Luke Fraser had just arrived and had brought with him young Colin Penfield, his sub-editor, as Gissing had suggested. Penfield was about twenty-eight, with red hair, a pale skin and a long neck.

  Fraser said with a hint of sarcasm: ‘You could always do a couple of thousand words on ‘‘ The Island Pharisees’’.’

  ‘You mock me unfairly. I complain about faults we all possess, but naturally I believe our way of life is to be preferred, otherwise I should not be fighting for it. Isn’t that so, young Penfield?’

  Fraser didn’t see that Gissing was engaged in strife on anyone’s behalf, but he assumed the claim was meant figuratively.

  ‘Young’ Penfield said: ‘Well, I suppose if you use success as the criterion, then there’s a lot to be said for our present system of values. To date. Whether they’ll shortly be superseded by another system is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Which won’t be better,’ said Fraser, ‘only more successful.’

  Gissing said: ‘The terms are pretty well synonymous.’

  ‘Not morally.’

  ‘Ah, morally.’ Gissing took his guests’ glasses and went to the bureau with them. ‘ There’ll be nice time for another before dinner … Ah, morally,’ he continued, coming back. ‘That to your liking, Fraser? And you, young man?’ They thanked him. ‘Ah, morally.’

  ‘Ethically, then, if you prefer it.’

  Gissing filled his own glass. ‘Some say that spirits before wine spoils one’s palate. I hope it’s not true because I have some remarkably good Chambertin, made in the year Germany occupied the Rhineland but very forward in character … I fear, Fraser, that history, like biology, judges only by results. Ethics or morals are very late runners.’

  ‘But to be considered.’

  ‘I very much follow what you mean,’ said Penfield earnestly.

  ‘Well, it’s what any student knows … The subjects of Flavius Honorius were probably neither more nor less admirable in their habits than those of Alaric. One prevailed and the other did not. Can we assume that the dinosaur was a less moral or less ethical creature than pithecanthropus erectus? We cannot. I would have guessed the opposite. But victory is to the strong – or the most adaptable – or the more ruthless. History will rewrite the world as we make it. I’m afraid history is not concerned with the failures.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fraser, ‘there is the case of Jesus Christ, isn’t there.’

  ‘Oh my dear chap, I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was treading on your corns!’

  ‘Nor are you,’ said Fraser, in irritation. ‘I’m not a very good Christian. Indeed by many standards I’m not a Christian at all. But your assertion that history is concerned only with success is rather punctured by what might be called his Failure Story. And whatever you may think about him, however you rate him as an influence on civilization, he can never be ignored in any responsible history of the last two thousand years.’

  Gissing dabbed the sleeve of his shabby suit, where he had spilt a drop of whisky. ‘And you, Penfield? Do you feel the same?

  ‘About Christianity? As a historical fact, certainly, of course. But as a living force nowadays, not at all. It’s washed up, finished, on its last legs. I suppose I call myself a humanist. It helps to put this war into a better perspective.’

  ‘Which you think we shall win?’

  ‘I have my doubts.’

  ‘And you, Gissing?’ interposed Fraser.

  A disclaiming shrug. ‘I don’t think Hitler ought to be allowed to win. But if he does or if he doesn’t, is the difference so very great? He represents a philosophy that’s spreading world-wide.’

  ‘From the East.’

  Gissing chuckled. ‘It depends where you’re located. But yes, looking at it from an insular point of view, from the East. Where the Wise Men came from, incidentally!’

  ‘That includes Russia,’ said Penfield.

  ‘Of course,’ said Fraser. ‘Necessarily. I see virtually no difference in the two systems.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ said Penfield contentiously, and then, remembering his manners, went on in a more conciliatory tone: ‘ I think of Russia as following an ideal, experimenting with something totally new and fascinating –’

  ‘Marxism.’

  ‘Yes. Clearly making many mistakes on the way but moving towards a worthwhile end.’

  ‘And Fascism?’ said Fraser. ‘An ideal too? Equally clear and equally false? Surely it’s the other side of the record. A different tune played by the same band.’

  Gissing smiled and stared at the gold ring on his finger. This was the sort of conversation he enjoyed. He withdrew a little and listened to his two guests arguing with each other. Penfield was good material and worth cultivating for his own sake. Fraser was on his way out, as were many of his generation and his upbringing. But the theories of life, the principles by which men lived, the political and religious or anti-religious beliefs that drove them on, these were what really interested Gissing.

  It was a pity that he had ever had to have any dealings with this man Baker, poor material at best, who had failed yesterday in the second mission given him, and had got himself killed in a brawl which followed. Too close to home to be entirely safe. Full report had not come through yet, and he had not been able to use the telephone today because the blitz had damaged the wires at the corner of the square and repair men had been busy on them all day. But Gissing blamed headquarters for taking on such a man, who fundamentally was unstable, with a thread of fanaticism in him. Of course such men could be useful, and of course he was expendable material, had in fact been so expended. Lucky that he was dead and not injured. Not that he knew anybody but a shadowy figure called Armitage.

  ‘Pray don’t think I disagree with what you say,’ he interrupted Fraser courteously. ‘But these phrases that you’ve just been using to our young friend, don’t you think they belong to an age that is passing?’

  ‘Such phrases as?’

  ‘Well, ‘‘sanctity of treaties’’, ‘‘good of the human race’’, ‘‘moral obligations’’. We’re coming back full circle to what we said just now. They may read very well in the leading articles of The Onlooker, but they cut no ice with the new men who lead Germany and Russia.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Fraser with a hint of irritation. ‘That I agree with totally, and that is why Germany – and if necessary Russia – must be stopped!’

  ‘If they can be. Who’s going to do it? We on our own? And always supposing that Hitler and Stalin really are the cause of our trouble, and not merely the effect of a change of heart on the part of mankind!’

  ‘You certainly could write about that, Mr Gissing,’ Penfield said, picking at a spot on his neck. ‘You’re arguing that because old-fashioned theism no longer exists, the values that were set by it no longer exist. I see all that. I had a tutor at university who was always complaining about the teachings of the Jewish Christ. Maybe you have to suffer under them to get really angry about them. I never did. But you don’t have to be a Christian or an English gentleman to accept a degree of civilized behaviour as the norm, or to know your right hand from your left!’

  Gissing said: ‘ Fraser will tell you that I often play Devil’s Advocate. It’s a trick I have, to get my guests to respond. But – but let me say, Devil’s Advocate or not, there is a point to be made, and would be made by at least one man I know. He would ask: what individual has rights which make him more important than the state? He would ask: why should the down-and-out and the weakling be cared for at the expense of the strong? He would say: what treaty is more valuable than the welfare of a nation? It is not right or wrong to tear up a treaty which becomes inconvenient; it is a fair logical choice with expediency as the deciding factor. What is expedient is good. What is inexpedient is bad. It could be the guiding principle in the world today and can be in the textbooks of tomorrow!’

  Fraser glanced sidelong at Gissing, whose fleshy, sallow face was a little flushed – less with drink than argument, he was sure. The gangling Penfield was looking down his nose.

  ‘On that count,’ Fraser said, ‘ Hitler and Stalin are good men?’

  Gissing shrugged. ‘It’s not for me to say. I don’t think I would enjoy Hitler’s company to dinner … But eighty odd million people seem to think he’s good enough for them. Who is to say they are altogether mistaken?’

  ‘The several hundred million he oppresses, I suppose.’ said Fraser drily.

  ‘Oh yes, oh yes; I agree. In other words there are two Standards of right: it depends which one you apply.’

  ‘Stalin oppresses no one,’ muttered Penfield. ‘He wants no war; that’s why he has entered into this sad pact with the Nazis. He is trying to lift his people up: he has no aggressive intentions.’

  The butler came in to say dinner was served.

  ‘Thank you, William.’

  As the men moved into the dining room, Fraser said: ‘Would your friend think it wrong to dive-bomb fleeing women and children?’

  ‘Put that way it’s a very emotive question. Will the new man of the future think so? I don’t know.’

  ‘For whom Hitler is in a way a symbol, a figurehead, eh?’

  ‘If you will. He’s certainly in the van. But there’s an island race in the Far East, learning quickly, very gifted. To them the Western ethic is only a feeble foreign dogma.’

  In the dining room another fire burned, and the table was laid with bright eighteenth century silver, candlelight reflecting off its polished surfaces.

  ‘As you see it, then,’ said Fraser, folding himself into the seat his host indicated, ‘even if we were able to destroy Hitler – a mammoth task to begin – even then we should only put off for a few years – twenty – forty? – the return of a new Dark Age.’

  ‘If you call it a Dark Age. Yes, that is my belief.’

  ‘Life versus anti-life, eh?’

  ‘Again, it depends how you define life. Life existed long before ethics, you know.’

  Fraser sighed. ‘ Well … it’s a defeatist attitude to say the least. Whether our public would wear it … What d’you think, Colin?’

  ‘It depends how it was put,’ said Penfield, sitting down, ‘ I don’t take too rosy a view of our immediate prospects – any more than Mr Gissing – but I wouldn’t be as profoundly pessimistic as he is. Nor would I lump the various movements – Nazi, Fascist, Communist, Nationalist – together as being equally anti-human. As I’ve said, I have great hopes of the Marxist experiment –’

  As they began to eat Fraser reflected that not merely was he unsure whether his magazine’s public would wear such an argument as Gissing put forward but whether he would do so himself. However, he was in no way committed to publishing what Gissing wrote; one would simply make a new judgment when the time came.

  ‘I shall follow the anchovies with a clear soup, and then very small tender tournedos served with fresh tomato sauce,’ said Gissing. ‘Then roast duck with French salad and stuffed cucumbers. As a sweet I have chosen an iced chocolate mousse with a chestnut purée. It is, I know,’ he added, ‘parvenue manners of the worst kind to list one’s dinner in this way beforehand, but I’ve discovered that war-time scarcity has turned every man into a gourmet. Or at the very least into a gourmand.’ Privately he had noticed Luke Fraser as a hearty eater at the public dinners they had attended, and he guessed this long thin sub-editor could put it away. It was a little show-off, but it was worthwhile. The impression of the meal would remain in their minds for quite a time.

  ‘I must say,’ said Penfield with a nervous laugh, ‘it will make rather a change from powdered eggs …’

  ‘Yes, what is it, William?’

  ‘Two gentlemen to see you, sir.’

  Gissing frowned.

  ‘Their names?’

  ‘They would not give any, sir.’

  ‘Well, I certainly can’t see them now. Things will spoil. What do they want?’

  ‘They wouldn’t say, sir.’

  It was on Gissing’s tongue to send back a sharp refusal, but he fancied he saw on his butler’s face the faintly disapproving expression reserved for those of his visitors that William classed as ‘unsavoury’. It might just possibly be someone with further news of Baker.

  ‘Excuse me, will you,’ he said to his guests. ‘‘ I’ll be back in a moment.’

  He ambled softly, with in-turned toes, in his scuffed black patent shoes, into the hall, and as soon as he saw the two men he knew his mistake. They were strangers and wore long waistless grey overcoats and carried bowler hats in their hands. They were broad-shouldered men with keen but unemotional faces and a quiet air of authority.

  Gissing stopped, fumbled with the top button of his waistcoat, and his eyes moved from one to the other. He waited for William to leave. Then he said:

  ‘Good evening. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Mr Walter Gissing?’ said one.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We have a warrant for your arrest.’

  Gissing was very quiet for a moment. ‘For my – Oh, nonsense! What do you mean, man?’

  One of the visitors – they had come nearer to him – produced a paper and handed it to him. Gissing did not read it.

  ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. Mr Walter Gissing. Alias Mr Henry Armitage. Formerly Mr Leopold Bauer. I don’t think there is any mistake this time. And I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.’

  Gissing thought he had seen the taller of the men before but he couldn’t place him. He licked his lips, which were unexpectedly dry. For a moment he felt quite queer as if he were really in danger.

  ‘Really, gentlemen, this is rather a farce, isn’t it? What do you suppose you’re charging me with?’

  ‘You are charged under the Defence Regulations with being a secret agent in the pay of an enemy country.’

  ‘A secret agent? I?’ He laughed briefly and tried to stop himself from vomiting. ‘Oh, that’s good! That’s very good. My guests will be intensely amused. So will the Home Secretary, who happens to be a personal friend of mine. And several other members of the Government!’

  ‘Sorry, sir. If there’s been some mistake I’m sure it can all be ironed out at the Station.’

  Gissing felt hemmed in. A little air and space were needed, and time and room to think. He would have been convinced this was a genuine mistake – except for that name. Who had discovered a name discarded so long ago? Yet somehow it must be a mistake: his whole life was firmly founded on twenty-one years of blameless English residency; his home was here, all his possessions. The obverse side of the coin belonged to somebody else: they could never be allowed to meet.

  ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘I’m entertaining important guests and we’re about to start dinner. Could you be prevailed upon to wait an hour? I can’t disappear into thin air; I’m rather too substantial a person, aren’t I? Ha, ha! Or still better, should you be so accommodating, I’ll undertake to come to the Station myself later this evening and clear up this unfortunate misunderstanding.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Our orders are to bring you to the Station right away.’

  ‘But for God’s sake!’ He began to work himself into a state of righteous anger, so that now he knew it was all a mistake! ‘Am I not permitted –’

  ‘It’s no good, Mr Gissing. Perhaps I should tell you that a Dr Joseph Norley and his wife were arrested this afternoon at Folkestone. We have proof –’

  The hand on his shoulder. It was not heavy, but psychologically it was like a clamp.

  ‘I have never heard of any such person! Dr Norton, did you say? What possible –’

  ‘We took care that you shouldn’t hear of their arrest before. Afraid the game is up.’

  For a moment more he went on talking, using indignation as a defence and as a support. The gulf was still a few feet away. ‘It’s a total mistake, man! D’you realize who I am? I shall certainly complain of your attitude. I shall have the matter raised in Parliament!’

  ‘Get your coat and hat, please. It’s quite chilly out. Are they in here?’

  ‘No, they’re not. Allow me to call my butler.’

  They waited. Gissing’s face had lost its usual colour, otherwise he was still composed.

  ‘Ah, William. Will you tell my guests that I am temporarily called away and will you continue to serve them dinner. Is the Chambertin open?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh, dear. A pity … Very well, then you may as well serve it. I shall be back later, but I don’t know quite how long I shall be.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  They waited again until William was gone. Gissing scratched his nose. ‘Ah yes, my hat and coat. What a stupid mistake all this is! At least one doesn’t have to advertise it to one’s servants.’

  He moved towards the small cloakroom and fumbled about among the hats and coats there. Then the taller of the two officers made a swift leap and grabbed at Gissing’s hand as it came away from his mouth. He was eating something but not getting it down.

  Deprived of this other and less palatable meal, Mr Gissing for the first time in his life struggled, soundlessly, livid of feature and suddenly panting. Even when the second man joined in he kicked and jerked and twitched until they handcuffed him. Then the brief fierce protest was over and his heavy flaccid body was limp in their hands. What he had been trying to swallow was not a phial of poison – he would never have thought of carrying such a thing – but a few notes and sentences written on two sheets of india paper.

  They half dragged, half carried him out to the waiting car, while Fraser and Penfield, encouraged by William, resumed their interrupted dinner. It was embarrassing for them to carry on without their host, but this he had sent word they should do, and it would have been a criminal waste not to eat such wonderful food in war-time.

  In the car Walter Gissing made one last straggling, jerking effort to free himself: it was instinctive, unthinking, an animal not a logical reassertion. Then he stopped and made no further protest.

  Protests could be saved for the future. He knew himself to be far cleverer than these two solid men. He knew there would be no one among those who were going to confront him who would be able to match him in subtlety, in shrewdness, in sheer quality of intellect. Therein lay his only hope. It would make a difference.

 

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