psychology?” Matthew Fattorini clucked to himself. “No, he won’t be your problem… . It’s young Charlie you want to watch out for.”
“Indeed?” If Matthew was fishing, this was one time he’d find nothing on the hook.
“Indeed and indeed.” Fattorini gave a grunt. “Oh, yes—I know what you’re thinking: you play with the big rough boys, and he’s just a juvenile revolutionary. But I mean it all the same, David.”
“You know him?”
“Never met him in my life. But I know he’s a man with a lot of gold.”
“Gold—meaning power?”
“Not just power. Gold changes people, believe me.”
“You should know, Matthew.”
“I do.” Fattorini’s voice was serious. “But my gold is all on paper. Ratcliffe’s is the real thing, and it’s all his. And what’s even more to the point is he’s handled it —a lot of it. They say you’re never the same after that, it turns little pussycats into tigers. Remember Bogart in ‘Sierra Madre’? Don’t you forget that, David….”
Audley picked up the remains of his money and walked back to collect the beer and the pie, his reward for being right about Matthew Fattorini’s usefulness.
He sat on the grass, swigged the beer, munched the pie and thought about how much Matthew must dislike the anonymous source of Charlie’s present credit. That in itself was interesting.
But Nayler was something different. All he could remember was a spotty face, uncombed hair and a long, lanky body. Plus, of course, the voice which had driven Matthew and himself from the breakfast table all those years ago. But if he’d got that senior scholarship he could hardly be stupid, anyway.
He swallowed the last fragment of pie, washing it down with the last draught of beer, and sighed deeply. It had been a bonus that Matthew had known as much as he did, confirming the Brigadier’s information about the fund-raising. And Matthew had even produced the right reaction at his interest in the subject. But in the meantime, here and now and in the sacred name of duty, he was going to have to undertake some cap-in-hand crawling.
He retraced his steps unwillingly to the phone box, piled up his coins again, and obtained Nayler’s college number from directory inquiries.
There was always hope that the man was out. Or even that he wasn’t up at all, since term had nowhere near started, and every self-respecting don would be away from college until it did. Or even that he was happily and fruitfully married, and was taking his wife and his seven ugly and precocious daughters to Bournemouth for a prolonged summer holiday. Then he could honourably get someone else to do this job.
But he knew even before the Porter’s Lodge answered that it wouldn’t be so. All the laws of chance decreed that anything anyone didn’t want to happen as much as that had to happen, no matter what the mathematical odds against.
“What name shall I give, sir?” inquired the Porter politely.
“Audley. David Audley.” Audley closed his eyes. “We were … up … together many years ago, you might remind him.”
And there wasn’t the slightest possibility that Nayler wouldn’t help him. Plus not the smallest fraction of that slightest possibility that he wouldn’t settle a few old scores in doing so.
“Hullo?” The voice set Audley’s teeth on edge. “Hullo there?”
“Professor Nayler?” Audley opened his eyes to glare at the dying elms. “This is David Audley. Do you remember me?”
“But of course! How are you, my dear fellow? Flourishing, I hope.”
The machine asked for more money.
“Well enough.” Audley swallowed.
“Jolly good.” The words were qualified with an audible sniff. “What is it that you’re doing now—teaching is it?” Nayler managed to make teaching sound like sewing mailbags.
“No.” That was all he could manage. But he had to do better than that, for the Minister’s sake if not for his own.
“No? But you did publish a little book not so long ago,
“Indeed?” If Matthew was fishing, this was one time he’d find nothing on the hook.
“Indeed and indeed.” Fattorini gave a grunt. “Oh, yes—I know what you’re thinking: you play with the big rough boys, and he’s just a juvenile revolutionary. But I mean it all the same, David.”
“You know him?”
“Never met him in my life. But I know he’s a man with a lot of gold.”
“Gold—meaning power?”
“Not just power. Gold changes people, believe me.”
“You should know, Matthew.”
“I do.” Fattorini’s voice was serious. “But my gold is all on paper. Ratcliffe’s is the real thing, and it’s all his. And what’s even more to the point is he’s handled it —a lot of it. They say you’re never the same after that, it turns little pussycats into tigers. Remember Bogart in ‘Sierra Madre’? Don’t you forget that, David….”
Audley picked up the remains of his money and walked back to collect the beer and the pie, his reward for being right about Matthew Fattorini’s usefulness.
He sat on the grass, swigged the beer, munched the pie and thought about how much Matthew must dislike the anonymous source of Charlie’s present credit. That in itself was interesting.
But Nayler was something different. All he could remember was a spotty face, uncombed hair and a long, lanky body. Plus, of course, the voice which had driven Matthew and himself from the breakfast table all those years ago. But if he’d got that senior scholarship he could hardly be stupid, anyway.
He swallowed the last fragment of pie, washing it down with the last draught of beer, and sighed deeply. It had been a bonus that Matthew had known as much as he did, confirming the Brigadier’s information about the fund-raising. And Matthew had even produced the right reaction at his interest in the subject. But in the meantime, here and now and in the sacred name of duty, he was going to have to undertake some cap-in-hand crawling.
He retraced his steps unwillingly to the phone box, piled up his coins again, and obtained Nayler’s college number from directory inquiries.
There was always hope that the man was out. Or even that he wasn’t up at all, since term had nowhere near started, and every self-respecting don would be away from college until it did. Or even that he was happily and fruitfully married, and was taking his wife and his seven ugly and precocious daughters to Bournemouth for a prolonged summer holiday. Then he could honourably get someone else to do this job.
But he knew even before the Porter’s Lodge answered that it wouldn’t be so. All the laws of chance decreed that anything anyone didn’t want to happen as much as that had to happen, no matter what the mathematical odds against.
“What name shall I give, sir?” inquired the Porter politely.
“Audley. David Audley.” Audley closed his eyes. “We were … up … together many years ago, you might remind him.”
And there wasn’t the slightest possibility that Nayler wouldn’t help him. Plus not the smallest fraction of that slightest possibility that he wouldn’t settle a few old scores in doing so.
“Hullo?” The voice set Audley’s teeth on edge. “Hullo there?”
“Professor Nayler?” Audley opened his eyes to glare at the dying elms. “This is David Audley. Do you remember me?”
“But of course! How are you, my dear fellow? Flourishing, I hope.”
The machine asked for more money.
“Well enough.” Audley swallowed.
“Jolly good.” The words were qualified with an audible sniff. “What is it that you’re doing now—teaching is it?” Nayler managed to make teaching sound like sewing mailbags.
“No.” That was all he could manage. But he had to do better than that, for the Minister’s sake if not for his own.
“No? But you did publish a little book not so long ago,
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