by Alec Waugh
“Yes, sir.”
“From anyone in particular or simply general gossip?” “I had a talk with Bradshaw, sir.”
“That man gets everywhere. Did he tell you exactly what young Fleury said?” “Yes, sir.”
“What did you make of it?”
Archer flushed and hesitated. How much did H.E. know, how much did H.E. suspect? There were quite a number of things that you would expect him to know about, of which he was completely ignorant, but very much more often he surprised you both with his percipience and the range of his information. He was a downy old bird.
“Well, sir, I don’t quite know….” He paused, waiting for a lead.
“Do you think that remark about the colored man being chucked by his girl referred to some actual fact, something I did not know about myself, but which a great number of people in that room did? What I’m saying is, did Maxwell deliberately taunt Boyeur?”
“I believe he did, sir.”
Archer had listened to the unfolding of that long sentence with relief. It bore out to a T exactly what he had been thinking about the old boy half a minute earlier. The things he knew and the things he didn’t know. He’d presumed that by now his chief had some inkling about the relations between his secretary and A.D.C., but had accepted the traditional English credo “a row’s a row and damned disgraceful; when there is no row, nothing is disgraceful.” Archer had been at great pains to preserve appearances, and few men noticed what was right under their nose. All the same without the facts to guide him, H.E. had accurately diagnosed the case. Men like the General fooled you. You always thought of professional soldiers as being stupid; but the old man was a much more acute psychologist than most Bloomsbury intellectuals.
“That’s what I suspected myself,” the Governor was saying. “Have you any idea what caused the ill feeling between these young fellows?”
“You heard about the demonstration at Belfontaine at Maxwell’s first election meeting.” “Yes.”
“Boyeur was responsible for that. He may have been responsible for the burning of the cane at Mardi gras. Boyeur had been backing that man Montez who brought the case against Preston. There was some idea at the time of Preston taking over Belfontaine. Boyeur may have thought Mr. Fleury’s position influenced the judge. Things get very involved here, sir.”
“I know, my boy, I know. We can’t always get to the cause of things. Sometimes best not to trouble. When you get a spot, prick the yellow head and hope the damned thing clears up. That’s what we’d better do now. I want both the Fleurys here on the same night as Boyeur. Make it a command. As for the rest… Well, let me see. We’d better have it a young people’s party. Not Grainger Morris. His sister would be more at ease without him. Boyeur would too, probably. That young Kellaway’s amusing. Who else would you suggest? Mavis Norman? We might have her: particularly as her father seconded the motion against Boyeur. Mavis Norman. I seem to have heard something about her recently?”
He had in fact heard nothing, but he had found that one of the best ways of obtaining information was by appearing to possess it. And he was curious to know what was happening to Mavis. She might so very well have been his future daughter-in-law.
“Have you heard what I’ve heard?” he asked.
“No, sir, I’ve heard nothing.”
“Possibly it’s only a rumor then, forget it. Let’s have her up here anyhow. And get this dinner fixed as soon as you can manage it. Come back and tell me as soon as you’ve decided on a day.”
Archer returned to his office pensively. It was no business of his, he supposed, but all the same …
He sat at his desk staring at the telephone. Boyeur would be in his office now. He had his orders. But…
He picked up the receiver of the house telephone and spun the handle. Margot answered him.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“No.”
“Could you come here a minute, then?”
“Right away?”
“Yes, please.”
He did not get up when she came in. That was part of their campaign. He maintained an office manner to the point of rudeness. They acted their parts, even when as now there was no need, so that it would come naturally to them when they met in public. He pointed to a chair. She sat down and opened her dictation pad.
“He doesn’t know about us,” he said.
“That’s good.”
They had discussed it together yesterday. They had been afraid lest Maxwell’s public reference to their private lives would make things difficult for them.
“We don’t have to worry about anything,” he said.
“I’m free tomorrow early.”
“I can manage that.”
How calm that sounded, how matter of fact she seemed. Yet her placid announcement made his blood tingle as those two others for all their protestations never had.
But it was not to discuss their own plans that he had summoned her during a working morning.
“H.E.’s going to have David Boyeur up to dinner,” he told her.
He outlined the Governor’s scheme.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asked.
“I think it’s a very bad idea.”
“Why?”
“Because of David’s vanity. That’s the first thing about him. His pride means more to him than it does to any Jap. He has been shamed in public. He is angry and bitter. It is very necessary when he is in that mood to handle him in the right way.”
“What is the right way in a case like this?”
“Ignore him.”
“Leave it to simmer down?”
“Hope that it will simmer. When his vanity is hurt, he is dangerous. Unless you are absolutely certain what is the right thing to do, it is wisest to do nothing. Let him make the move. It might be fatal to make a wrong move yourself.”
She talked as though she were discussing the behavior of a casual acquaintance. It was strange that she should be able to discuss with such detachment someone who had been once so close to her. It was strange for that matter that he should be able to hear her talk of his predecessor with such indifference. They had barely mentioned him, until yesterday his scene in the Leg. Co. had created the possibility of a situation for them.
During his two love-affairs in England he had been intensely curious to know about each woman’s past: not out of jealousy but because he wanted to know by what steps they had become the women that they were: each stage of their past had been a landmark on their road to him. He felt no such curiosity about Margot. It surprised him that it shouldn’t, since Margot’s past, her whole foreign background, might have been expected to be of absorbing interest to a writer. She could have taught him so much about her race, about the problems and aspirations of her people. But he had felt no instinct to probe, to dissect, to treat her as copy, as exhibit A. He had not even bothered to examine his own feelings to her. Was he so detached that he did not care, or was his capitulation so complete?
“David’s vanity is so great that a man like His Excellency could not measure it,” she was saying. “The chances of his making a mistake in this case are ninety-nine to one.”
Was it a deficiency of emotion in himself that he could hear her talking so casually of a former lover, without drawing a parallel between her indifference to Boyeur and her own feelings for himself. Why did he feel no jealousy? Jealousy moved in such devious forms. He could understand the intellectualized jealousy of Swann and the tyrannical masculine jealousy of Othello. Should he not have read a warning for himself into that calm, level voice. Might she not one day talk of him in just that way to his successor? Betrayed she not another loving him. Why should he be so calm? Was it indifference, or was it a faith so utter that he could not doubt her: that he could doubt the universe before he doubted her?
“Do you think I ought to warn H.E.?” he asked.
“If you think you can, tactfully.”
“Even if it means mentioning you?”
“Why
should I care?”
“I’ll think about it then. You’ve been a great help. Thank you very much.” “Will that be all then?” “Yes.” She rose.
“Will half-past five be all right?” she asked.
“It’ll be fine.”
His nerves were tingling as he heard her soft footfall down the passage. How could it be indifference?
In front of him the telephone waited, symbol of his orders. It was not his business to query his superior’s command. That was why soldiering was such a relaxation mentally. You never had to plan out independent action. You found out what your superior wanted and carried out his instructions. The responsibility was his. But I’m not in the Army now, Archer told himself. Even if my chief is a General and wears uniform.
He stared at the telephone. Had he any right to telephone Boyeur until he had told his chief what Margot thought? Margot knew Boyeur better than anyone in the island knew him. It was his duty as A.D.C. to convey to his chief any information that might help him to carry out his job. He had never known Margot’s judgment or rather instinct to be at fault on any issue where she held a definite opinion. The old boy might think him a fool; might consider his intervention an impertinence, but his own conscience would not be clear if he did not warn him. He returned to his chief’s room.
The Governor was holding the receiver of the telephone to his ear. But he had called out “come in” when Archer knocked.
“No, don’t run away,” he said. “I’ve no secrets from you, not official ones at least. London’s on the line. Take the weight off your feet.”
He pointed to a chair.
Seated, facing his chief, Archer’s nervousness began to mount. The old boy would think him crazy, and by the time he was through with his explanations, would know not only about Boyeur and his secretary, but about his secretary and his A.D.C. I must be mad, he told himself, but it was too late now.
“Yes,” the Governor was saying, “yes, this is the Governor of Santa Marta: Ah, hullo, Bobbie, my dear fellow. What can I do for you?”
There was a pause. The Governor frowned. He looked very formal and official. He was not one of those who when they are talking on the telephone, include in the conversation those who may be in the room. He was tense and concentrated.
“No,” he said and his voice was firm. “There is no need to feel any alarm. You know what journalists are. They only hear half the story. They exaggerate and minimize. They think in terms of headlines. I am having the young man up here to dinner next week and I am inviting to meet him the group that was responsible for his behavior. In my opinion he was goaded deliberately into that outburst. He is not as much to blame as the newspaper report may have led you to suppose. No, no, there is nothing in the least to worry over.”
The certainty in his voice must have carried conviction to the man who was listening three thousand miles away. Templeton was not the man to loiter on a telephone. He cut off the call quickly.
“That was the Secretary of State for the Colonies,” he told Archer.
Archer had guessed as much. He had listened to the conversation with relief. This let him out. There was nothing he could do about it now. It was a settled thing.
“There’ve been paragraphs in the London papers about that scene in Leg. Co.,” Templeton was continuing. “The Minister expects questions in the house. He’s getting very jumpy. I wonder what’s happening over there. Perhaps there’s going to be a cabinet reshuffle. He’s got his eye on a promotion. What was it you wanted, Denis. Have you fixed that date with Boyeur?”
While the Governor had been talking on the telephone, his A.D.C. had readjusted his program.
“No, sir, not yet. He wasn’t in when I called just now. I came to remind you about that dinner of the cricket club next Wednesday.”
It was with mixed feelings that Archer returned to his own office. He was glad to have been relieved of an awkward interview but his conscience was not completely clear. The chief should have been warned. Yet what could he have done after the Minister had been given that assurance? It was a fait accompli.
3
Archer left his call to Belfontaine till last. It was always difficult to get through there and the line was less likely to be busy at lunch.
Maxwell had just got in when the call came through. He was hot and tired, anxious for a shower, and for a punch, for the peace of Sylvia’s company. The last thing he wanted was a G.H. dinner. All the business of packing.
“No, really. Have I got to? Can’t I be excused?”
“I’m sorry. It’s a command.”
“Why, what’s in the air?”
“I can’t tell you on the telephone.”
“Oh, I see, of course not. All the same, H.E. does know about Sylvia, doesn’t he?”
“We all know. It’s fine news.”
“You can see why I’m not anxious to bring her in. It’s a bumpy road.”
“There’s no need for her to come if she’d rather not.”
“Oh, so it’s me you want.”
“It’s you we want.”
“In that case,” he hesitated. He had only used Sylvia as an excuse. The road was not all that bumpy. Sylvia would have no qualms about it. Sylvia enjoyed the parade atmosphere of G.H., she would welcome the opportunity of dressing up while she still had the chance. She would resent it if he refused for her. Besides it would be very lonely for her out here by herself.
“All right, we’ll make it. Eight o’clock I suppose.”
“Yes, eight o’clock.”
Him and not her. What did that mean? He could understand H.E. wanting them as a couple for an official party, to welcome some visiting fireman. Sylvia was pretty and amusing. She dressed a table well. But why should H.E. insist upon his attendance? What was behind it? Whittingham?
That sense of doom, of menace was again upon him. Did Whittingham want to watch him, to remind him that he was never out of his scrutiny, to goad him to his final breakdown, his moment of confession? Whittingham’s vigilance never relaxed. Whittingham had warned him on that very point. In the end the criminal broke down in self-defense. He longed to be in harbor. Him and not her. It must be Whittingham.
She raised her eyebrows interrogatively as he came onto the veranda. She had probably heard the greater part of the conversation.
“That was G.H. They want us to dine there on Tuesday.”
“And did I hear you trying to refuse?”
“It’s a bumpy road.”
“Now, darling. That’s ridiculous. I won’t be coddled. It’s very bad for me, the doctor said so. I’m not an invalid. You’re not to treat me as one.”
“I know, I know.”
“I’d have been furious if you’d robbed me of the party.”
Her words were stern, but the ring in her voice was tender.
“I never want to go into town,” he said. “I’m so much happier out here with you.”
“I much prefer that reason to the bumpy road.”
“I can’t tell you how happy I feel when I wake up in the morning and look at you beside me, and think that we haven’t got to do anything all day; no one to visit, no one to entertain, just ourselves, and the estate to potter round. I wonder what I’ve done to deserve such luck. I feel so happy about it all, that I have to wake you up to tell you.”
“You say that as though you really meant it.”
He was standing beside her; his hand resting on her shoulder; he lifted it and stroked her cheek. As though he really meant it. If only she knew how utterly he meant it. He felt so safe here, looking forward to an eventless day. Nothing could touch him, no one could get him. Was that how rabbits felt in the center of a corn field at harvest time, while the reaping machine working in a narrowing circle drew closer every minute? It was safe and dark and warm there in the center: but soon the sharp blades would drive them to that dash into the open where the harvesters with sticks and stones were waiting. For the moment they were secure; but the moment was set, inevitably, inescapably
when they would have to risk that dash for freedom. Was this his position now?
4
Always now during her siesta, Sylvia slept in Maxwell’s arms. “Darling, don’t I stop you sleeping?” she protested.
He shook his head. “The moment I see that you’ve gone off, I go too.”
He did not, though. The moment he began to doze, and his muscles relaxed, her body became a dead weight, numbing his arms. He enjoyed in a vague masochistic way this loss of sleep.
Afternoon after afternoon he lay beside her, luxuriating in the denial, the defeat of sleep; but today even if he had been alone in his dressing room, sleep would have been impossible. His mind was racing. Him and not her. Was the Governor privy to the trap? What was the trap? A tape recorder behind his chair? How easy everything was made for the detective nowadays. All the aids of science; drugs that sapped your powers of resistance, lie detectors. They were bound to get him. He understood now how those Russian Generals broke down under cross-examination, they longed to be let alone; anything for peace of mind.
He’ll never let me alone, never, never, Maxwell told himself. He’ll hound and harry me. He knows, he must know. I’ve made so many slips. “Afterward” instead of “after”: the Belfontaine Committee: the watch: then how his arms were pinioned: the knees on the elbow joints, no marks on the killer’s face. How could I have guessed? He must suspect, even if he does not know. As long as he suspects, he’ll haunt me. As he did at that Leg. Co. meeting, coming silently beside me, recreating the crime. That’s how it’ll always be, suddenly I’ll find him at my side. I’ll be never safe from him, never, for an instant. My shadow, that’s what he’ll be, my shadow.
I’ll have to be on my guard all the time. I’ll have to fight him off, for Sylvia’s sake, for the child’s sake.
That was the key point. He had come to see that now. He was fighting not in his own defense but in defense of Sylvia and their child.” He could not bring shame on them. How could a child face the world if its father was a murderer? The knowledge would haunt it all its life. It must be spared that shame. On the day that he knew for certain that Whittingham knew, he must find the remedy. What else could he do? His was not “an ill for mending.”