Game Without Rules, page 5
The Prime Minister looked a second time at Mr. Fortescue, who looked back at him kindly but firmly, as if preparing to refuse him an overdraft. An interesting face, thought the Prime Minister! Not unlike Arthur Balfour, in middle age.
“You’re busy men,” he said, “and I apologise for disrupting Sunday for all four of you. If I’d had a more accurate idea of what this trouble was. I could probably have let three of you off.” He smiled the boyish smile which had won the hearts of so many of his constituents in the old days and was now collecting high TAM ratings on television. “But the fact of the matter is that, although I’m worried, I’m not at all sure which of you gentlemen is going to have to shoulder my worries for me. I’ll put the problem to you in a nutshell. Certain key men in my government are being got at. You’ve got to find out who’s doing it. And you’ve got to stop it.”
Mr. Fortescue, who was himself an adept in the handling of conferences, found himself admiring the Prime Minister’s technique. First the gentle introduction. Then the sharp slap.
“Got at, Prime Minister?” said Maver.
“That was the word I used. I can’t be more specific, until you gentlemen find out more about it. They are being got at. Not by the opposition, which would be natural, or by the press, which would be understandable, but by some private agency or group of persons who seem to be determined to get this government out of office.”
The Prime Minister saw the quick look which Maver shot Pulleyne, but gave no sign of having done so. He chalked it up as one more item on the debit account of the head of DI5. He had liked Maver’s predecessor – a garrulous, drunken, inefficient Irishman – a great deal more than the cold, self-contained, unquestionably efficient Scot.
“I think,” the Prime Minister continued, “that when you hear the facts you will agree that I have some grounds for disquiet. A few months ago, Sir William Hamson, one of the most senior Revenue officials, and the man who did most of the work on last year’s budget, came to me and told me that he wished to retire. He had eight years to go before his normal retirement. It was extremely inconvenient, though not, as it turned out, disastrous because he had a deputy who was capable of doing his job. But it might have upset the whole of our financial plans. Sir William gave me no reason, apart from saying that he was tired. I pointed out that he would lose a good slice of his pension. Since he had private means, that didn’t worry him. We had to let him go, of course. He’s now in the south of France, and seems to have recovered his health and spirits. By itself, such an incident meant nothing. Two months ago Dermot Nicholson who, as you know, is Minister of Education, and is therefore in charge of the most important measure of this session – a measure whose success might make the difference between defeat and victory – came to see me. I was at once reminded of Hamson. There was the same request – to be relieved of office. The same lack of any plausible reason. The same – I find it difficult to hit on the right word – it was something a great deal stronger than depression. There was an edge of fear to it. And a background of hopelessness.” The Prime Minister paused, and then added, “If his doctor had told him that morning that he was suffering from inoperable cancer, I should have expected much the same sort of reactions.”
The four men stirred uncomfortably in their chairs.
“I suppose,” said Elfe, “that he wasn’t—”
“I happen to know that there is nothing wrong with Nicholson’s health at all. Let me finish. A fortnight ago I had to send for Professor Julius Gottlieb. You all know roughly what his job is, I expect? He is the leading town-planning expert in the world. Even the Americans admit it. Some months ago, at my request, he completed the first rough draft of a White Paper on Planning. It wasn’t perfect, but believe me, it was two decades in advance of anything this country has yet seen. The departments concerned, particularly the Treasury and the Ministry of Agriculture, picked a few holes in it but they couldn’t shoot it down. When all the criticisms had been collected, Gottlieb was to draw up the final version. He now says—” the Prime Minister paused again, not for effect this time, Mr. Fortescue thought, but because he was really worried and angry “—he now says that he doesn’t feel up to the job. He is thinking of retiring. He has a holiday chalet in Switzerland, in the Upper Vaud. I believe it’s famous for its wild flowers. He has decided to retire and make it his permanent home.”
Commander Elfe said, “It’s disturbing, Prime Minister. But is it necessarily political?”
“When education and planning are the two cornerstones of this Session? What are people going to say – more to the point, what is the press going to say – if we have to tell them that the chief architect of the new Education Bill has thrown in the sponge – and the government’s principal advisor on planning has refused to finish his own White Paper, and is retiring to Switzerland to pick wild flowers?”
“It was six months ago,” said Pulleyne, in his precise voice, “when Hamson walked out. Two months ago when you first got worried about Nicholson. A fortnight ago when Gottlieb threatened to throw in his hand. Have no steps been taken?”
“Yes,” said Maver. “It looked like a Home Security matter, so it was handed to us. We put one of our most reliable men onto it. He talked to Nicholson and Gottlieb.”
“Did he come to any conclusion as a result of these talks?”
“We don’t know. He committed suicide a week ago.”
“Then you’re talking about Colonel Bax?”
“Yes.”
“And has he himself been investigated?”
Maver flushed and said, “Of course. And there was a background story, which could have accounted for it. We haven’t got very far with it yet. But it’s quite possible that he was being blackmailed, and had been driven too far.”
“Well, that’s the position, gentlemen,” said the Prime Minister. “It could be organised pressure from an unscrupulous group in this country. I don’t mean the official opposition. But there are plenty of extremist groups who wouldn’t stop short of it. It could be foreign-inspired. I can think of four countries at this moment which would give a great deal to have the present government discredited. Or it may be simple blackmail. I leave you, gentlemen, to sort out the departmental priorities amongst yourselves. I just want it stopped,”
To his secretary when they had all gone away, he said, “Do you realise that all prime ministers have to live out the enthusiasms of their predecessors? Because of Lloyd George’s lower middle-class habits, I have to entertain official guests to breakfast. Because of Winston’s boyish enthusiasm for cops and robbers I have to pretend to be personally responsible for security. Do you remember that thing he wrote?”
The private secretary didn’t remember, but being a good private secretary, he was able to put his hand on the reference his employer required. He fetched down a battered olive green volume from the library shelf, found the place and read out: “‘. . . plot and counterplot, ruse and treachery, cross and double-cross, true agent, false agent, gold and steel, the bomb, the dagger and the firing-party, interwoven in a texture so intricate as to be incredible, yet true, the high officers of the Secret Service revelled in these subterranean labyrinths, and pursued their task with cold and silent passion.’”
“I didn’t notice them revelling,” said the Prime Minister. “Did you?”
Ian Maver and Mr. Fortescue travelled back in the official car together. Maver said nothing until they were approaching the outskirts of London. Then he closed the glass panel to shut off the driver and said, “The PM mentioned three possible explanations. There are at least two more that he omitted.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Fortescue.
“The whole thing could be a coincidence. People crack up pretty quickly in government service these days. And all three of the people he mentioned had private means. There was no reason for them to kill themselves by going on doing a job which had got beyond them.”
“No,” said Mr. Fortescue. “And your other explanation?”
“The other possible explanation is that the Prime Minister has greatly exaggerated the whole thing as an excuse for getting rid of me. I’m afraid he doesn’t like me very much.”
Mr. Fortescue did not make any comment on this.
On the following Monday, Dermont Nicholson got back to his flat at Campden Hill at just after midnight. A threatened all-night sitting of the House had failed to develop. He was looking forward to a nightcap and bed.
His key went into the lock but he was unable to turn it, and when he tried to get it out again he found it was stuck. He rang the bell. Nothing happened. His sister very rarely went to bed before midnight and was most unlikely to be asleep.
Someone, or something, moved in the flat.
There was an indeterminate shuffling noise and, as he bent his head to listen, he thought he heard a faint moan.
In a sudden panic he rattled the door, shouted, put his shoulder to it, then turned and raced downstairs. There was a night porter, who had a master key.
“If your key’s stuck in the lock, sir,” he said, “it’s no good trying to use my master key. We shall have to break the door down, and the police’ll do that quicker than we will.”
“Hurry,” said Nicholson. “Hurry. Something’s happened to my sister. She may have had a stroke.”
Detective Sergeant Hallows, who was night duty officer at Notting Hill Gate, arrived inside five minutes. He and the police driver went up, carrying between them an assortment of housebreaking implements. It took them a further three minutes to deal with the front door. Nicholson pushed past them, and went straight to his sister’s bedroom. She had been tied to the end of the bed with sheets, and gagged with a towel. The knots had been so savagely tightened that Nicholson was unable to do anything with them. He picked a pair of scissors from the dressing table, but his hands were shaking and he dropped them. The sergeant cut through the sheets with a knife; as soon as the gag was out of her mouth, Miss Nicholson started to scream.
“I have to announce,” said the Prime Minister to the House, on Wednesday, “the news – to me, personally, it is very sad news – that the Right Honourable Member for Burnham Heath has had to offer me his resignation as Minister for Education. He has done this on the advice of his doctors. I have not yet finally decided on a successor, but I can assure the House that there will be no change in the government’s education policy.”
An opposition back-bencher said, “While we sympathise with the Prime Minister for having lost yet another of his already depleted team, we should be interested to know exactly what the late Minister of Education was suffering from? Could it be that he was sick of the Education Bill—”
The rest was lost in a roar of government protest and opposition laughter.
On the same Wednesday, Mr. Calder and Mr. Behrens both received telephone calls at home. Mr. Behrens said to his aunt, “I’ve some business in town. I’ll probably stay at the Club for a few nights.”
His aunt said, “You know that I don’t like being left here alone.”
“Why don’t you visit Millicent?”
“It’s tiresome you couldn’t have given me more notice.”
Mr. Calder got his old car out of the woodshed. To Rasselas, who was sunning himself in his favorite spot behind the woodpile, he said, “Back tonight.” The big dog sighed windily, in exactly the same way that Miss Behrens had done.
Mr. Fortescue normally operated from the Westminster branch of the London and Home Counties Bank. But he had other offices. The one which he used on official occasions was in Richmond Terrace Mews, and it was here that Mr. Calder and Mr. Behrens found him.
When he had finished talking, Mr. Calder said, “Mightn’t there be some danger of getting our wires crossed over this? Most of it sounds like ordinary police work.”
“I agree that there’s a police angle to it,” said Mr. Fortescue. “Since it involves the security of ministers, it’s the Special Branch which is involved. Elfe will be in charge of that side of it. DI5 and the police. Generally speaking, however, it’s agreed that you’re to have a free hand.”
Mr. Behrens said, “I knew Gottlieb slightly. I met him in the forties, when he first came to England. I could have a word with him.”
“Then I’ll start with Nicholson,” said Mr. Calder.
“It was a pig sty,” said the detective sergeant. “They did everything filthy they could think of. Over the floor, in the beds, everywhere. We’ve cleared up as best we could, but there’s some things – well, come and have a look.”
He led the way into the living room. Someone had broken the glass in each of the half-dozen pictures on the wall and smeared filth over them. They were flower pictures, originals from Montessor’s great folio. Looking closer, Mr. Calder saw that not only had the glass been smashed. The name of each plant was inscribed in copperplate at the foot of each picture. Someone had scored these through with an indelible pencil, and printed the word, pansy.
“It’s not only the pictures,” said Hallows. “It’s the books too. Someone took a lot of trouble over this little job.”
There were a couple of hundred books in the fitted book-shelves between the windows. The back had been ripped out of each book, with a knife.
“We don’t know just what they did to his sister,” said Hallows. “She’s in a private nursing home. Maybe she’ll be able to tell us something when she gets her wits back.”
“Did they take anything?”
“Nicholson says they took some money out of the desk, but it wasn’t money they were after. It was a grudge job.”
“I agree,” said Mr. Calder. He phrased his next question delicately, aware that it might give offence. “Seeing that he was a senior cabinet minister, I wondered if any special arrangements might have been made. I know the police can’t keep a twenty-four hour watch on all these people—”
“He was guarded,” said Hallows. “A private outfit was doing the job.”
“Private?”
“That’s right. We’re so short of policemen that government departments have started using private outfits lately. As a matter of fact, some of them are ex-policemen.”
“They seem to have slipped up on this occasion.”
The doorbell rang.
Hallows said, as he went to open it, “They didn’t slip. They were ditched. I asked the head of the firm to come round. This is probably him now. He can tell you about it.”
Mr. Cotter, the managing director and founder of Cotter’s Detectives, was a thickset, red-faced man with a brigade mustache. He shook hands with Mr. Calder and said, “Bad business. I’ve had to give Romilly his cards. No alternative. I don’t know that it was one hundred percent his fault. He’s never let me down before, anyway.”
“What happened?”
“Someone telephoned the night porter, said he was Nicholson’s secretary. The Minister had been detained at a meeting out at Finchley. Could Romilly pick up his car from the forecourt of the House, drive it out to Finchley, pick the old man up and bring him back to Westminster. It was plausible. After all, his main job’s to look after the Minister.”
“When this man telephoned,” said Mr. Calder, “did he actually say Romilly?”
Mr. Cotter thought for a moment, and then said, “Yes. I think he did. Why?”
“It would argue a pretty close knowledge of your setup if he knew the name of the man on duty at any given time. How many men do you have on a job like this?”
“It’s a team of three. They do ten-hour stretches. That gives them a sort of dogwatch.”
“Who are the other two?”
Mr. Cotter shot a glance at Sergeant Hallows, who said, “That’s all right. Mr. Calder is from the Security Executive. He’s helping us.”
“I see,” said Mr. Cotter. “My other two men on this assignment were Angel and Lawrie.” He added stiffly, “They’re both reliable men.”
“Frank Angel,” said Mr. Calder. “Small, dark, thick and Welsh?”
“That’s him. Do you know him?”
“I worked with him on one or two jobs at Blenheim,” said Mr. Calder. The atmosphere seemed to have become easier.
Mr. Behrens knew the Head of Records personally, and was thus able to get in to see this most closely guarded of all Home Office and Ministry of Defence officials. He said, “I want your full record on Gottlieb. The X and the Y file, please.”
“You know as well as I do,” said the Head of Records, “that you can’t see the Y file without Cabinet authority.”
Mr. Behrens laid his authority on the desk. The Head of Records read it through carefully and made a telephone call.
To the plump, serious young man with the middle-aged face who arrived in answer to it, he said, “This is Mr. Behrens, Smythe. Will you show him the X and Y files on Professor Julius Gottlieb.”
Smythe said, in the manner of Jeeves, “If you would kindly step this way, sir,” and conducted Mr. Behrens to the room in the basement of the building which contained, in numbered filing cabinets, enough high explosive to blow up both sides of Whitehall. He unlocked one of the cabinets, drew out two folders, one thick and one thin, placed a table and chair and said, “I’ll leave you to it, sir.”
As Mr. Behrens leafed through the folders, he was smiling to himself. He was aware of the principles upon which this particular room was constructed, and he knew that anyone having access to a Y file was not only watched but normally photographed as well.
