by Max Hennessy
‘Is it?’
She turned, frowning and flattened a little by his manner. ‘Isn’t it?’
He indicated the newspaper. It was full of pictures of grave-faced diplomats and holiday crowds outside Downing Street. solemn warning on polish crisis, the headline said. german envoys in russia. soviet pact would be blow to peace. m.p.s. sit all night.
‘Always makes it seem darker than it was,’ Potter said sombrely. ‘Marvellous how he gets away with it.’
She felt depressed at once and he went on gravely. ‘If he gets the Russians on his side, Danny,’ he said, ‘that’ll sink all the peace moves they’re making.’
Her face fell as she remembered the tension of the previous autumn over Czechoslovakia and the way she had hung prayerfully on to the B.B.C. news bulletins as the Prime Minister had returned from his meeting with the German dictator.
‘Will it happen like last time, Mr. Potter? Another Munich?’
Potter shrugged. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘On the other hand, perhaps this time he’s gone too far and it means war.’
The morning seemed suddenly oppressive. ‘What’s it about?’ she asked. ‘I never listen to the news any more. It’s too wearing.’
He folded the paper and got to his feet. ‘Danzig and the Polish Corridor,’ he said. ‘Hitler wants ’em, Danny, and he says he’s prepared to fight for ’em.’
She sighed as she sat at her desk. ‘I wish I knew where they were.’
Potter reached for his hat and umbrella. ‘Wonder if it’s likely to affect the jury,’ he mused.
She looked up, startled. ‘Could it?’
‘Why not?’ He gestured with his hat. ‘Not supposed to be influenced by anything but they’re all fully aware that Prideaux’s been suggested as a possible for the b.e.f., if it comes to a b.e.f. Dammit, it’s part of the complaint.’ He opened the door and paused with his hand on the knob. ‘Don’t like to think of it all starting again, Danny,’ he said slowly. ‘Not after going through it all once before.’
She began to feel a little sick. ‘Would you go, Mr. Potter? Again?’
He nodded. ‘I’d be among the first to go.’
‘What would we do at the office if you did?’
He shrugged. ‘Have to manage, I’m afraid, Danny. A lot of us’ll have to manage. I’ve got a bunch of chaps to look after. Nice blokes. Bowmen of Crécy. Stormers of Badajoz. Thin Red Line. Same types exactly.’
She was silent for a moment, opening letters automatically, then she spoke in a small voice. ‘Is that why you’ve been expecting papers, Mr. Potter?’ she asked. ‘Are they mobilisation papers?’
He smiled at her, a faint gentle sad smile, and nodded, and a spasm of fear crossed her face.
‘Oh, Mr. Potter,’ she whispered. ‘Do you think it’ll come to that?’
By the time Potter had reached the Street, he had thrust all sadness and foreboding behind him already, in that strange way he had of recovering his good humour in spite of the odds, and when he reached the War Office he was delighted to find that Brigadier Brice had managed to trace that the elusive Finch’s case was not only in the hands of Records but that his file had recently been unearthed from the bottom of the pile and laid on the desk of Lieutenant-Colonel James St. John Athill, the officer in charge of Pensions.
‘Purely nominal command, old boy,’ Brice said casually. ‘He’s really only commanding the desk he sits at. The work’s all done by civilians.’
Colonel Athill was a breezy little man with a large ginger moustache and a light in his eye that seemed to explain his success with women. Although he wasn’t a great deal of help, he gave Potter the impression that he had a rare zest for life. He seemed to be itching to get going and, remembering the morning’s headlines, Potter decided that he might not have long to wait. In command of a formation of men, Athill might have been quite a soldier. Even his apology seemed to have a special efficiency.
‘Sorry, old man,’ he said as he turned over the folders on his desk. ‘We seem to have mislaid your Colonel Finch among the bumph.’
‘Thought you might have,’ Potter murmured.
‘He’s not on our list of reserve officers. Of course, he might have gone for the Terriers.’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Potter said. ‘Enquired last night.’
‘Not even as a civilian adjutant? A few units have got ’em these days – mostly old soldiers. And there’s always A.R.P., of course. Or even the R.A.F. The blue types have taken a lot of our people for the balloon barrage. Sort of thing an old gentleman can do quite easily, winding a balloon up and down on a string every now and then.’
‘Checked ’em already. All of ’em. Spent the weekend on the blower.’
‘Have you?’ Athill pulled a face. ‘Tricky bastard, this Finch, isn’t he? Try his bank then. His pension’s paid into a branch in South Audley Street. He had an address there for a while, but I think he left it some time ago.’ He scratched his moustache, staring at the folder. ‘I think there’s something bloody odd about Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Thomas Entwistle Finch,’ he observed.
‘There always was.’
‘What sort of odd?’ Athill looked up quickly. ‘We like to know. Long hair? Scent? One of those?’
Potter grinned. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But, personally, I wouldn’t have trusted him a yard.’
Athill stared down at the file again. ‘You wouldn’t, eh? That’s interesting. I understand Rutherford got a letter from him a month or two back offering his services in the event of us having to repel aggression with our teeth.’
‘Did he, by George?’
‘Yes, and judging by today’s paper, you can bet on the aggression all right.’ Athill spoke gaily, as though he personally were banking on it to get him away from his desk. ‘But I understand the powers-that-be weren’t so bloody sure they could bet on Lieutenant-Colonel Finch. They wrote back to tell him they’d keep his name by them, and that they’d be writing later.’
‘But they haven’t?’
‘Not yet, old boy.’ Athill grinned. ‘If the balloon goes up, of course, they will. Be glad to have anybody with a bit of experience. We’re taking some odd types already and the higher the balloon goes the odder they’ll become. After all, he could always be adjutant to a training camp and, so long as it wasn’t for A.T.S. girls, he couldn’t make much of a pills of it, could he? Might suit him, in fact. I gather he was never the type for danger.’
‘Never,’ Potter agreed. ‘Why did they put him off?’
Athill shrugged. ‘Well, as you know,’ he said, ‘it’s never been the policy to offer commissions – even emergency ones – to untrustworthy bods. A few get through the old net but we try hard. And while there’s nothing very definite about Mister Charles Thomas How’s-Your-Father Finch, it’s as clear as A.C.1 regulations against red lights outside women personnel’s quarters that there’s something bloody queer about the way he’s been collecting his pension lately.’
‘In what way?’
‘Hell, most Regulars are proud to have belonged to the army. In addition, they like us to have their addresses in case their pensions go up or in case we feel like offering ’em a job again. We don’t seem to have Finch’s, though. He’s just disappeared.’ Athill paused. ‘But he hasn’t gone abroad,’ he went on, ‘because we checked up with his bank in case he’d died. Maybe only trouble with a woman, of course, or family problems, but of course if it’s a bit of difficulty over cheques, then he’s not really the type we want, is he? See what I mean? You knew him, didn’t you? What did you think of him?’
Potter considered.
‘Come on, old boy,’ Athill urged. ‘King and Country and all that. If the man’s a shit you’ve got to say so.’
Potter grinned, caught by Athill’s infectious breeziness. ‘Suppose you might call him that,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a description that seems to fit.’
Athill leaned forward. ‘How? Yellow type?’
Potter shrugged. ‘Never the sort to go Light B
rigading about a battle front.’
Athill nodded briskly. ‘Thought not. Thanks. We like to know these things. It’d be a bit pointless, wouldn’t it, sticking a true-blue closet in command where one of Hitler’s boys might be after a spot of glory. We have to get these things right, don’t we? And toot sweet. The tooter the sweeter, in fact, because the fireworks aren’t very far away now, in my opinion.’
Colonel Athill’s eyes gleamed at the thought.
‘Why’re you after him, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Surely you’re not wanting him in your show?’
Potter shook his head.
‘Thought not. Brice tells me it’s a crack outfit – for the Territorials, that is.’ Athill shoved his papers around disgustedly for a while and finally unearthed a slip which he skated across the desk.
‘The only address we’ve got,’ he pointed out. ‘It seems to be a different one every bloody time we have any communication with him. He had a fixed address up to about a year ago but one of the babus says he’s suddenly started swanning about a lot. Better try his bank first. They’re bound to have the latest and it might save you a lot of trouble.’
He rose as Potter reached for his hat.
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Athill went on. ‘How a bloke sometimes turns out to be a bit of throw-back? His old man was Army, too. Had a bloody good record as far as I can see. But our Mr. Finch’s file makes pretty dull reading. That bun fight at Dankoi seems to be the only place he ever heard a shot fired in anger. A hell of a lot of useful hospitalisation at critical times, I notice. August 18th, 1914, just after the war started. April, 1916 – when they were shipping the Kitchener battalions across to France for the Somme. Then again in August, 1917, before Passchendaele. Seems to have developed quite a sixth sense about disaster. After that he seems to have run an officers’ convalescent camp or something until the end of the war. With his marked instinct for self-preservation, I wonder why he volunteered for Russia.’
* * *
The manager of the South Audley Street bank was a small man who clearly liked to make his job sound more important than it was.
‘It’s never a policy of the bank,’ he said tartly, ‘to reveal anything of our clients’ accounts.’
Potter smiled. ‘I’m not the slightest interested in Colonel Finch’s account,’ he explained. ‘I represent the firm of Martin, Jacobson and Potter, solicitors. Colonel Finch’s needed as a witness for the defence in a court action. I’m trying to find him.’
The bank manager made even consideration of these facts seem important, but he thawed a little in his manner. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘That, of course, is somewhat different. Might I ask what action?’
Potter smiled. ‘You might. Prideaux versus Higgins. At present being heard before Mr. Justice Godliman.’
The manager’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Ah! That one!’ he said with marked interest, and the thaw became more pronounced. ‘Is your firm concerned?’ he asked.
Potter nodded.
The manager shook his head sombrely. ‘Sorry affair,’ he said heavily. ‘With things as they are on the Continent, one might feel greater confidence in the army without this sad spectacle of two officers arguing over the blame for something that took place twenty years ago. I do hope they’re not trying to do General Prideaux down. We need men like him just now. Did you know these people?’
‘Sort of,’ Potter said casually. ‘I was there.’
The manager looked again at him, obviously finding it hard, like a lot of people, to see in him a man of action. ‘Well, I must do what I can to help you,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the address, though I have to admit it may not be his present one. He seems to have suddenly started going abroad a lot and living in hotels.’
Potter leaned forward quickly, remembering what Athill had said. ‘Going abroad?’ he asked. ‘Living in hotels? How long has he been doing this?’
‘Since the end of last year.’
Potter paused, thinking. ‘When exactly, last year?’
‘November. End of November. Why?’
‘Nothing, really. I’d be extremely glad to have that address if you’d let me have it.’
The manager offered cigarettes and rang a bell, and shortly afterwards Potter left the bank.
Back at his own office, he told Meg Danielsson to get her hat and coat. ‘I’ve got an address,’ he said. ‘Took a bit of doing, mind, because they’re burning joss sticks and prayer papers for Prideaux from one end of South Audley Street to the other. Chaps like Prideaux go down well there. Gallant six hundred and all that.’
She chuckled. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
Potter reached for his newspaper. ‘Brighton,’ he said. She stopped dead and her eyebrows rose. ‘Brighton? Me, too?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. You, too. I have a suspicion that somewhere along the line I might be glad of a bit of help.’
4
Hardacre – 1
During the lunch adjournment, Moyalan’s telephone rang. It was Potter reporting where he was.
‘Brighton?’ Moyalan frowned. ‘What the devil are you doing there?’
‘On the track of Finch, old boy.’ Potter chuckled. ‘Am I needed yet?’
‘Not yet. But keep in touch. We seem to be getting through witnesses rather faster than we expected.’
They discussed the evidence for a minute or two then Moyalan seemed to grow impatient. ‘Have you found any sign of Finch yet?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ Potter said cheerfully. ‘But I think I’m on to something that might interest you. By the look of it, it could be the biggest thing since the French Army tried to fix Dreyfus.’
Moyalan sounded eager. ‘Go on,’ he urged.
‘Not yet, old boy,’ Potter said infuriatingly. ‘Tell you when I’ve checked.’ He put the telephone down, amused by Moyalan’s sounds of frustration, and straightened his tie in the mirror over the instrument.
Danny looked up as he left the booth.
‘What did Moyalan say?’ she asked.
‘Didn’t sound what you’d call optimistic,’ Potter admitted.
‘Mr. Potter,’ she looked at him curiously, ‘why are you going to all this trouble for Higgins? I mean, even though you’re acting for him, you don’t have to do this.’
Potter scratched his nose, a little puzzled. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t, but one always did do the extra little bit for Higgins.’
‘He doesn’t impress me as the sort to inspire such loyalty, Mr. Potter.’
‘Don’t suppose he does,’ Potter admitted. ‘But there’s something there, Danny, underneath. Always was.’
‘How does Moyalan think we’re doing?’
Potter chuckled. ‘He doesn’t think we’ve climbed over that rank of lieutenant-general and all those decorations yet,’ he said. ‘So far, I’d say we still appear to be a lot of dissatisfied amateurs resenting a new commanding officer. And Kirkham s going to make a lot of that in his summing up, because new C.O.s have arrived before without a libel taking place.’
* * *
Moyalan’s first witness for the afternoon was a short, thickset man in a blue suit on the young side of middle-age. His hair was slicked down across his forehead and he wore a stiff collar and a heavy gold watch chain across his stomach. He took the oath in a rasping voice and stood square and stolid in the witness box, his face set and unsmiling. Prideaux leaned forward, frowning, as though trying to identify him.
‘Please tell the court your name,’ Moyalan commanded.
‘Hardacre,’ the witness said in a harsh voice that seemed to speak of years of haranguing. ‘Henry Erasmus Hardacre.’
‘Your address is Number 12, Pit Street, Bawdby, near Sheffield, and you are a checkweighman?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You are also, I think I’m right in saying, an alderman and chairman of the Bawdby Urban District Council, a trade union official, and at the moment prospective Labour candidate for the Bawdby Valley Division, where a by-election is now pending.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Alderman Hardacre, have your politics always been Labour?’
‘No.’ Hardacre gave an unexpected grin which lit up his crusty face in a flash of good humour. ‘I was brought up a Liberal,’ he said. ‘But in those days it didn’t seem to lead anywhere, so I became a Socialist. For a time I was even a Communist.’
There was a movement in the court at the admission, but Moyalan interrupted it quickly with his next question before it could really sink in.
‘When was that?’ he asked.
‘Russia, 1919.’
‘Under the influence of events taking place there at that time?’
Hardacre nodded. ‘I reckon I was a proper blooming nuisance.’
There was a chuckle round the court, that Moyalan interrupted.
‘Thank you for being so honest. Why have you agreed to come here today, Alderman Hardacre?’
‘Because I owe a lot to Major Higgins.’
‘What, for instance?’
‘Me life. Twice over.’
There was a long silence while the court digested Hardacre’s news, then Moyalan lifted his head and gave a thin smile, pleased with his witness. ‘Do you recall your arrival in Russia, Alderman Hardacre?’
‘I do.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell us about it.’
‘I should that. I remember it well.’
* * *
Henry Hardacre came from a class of people who found forgetting hard because they’d been brought up to remember. Their fathers and their grandfathers, their eyes and noses blue-marked by the coal, still carried the memories of the avaricious northern coalmasters round with them like the stiff celluloid collars they wore in place of mufflers on Sundays. And, like the collars, their memories came out regularly for political meetings and union jamborees.
In spite of the dangers of mining, Hardacre hadn’t wanted to be conscripted into the army and had fought tooth and nail to avoid being sent to Russia. But the crisis there still existed, even though the war in Europe was over and, though he would never have admitted it to anyone but himself, Henry Hardacre, knowing it could never happen again, had eventually found much that he’d enjoyed in the trip through the Mediterranean and the Black Sea.