And we met all our obligations. Even in the worst weeks when our patriotic or national government was doing its best to safeguard the liberties of the British people.’

  The habitual sarcasm left him, after months of use, as easily and unthinkingly as a ‘Good morning’.

  ‘I had very little to do with the financial backing. Jack undertook the whole responsibility for raising that. I should have been completely useless at getting businessmen to part with their money, of course–’ He gave a quick, slightly abject smile. ‘On the other hand, I can produce their names and the details of the contracts that Jack made with them. We didn’t consider it necessary to form a company; he simply borrowed a number of separate sums from various people, and made definite terms about paying them for the risk.’

  �
��They lent it on the security of the firm, I suppose,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. It was a series of private loans for a purpose which everyone understood. It’s the sort of arrangement which is made every day. The man who was here this afternoon,’ he said, ‘pestered me for an hour about the details. Incidentally he was unnecessarily offensive to me. That was before he came to the other scheme. It was a long time before I could make him understand they were slightly different. The position was’ – he shifted in his chair – ‘that Jack produced another idea when Olive’s father died. That meant she had a little surplus capital – I mentioned it to you when I saw you last – and it was easy to see modifications in the technique. We’d acquired a little money and a certain amount of experience. So it was possible to think of something on a larger scale. Particularly in the special circumstances of my having a crowd of people that needed to be together. The idea was to buy the farm and one or two other places; then we could use the farm itself for our own purposes. There was no reason why the money we spent shouldn’t come back to ourselves in part – and when we weren’t using the place, we could let it out as a youth hostel or whatever people call them who haven’t the faintest idea of helping people to enjoy their youth.’

  ‘So you did it?’

  ‘Yes. Jack and Olive were in it. I couldn’t appear – but it was understood that I was to advise.’

  ‘Jack brought in the money again?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said George. ‘He collected some fairly large sums from various quarters. I’ll make you a list. He’s incredibly good at persuading them to part. He’s so good that once I found it inconvenient–’

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘Actually,’ George hesitated, ‘I had to stop him taking it from some of my people.’

  ‘Some of the group? Rachel and the–’

  ‘Jack tried with this young man – Roy.’ George looked round the study. ‘But he was too cautious. Jack had persuaded Rachel, though; and someone else.’

  I said: ‘Why did you stop him?’

  ‘I should have thought it was obvious enough. There’s bound to be a certain amount of risk in this sort of project. I wasn’t going to have it fall on people I was responsible for and who couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘One could bring out the fact – significantly.’

  ‘I’m prepared to account for it.’

  His voice was harsh and combative: I paused.

  ‘How’s this scheme going?’ I asked.

  ‘Not as well as the first,’ George said slowly. ‘It’s not had long yet. It’s perfectly healthy.’

  ‘What has started the inquiries, then?’ I said.

  ‘It’s impossible to say. I’ve been active enough in this place to make a good many people willing to see me disgraced.’

  I wondered: was that true or the voice of the persecuted self? the self that was the other side, the complement, of his devotion and unselfseekingness.

  ‘But did they know of these dealings?’

  ‘We tried to keep them secret,’ George said. ‘None of the initial arrangements can possibly have got out.’

  ‘What were the police looking for?’

  ‘As far as I gathered from the lout who came this afternoon – the obvious thing for them to imagine. Misleading the people who supplied the money. The charge they’re trying for is money by false pretences or conspiracy, I suppose. They might put in conspiracy so as to use all their evidence against each of us.’ Though he was wincing as he spoke, I could not help noticing that his thought was clear and competent, as it had been all that night; his summary of their ventures could hardly have been better done; he was not detached at any time, there was no man less detached, he was in distress, afraid and resentful, and yet anyone – without my affection and concern – would have admired the stamina and precision of his mind.

  Then to my amazement his face cleared and he laughed, shortly, not from his full heart, but still as though the distress had abated.

  ‘It’s scarcely likely they’ll ever have the opportunity to make a charge.’ It came to me like the fantastic optimism with which he sustained himself years ago, during Martineau’s departure. I replied: ‘So you’re completely confident? You don’t think it’ll go any further?’

  Remorsefully, I saw the half-laugh drain away; his voice was flat, with no pretence or anger left: ‘If it does, I don’t know how I’m going to face it.’

  I said: ‘As a matter of fact, have you done it?’

  For an instant he sat without moving. Then slowly he shook his head.

  25: Conversations at Night

  Roy, quiet and self-effacing, brought in a tray of drinks and again left us alone.

  ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘does Eden know about these – inquiries?’

  ‘I’ve not told him.’

  ‘Oughtn’t you to?’

  ‘It’s obviously quite unnecessary,’ George said. ‘If these policemen have the sense to keep quiet, there’s no reason why he should know. And if – we have to take other circumstances into account, Eden can be told quickly enough. I see no reason to give him the pleasure until it’s compulsory.’

  ‘I think he ought to be told,’ I said. ‘This isn’t too large a town, you know. Eden comes across people in the Chief Constable’s office every day.’

  ‘That would be a breach of privilege.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But it happens – and it would be wiser for you to tell Eden than for someone who doesn’t know you.’

  His face was heavy and indrawn.

  ‘You see,’ I tried to persuade him, ‘there’s a good deal that can be done, if they want to inquire any further. You know that as well as I do. If Eden gives me authority, I could stop quite a few of their tricks. If you heard of anyone in your present position – the first advice you’d give, of course, would be for them to arrange with a solicitor–’

  George said: ‘I don’t propose to discuss the matter with Eden.’ He added: ‘You can tell him yourself if you’re so anxious.’

  ‘You give me permission?’ I said.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  When Roy rejoined us, I left them talking and telephoned Eden. He said he would expect me before eleven, and pressed me to stay in the ‘usual room’.

  George showed no curiosity when I said that I should not see him again until the morning.

  Sitting in Eden’s drawing-room, stretching my hands to the fire, I told him the events of the afternoon. He had begun by saying amiably: ‘We had another conference about some of your friends here before.’

  Eden nodded his head, his lips together, as I told him of their speculations. I finished by saying: ‘It may not come to it, I don’t know. But we ought to be prepared for a charge.’

  ‘These things will happen,’ he said. ‘Ah well! these things will happen.’

  ‘What do you think?’ I said.

  ‘You’re right, of course we’ve got to be prepared,’ he was speaking without heat, with a slight irritability. ‘I must say they’ve been very foolish. They’ve been foolish whatever they’ve been doing. They oughtn’t to try these things without experience. It’s the sort of foolishness that Passant would go in for. I’ve told you that before–’

  ‘He’s one of the biggest men I’ve met. That still holds after meeting a few more. He’s also one of the ablest,’ I said in the only harsh words that had passed between Eden and myself, making a protest wrung from me years too late.

  His deliberation broken for a moment, Eden said: ‘We won’t argue about that. It isn’t the time to argue now. I must consider what ought to be done.’ He laughed without any warmth. ‘I can’t instruct you myself,’ he said slowly, going back to a leisurely professional manner. ‘But I can arrange with someone else to act for Passant. And I shall give instructions that you’re to be used from the beg
inning. That is, if this business develops as we all hope it won’t–’

  The phrase rolled off smooth with use, as he addressed me with the practised cordiality – different from his ordinary familiar manner – into which the disagreement had driven him. It was not until I spoke of visiting Jack Cotery before I went to bed, that he became fully at ease again.

  ‘I’m sorry he’s mixed up in this,’ Eden said. ‘He ought to have gone a long way. I haven’t seen much of him the last few years.’ He was genuinely distressed. He went on: ‘And you want to find out what’s been happening to him? I expect you do.’ He gave me a latchkey. ‘You can keep it until this is all over. You’ll have to be down here pretty frequently, you know.’ Then I said goodnight and he smiled. ‘Mind you don’t wear yourself out before it properly begins.’

  The streets were clearer, but still dank with fog. A tram-car came down the lonely road, going on its last journey to the centre of the town; its light was reddened in the mist. What had happened? Through these stories and suspicions, what had happened? If George was lying (I could not be certain. He might be bound to the others – he might be masking some private guilt) how had he found himself in that kind of dishonesty? – which of all of us, careless as he was of money, self-deceiving as he could be in thought, I should have considered him the least likely to commit. And as well as these doubts, there was a sense, not flickering in questions in the mind, of conflict and fatality; of these lives, the people I had once known best, going as they had to go, each life alone, as it were, walking the dark streets. So, in loneliness, they had come to this.

  For a time I could not find the street in which Jack lived. He had given up his flat, George said; he had returned to his parents’ house. I had never been there in the past. When I first knew him, it was one of his mysteries to mention that he could not invite us to his house – and then, after his self-revelation that night in the park years ago, I had not expected to be asked.