The Confidential Agent (27 page)

Every now and then an elderly man with a nose like a parrot's got up to cross-examine a policeman. D. supposed he was Sir Terence Hillman. The affair dragged on. Then, quite suddenly, it all seemed to be over: Sir Terence was asking for a remand. His client had had no time to get his evidence together . . . there were issues which were not clear lying behind this case. They were not even clear to D. Why ask for a remand? Apparently he hadn't yet been charged with murder . . . surely the less time the police were given the better.

Counsel for the police said they had no objection. He smirked sardonically – an inferior bird-like man – towards the distinguished K.C., as if he had gained an unexpected point through the other's stupidity.

Sir Terence was on his feet again, asking that bail should be allowed.

A prolonged squabble began in court which seemed to D. quite meaningless. He would really rather stay in a cell than a hotel room . . . and, anyway, who would stand bail for so shady and undesirable an alien?

Sir Terence said, ‘I do object, your Worship, to the attitude of the police. They drop hints about a more serious charge. . . . Let them bring it, so that we can see what it is. At present they've mustered a long array of very minor charges. Being in possession of firearms . . . resisting arrest . . . and arrest for what? Arrest on a false charge which the police hadn't taken the trouble to investigate properly.'

‘Incitement to violence,' the bird-like man said.

‘Political,' Sir Terence exclaimed. He raised his voice and said, ‘Your Worship, a habit seems to be growing on the police which I hope you will be the means of checking. They will put a man in prison over some trivial offence while they try and get their evidence together on another charge – and if they fail – well, the man comes out again and we hear no more about those weighty reasons. . . .
He
has had no chance of getting his witnesses together. . . .'

The wrangle went on. The magistrate said suddenly, impatiently, stabbing at his blotting paper, ‘I can't help feeling, Mr Fennick, that there's something in what Sir Terence says. Really there's nothing in these charges at present which would prevent me granting bail. Wouldn't it meet your objections if the bail were made a very substantial one? After all, you have his passport.' Then the arguments began over again.

It was all very fictitious; he had only two pounds in his pocket – not literally in his pocket because, of course, they had been taken away from him when he was arrested. The magistrate said, ‘In that case I'll remand him for a week on bail in two recognisances of one thousand pounds each.' He couldn't help laughing – two thousand pounds! A policeman opened the door of the dock and plucked his arm. ‘This way.' He found himself back in the tiled passage outside the court. The solicitor was there, smiling. He said, ‘Well, Sir Terence was a bit of a surprise for them, wasn't he?'

‘I don't understand what all the fuss was about,' D. said. ‘I haven't the money, and, anyway, I'm quite comfortable in a cell.'

‘It's all arranged,' the solicitor said.

‘But who by?'

‘Mr Forbes. He's waiting for you now outside.'

‘Am I free?'

‘Free as the air. For a week. Or until they've got enough evidence to re-arrest.'

‘I don't see why we should give them all that trouble.'

‘Ah,' the solicitor said, ‘you've got a good friend in Mr Forbes.'

He came out of the court and down the steps; Mr Forbes, in loud plus-fours, wandered restlessly round the radiator of a Packard. They looked at each other with some embarrassment, not shaking hands. D. said, ‘I understand I've got you to thank – for somebody they call Sir Terence and for my bail. It really wasn't necessary.'

‘That's all right,' Mr Forbes said. He gave D. a long unhappy look as if he wanted to read in his face some explanation. He said, ‘Will you get in beside me? I've left the chauffeur at home.'

‘I shall have to find somewhere to sleep. And I must get my money back from the police.'

‘Never mind about that now.'

They climbed in and Mr Forbes started up. He said, ‘Can you see the petrol gauge?'

‘Full.'

‘That's all right, then.'

‘Where are we off to?'

‘I want to call in – if you don't mind – at Shepherd's Market.' They drove in silence all the way – into the Strand, round Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly. . . . They came into the little square in the middle of the market and Mr Forbes sounded his horn twice, looking up at a window over a fishmonger's. He said apologetically, ‘I won't be a minute.' A face came to the window, a little plump pretty face over a mauve wrap. A hand waved: an unwilling smile. ‘Excuse me,' Mr Forbes said and disappeared through a door next the fishmonger's. A large tom-cat came along the gutter and found a fish-head; he spurred it once or twice with his claws and then moved on: he wasn't all that hungry.

Mr Forbes came out again and climbed in. They backed and turned. He gave a cautious look sideways at D. and said, ‘She's not a bad girl.'

‘No?'

‘I think she's really fond of me.'

‘I shouldn't wonder.'

Mr Forbes cleared his throat, driving on down Knightsbridge. He said, ‘You're a foreigner. You won't think it odd of me – keeping on Sally when – well, when I'm in love with Rose.'

‘It's nothing to do with me.'

‘A man must live – and I never thought I had a chance – until this week.'

‘Ah!' D. said. He thought, I'm beginning to talk like George Jarvis.

‘And it's useful, too,' Mr Forbes said.

‘I'm sure it is.'

‘I mean – to-day, for instance. She is quite ready to swear that I spent the day with her if necessary.'

‘I don't see why it should be.' They were silent through Hammersmith.

It wasn't until they were upon Western Avenue that Mr Forbes said, ‘I expect you're a bit puzzled.'

‘A little.'

‘Well,' Mr Forbes said, ‘you realise, of course, that you've got to leave the country at once – before the police get any more evidence to connect you with that unfortunate affair. The gun would be enough . . .'

‘I don't think they'll find the gun.'

‘You can't take any risks. You know, whether you hit him or not, it's technically murder. They wouldn't hang you, I imagine. But you'd get fifteen years at the least.'

‘I daresay. But you forget the bail.'

‘I'm responsible for the bail. You've got to leave tonight. It won't be comfortable, but there's a tramp steamer with a cargo of food leaving for your place tonight. You'll probably be bombed on the way – that's your own affair.' There was an odd break in his voice; D. glanced quickly at the domed Semitic forehead, the dark eyes over the rather gaudy tie: the man was crying. He sat at the wheel, a middle-aged Jew crying down Western Avenue. He said, ‘Everything's been arranged. You'll be smuggled on board in the Channel after they've cleared the customs.'

‘It's very good of you to take so much trouble.'

‘I'm not doing it for you.' He said, ‘Rose asked me to do my best.'

So he was crying for love. They turned south. Mr Forbes said sharply, as if he had been accused, ‘Of course I made my conditions.'

‘Yes?'

‘That she wasn't to see you. I wouldn't let her go to the court.'

‘And she said she'd marry you in spite of Sally?'

‘Yes.' He said, ‘How did you know she knew . . . ?'

‘She told me.' He said to himself: everything's for the best. I'm not in a condition for love: in the end she'll find that – Furt – is good for her. In the old days nobody ever married for love. People made marriage treaties. This was a treaty. There's no point in feeling pain. I must be glad, glad to be able to turn to the grave again without infidelity. Mr Forbes said, ‘I am going to drop you at a hotel near Southcrawl. They'll see you are picked up there by motor-boat. You won't be conspicuous – it's quite a resort – even at this time of year.' He added irrelevantly, ‘Climate's as good as Torquay.' Then they sat in gloomy silence, driving south-west, the bridegroom and the lover – if he were a lover.

It was well on into the afternoon, among the high bare downs of Dorset, that Mr Forbes said, ‘You know you haven't done so badly. You don't think there'll be – trouble – when you get home?'

‘It seems likely.'

‘But that explosion at Benditch – you know, it blew L.'s contract sky-high. That and K.'s death.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘You haven't got the coal yourself, but L. hasn't got it either. We had a meeting early this morning. We've cancelled the contract. The risk is too great.'

‘The risk?'

‘To reopen the pits and then find the Government stepping in. You couldn't have advertised the affair better if you'd bought the front page of the
Mail
. Already there's been a leading article – about political gangsters and the civil war being fought out on English soil. We had to decide whether to sue the paper for libel or cancel the contract and announce that we had signed in good faith under the idea the coal was going to Holland. So we cancelled.'

It was certainly half a victory; he thought grimly that it would probably postpone his death – he would be left to an enemy bomb, instead of reaching a solution of his problems quickly in front of the cemetery wall. On the crown of the hill they came in sight of the sea. He hadn't seen it since that foggy night at Dover with the gulls crying – the limit of his mission. Far away to the right a rash of villas began; lights were coming out, and a pier crept out to sea like a centipede with an illuminated spine.

‘That's Southcrawl,' Mr Forbes said. There were no ships' lights visible anywhere on the wide grey vanishing Channel. ‘It's late,' Mr Forbes said with a touch of nervousness.

‘Where do I go?'

‘See that hotel over on the left about two miles out of Southcrawl?' They cruised slowly down the hill; it was more like a village than a hotel as they came down towards it – or, nearer comparison still, an airport: circle after circle of chromium bungalows round a central illuminated tower – fields and more bungalows. ‘It's called the Lido,' Mr Forbes said. ‘A new idea in popular hotels. A thousand rooms, playing fields, swimming pools . . .'

‘What about the sea?'

‘That's not heated,' Mr Forbes said. He looked slyly sideways. ‘As a matter of fact I've bought the place.' He said, ‘We're advertising it as a cruise on land. Organised games with a secretary. Concerts. A gymnasium. Young people encouraged – no reception clerk looking down his nose at the new Woolworth ring. Best of all, of course, no seasickness. And cheap.' He sounded enthusiastic. He said, ‘Sally's very keen. She's great, you see, on physical fitness.'

‘You take a personal interest?'

‘I wish sometimes I could do more. A man must have a hobby. But I've got a fellow down now taking a look round the place. He's had a lot of experience with roadhouses and things – if he likes the idea I'm putting him in complete charge at fifteen hundred a year and all found. We want to make it an all-the-year-round resort. You'll see – the Christmas season's beginning.'

A little way up the road Mr Forbes stopped the car. He said, ‘Your room's been booked for a night. You won't be the first in this place to slip away without paying the bill. We shall report it, of course, to the police, but I daresay you don't mind one more minor charge. Your number's 105
c
.'

‘It sounds like a convict's.'

Mr Forbes said, ‘You'll be fetched from your room. I don't see that anything can go wrong. I won't come any further. You ask at the office for your key.'

D. said, ‘I know there's no point in thanking you, but all the same . . .' He stood beside the car: he felt at a loss for the right words. He said, ‘You'll give my love to Rose, won't you? And my congratulations, I do congratulate her . . .' He broke off; he had surprised a look on Mr Forbes's face which was almost one of hate. It must be a bitter thing to be accepted on such humiliating conditions – a dowry is less personal. He said, ‘She couldn't have a better friend.' Mr Forbes leant passionately forward and jabbed at the self-starter. He began to back. D. had a glimpse of the red-rimmed eyes. If it wasn't hate, it was grief. He left Mr Forbes and walked down the road to the two neon-lighted pillars which marked the entrance of the Lido. Two enormous plum puddings in electric light bulbs had been set up on the pillars, but the wiring wasn't completed; they looked black, steely, unappetising.

The reception clerk occupied a little lodge just inside the grounds. He said, ‘Oh yes, your room was booked by telephone last night, Mr ⎯⎯' he took a look at the register, ‘Davis. Your luggage, I suppose, is coming up?'

‘I walked from Southcrawl. It should be here.'

‘Shall I telephone to the station?'

‘Oh, we'll give them an hour or two. One doesn't have to dress for dinner, I imagine?'

‘Oh no. Nothing of that sort, Mr Davis. Perfect liberty. May I send the sports secretary along to your room for a chat?'

‘I think I'll just breathe the air for twenty-four hours first.'

He strolled round and round the big chromium circles – every room with a sun-bathing roof. Men in shorts, their knees a little blue with cold, were chasing each other hilariously in the dusk: a girl in pyjamas called out, ‘Have they picked up for basket ball, Spot?' to a man with a bald head. 105
c
was like a cabin – there was even a sham port-hole instead of a window, and the washing basin folded back against the wall to make more room; you could almost imagine a slight smell of oil and the churning of the engines. He sighed. England, it appeared, was to maintain a certain strangeness to the very end: the eccentricities of a country which had known civil peace for two hundred and fifty years. There was a good deal of noise, the laughter which is known technically as happy, and several radios were playing, plugged in to different stations. The walls were very thin, so that you could hear everything which went on in the neighbouring rooms – a man seemed to be flinging his shoes against the wall. Like a cabin the room was overheated. He opened a port-hole, and almost at once a young man put his head through. ‘Hullo!' he said. ‘Hullo in there!'