CHAPTERIII
John k. petrewas buying Touaregs.
The news had penetrated to a little room, paneled in the dark oak of Shakespeare’s day; for the paneling had come from Arden out of old Kirlby Hall when they pulled it down. It was half lit by four soft candles standing on a glorious table of two hundred years. They shone on silver as old; on quills ranged in order by a royal inkstand. Over the door hung a deep curtain of tapestry which clothed the place with silence. All the air of that room was an air of lineage and endurance and repose.
Yet it was but a backwater in the noisy, the sordid, the very modern iron and concrete offices of theMessenger, the offices of that great newspaper which was the Duke’s instrument of power.
The Duke himself sat there at that table, which in his heart he felt to be a desk. A very large cigar was cocked up at an angle in the far corner of his considerable mouth, his flabby-fleshed, artificially determined face was bent over the proofs of an article which a secretary had written but himself had signed—for he could read better than he could write—and he was puzzling as to what he could print above his name and what he could not. He puzzled long; for he had got the problem wrong before now and had paid dear for the blunder.
People said that the Duke deserved his position; and when for the first time in so many years Mrs. Fossilton (whom he had made Prime Minister) had advised the King to give him that supreme title, and to honor Commerce with it, men, though they thought the thing revolutionary—in our time every new step looks revolutionary—at least admitted that the man had made himself, and rightly revered his ruthless expression, his flair for any weakness in others, and his rapid clutch at money.
He had begun life at what is called “the bottom of the ladder”—selling matches as a lad in Melbourne, and an orphan at that, under the plain name of Higgs.
Between those early years and his appearance as an agent, humble enough, put on to bully the smaller fry and to watch the larger fry at Marogavatcho’s place in Cairo, there is a gap. It is presumed that even as a boy his strength of will, his grasp of opportunity, had served him. He had perhaps made a beginning by some rapid piece of minor acquisition—we have no particulars—that had set him upon the status of possible clothes and possible grooming; from that, no doubt, he had gone on. At any rate, he had got somehow to know William Carter when William Carter meant so much in Australia, and yet William Carter wished him away. It was William Carter who had casually dropped his name as a pushing, energetic young fellow for whom some little job might be found, and from the Australian Branch they had sent him to Cairo; again because William Carter said he would do as well as another. It was in Cairo that he worked what is still known there as “Higgs’ Great Double Cross,” the details of which he never himself explained. I have had them given me by those who understood them (and they were usually given with a good deal of chuckling admiration not unmixed with fear) but they were quite beyond my comprehension.
At any rate, it was a quick rise, and he was in London with a fortune before three more years were out—in 1936; he was then thirty-five years old. This idea of buying theMessengercame to him late. He had gone through the usual mill, first in Parliament, then a baronetcy, keeping himself to himself, never speaking, but doing many a generous deed of which the public heard nothing, especially among the politicians of his own group. He had even (it was said) paid a regular subsidy to one of the most worthy and the most needy of them. His first peerage was startling; but it would not have been if his private activities had been more publicly known. He had preferred to avoid publicity.
He enjoyed no increase of rank until, his fortieth year long passed, he had purchased the great daily, and there, as in everything he did, he succeeded. It was after the negotiations which established Mrs. Fossilton in office that the last step was taken and that a new ducal title, an honor which had been for so long unknown—longer than men could remember—was suddenly given him.
It did not mean what it would have meant in the old days before the War, days which those of us who are now not so far on in middle age can still remember, but of which the younger generation knows nothing. But he wanted it, and therefore it was right that he should have it. There was no great harm done. It is true he had an heir, but the boy had been born late in his life, and had never known anything but the atmosphere of a Public School, so it was safe enough; and though he had built his own place in the country, instead of buying it, it did not swear with his rank.
He finished reading the proof, ticked it off, and rang. He asked for his secretary, and when the secretary came he said:
“Say, see here, boy, how’s all this shout ’bout John K. Petre and Touaregs?”
“It’s quite true,” said the secretary, who was where he was because he knew everything and knew it rightly, and who had become so necessary that he had promotion and now said “Duke” instead of “Your Grace.”
“How d’yer know it?” said his Grace, mumbling, with the big cigar jerked to the other corner of his mouth, but by a feat of dexterity, learned in a distant clime, kept admirably at its exalted angle.
“Oh, it’s everywhere, Duke,” said the younger man quietly, lighting a cigarette without leave, and sitting down.
“Quite sure, now, boy?”
“Quite.”
There was a pause during which the Duke frowned thoughtfully. Then he took the cigar out of his mouth between the first and middle finger of his right hand—a gesture which he only used in great moments—and said:
“Well, let ’em rip. I’m not touching the blamed things, anyway,” and having said that, he stopped frowning.
“He’s here in London,” went on the secretary, smiling slightly and watching his master.
“Here!” shouted the Duke suddenly. “Here? In London? Have they got it?” He jumped up in his excitement. “Have they got it upstairs?” He had his hand out for the bell.
The secretary began: “If I were you, Duke ...” but the Duke cut him short and snapped back, “Y’re not me, so that’s that.” Then as though he were ordering the least of his servants, “Send me Batterby, and keep yer mouth shut.”
The secretary rose quietly and without offense—he was used to it; and Batterby was shown in. Batterby wondered what it could be. He stood humbly turning his greasy soft hat round and round in his hands with nervousness, looking up humbly once or twice into his master’s face. The Duke leaned back with his legs crossed and the big cigar still going.
“Batterby,” said the chief, “did yer know about John K.?”
“Yes, y’r Grace,” said Batterby, almost inaudibly.
“And yer didn’t tell me, nor no one in this shop?”
“No, y’r Grace.”
“Well, it’s the boot, Batterby,” said the Duke genially, “De Order of de Boot. D’yer hear?” He uncrossed his legs and turned to the table again.
The unfortunate Batterby tried to stammer out, “Oh, your Grace, I understood....”
His master turned round like a barking dog: “Git out!” he said. “D’yer hear? Git out!” And Batterby got out, still humbly, and went through the luxurious little corridor, past the outer office, stumbled down the broad dirty stone stairs of the place; he was as near tears as a man of his age can be. He wondered how he would dare to face the little house in Golder’s Green. It was ten o’clock.
He elbowed his way into the “Dragon” under the arch; there were always some of the fellows there, and he began to take something for his despair, and to talk shop with the others of that sad, drifting, lost crowd of the newspaper men, the publicists, the slaves. Meanwhile in that luxurious little room a hundred yards away the Duke had sent for his secretary again.
“Whose to worry John K.?” he said.
The secretary’s quiet reply surprised him.
“Don’t send any one, Duke; don’t have a word of it in the paper.”
Proprietor of the MessengerHis Grace the Proprietor of the “Messenger” conferring the Order of the Boot on Mr. Batterby, of Golder’s Green in the County of Middlesex.
His Grace the Proprietor of the “Messenger” conferring the Order of the Boot on Mr. Batterby, of Golder’s Green in the County of Middlesex.
The master of so many lives had become used to such comment. Time and again it had saved him from pitfalls and from crashes. Though he made up for it by occasional violence, advice from that quarter, when he got it in a certain tone, he never dared neglect; but he growled and he wanted to know the reasons.
Then did his Grace’s secretary gently, evenly and without embroidery tell him the story of what John K. Petre had done to his competitor, theChicago Judge, when theChicago Judgehad opened its mouth too wide. After that he told another story of what John K. Petre had done to the man on the Riviera who had let the newspapers know the name of his guest. And the Duke in his heart, though he knew very well that theMessengerwas something bigger than theChicago Judge, and that he counted more in what the modern world reveres, and had more power over it than any host upon the Riviera, yet felt a certain chill in his breast, and there tolled in it the knell of that sentence which everybody used when John K. was on the carpet, “You can’t fight fifty million pounds.”
“It’s a scoop,” he said bitterly.
The secretary shook his head: “It’s ruin and damnation!” Then he explained himself. “Where’s the scoop? He wouldn’t give an interview; and just to say he’s in London—what’s the good of that?”
“Lord, man!” shouted the Duke suddenly, “doesn’t he ever want a write up?”
“I think he manages to do without them,” said the secretary drily.
The cigar was finished and the Duke threw it away. He handed his coat to the secretary without true courtesy, and the secretary, who knew exactly how far to go, held it for him while he put it on.
“The man’s mad,” said the Duke, as he struggled into the coat.
“They all say that,” said the secretary, pulling the coat collar down and valeting his master as in duty bound.
“They’re ruddy well right,” said the Duke, and he stamped out to his private lift.
In the “Dragon” Batterby told his tale. There was nothing to be lost by telling it: there was everything to gain. He had his value. Some one might yet take him on.
“You’ve got a contract?” said a friend sympathetically.
“Yes,” said poor Batterby over his second. “What’s the good of that?”
“Why, it’s always something,” said a third. “TheMessenger’salways on the nail. You’ll get your check to-morrow morning.”
“What’s the good of that?” said Batterby again gloomily, as a distant member of the group ordered another round.
“Room to turn round,” said the first friend.
Then up spoke a little man whom they all knew but whom they none of them knew enough; he was kind, he was reticent, and he had a reputation for getting things done.
“I’ll go round to Jerry now,” said the little man.
“What’s the good of that?” said Batterby for the third time.
“You’re an ungrateful beast,” said the little man. “The good is he’ll see you.”
“And nothing’ll come of that,” said Batterby again into his glass.
But the little man never minded ingratitude or folly or human grief; he enjoyed doing things.
“I bet you I’m back here in twenty minutes, and that Jerry is seeing you in half an hour,” he said.
“Jerry’s not there this time of night,” said Batterby, still determined upon woe.
“Jerry’s always there,” said the little man, and he disappeared.
He was back as he had said, and in less than twenty minutes. Batterby had got no farther than his fifth; but in the extravagance of penury he ordered another round for them all.
“You’re to see Jerry now, at once,” he said. “Up you go.”
Batterby would have discussed, but the other pushed him good-naturedly forward; and it was as his benefactor had said. Within half an hour of the first suggestion Batterby was sitting comfortably in a chair which Sir Jeremiah Walton had courteously pushed toward him with his own hands. Sir Jeremiah was a great editor. He knew the House of Commons above and Fleet Street below. He had wanted Batterby for years. Batterby had the reputation for finding out things, and the right things, better and quicker than any newspaper man in the “Street.”
“Well now, Mr. Batterby, this is what one may call sudden like,” said Sir Jeremiah genially. “Ef I had known as you were free, why, man”—then he gave a cunning glance at the simple face before him, and said, “Ye’ve not been trying on any games, ’ave yer?”
“I was told you wanted me, sir,” said Batterby. “I don’t know what you mean by games.” He was still sore.
“No offense, Mr. Batterby,” said Sir Jeremiah. “No offense,” and he handed his cigarette case to him to emphasize the good feeling. Mr. Batterby took a cigarette. “So you’ve left theMessenger, ’ave you? That’s what they tell me. Well, I don’t suppose you’d mind our crowd.”
“No, sir,” said Batterby, taking care not to grasp the lifebuoy with too much enthusiasm.
Sir Jeremiah laughed pleasantly.
“Thought they could make a story about John K., did they?” he said. “Funny how child-like people do stop! I wouldn’t have thought it of ’em. Of the Duke, I mean. ’Owever, you can’t ever tell. Now, if I’adbeen asked,” went on Sir Jeremiah with the happiness of his very considerable fortune spread all over his face, “if I’adbeen asked what risky thing Iwouldn’tdo, just now this minute, I should ’a said, touching Touaregs; and if I had been asked what was suicide,Ishould ’a said, touching John K. D’yer get me?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Batterby, thawing a little. “That’s what I thought, sir. I told his Grace that.”
“Ah? And what did ’e say?”
God's ServantSir Jeremiah Walton, God’s Servant.
Sir Jeremiah Walton, God’s Servant.
“Well, sir,” said Batterby slowly, recalling the exact terms of the conversation in the inner room of theMessenger, “his Grace gave me to understand that he greatly needed this piece of news, and he told me that he could not conceal his regret that I had not imparted it to him. I told him that I thought I had acted for the best, and he answered: ‘I am sure, Batterby, you did what you thought best. But don’t let it occur again.’ Well, sir, I may have been wrong, but that’s a tone I am not used to; so what I answered was this. I said: ‘Well, your Grace, I am afraid if I don’t give satisfaction here I am not where I should be.’ ‘Oh, don’t say that,’ he said; but I was firm and I said: ‘Yes, your Grace, I don’t say which is to blame, but I do say that I must regard my connection with theMessengeras being at an end,’ and then, sir, I went out. You mustn’t blame me, Sir Jeremiah, I think I was acting as one gentleman should to another.”
During this long speech Sir Jeremiah Walton had put his head more and more on one side and watched with greater and greater interest the features and the delivery of Batterby. But all he said was: “You were right about John K., Batterby. And s’posing we wanted a story from yer to-night, Batterby, what could yer give us?”
“Well, Sir Jeremiah,” answered Batterby, thinking slowly, “there have been no letters or anything between us.”
“That’s all right,” said Sir Jeremiah, waving his hand. “We’ll ’ave that settled before you leave,” and he named a figure.
“I have got what they’re saying of the Duke’s own last little affair,” said Batterby at last. “The Hotel in Rome. Him being kicked down the main staircase,” he explained with a beautiful candor.
“Don’t want that,” said Sir Jeremiah, shaking his head, but this time laughing openly. “Dog don’t eat dog.”
“I’ve got the story they’re sending to Paris to-night, which was to have come out first in Paris and then in London next day. They’ve squared theMessenger, Sir Jeremiah. If you like it you can have it.”
“Eh?” snapped that politician eagerly. “Not the Foreign Office Note?” Batterby nodded. “By Go—Gum! That’s the style!” The knight was radiant. He was so moved that he opened a bottle of ginger ale, filled a glass and offered it to his guest. “That’s the style! Ye’re a trump, Batterby! Ye’re a trump!”
“Best respects,” said Batterby, lifting the ginger ale and falling into the manner of his youth.
“Granted, I am sure,” said Sir Jeremiah courteously. “We don’t allow anything stronger than that, yer know, Batterby.” And he winked, “Not ’ere, any’ow.” And he winked again.
“I know, sir, I know,” answered the other, conscious that the “Dragon” was within call.
Thus did Mr. Batterby recover what he had lost and rise from where he had fallen; and thus were the fortunes of one man unmade and made in one night, and the Duke’s reputation put in peril and just saved, and the secrets of Great Britain prematurely disclosed; and all this through the unconscious action of poor Mr. Petre, who would not have hurt a fly, and who at that hour of the night was already sleeping his good sleep down in the peace of the Hampshire country-side.
There is among the many departments of our well-ordered State a department which would be known if we were Chinese as “The Board of Things to be Known and Not to be Known.” Its seeming simple and deceptive name wild horses shall not tear from my sealed lips; and the reader must content himself with surmise.
Over this small but exceedingly important and admirably efficient cell of the executive presides a man of good birth, education and manners (for it is a permanent). He is elderly and a little jaded, but astonishingly on the spot.
Some hours before those much greater men, the Duke and the Knight, had been exchanging civil nothings with the ingenuous Batterby, this permanent official (K.C.B., Porter Mansions, £3,500, Eton and Trinity. Recreation, Golfing. Clubs, Travelers’, Blue Posts) was saying not more than half a dozen phrases to an equal in social rank, an inferior in years and office.
“You know that damned Yankee’s in town?”
“Yes.”
“They’ve told you it’s the usual note?”
“Oh! Yes—and Jessie Malvers said she particularly hoped....”
“That’s all right. She’s not the only one. You sent round to the Press Department?”
“Yes. Nothing’ll come out—as usual. But I don’t think we need worry much. He’s put the fear of God into everybody.”
“He was at Celia Cyril’s, all the same—at lunch to-day,” said the older man, getting up and mechanically settling a sheaf of paper on his table, as he prepared to go out. “His name’s not to get about, in spite of that. I don’t think he’ll go out much. You’ve had the division warned?”
“Johnson saw to that. They’ve got a plain clothes man both sides and another following.”
“That’s all right,” said the superior. “Going my way?”
“Yes.”
They took down their hats and coats from the lobby and sauntered off side by side till they came to the Horse Guards’ Parade, and so up the Duke of York’s Steps to the Club.
That same night a young and guileless constable of Division Phi, his head relieved of its preposterous helmet and his hands swinging at ease between his knees as he sat on a bench with betters, enjoying a brief and well-earned leisure, said: “That foreign millionaire at the Splendide, him as they call....”
“Never mind what they call him, me lad,” broke in a voice of authority, years and stripes, “the lessyoucall him anything the better for you. Them’s orders.” And a deep silence reigned.
In Bolters, oldest and noblest of clubs, the young ignoble Algernon piped out, “I say, Breeches, is it true this millionaire fellah....” But him also Breeches, irreverently so called, a man of much acquaintance and worldly sense, rapidly led aside, and, far out of earshot of all others, said in a low grumble: “You have the sense to keep quiet about that, about him, and you won’t regret it. Don’t you remember what happened to poor Harry?” At which Algernon marched off dazed but obedient.
MinatoryMinatory but Patient Admonishment of the Ignoble Algernon by Breeches of Bolter’s Club,St.James’ (S.W.1).
Minatory but Patient Admonishment of the Ignoble Algernon by Breeches of Bolter’s Club,St.James’ (S.W.1).