Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 57, No. 3. Whole No. 328, March 1971

The Peaceful People by Michael Gilbert[8]

The newest espionage story about our old friends, Behrens and Calder and Fortescue... And this time the undercover agents are dealing with an increasingly dangerous situation: labor problems, strikes, industrial agitators, rabble-rousers, near riots, and their impact on home economy and international politics. What was the connection between this growing unrest and an organization called The Peaceful People? — a Society dedicated to the cause of World Peace. Strange how much violence can be generated, unintentionally or otherwise, by fanatical advocates of peace...

But in a sense these are not the important issues in this highly contemporary story. The truly frightening issue is one that concerns us all, even those of us not directly involved either in strikes or in do-good organizations — as you will now discover for yourself...

“We call ourselves,” said Lord Axminster, “The Peaceful People, and we are gathered here tonight to testify by our presence, our belief in the rightness, the cumulative force and the inevitable ultimate success of the cause we all have at heart, the great cause of World Peace. It must prevail. There will be setbacks. No cause worthy of the name has ever succeeded without encountering, and overcoming, the opposition of bigotry, self-interest, and indifference. These are dragons to be slain and we will slay them, not grudging the mortification and the wounds, the toil and the discomfort—”

The chair on which he was seated had, Mr. Behrens concluded, been designed by a sadist. Its seat was not only hard, but knobbly in all the wrong places. It was tilted at an angle which threw you forward, but it was so short it gave no real support to the thighs.

“—but I will detain you no longer with blasts from my feeble trumpet. The object of our gathering is an exchange of ideas. A cross-fertilization of mind with mind. After we have heard the report of our International Secretary, Reverend Bligh, of the Unitarian Church of Minnesota, and have considered the financial statement produced by our hardworking treasurer, Mr. Ferris, we will be pleased to deal with the many questions which must, I feel sure, be agitating your minds.”

Reverend Bligh plunged straight into business. “Support for our movement,” he said, “continues to be global. In the period since we last met, messages of encouragement, and donations, have been received from Anatolia, Algeria, the Andaman Islands, Bahrain, Bangkok, Barbados—”

The raised edge of the seat dug into the femoral artery, cutting off the blood supply, and causing Mr. Behrens agonizing pins and needles.

“—Venezuela, Western Germany, Yucatan, and Zanzibar. In the light of such universal support we should be wrong to consider ourselves as lonely fighters. We must feel ourselves to be, as it were, the advance guard of a great invisible army with banners, marching as to war.” Feeling, perhaps, that this was an unhappy metaphor, he added, “A war for peace,” and sat down; whereupon Mr. Ferris, armed with a bundle of documents, reeled off a quantity of figures. The young man in horn-rimmed spectacles on Mr. Behrens’ left woke up and started to make notes. Pins and needles were succeeded by complete paralysis of the lower leg.

Question time was kicked off with an inquiry from a lady who had a nephew in Tanzania; it touched on devaluation (dealt with by Mr. Ferris), the role of the Church (a “natural” for Bishop Bligh), and the iniquities of the Government (blocked by Lord Axminster, whose peerage was political). It did not take them long to reach Vietnam.

A tall man, with insecure false teeth, managed to ask, “Would the platform expound to us its proposals with regard to the unhappy conflict at present decimating the peaceful people of Vietnam?”

“Certainly,” said Lord Axminster. “Our proposal is that the fighting cease at once.”

“On a more concrete plane,” said the young man with horn rimmed spectacles, “how is it proposed that this solution with which we all, of course, agree, should actually be attained?”

“It will be attained automatically, and immediately, when the United States withdraws its armed forces from the country.”

When the applause had subsided, Mr. Behrens rose to his feet and said, “Would it be proposed that the South Vietnamese forces should also withdraw from the country?”

“Certainly not,” said Lord Axminster. “The Vietnamese of the South would lay down their arms and embrace their brothers from the North in fraternal friendship.”

Renewed applause.

When the meeting was finished, Mr. Behrens got out as fast as the state of his legs would allow.

He had spotted a familiar-shaped head of gray hair in the front row. When its owner emerged into the foyer, Mr. Behrens had his back turned and was examining one of the campaign posters. He allowed the gray-headed, red-faced figure to get ahead of him, then followed. A taxi cruised past. The man ignored it and strode on. Evidently he had a car parked nearby somewhere.

Mr. Behrens secured the taxi. He said to the driver, “If I was leaving here by car for the West End, which way would I have to go?”

The driver meditated. He said, “You’re bound to go over the railway bridge. Carnelpit. All one way, see.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Behrens. “Get to the railway bridge and stop there.”

“Want me to follow someone?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Police?”

“Special Constable.”

“You look a bit old for a policeman.”

“They’re so short of men these days,” said Mr. Behrens sadly. “They have to call up anyone they can get hold of.”

It was an interesting chase. The gray-haired man was a bad-tempered driver and took a lot of chances with traffic lights and other motorists, but the taxi driver stuck to him with the ease of an expert angler playing a fresh-water fish. They finished up, fifty yards apart, outside a house in Eaton Terrace. Mr. Behrens noted the number and signaled the taxi driver to keep going. Once they were round the comer he redirected him to the Dons-in-London Club. He had a long report to write.

Two hundred miles to the North, in the industrial outskirts of a Midland town, a different sort of meeting was taking place. A couple of hundred men, mostly in overalls or old working clothes, were crowded into the small open space in front of the main gates of the Amalgamated Motor Traction Company’s factory. Since it was the lunch hour many of them were eating sandwiches, out of small dispatch cases, but all were listening to the speaker.

“Punchy” Lewis had a jerky but forceful delivery. He had learned the value of short simple sentences, and his timing was expert. Lord Axminster could have learned a lot from him.

“And who gains from this lovely arrangement? Who actually gains from it? I’ll tell you one thing. We don’t. And if we don’t, who does? You don’t need to be a genius at mathematics to work that out. Who gains?”

“They do,” shouted the crowd.

Mr. Lewis smiled down on his listeners. “You heard what they call it! They call it a new deal. That’s not what I call it. I call it a crooked deal. A deal with a stacked deck. And shall I tell you who’s champion at stacking cards?” Pause for effect. “The bloody Yanks, that’s who.”

There was a roar from the crowd.

Mr. Calder who was standing inconspicuously in the rear found it difficult to tell whether the applause was a tribute to the speaker’s timing, or whether there was genuine warmth in it.

“That’s what I said. The bloody Yanks.” Lewis turned his head toward the building behind him and shouted, “And I hope you heard that in the Board Room.” Swinging round on the meeting and lowering his voice to a conversational level he added, “What we’ve had plenty of since these bloody Yanks took over is Amalgamated Motors is trouble. A big handout of trouble. Now they want us to crawl in and lick their boots and say thank you for a lovely new deal. If you want to do that, I don’t.”

Mr. Calder became aware of movement behind him. The workers who wanted to get back, because the lunch break was over, were forming up in some sort of order at the rear of the crowd, which blocked the way. Lewis saw them too.

“I notice some of our mates,” he said, “hanging round the back there, waiting to crawl in. That’s why we’re holding our meeting right here. Because if they want to crawl in they’ll have to crawl past us, and we can just see them do it.”

There were police there too, Mr. Calder noticed, in plain clothes as well as in uniform. Leading them was a Superintendent, with the beefy red face and light blue eyes of a fighter. He pushed his way through the crowd and made straight for Lewis.

He said, “Stand back. Clear the way there. If these men want to get in you’ve got no right to stop them.”

Over the growing crowd noises Lewis could be heard shouting, “We’ve got our rights under the law! We’re picketing this gate. Peaceful picketing.”

The Superintendent said, “Take that man.”

And then pandemonium broke loose.

Mr. Calder had every intention of keeping out of trouble. He started to back away. As he did so, someone tripped him from behind. He put his hands out to save himself and received a violent blow in the middle of the back. Until that moment he had assumed that the hustling was accidental. Now he knew better. Instead of trying to turn he let himself go, falling across the trampling legs. Two men tripped over him, and he pulled a third man’s legs from under him, squirmed onto his hands and knees, and crawled to temporary safety behind the human barricade he had created.

As he scrambled to his feet he could hear the police whistles shrilling for reinforcements. A crash proclaimed that the platform had gone down. Mr. Calder waited no longer. He ran toward the side road, where he had left his car.

When he got there, he saw there was going to be more trouble. A truck was now parked across the nose of his car, and two men were sitting in it, watching him.

He said, “Would you mind moving that truck? I want to get out.”

The men looked at each other, then climbed slowly out, one on each side of the cab. They were big men. One of them said, “What’s the hurry, mate? You running away or something?” The other laughed and said, “Looks as if someone’s been roughing him up already.”

“That’s right. And if he doesn’t mind his manners he may be in for more.”

Mr. Calder said, “I’m getting tired of this.” He opened the door of his car. Rasselas came out and looked at the men, lifting his lip a little as he did so. Mr. Calder indicated the man on the right, and the dog moved toward him, his yellow eyes alight. The man stepped back quickly. As he did so, Mr. Calder hit the second man.

It was not a friendly blow. It was a left-handed short-arm jab, aimed low enough to have got him disqualified in any prize fighting ring. As the man started to double up, Mr. Calder slashed him across the neck with the full swing of his right arm, hand held rigid. The man went down and stayed down. Mr. Calder then transferred his attention to the other man, who was standing quite still, his back against the truck, watching Rasselas.

“You can either move the truck,” said Mr. Calder, nursing his right hand which had suffered in the impact, “or have your windpipe opened up.”

“You would appear to have been in the wars,” observed Mr. Fortescue. “That’s a remarkably perfect example of a black eye that you have. How did you acquire it?”

Mr. Calder said, “I was trodden on. By a plainclothes policeman, actually.”

“I trust you weren’t attempting to assault him.”

“I wasn’t attempting to do anything except keep out of trouble. I was tripped from behind, hit as I went down, and trampled on.”

“Accidents will happen.”

“There was nothing accidental about it. I was on the edge of the crowd, minding my own business. But someone had spotted me. There were two more of the heavy brigade waiting for me by my car. Luckily I had Rasselas with me, and that evened things up.”

“I see. And what was your impression of the meeting?”

“Manufactured, for public consumption. A very skilled piece of stage management by people who knew their job backwards. A couple of hundred genuine strikers, at least twenty professional agitators, and an equal number of reporters, who’d been tipped off beforehand that something was going to happen and were ready with cameras and notebooks to record it for posterity.”

“It may not prove,” said Mr. Fortescue, “that having reporters there was really such a good idea. The police impounded all the photographs they’d taken. I have copies here. Is there anyone you recognize?”

Mr. Calder looked at the photographs. Some of them seemed to have been taken from a window overlooking the scene and showed the whole crowd. Others were closeups, taken by reporters in the melee itself. There was a fine shot of the platform going down and Punchy Lewis jumping clear.

“Is that Superintendent Vellacott on the ground?”

“It is indeed. He was very roughly handled and is now in the Infirmary. He’s still on the danger list.”

Mr. Calder had carried one of the photographs over to the window to examine it. He said, “There are one or two faces here I seem to recognize.”

“Indeed, yes. Govan, Patrick, Hall—”

“An All-Star cast. What are they doing with them?”

“They’re being held. The Chief Constable would like to charge them. He’s very upset about his Superintendent. I’ve tried to persuade him that it would be unwise. They’ll make a public show out of the trial. If they’re convicted they’re martyrs, and if they’re acquitted they’re heroes.”

Mr. Calder was still intent on the photographs. “That’s me,” he said. “You can just see my foot sticking out.” He picked up another one. “What beats me is, who puts the money up for a show like this? Twenty top-class agitators at twenty-five pounds apiece. And they wouldn’t get Punchy to come from South Wales for less than a hundred quid.”

“Part, at least, of their funds come from a liberal and philanthropic body known as The Peaceful People. You may have seen their manifestoes in the papers.”

“I have indeed. I thought they were a harmless and woolly-minded lot of intellectual pinks.”

“Behrens has attended six of their public meetings in the last two months. He found them excessively boring.”

“My meeting wasn’t boring!”

“Last night he thought he recognized Sir James Docherty in the audience. He followed him home to check up. It was Sir James.”

“Odd place to find our current shadow Foreign Secretary.”

“Sir James is an odd man,” said Mr. Fortescue.

He said the same thing to the Home Secretary that afternoon.

Mr. Fortescue had served six Home Secretaries, and the incumbent was the one he admired most — a thick Yorkshireman, sagging a little now, but still showing the muscle and guts that had brought him up from a boyhood in the pits to his present job.

He said, “If things go wrong for us at the next election, Fortescue, he’ll be one of your new bosses. I wish you luck with him. He was here this morning, complaining about some customs officer who had dared to open his bag when he was coming back from one of his trips to Paris. He asked me to discipline him. I refused, of course. Don’t let’s talk about Sir James. I want to hear about the riot.”

“Calder was in the crowd. He confirms what we’d suspected. It was a put-up job. Aimed at the American management of Amalgamated Motors.”

“Motive?”

“Anti-Americanism is the easiest platform for any rabble-rouser today.”

“The easiest and the most dangerous. An open split between ourselves and the Americans would benefit the Russians enormously. And the Chinese still more. Who were behind this show? Do we know?”

“It was paid for, if not actually run, by the Action Committee of The Peaceful People. The main body is respectable, aboveboard, and full of public figures. It holds meetings, writes to the papers, and collects funds, which it hands over to its Action Committee, without much idea, I would suspect, of how the funds are going to be used.”

“The tail wagging the dog, eh. They’d want more than casual money to finance the sort of national pressure they’re keeping up.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Fortescue. “I fancy they’re getting regular subsidies.”

“Where from?”

“I’d very much like to find out. But it’s not going to be easy. Some organizations are easy to penetrate. But not this particular committee. It’s too closely interrelated. The members all know each other personally. They’ve worked together for years. If we tried to slip anyone in, it would simply be asking for trouble. The sort of trouble Calder ran into at the meeting.”

He told the Home Secretary about it. The Yorkshireman said, “Ay, they’re a rough crowd. What do you suggest?”

“We shall have to tackle it from the outside. Slower, but more certain. The first thing is to trace the money. It comes from somewhere abroad. Regularly, and in largish amounts. The Bank of England is confident that it’s not done by credit transfer. This money actually comes in — that is, it’s brought in physically. If we knew how it would be a start. Either the money would lead us to the man, or the man to the money. When we’ve got proof we’ll let The Peaceful People know exactly how they’re being used. They won’t like it. And they’ll stop financing their Action Committee. Without money they can’t function.”

The Home Secretary had listened to this exposition in silence — a silence which continued after Mr. Fortescue had finished. At last he said, “I don’t have to tell you that things are moving very fast in international politics at the moment. Personally, I’m not unhopeful. The outcome might be very good. On the other hand it might be very bad. And the smallest thing could tip the balance. So don’t take too long.”

The Offices of William Watson (Paris) Limited, Importers and Exporters, are in a small street running south from the Quai des Augustins. The head of the firm is a Mr. Mackenzie, but should you ask to see him you will invariably find that he is absent, on temporary sick leave. You will be invited to return in a week’s time.

If you know the form you refuse to be put off and inquire instead for his deputy, Mr. Rathbone. Mr. Behrens evidently knew the form. He was shown into an outer office and passed, after scrutiny by a severe, gray-haired lady, into the inner sanctum where a surprisingly youthful Mr. Rathbone was trying his hand at a French crossword puzzle.

When the preliminaries had been concluded he said, “Your last signal stirred things up a bit, I can tell you. Do you mind explaining what’s happening?”

Mr. Behrens said, “It’s a long story. Four men were pulled in after a strike meeting in the Midlands. A Welshman named Lewis and three others. They had some trouble with them.”

“Was that when the Superintendent got kicked?”

“That’s right. Well, they found money on all of them. New notes, in sequence. And it was hot money — part of the proceeds of two bank jobs pulled by the Barrow gang last year. But — and this is the odd part — we knew for certain, because we’d had a reliable tip, that the loot had left the country. It was taken across the Channel on the night of the robbery and was out of the country before the news of the robbery broke. It was cached somewhere here, in Paris, until the heat cooled off. Then it was offered, discreetly, for sale. At a heavy discount, of course. Three months ago the Chinese bought the lot.”

“So that’s why you asked us to keep an eye on their Trade Commission.”

“That’s right. We thought it might give us a lead.”

“Well, we’ve got something for you. Whether it’s a lead or not I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me.”

Mr. Rathbone went across to a cabinet labeled “Export Samples,” unlocked it, and extracted a folder.

“The only thing we’ve noticed in the least bit odd is that one of their chauffeurs has been paying regular visits, after dark, to a small place called the Hotel Continental. It’s a moderate-sized dump in the Place Languedoc. Not too expensive, much used by businessmen from England, civil servants coming to conferences, Government delegates, and people of that type. The sort of place where they serve bacon and eggs for breakfast without being asked.”

“And what does the chauffeur do when he gets there?”

“He disappears into the kitchen. What happens after that we haven’t been able to find out.”

“Possibly he has a girl friend in the kitchen staff.”

“Maybe. When he’s not being a chauffeur he’s a Colonel in the Chinese Army — so I think it’s unlikely.”

“Even Colonels have human feelings,” said Mr. Behrens. “But I agree there might be something in it. Could you get a list of all the guests — particularly the English guests — who have stayed at the Continental during the past six months?”

Mr. Rathbone extracted a list from the folder and said, “Your wishes have been anticipated, sir. It goes back to the beginning of the year.”

Mr. Behrens studied the list. Two names on it, which occurred no less than four times, appeared to interest him.

The prison interview room was quiet and rather cold. Punchy Lewis, in custody, looked a smaller, less magnetic figure than Punchy Lewis on a platform. His thin white face was set in obstinate lines. He said, “It’s bloody nothing to do with you where I got the money from. It’s not a crime in this country to own money, or have they passed some law I haven’t heard about?”

“If you don’t realize the spot you’re in,” said Mr. Calder, “it’s a waste of time talking to you.” He got up and made for the door. A policeman was sitting outside, his head just visible through the glass spyhole.

“No one’s persuaded me I’m in a spot,” said Lewis. “I didn’t do anything. If the police charge in while I’m speaking, and get roughed up, they can’t blame me. I didn’t incite anyone. Every word I said’s on record. I’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

Mr. Calder perched on the comer of the table, like a man who is in two minds whether to go or stay. He sat there for a long minute while Lewis shifted uneasily in his chair. Then he said, “I don’t like you. I don’t like the people you work for. And if I didn’t want something out of you personally, I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you. But that’s the position. You’ve got one piece of information I want. It’s the only thing you’ve got for sale. And I’ll buy it.”

“Talk straight.”

“You think you’re going to be charged with incitement, or assault, or something like that. You’re not. The charge is receiving stolen goods. And you’ll get five or seven for it.”

“The money, you mean? Talk sense, man. I didn’t know it was stolen.”

“That’s not what the police are going to say. Do you know where that money came from? It was lifted from a bank — by the Barrow gang last year.”

“And just how are they going to show I knew that?”

“Be your age. They’ve already got two witnesses lined up who saw Charlie Barrow handing it to you in a Soho Club.”

“It’s a lie.”

“All right,” said Mr. Calder calmly. “It’s a lie. But it’s what they’re going to say all the same. They don’t like having their chaps kicked in the head. They’re funny that way.”

“The bloody sods,” said Lewis. He thought for a moment, then added, “They’d do it, too.”

Mr. Calder got up. He said, “I haven’t got a lot of time to waste. Do we deal or not?”

“What’s the proposition?”

“I want to know where that money came from. Who gave it to you. When and where and how. Details that I can check up. You give me that and the charge of receiving goes out of the window.”

Sir James Docherty said to his wife, “I’m afraid I’m off on my travels. It’s Paris again.”

“Oh, dear,” said Lady Docherty. “So soon?”

“Needs must, when public duty calls. Is there any more coffee in that pot?”

“I can squeeze out another cup. Who is it this time?”

“I’ve got semi-official talks with de Bessieres at the Quai d’Orsay. There are occasions” — Sir James dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee — “when the French Government finds it easier to make unofficial suggestions to a member of the opposition than to the Government. Then they can disclaim them if things don’t work out.”

“I’m sure they like talking to you because they know that you’ll be Foreign Minister, as soon as the electorate comes to its senses.”

“Maybe,” said Sir James. “I’ll be taking Robin with me.”

A faint shadow crossed Lady Docherty’s face. “Do you think you ought to?” she said. “He’s been away such a lot. Four times to France and those trips to the Midlands—”

“My dear,” said Sir James, “you’re talking as though they were holiday jaunts. He’s not wasting his time, you know. He’s studying political science. And what better way to study political science than to see politics in action. When he comes to France with me he meets important people — people who matter. He can see the wheels of international politics turning. When he goes to the Midlands it’s to study these industrial strikes at first hand.”

“Those terrible strikes. Why do they do it?”

“You mustn’t assume,” said Sir James, scooping the sugar out of the bottom of the cup with his spoon, “that the faults are all on one side. Management can be quite as bloody-minded as the workers. More so, sometimes.”

In the next 48 hours a lot of apparently disconnected activities took place. Mr. Calder spent the time working as a porter in Covent Garden helping to load the trucks of an old friend of his in the fruit trade. His spare time was divided between betting shops and public houses, neither in short supply in that neighborhood. The money he made in the former he spent in the latter.

Mr. Behrens, who had reserved a room at the Hotel Continental in the Place Languedoc, spent his time making friends with the hotel staff.

Young Robin Docherty had a prickly interview with his class tutor at the London School of Economics. The tutor said that if Robin spent all of his time running errands for his father in the Midlands and trotting across to Paris with him in the intervals, he was most unlikely to complete the scholastic side of his studies satisfactorily.

The Home Secretary answered two questions and three supplementaries about the strikes and disturbances which were paralyzing the motor industry. And Mr. Fortescue attended to the customers at the Westminster Branch of the London and Home Counties Bank, granting one overdraft and refusing two.

Mr. Calder came to see Mr. Fortescue on the third day.

He said, “What Lewis told us has checked. I still don’t know how the money gets into this country from France, but as soon as it does get here it’s taken to a betting shop in Covent Garden. The Action Committee meets in the back room of a pub just down the road. It’s on their instructions that the cash payments are handed out from the bookmakers. That’s as much as I’ve been able to learn. I can’t get any closer to these people. Some of them know me.”

Mr. Fortescue considered the matter, rotating a silver pencil slowly over in his hand as he did so. Then he said, “If you’ve evidence that stolen money is passing through this betting shop there should be no difficulty about getting permission to listen in to their telephone.”

“You ought to get some useful tips on the races,” said Mr. Calder.

Mr. Fortescue did not smile. His eyes were on his pencil. “Some sort of arrangements must be made for the reception of the money.”

“That probably takes place after the shop’s shut. There’s a back entrance.”

“No doubt. What I mean is, they must know when to expect the money and who’s going to bring it. If we could find that out, we could put our finger on the courier. Then we might be able to backtrack to the person who brings it across the Channel. We shall have to do it very carefully.”

“You will indeed,” said Mr. Calder. “These boys have got eyes in the back of their heads.”

It was exactly a week later when Mr. Fortescue called on the Home Secretary and made his report.

“When you gave us permission to listen in to that betting shop we started to make some real progress. It was the calls after hours that interested us. They were very guarded and came through different intermediaries, but we were able to trace them to their original source.”

“To the carrier of the money?”

“To his house.”

“Excellent. Who is the man?”

“The owner of the house,” said Mr. Fortescue with a completely impassive face, “is Sir James Docherty.”

For a moment this failed to register. Then the Home Secretary swung round, his face going red. “If that’s a joke—” he said.

“It’s not a joke. It’s a fact. The point of origin of these messages is Sir James’s house in Eaton Terrace. Sir James also happens to be a member — a founding member — of The Peaceful People. Taken alone, I agree, neither of these facts is conclusive.”

“Taken together they’re still inconclusive. You told me that The Peaceful People were backing their Action Committee with money. The messages might have been about that.”

“They might have been,” said Mr. Fortescue, “but they weren’t. They had nothing to do with the official business of the Society at all. And here are two other facts. One of my men has been making inquiries in Paris. He has established that there is a regular courier service between the Chinese Trade Commission and the Hotel Continental. Which happens to be Sir James’s regular pied-a-terre in Paris. Add to that the fact that Sir James’s visits are usually arranged at official level. And that this enables him to bring in his valise, which is said to carry official papers, under diplomatic exemption.”

The Home Secretary said, “Do you really believe, Fortescue, that a man in Sir James’s position would lend himself to smuggling currency — a criminal maneuver?”

“Whether or not I believed it,” said Mr. Fortescue, “would depend in the last analysis on my estimate of his character.”

The Home Secretary turned this reply over in his mind for a few moments. Then he grunted and said, “He’s a loud-mouthed brute, I agree. And I loathe his politics. But that doesn’t make him a crook.”

“I am told that he is something of a domestic tyrant. I would not assert that he beats his wife, but she certainly goes in considerable awe of him. His only son, Robin, has been forced to study political science and is dragged round at his father’s chariot wheels, no doubt destined to be turned into a junior model.”

“And that’s our next Foreign Secretary. A fascist with a taste for gunboat diplomacy. What do you want to do? Tap his outgoing Calls?”

“Yes. And have his mail opened. And have him watched day and night, in England and in France. If he’s our man he’ll slip up, sooner or later, and we’ve got to be there to catch him when he falls.”

“If he’s our man,” said the Home Secretary. “And if he isn’t, by any chance, and if he finds out what we’re doing — there’ll be an explosion which will rock Whitehall from end to end.”

“So I should imagine.”

“The first head that will roll will be mine. But make no mistake about it, Fortescue. The second will be yours.”

The young Customs Officer at Heathrow Airport produced a printed form and said, “You know the regulations, sir?”

“Since I have traveled backwards and forwards to Paris some twelve times this year,” said Sir James Docherty, “I think you may assume that I have a nodding acquaintance with the regulations.”

“And have you made any purchases while you were abroad?”

“None whatever.”

“Or acquired any currency?”

Sir James looked up sharply and said, “I don’t acquire currency when I travel. I spend it.”

“I see, sir. Then would you mind opening this valise?”

“I would mind very much.”

“I’m afraid you must, sir.”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to examine the seal on the lock. I take it you are capable of recognizing an Embassy Seal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And perhaps you would also read this note from our Ambassador, requesting you to confer the customary exemption from search on this bag which, I might add, contains important diplomatic documents.”

The Customs Officer glanced at the letter, then handed it to the thick-set man in a raincoat who was standing beside the counter. This man said, “I’m afraid, sir, that I have an order here, signed by the Home Secretary, overriding the Ambassador’s request.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Calder.”

“Then let me tell you, Mr. Calder—”

“I think we ought to finish this in private.”

Sir James started to say that he was damned if he would, realized that he was shouting and that people were starting to look at him, and resumed his public-relations manner.

“If you wish to continue this farce,” he said in a choked voice, “by all means let us do it in private.”

“But it wasn’t a farce,” said Mr. Calder. “There were three thousand pounds, in fivers, stowed away flat, at the bottom of his valise.”

“What explanation did he give?”

“He was past rational explanation. He screamed a bit and stamped and foamed at the mouth. Literally, I thought he was having some sort of fit.”

“But no explanation?”

“I gathered, in the end, that he said someone must have been tampering with his baggage. Frame up. Police State. Gestapo. That sort of line.”

“I see,” said Mr. Fortescue. He said it so flatly that it made Mr. Calder look up.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“I gather,” said Fortescue, “that Sir James has managed to persuade our masters that we have made a very grave mistake.”

“But good God! I saw the notes. We all did. How does he suggest they got there?”

“He suggests,” said Mr. Fortescue sadly, “that Behrens put them there. I am seeing the Home Secretary in an hour’s time. I rather fear that we may be in for trouble.”

“Incredible though it may seem,” said the Home Secretary, “it really does appear that the one person who couldn’t have put the money there was Sir James himself — unless he bribed half the Ambassador’s private staff.”

“What exactly happened?”

“Our Ambassador had a highly confidential document — a memorandum in the General’s own hand — and Sir James offered to act as courier. The Head of Chancery put the document in Sir James’s valise — which was almost empty as it happens — saw the valise sealed, and handed it to the Ambassador’s Secretary, who took it back to the hotel and himself saw it locked up in Sir James’s bedroom. The Secretary didn’t leave the hotel. He stayed there, lunched with young Robin, and the two of them escorted the valise to the Airport.”

“And what was Sir James doing all this time?”

“Sir James was having lunch with our Ambassador, the French Minister of the Interior, and the wife of the French Minister of the Interior.”

“How precisely is it suggested that the notes got into the valise?”

“There’s no mystery about that. Microscopic examination of the seal — what was left of it — shows that it had been removed, whole, with a hot knife and refixed with adhesive. Probably during lunch hour.”

“And it’s suggested that Behrens did that?”

“He was at the hotel.”

“So were two hundred other people.”

“You don’t think, Fortescue, that he might — just conceivably — have thought he was being helpful.”

Mr. Fortescue said, “I have known Behrens for thirty years. Impossible.” After a pause he added, “What is Sir James going to do?”

“He’s been to the Prime Minister. He wants the people responsible discovered and dealt with.”

Mr. Fortescue smiled a wintry smile. He said, “I do not often find myself in agreement with Sir James, but that sentiment is one with which I heartily concur. I shall need to make an immediate telephone call to Paris.”

“I’m afraid you won’t catch Behrens. He’s on his way back.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Fortescue. He seemed to have recovered his good humor. “Excellent. We may need him. The person I wished to speak to was the Ambassador’s Private Secretary. Perhaps your office could arrange it for me? Oh, and the manager of the Hotel Continental. Then we must have Behrens intercepted at the airport and brought straight round to Sir James’s house — to meet me there.”

“You’re going to see Sir James?”

“I have really no alternative,” said Mr. Fortescue genially. “In his present mood he would certainly not come to see us, would he?”

Sir James was at ease in front of his drawing-room fire, the bottom button of his waistcoat undone, a glass of port in one hand, an admiring audience of two, consisting of wife and son, hanging on every word.

“And it might have come off,” he said, “if I hadn’t been wide-awake and, I admit it, had a bit of luck. I could have been in a very awkward spot.”

“And now it’s them who are on the spot,” said Robin with a grin.

“In the old days,” said Lady Docherty, “they’d have had their heads cut off.”

“Even if they don’t lose their heads I think we can be sure that the people concerned will lose their jobs. I’m seeing the Prime Minister again tomorrow. I wonder who that can be?”

“I’ll go,” said Robin. “The girl’s out. What do I do if it’s a reporter?”

“Invite him in. The wider the publicity this deplorable matter receives the better for” — he was going to say “my chances at the next election,” but changed it to — “the country.”

Robin came back, followed by two men. “I don’t think it is the Press,” he said. “It’s a Mr. Fortescue and a Mr. Behrens.”

“I see,” said Sir James coldly. “Well, I’ve nothing much to say to you that can’t be said, in due course, in front of a Tribunal of Enquiry, but if you’ve come to apologize I’m quite willing to listen. No, stay where you are, my dear. And you too, Robin. The more witnesses we have, the better.”

“I agree,” said Mr. Behrens.

“Kind of you.”

“It would be appropriate if your son were to remain since most of what I have to say concerns him.” Mr. Fortescue swung round on the boy, ignoring Sir. James. “I’ve just spoken to the Ambassador’s Private Secretary in Paris. He tells me that you were away from the luncheon table for nearly half an hour. Making a long-distance call, you said. Why did you lie about it?”

“Don’t answer him,” said Sir James. But the boy appeared to have forgotten about his father. He said, in his pleasant, level voice, “What makes you think it was a lie, sir?”

“I know it was a lie because I’ve talked to the hotel manager. He tells me that no long-distance call in or out was recorded during that period. On the other hand, Behrens here saw you leave the dining room. He followed you up to the bedroom, saw you go in, and heard you lock the door.”

“And who do you suppose,” fumed Sir James, “is going to believe your agent provocateur?”

“Well, Robin,” Mr. Fortescue went on, “if you weren’t telephoning, what were you doing?”

Sir James jumped up and forced himself between them. “I’ll deal with this,” he said. “If you think you can shift the blame onto my son on manufactured evidence—”

“Don’t you think he might be allowed to speak for himself?”

“No, I don’t.”

“He’ll have to sooner or later.”

“Unless you can produce something better than the word of your own spy he’s not going to have to answer at all.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of evidence,” said Mr. Fortescue mildly. “Robin’s been a member of the Action Committee of your Society for two years — that’s right, isn’t it, Robin? I would surmise that during all that time he’s been using your diplomatically protected luggage to bring back funds for the Committee from France.”

“Lies,” said Sir James in a strangled voice.

“He has also taken a personal part in a number of demonstrations. He was up in the Midlands last week—”

“Collecting information for me.”

“No doubt. He also put in some time kicking a police superintendent. Have you the photographs, Behrens?”

Sir James glared at the photograph. “A fake!”

Robin said, “Oh, stop bluffing, Dad. Of course it isn’t faked. How could it be?”

There was a. moment of complete silence, broken by Lady Docherty who said, “Robin” faintly.

“Keep out of this, mother.”

Sir James recovered his voice. He said, “Your mother has every right—”

“Neither of you,” said Robin, silencing his parent with surprising ease, “has any rights in the matter at all. I’m twenty-one. And I know what I’m doing. You talk about violence and ruthlessness, Dad. But that’s all you ever do — you and your Peaceful People. Talk, talk. I don’t believe” — a faint smile illuminated his young face — “that you’ve ever actually hit anyone in your life. Really hit them, meaning to hurt. Have you?” Sir James was past speech. “Well, I have, and I’m going to go on doing it, because if you truly believe in something that’s the only way you’re going to make it happen — in your own lifetime anyway. By breaking the law and hurting people and smashing things. And young people all over the world have seen it. They know what to do. Don’t talk. Kick out.”

Mr. Fortescue said, “I take it that includes kicking people when they’re on the ground.”

“Of course,” said Robin. “It’s much easier to kick them when they’re lying down than when they’re standing up. Why not?”

“I left that to Sir James to answer,” said Mr. Fortescue, sometime later, to the Home Secretary. “He’s a politician and used to answering awkward questions.”