Slow Burner Page 3

  They came to Nichol’s house in their easy silence, and the car drew up at the door. William Nichol had not considered the possibility of a tip. Instead, as the car stopped, he asked: ‘Do you care for carnations?’

  ‘But I love them.’

  ‘Then come with me.’ He led the way to a greenhouse. The driver drew a breath. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she said.

  ‘They tell me they’re not without merit. I’ve had a few prizes.’

  ‘They’re marvellous.’

  Then help yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t. They must be worth a fortune.’

  ‘Like everything else,’ Nichol said, ‘they are worth, in money, what they will fetch. Since I’m not a grower their value, in money, is nothing.’ He handed her a pair of scissors from a peg and picked himself, nipping the fleshy joints between strong nails. Soon they had an armful.

  ‘It’s far too many. You’re much too kind.’

  William Nichol did not reply. He tied the flowers with bass, not too tightly, in two bunches. They walked back to the car. Nichol put the flowers on the seat beside the driver’s and handed her into her own. ‘I must know your name,’ he said. He knew that it was Mary.

  The driver hesitated; she seemed, for a moment, almost to be distressed. ‘Mary Parton,’ she said finally. Her voice was very small.

  Nichol concealed his surprise. ‘When will you lunch with me?’ he asked. ‘Properly.’ He smiled. ‘Luncheon, in fact. I’m coming to London next week.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t think I could get away.’

  ‘But that is no excuse. I’m sure you could. If you want to, that is.’

  Mary Parton seemed to come to a decision. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I’d love to. But it will have to be my half-day off. That’s on Monday as it happens.’

  ‘Splendid. On Monday then.’ William Nichol reflected that really this was very convenient: it was on Monday that he had intended to go to London in any case, for the Commission met on Mondays at eleven. He caught himself thinking that if she had said Tuesday . . . ‘May I call for you?’ he asked.

  Mary Parton gave him an address and William Nichol watched her drive away. He went into the house aware of an irritation, a disappointment which he was not ready to account for . . . So that was Ellis Parton’s wife, Ellis Parton’s estranged wife. He had heard that Parton was being tiresome about a divorce. Parton would be. Parton was the second physicist in the kingdom, something of a genius, but nobody, ever, had called him good fellow.

  Sir Jeremy woke within a minute of the hour for which he had told himself that he would sleep. He had been resigned to feeling shaken and ill; he was surprised that he was feeling better than he remembered for months. He smiled as an implication crossed his mind: it was impossible, it was beyond all thought, that Sir Jeremy Bates, Permanent Secretary of one of the greater Ministries, Knight Commander—it was unthinkable that Sir Jeremy Bates could be the better for alcohol. The smile faded as the further thought struck him that it was also unthinkable that Jeremy Bates, plain Jeremy Bates, should have been to the bottle at all. Jeremy Bates had had a father who had died in delirium, and a grandfather who . . . Well, it wasn’t necessary to consider that. But Jeremy Bates had to be careful, very careful indeed. Whisky was a medicine, a resort for extreme emergency. Nevertheless a half-smile returned. Four fingers! Mentally Sir Jeremy permitted himself a colloquialism. It had been quite a shot.

  A few inquiries on the telephone told him what he wished to know. Yes, a message had come from Colton for Doctor Nichol and had been delivered to him. Yes, the Press Office had been speaking with the Press Office at Colton. They had asked that the Permanent Secretary be told that they could see him with an agreed draft at three o’clock. Would that be convenient? It would.

  Sir Jeremy glanced at his handsome clock. It was the pride of his considerable collection, a masterpiece. Clocks were Sir Jeremy’s hobby, but he was something more than a collector; he was a superlative mechanic. A room in his flat was one of the best workshops in London. Sir Jeremy could have earned a comfortable livelihood with clockwork, and in fact it paid him in relaxation what he forwent in money. His powerful hands were the hands of the craftsman. He rose and crossed the room, standing before the lovely old timepiece, smiling slowly, happily.

  His rage was spent; he felt towards Nichol now no more than the unrelaxing dislike, the moral disapproval which were his habit. The banality would not have shocked him if he had recognized it, for it was of the essence. He had long ago decided that Nichol was an anachronism—nobody had the right to wear his eminence so lightly. It was an affront; it was an insult to every senior official killing himself at the insatiable machine. Sir Jeremy was not a graceful man; he knew it; he had long since agreed with himself that the graces were a luxury. He hadn’t the time for them. But Nichol grew carnations, white carnations, the scent not yet bred out of them; carnations bowing formally on slender stalks, carnations in wedgwood vases; white carnations like the skirts of a corps de ballet deliciously up-ended.

  Sir Jeremy gasped. There was a knock at his door. ‘The Press Officer,’ his secretary announced. ‘The Press Officer by appointment.’

  It was the Permanent Secretary again who received him.

  Chapter 2

  Colonel Russell walked composedly up Whitehall to his office. For a man not particularly tall his stride was an inch or two longer than the average, an inch or two longer than an infantryman of the line would have found comfortable. It was a gait which could tell the informed observer much: it could tell him that Charles Russell, before the General Staff had swallowed him, had served in a regiment which had been rather more difficult to get into and—surprisingly only to the demagogue—rather stauncher in battle than the next. Mostly his contemporaries had been killed. The survivors met at annual dinners, and Charles Russell walked along Whitehall, his stride deliberate and faintly ceremonial.

  By the standards of conformity at any price his office was a scandal. Coloured prints by Morland hung upon the walls, and part of a set of Roberts’ Spanish Scenes uncompromising in Victorian gilt frames. Caryatides supported a yellowing mantel; a coal fire spluttered in the grate. There was a generous display of brass, and a silver cup stood on a bracket below a fading photograph—four boys, their figures foreshortened by the wall of the rackets court rising behind them. A tiger skin and Persian rugs better than most. A hatstand made of wood bent in a complicated pattern. The desk was large, a platform supported by formidable pedestals. It was orderly but not noticeably free of papers. A single sheet lay upon the blotting pad, a yellow slip pinned to the top corner. CLACK, said the slip peremptorily, in solid type; CLACK. Clack denoted that the paper would follow Russell, by despatch rider, to his flat if necessary. He read it and frowned; he pressed a bell upon his desk.

  The man who entered was younger than himself. His clothes were sober, his flannel suit so dark as to be almost black. His linen was white and his shoes superbly polished. To the extent that both men bore about them still an air of arms they were alike, but there the resemblance ended. Mortimer was fair where Russell was dark. He was heavily built and wore a blond moustache. His manner was deliberate. As he entered his heels had touched together. It had been discreetly done—almost imperceptibly; nevertheless it had been a salute.

  ‘Good morning, Mortimer,’ Russell said. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ Russell’s assistant slipped into the armchair beside the desk. This Clack,’ Russell went on. ‘You’ve seen it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It came to me in your absence.’

  ‘It’s properly initialled and dated.’ Russell read from the slip. ‘ “Two four, one three, fourteen: J.R.D.” J.R.D. is one of Sir Jeremy’s people, no doubt. All very correct. Excellent Staff Duties. As you know, the message itself says that Doctor Nichol was telephoned from Colton in the sense which he expected. I happened to know that already because I was with him at the Ministry when the message was delivered. But that isn’t the point: it is perfectly proper t
o send a confirmation, but it isn’t a Clack in any sense. I wouldn’t have relished being disturbed at home with this. It could have waited for office hours without loss to anybody.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Mortimer agreed. ‘I held it.’

  ‘You were right. But make an opportunity, if you can, to ask them to be more considerate. I sometimes suspect that civil servants enjoy making themselves uncomfortable—the more senior the more uncomfortable. An interesting speculation, Mortimer—it would explain a great deal. We can’t pursue it now, though.’ Russell lit his pipe. ‘What do we know about Dipley?’ he asked. ‘Where is it, for instance?’

  ‘Dipley isn’t anywhere particular. It isn’t London and it isn’t exactly a suburb. It’s in Surrey. Middle middle class I suppose you’d call it, if you had to. A few big houses and a great many small ones. We know a little more about it than that, though. ‘How?’ Russell asked.

  ‘I slipped myself in with the people from Colton when they went there. We drove about with the instruments, you know. Plain vans, of course. Pantechnicons. It was Twenty-Seven Chatsworth Road all right. So I made a few inquiries.’

  ‘I see,’ Russell said reflectively. ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘A lady of easy virtue. A Mrs Tarbat.’

  ‘You mean a tart?’

  Mortimer looked faintly shocked. ‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘not a tart. A kept woman. Quite respectable, really.’

  Russell smiled disarmingly. ‘Major Mortimer,’ he said, ‘I have known you for a good many years. You haven’t by any chance been lunching unwisely? You are not, perhaps, pulling my leg? If you are it is forgotten. But I must know.’

  Mortimer, now, was really shocked. ‘Good gracious no.’ He hesitated uncomfortably. ‘I don’t think I have the reputation of being an impertinent man. If I may say so,’ he added doggedly.

  ‘You may. You do not. And I apologize.’ Russell reflected again. When he spoke his manner was matter of fact. ‘And Mr Tarbat?’

  ‘Mr Tarbat is a gloss.’

  ‘Mrs Tarbat then—known to the police?’

  ‘Only that she lives as I say she lives. Keeps herself to herself and pays her bills regularly. Perfectly respectable.’

  ‘You say she’s a respectable kept woman. Who keeps her?’ Three young sparks in Bluchers.’

  ‘Bluchers? You mean the bankers?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But three of them? Do they know . . . about the others, I mean?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘A sort of friendly society? To keep a woman.’

  ‘Money’s very tight, sir,’ Mortimer explained.

  Colonel Russell seemed about to say something but changed his mind. ‘Who are they?’

  Mortimer told him. ‘They’re related, you know. Most people in private banking are.’

  ‘I see,’ Russell said. He relit his pipe. He seemed to be having some difficulty with it. ‘I have a niece, Mortimer, who is some sort of a don. She’s a social anthropologist, whatever that may be—South Sea Islanders and people in the Tierra del Fuego and that sort of thing. This would be a godsend to her—articles, a whole book. I shouldn’t wonder. An academic scoop.’ His voice changed. ‘We must know more about Number Twenty-Seven,’ he said decisively. He pressed the bell upon his desk again. ‘It is early for tea, but I have had no luncheon. Will you join me?’

  Mortimer accepted a cup of tea but declined the cake and biscuits. ‘It isn’t going to be particularly easy,’ he ventured.

  ‘I know it. At this stage we couldn’t get a search warrant; we can’t even pull Mrs Tarbat in and interrogate her. The rule of law, you know. Every good official pays it lip-service and a surprising number, good or otherwise, privately resent it. Personally I have an old-fashioned prejudice in its favour. What do you suggest?’

  ‘We have got to get inside that house, that’s evident.’

  ‘Agreed. But how? And who?’

  ‘Too risky for one of our own men, I’m afraid. Things can go wrong too easily. We can keep policemen off the beat, naturally, but we can’t prevent Mrs Tarbat using her telephone, nor yelling blue murder and raising the neighbourhood. I wouldn’t put it beyond her to take a poker to an intruder, either. She’s a robust sort of woman.’

  ‘So I had inferred. Then what are your ideas?’

  ‘An outside man, perhaps,’ Mortimer suggested.

  ‘But I detest amateurs.’

  ‘So do we all, sir.’

  ‘Then what about a fire? We could put one of our own men inside amongst the firemen.’

  Mortimer shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘It works sometimes, of course—that affair of the undesirable Embassy, for instance, that was ideal. But the trouble is that firemen know each other pretty well, and it has to be a first-class blaze before you can safely start mixing strangers with the crews. I can’t imagine that any fire at Number Twenty-Seven would justify calling out more than the local brigade with perhaps a little help from the next parish. We can’t set fire to the street.’

  ‘No,’ Russell agreed, ‘I suppose we can’t do that.’ His voice was perfectly innocent. He considered. ‘Very well,’ he said at length, ‘have your outsider. But pick a man of experience; pick a sobersides. Nothing flashy, you understand. A good, steady man.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And nothing beyond choosing your man until I say so, though you’ll want to brief him in advance. As to that, we can’t tell him the whole story, but equally it’s no good his breaking in unless he has been told what to look for. We shall have to tell him as natural a story short of the truth as we can. That’s usually best. I’ll check with Doctor Nichol just how much it is safe to say and for what this man of yours ought to keep his eyes open. By the same token, no hint of what this may mean is to go beyond yourself within this office. I don’t suppose we shall be able to keep it as close as that for very long, but for the moment there’s to be no extension beyond the two of us without reference to myself.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Major Mortimer rose; he clicked his almost imperceptible click; he withdrew.

  Charlie Percival-Smith had been surprised when he had heard Major Mortimer’s voice on the telephone. He had seen almost nothing of him since the war—a word or two at annual dinners and a card at Christmas. Mortimer, he recognized regretfully, belonged to a world which for himself had ended when he was demobilized, and he had been flattered when his voice had asked him, as though they did it habitually, to have dinner with him at the club. ‘I haven’t seen you for weeks,’ Mortimer had said. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve got something rather interesting to talk to you about. Can you make it tonight? I know it’s terribly short notice, but if you can come . . .’

  ‘Of course, I’d be delighted.’

  ‘Good. Come to the Club, then. As near to seven o’clock as you can.’

  Not ‘my Club’, Percival-Smith thought—just ‘the Club’. Mortimer was sure he would know which club was meant: he meant the Armoured Vehicles Club. But he must also know that he, Percival-Smith, wasn’t a member. He could have been once, when he had had his commission, but he was a sensible young man, and there had been no point in joining a Service Club and at that one rather more expensive than most when the end of the fighting was going to send you back to some grindstone in business. A shipping office, it had turned out to be. It might have been a great deal worse, he reflected: the pay wasn’t bad and there was a chance of climbing the ladder. Just the same, it wasn’t at all like life in the Mess, particularly the Mess of the Seventh/Seventeenth. Charlie Percival-Smith, who was honest with himself as well as sensible, would have had to admit that for him peace hadn’t been unequivocably an advantage. The Club’, he thought again—well, some people remembered. He began to feel again an agreeable sensation of belonging.

  But he would have been surprised if he had known how carefully Mortimer’s telephone call had been considered. Mortimer had read the dossier more than once before he had decided, and even then he had though
t it wise to consult Colonel Russell. He had sent the papers up to him and he had asked for advice. Russell had read them promptly and had sent for him. ‘This Percival-Smith,’ he had said. ‘He was in your regiment, I see.’

  Mortimer nodded. ‘But I haven’t seen much of him recently. He was a Trooper in the Holloway Hussars, and when he got a commission he came to us. Much above average. After he was wounded he went off to one of those mysterious organizations with comic initials. Pretty bogus, most of them were—dons and people in the Brigade who had turned out badly. But I don’t think Percival-Smith would have been bogus.’

  ‘By the papers he wasn’t bogus at all. He was remarkably good at his job.’

  ‘I heard he was pretty well thought of, but I never knew anything about his line until I came here. As you can see, it was an odd one even for those bloody private armies. He was a breaker-in—a burglar if you prefer it. He did two remarkable jobs in Paris and another in Washington. That’s the reason we know about him officially: he was so good as a house breaker to order that we have had to keep tabs on him in case he took to working for himself. So far he hasn’t. That’s what we know about him professionally, but of course I knew him as a regimental officer. He looks like the man for the job. In any case I can’t put my hand on a better prospect.’

  ‘What sort of individual is he?’ Russell asked. ‘As a man, I mean.’