me to ‘inform’ on him—even so unworldly a person as myself can see that!”
But—“
Willis raised a hand. “And I must tell you that on mature consideration I don’t think I will, and for two reasons … Of which the first is that I doubt that I have anything of the slightest importance to impart, since I haven’t clapped eyes on him for several years, and we correspond but rarely with each other … And the second, and to my mind much stronger reason, is that … as his former guardian and teacher, not to mention the friend and brother-officer of his father … I’m not prepared to sneak on him— certainly not without a very much better reason than anything so vague as ‘the national interest’. Indeed—whose ‘national interest’? Not that of those who conceived the Suez landings of last year as also being ‘in the national interest’, I can tell you!”
Roche nodded deprecatingly. “I do take your point, sir—“ he could no more bring himself to call the man ‘Wimpy’ than he could have called the terrifying Johnnie ‘Genghis Khan’ to his face “—but I don’t think you quite understand why I’m here … why we need your help, that is …”
“Indeed?” Willis regarded him with an expression of polite but absolute Misbelief.
“We want David Audley to help us,” said Roche.
“ ‘With your inquiries’?” murmured Willis. “Isn’t that the phrase: ‘A man is helping the police with their inquiries’? But I do understand that, my dear fellow. I understand it perfectly. And nothing you say is going to stop me understanding it.”
Roche took the envelope out of his inside breast-pocket and handed it to Willis.
“What’s this, then?” Willis looked at the blank envelope suspiciously.
“It’s for you, sir.”
“It’s not addressed to me. It’s not addressed to anyone!”
“It’s for you, sir, nevertheless,” insisted Roche, aware that he was quite as curious about the contents as Willis must be.
He watched the schoolmaster take a spectacle-case from his pocket and perch a pair of gold-rimmed half-glasses on his nose, and then make a nervous hash of splitting the stiff white paper, which was definitely not Government-issue.
The single sheet of paper inside matched the thickness of the envelope: it was slightly curved from its carriage inside Roche’s breast-pocket, but not crumpled, and it gave a dry parchment-like crackle as Willis opened it.
Handwriting, that was all Roche could make out.
“Good God!” exclaimed Willis. “Good God! ”
It was going to work, whatever it was, thought Roche. Everyone had a key to them somewhere, and Clinton had obtained Willis’s somehow.
“Well I never!” murmured Willis. “Good God!”
It was a pity that Audley’s key wasn’t so readily available. But, for a guess, Audley didn’t have a simple key, but more likely a combination of numbers; and one or more of those numbers was apparently locked up in Willis’s head—and some more numbers might be locked up in some numbered account in Zurich or Beirut as well. But this was a start, and he ought to be grateful for that. Because only in opening up Audley could he gain access to sufficient funds with which to bargain for his own freedom, and be shot of the lot of them.
But Willis had read his letter, and was now looking at him with a new expression in his eyes. “You work for him—that foxy beggar?”
Clinton’s features broke through the mists in Roche’s mind—the high colour, which had nothing to do with blood pressure but only with blood, and the sharp features, sharper even than Willis’s ferrety-Montgomery look— foxy would do very well for them, even though the hairline had receded back and down to reveal the freckled skin stretched tight over the skull, leaving only a tide-mark of that once-red hair above the ears. No beauty now, Clinton … and the foxy look was inside now, radiated rather than apparent.
But Clinton, for sure—
“I’m very much
But—“
Willis raised a hand. “And I must tell you that on mature consideration I don’t think I will, and for two reasons … Of which the first is that I doubt that I have anything of the slightest importance to impart, since I haven’t clapped eyes on him for several years, and we correspond but rarely with each other … And the second, and to my mind much stronger reason, is that … as his former guardian and teacher, not to mention the friend and brother-officer of his father … I’m not prepared to sneak on him— certainly not without a very much better reason than anything so vague as ‘the national interest’. Indeed—whose ‘national interest’? Not that of those who conceived the Suez landings of last year as also being ‘in the national interest’, I can tell you!”
Roche nodded deprecatingly. “I do take your point, sir—“ he could no more bring himself to call the man ‘Wimpy’ than he could have called the terrifying Johnnie ‘Genghis Khan’ to his face “—but I don’t think you quite understand why I’m here … why we need your help, that is …”
“Indeed?” Willis regarded him with an expression of polite but absolute Misbelief.
“We want David Audley to help us,” said Roche.
“ ‘With your inquiries’?” murmured Willis. “Isn’t that the phrase: ‘A man is helping the police with their inquiries’? But I do understand that, my dear fellow. I understand it perfectly. And nothing you say is going to stop me understanding it.”
Roche took the envelope out of his inside breast-pocket and handed it to Willis.
“What’s this, then?” Willis looked at the blank envelope suspiciously.
“It’s for you, sir.”
“It’s not addressed to me. It’s not addressed to anyone!”
“It’s for you, sir, nevertheless,” insisted Roche, aware that he was quite as curious about the contents as Willis must be.
He watched the schoolmaster take a spectacle-case from his pocket and perch a pair of gold-rimmed half-glasses on his nose, and then make a nervous hash of splitting the stiff white paper, which was definitely not Government-issue.
The single sheet of paper inside matched the thickness of the envelope: it was slightly curved from its carriage inside Roche’s breast-pocket, but not crumpled, and it gave a dry parchment-like crackle as Willis opened it.
Handwriting, that was all Roche could make out.
“Good God!” exclaimed Willis. “Good God! ”
It was going to work, whatever it was, thought Roche. Everyone had a key to them somewhere, and Clinton had obtained Willis’s somehow.
“Well I never!” murmured Willis. “Good God!”
It was a pity that Audley’s key wasn’t so readily available. But, for a guess, Audley didn’t have a simple key, but more likely a combination of numbers; and one or more of those numbers was apparently locked up in Willis’s head—and some more numbers might be locked up in some numbered account in Zurich or Beirut as well. But this was a start, and he ought to be grateful for that. Because only in opening up Audley could he gain access to sufficient funds with which to bargain for his own freedom, and be shot of the lot of them.
But Willis had read his letter, and was now looking at him with a new expression in his eyes. “You work for him—that foxy beggar?”
Clinton’s features broke through the mists in Roche’s mind—the high colour, which had nothing to do with blood pressure but only with blood, and the sharp features, sharper even than Willis’s ferrety-Montgomery look— foxy would do very well for them, even though the hairline had receded back and down to reveal the freckled skin stretched tight over the skull, leaving only a tide-mark of that once-red hair above the ears. No beauty now, Clinton … and the foxy look was inside now, radiated rather than apparent.
But Clinton, for sure—
“I’m very much
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