John K. Petre was 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 the _Messenger_, 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 the _Messenger_ came 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.”
[Illustration: _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,
the _Chicago Judge_, when the _Chicago Judge_ had 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 the _Messenger_ was something bigger than the _Chicago
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. “The _Messenger’s_ always
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 the _Messenger_, ’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
_’ad_ been asked,” went on Sir Jeremiah with the happiness of his
very considerable fortune spread all over his face, “if I _’ad_ been
asked what risky thing I _wouldn’t_ do, just now this minute, I
should ’a said, touching Touaregs; and if I had been asked what was
suicide, _I_ should ’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?”
[Illustration: _Sir Jeremiah Walton, God’s Servant._]
“Well, sir,” said Batterby slowly, recalling the exact terms of the
conversation in the inner room of the _Messenger_, “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 the _Messenger_ as 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 the _Messenger_, 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 less _you_ call 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.
[Illustration: _Minatory but Patient Admonishment of the Ignoble
Algernon by Breeches of Bolter’s Club, St. James’ (S.W.1)._]