The Cummings Report

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  The Cummings Report

  Christopher Hodder-Williams

  © Christopher Hodder-Williams 1958

  Christopher Hodder-Williams has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1958 by Hodder and Stoughton.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  MEMORANDUM

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  MEMORANDUM

  To: Miles Prescott-Healey, O.B.E.,

  Department R7, War Office.

  Copy to: Colonel Frean, U.S. Army,

  Pentagon, Washington D.C.

  Dear Miles,

  You ask me for a full report on the ‘Periscope’ affair. Well, you know my trouble — I’m not exactly concise by nature! Also, as I have gone back to song-writing I find that theennui sets in when I start trying to act like a civil servant. (No offence — I simply mean I can’t take myself seriously in that capacity.) Anyway, as you will see, I have decided to write the whole thing up as a novel. I’m sorry if some of the material seems irrelevant; but I hope at least you will find it entertaining where it isn’t actually informative.

  In order to maintain continuity I have included within the narrative incidents that I didn’t actually witness; and I have taken pains to make sure that even the dialogue reported in these passages is accurate. The sources — including, of course, your immediate staff and that of Colonel Frean — are pretty reliable; especially those dealing with the business between Buche and his ‘colleagues’, since my account is based not only on statements made in the condemned cell by Shapello and Loring but also upon interviews I was granted with them when I travelled back to the States (at Her Majesty’s expense I) to complete the details. Mrs. Victor Buche was extremely cooperative regarding her husband and has proved a valuable witness. But perhaps the best witness of all was the tape recorder in your office — though I still think it’s highly immoral to record all your conversations and conferences! My wife says I ought to try and get this ‘novel’ published. Do you think I would ever get a security clearance on it? You might put out a few feelers for me on this score; who knows, it might pay a couple of the instalments on my car!

  Don’t forget we keep open house; so come and see us any time. Butnot on business!

  Yours ever,

  JOEL CUMMINGS

  CHAPTER 1

  THE day I left Murtha House Sir George Horrocks told me I was not cured. No one is really cured when their brain goes out of order.

  “Your condition is controlled,” he said. “You won’t get better and you won’t get worse — provided, of course, you do what I’ve told you.

  “Doctor Jefferson has my full confidence,” he concluded. “Youmust see him regularly once a month; and of course, look him up whenever you want to in addition to going for your routine injections. You could not have a better man.”

  The new Hillman I had ordered was waiting for me in the drive. Its chromium fittings glittered in the afternoon sun. The car was finished in light grey, and it looked most inviting. Like a present for being a good boy — only I had to foot the bill.

  That little car was a symbol, in fact, of my return to normality; it had been a surprise to me when I had learned I was to be allowed to drive. “Ofcourse you must drive again !” he had exclaimed. “Fly an aeroplane, if you wish. Only, please remember to have your injections, aircraft are costly things.” A suitable look went with this remark.

  From a cold-fish-type handshake to the hard metal of the chrome door-handle. A refreshing change. Laid neatly upon the front passenger seat were the instruction book, driving licence, insurance certificate, ignition key and log book. All very efficient.

  Driving exactly through the centre of the white gateway, I took the sharp turn to the left and headed down the lane that would soon lead me to the main road for London.

  I can only describe the experience of that drive as succulent. I was bathing in a warm sea of well-being — one that I knew was artificial, it is true; yet the knowledge of this did not spoil the journey for me.

  I was glad I was alone. In the back of my mind I knew I had many things to sort out, and in particular, one important thing I had to do; but I allowed these thoughts to remain dormant. They would be attended to, in time.

  I passed the familiar sign.

  YOU ARE NOW ENTERING

  RIMSWORTH GARDEN CITY

  PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY

  Many times had I seen it, as Sir George’s passenger, on those long, therapeutic drives, when he had pointed out the landmarks of an unremarkable countryside and made subtle digs at my subconscious while I was off my guard.

  Just beyond the town, at the London end, you come across a huge factory to the right of the road. Like the Garden City, it lies some distance back, but you cannot fail to see it because a row of street lights illuminate the straight, ribbon-like lane that leads away from it, giving access via steel-mesh gates to the highway. The factory lights themselves are visible for over a mile, since the building is situated on a slight rise upon an otherwise flat landscape.

  There was the factory now, on my right, its one slender chimney rising gracefully skywards. A chimney with no smoke. A factory with no people in evidence, except the uniformed guards at the main gate. One of those hush-hush places, no doubt. I concentrated on the road again. The next thing I wanted to do, I thought, was to have a bath in my own flat. A bath, a cocktail, and then, maybe, a solitary visit to the theatre.

  I covered the distance to London in good time, and found that traffic driving was not something you forgot how to do after a two-year gap. I had acquired a measure of patience, too, which I had not possessed before. A school-boy back for the holidays, I parked my toy car and entered the building.

  They had done it up; it was all new — even down to a brand new (if somewhat youthful) commissionaire, whose pale blue uniform matched the paint in the foyer. He saluted me uncertainly as I walked straight to the lift. To my annoyance that was new also, and I couldn’t for the moment see how to work it.

  “Can I help you, sir?” (Damn, my entrance was spoiled.)

  “Number thirty-three, please,” I said meekly.

  “Are you Mr. Cummings?”

  “I am.”

  He paused. He had heard rumours, then.

  “I’ll take you up, sir,” he said, recovering quickly.

  In the lift he appeared to keep as far away as possible from me, but it could have been my imagination. We reached the third floor, and he shot me out of the lift as quickly as he politely could. I was certain now. He was frightened of me.

  The sensation of walking into my flat had not the same flavour as that of the adventure in the little car. The Hillman was new — a virgin auto that had no connection with my old life. But the flat was a set for the rather bad play that had been my former existence; the play that had ended with Alice dialling 999 and sending for the ambulance.

  It was very much as I had left it. The faint smell of lived-in leather pervaded my nostrils as I stood in the doorway for a moment taking it all in. It had the stamp of a bachelor apartment: the rugged, worn s
ettee, the slightly rickety side table, the heavy glass ash-trays, the roll-top desk with its angle-lamp that could be adjusted into any position, the black grand piano — badly preserved on the outside but always meticulously cared for within. Nothing had changed.

  Except me. Time had stood still in this place, but I had been separated from it by the moving hands of the clock; many times since that evening had the precision mechanism of the Murtha House synchronized timepieces moved round the dial, as if to put as great a distance in the time scale as possible between me and Hell.

  Alice had married him, of course. She had been able to make up her mind in a way that I never could. It might still be dragging on now, if it hadn’t been for my illness. I knew now — as I supposed I had before, deep in my mind — that it was best for me, just as I was equally sure it was the worst thing for her. But there had certainly been nothing I could do about it from Murtha House.

  I found myself dialling her number. After all, why not? Some time or other I had to come to terms with the outside world. Easier to do it now than let it grow into a moral obstacle ...

  She was in. “This is Joel,” I said.

  There was a long silence, but I knew I hadn’t been cut off.

  “Joel! Is it really you? How wonderful! “

  Her voice sounded peculiar. I began to wish I hadn’t telephoned.

  “How’s Richard?” I asked, stupidly. This was going to be a conversation of the “very well, thank you” variety.

  But her answer did not come pat. “All right, as far as I know,” she replied.

  “Is he away then?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “He’s away! “ Pause.

  “Look, can you come over for a drink?”

  “No.”

  “Why not; are you busy?”

  “It simply isn’t wise.” Her voice sounded very final.

  “You’ve got thatmusn’t-upset-the-invalid tone in your voice,” I said.

  “I’m thinking of myself,” she asserted, “not you.”

  “Well, how about thinking of me? It would do me good to see you.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “I know.”

  “You haven’t changed,” she observed.

  “Nobody ever stops changing, Alice. I expect you have changed a bit, haven’t you?”

  Her voice was serious. “It isn’t any good, Joel.”

  “Don’t put me at a disadvantage,” I reprimanded. “You can at least come and have a drink with an old friend.”

  She gave in. “All right; you win! What time shall I come?”

  “Come now,” I commanded.

  As I hung up, I wondered what had happened to my dreams of a solitary evening. But then I had spent so much of my time alone over the past months.

  *

  “Who left who is difficult to say,” Alice observed, when we had reached the Nescafé stage. “I soon realized, though, that once I was married to Richard he’d achieved his main purpose.”

  “You mean, scoring over me?” There was still some brandy left in a long-neglected bottle. I dispensed it. “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “But nevertheless correct,” I asserted.

  “Anyway, it’s a very good thing I didn’t marry you. I would have treated you abominably. In fact, I already have.”

  “That just isn’t true,” I insisted. “You were the only person who visited me regularly at the hospital. In fact, very few people bothered to come and see me at all.” Alice looked away. It was one of the few times I could remember having seen her look embarrassed. “I would have been pretty bloody if I hadn’t,” she countered. “Anyway, I didn’t mean that. I meant the way I used to play you and Richard off against each other.”

  “All women do that.” I decided to change the subject. “What shall I do with myself now, Alice?”

  This took her by surprise. “Aren’t you going on with your writing? You ought to launch into television. There’s the ideal market for you. And with your name ...”

  I interrupted her. “My dear girl,what name? I’ve been out of circulation for nearly two years. I should be starting all over again. Memories in show business are notoriously short, you know.”

  “But they’re always playing your songs on the radio.”

  “Habit. They wouldn’t have the slightest idea who wrote them.”

  “Well then, go and do an audition. All you have to do is to play all the numbers they already know. When they realize you wrote them they’ll be all over you.”

  “No, it doesn’t appeal. It’s a rat race, and I’m not as agile as I was.” I fiddled with my glass. “What I need,” I observed, “is a change.”

  “From me?”

  “From everything that has been my past life.”

  “Shall we go to the cinema?” she asked, with exaggerated brightness. “Preferably something absolutely murderous.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” I agreed. “Let’s go!”

  CHAPTER 2

  DR. JEFFERSON grinned at me, fatly and amiably, through those thick horn-rimmed glasses of his. “You did the right thing,” he said. “Alice is a very dangerous woman.”

  He chose a syringe from the large selection on the table. “Roll up your sleeve a little higher, please.”

  I obeyed, and turned my head away. I hate injections. “You think so?”

  “She is for you.”

  “She’s changed a lot since the bad old days.”

  He looked at me sharply, and his spectacle lenses flashed in the brilliant light. “You mean, you think she has!She probably does too. But it’s the circumstances that have changed; not the woman.”

  I knew how serious he was. Although it was not really fair to blame Alice — it takes two to make a mess of a love affair — the misery she had helped to cause had certainly aggravated the condition of my mind that had led to a complete breakdown.

  I rolled down my sleeve and put my coat on. “Don’t worry about Alice, Jeff,” I said quietly, “she is out of my life, and I am out of hers. We’re not going to be sentimental about it.”

  He beamed as he bounced across the room to show me out. “Now, just you take it easy,” he said.

  *

  The Strand was flooded with sunlight, and suddenly, uncharacteristically, I felt like walking. I walked up through St. Martin’s, where the sparrows were making their usual delectable springtime racket up there on the parapet. My mind ran on, as I threaded my way through the crowd in Piccadilly Circus, and turned up Shaftesbury Avenue. In a way, I had one advantage over everybody else. I could notaffordto make any more serious mistakes. I knew the consequences. Some people could budget for a little misery, earned through their own miscalculations; but for me the consequences were so unpleasant that I was compelled to avoid them. In particular, I could not risk anotherAlice.

  I found myself in Oxford Street; and the sun went behind an ominous-looking-cloud. It began to rain, and there was a general rush for shelter. I chose the awning of a big shoe shop.

  “Nasty weather we’re having,” said the man next to me. At first I wasn’t sure whether he was talking to me; but he didn’t leave me in doubt for long. “I must say I prefer Rimsworth to Oxford Street, don’t you?”

  I looked at him. He was nondescript, except for an ill-fitting toupée. It sat on his head like a forlorn and outmoded woman’s hat. “You know Rimsworth?” I asked, feeling in no mood for conversation but wondering how he knew me.

  He smiled. It was a flat, rubbery expression, meaning nothing. “I ought to,” he said. “I followed you from there.”

  He was obviously a madman. I wished I could move on, but the rain was getting heavier every second and I wasn’t prepared to get wet on his account. “Well, I hope you enjoyed it,” I said.

  “I can’t explain now,” he said. “But my department have made a close study of you. We know everything about you. Everything.”

  “Your department?”

  “This is no place to talk,” he said. “This shower will be ove
r in a minute. Then let’s go for a cup of tea in the news theatre.”

  “Why the news theatre?”

  “Because, Mr. Cummings.Because!”

  I did not feel like arguing any more. In any case, my curiosity was aroused. “Okay,” I agreed, “we’ll go and have tea, and you be Mother.”

  When the rain had subsided a little we walked silently the hundred yards or so towards Oxford Circus, bought two cheap tickets at the barrier, and made our way downstairs where a sign promised tea and toast, as well as ‘an hour’s complete relaxation in our well-appointed theatre’.

  The place seemed vaguely familiar, and I recalled having whiled away some idle hours here during the war. I remembered the illuminated tank of tropical fish, and the teleprinter that clicked away tirelessly with stock prices and oil panics and Questions in the House.

  “You don’t have to believe me,” he began; “all you have to do is to sit here for a few minutes after I’ve gone and see for yourself. And if you keep your eyes open you’ll know what I already know — that this place is being used as a meeting point by a subversive organization.”

  “Why can’tyou sit here?”

  “Because I’ve done it several times before. They’ll recognize me and suspect something.”

  “So you went to all the trouble of going to Rimsworth Garden City, choosing a patient from Murtha House and following me about for a month! All because you want someone else to do a bit of private spying that you can’t do yourself because you might be recognized. That,” I said, as the waitress placed the tray on the table, “is about the weakest story I have ever heard. What is this really — a touch?”

  He smiled tolerantly. “I admit it doesn’t sound precisely convincing,” he conceded, adjusting his wig fussily. “But then I am not allowed to tell you much. Naturally, we have our reasons for choosing you.”

  “Such as?”

  “You are — pardon the expression — a neurotic. Certain aspects of this matter demand such a qualification.”