3

The Man Who Called Himself Ryall

No greeting could have been warmer or more reassuring.

The huge man’s grip was firm but not too powerful, although his hand enveloped Garth’s. Then motioning him to a comfortable easy-chair, he took two silver boxes from the desk.

‘A cigar?’ he invited. ‘Or a cigarette. I can recommend both.’

‘A cigarette, thank you,’ said Garth.

‘Good, good!’ beamed the man. ‘Are you comfortable? Good. Now I’ve no doubt that you are puzzled by my somewhat unusual method of inviting you here—and much to my dismay, I remembered after posting the letter that I had not signed it. Like most of us, these days, I am a very busy man, Mr. Garth—I’m afraid I don’t pay the attention to detail I should.’ He smiled widely; and his large, white teeth were thrown into sharp relief by a massive black beard and moustache. ‘I hope you will forgive the discourtesy, my dear sir!’

‘Of course,’ murmured Garth.

‘Very good of you,’ beamed the other. ‘Now, sir, my name is Ryall—spelt R-Y-A-L-L.’ His voice was deep but soft; he uttered the name naturally enough and Garth hoped he did not show his surprise, for he had expected ‘Franklin’. The deception—either on the part of the cousins, or the remarkable man in front of him—made him suddenly more aware of the delicacy of his position.

‘Well, Mr. Ryall?’ Garth lit up, casually. But he was glad of the excuse to avoid the other’s piercing gaze.

Nothing about the man who called himself Ryall was less than striking. His unusually large, pale grey eyes had a singular luminosity which was only emphasised by the startling blackness of his jutting brows. Above them, the forehead was high, broad and remarkably unlined. Wiry, dark hair grew in tufts high on his cheeks and covered the backs of his powerful hands. There was physical strength far beyond average in the man, Garth thought. And not only physical strength; there was real ‘power’ there.

The huge man’s clothes were hopelessly out-of-date, he noted. His shoulders were too squarely-tailored; his too-long coat was waisted and had lapels of watered silk. He wore a Gladstonian butterfly collar, and his black tie was drawn through a plain gold ring. As he seated himself now behind the big desk, his beard covered his collar and cravat.

‘You must be very curious, Mr. Garth?’ he suggested, and beamed again.

‘I am,’ admitted Garth. ‘Otherwise I should not have come.’ He felt it wise to be a little aloof. ‘May I ask if you are likely to keep me long, Mr. Ryall?’

The big man’s eyebrows rose.

‘I do hope it is not an inconvenient evening for you, Mr. Garth? I had hoped you would be able to dine with me. But if you have another engagement....’ He paused, still smiling; although without much humour, Garth was certain.

‘Good of you,’ murmured Garth. ‘It is simply that I have a taxi waiting …’

‘My dear sir, that is easily attended to!’ Ryall leaned forward and pressed a bell-push. ‘We can call a cab for you as soon as we have finished our talk. Ethel,’ he added, as the maid appeared at the door. ‘Pay off Mr. Garth’s taxi, please.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said in her pleasant voice, and went out again.

As the door closed, Garth felt that a link with the outer, ordinary world had gone. He wished now that he had pretended to have a later engagement; or at least declared himself unable to stay to dinner. But he relaxed a little as Ryall leaned back, his huge hands spread wide on the desk before him.

‘Now that is settled, Mr. Garth, I shall explain my motives in inviting you here. I want it clearly understood that the proposition I am going to put to you may not be attractive. If it is not, then you have only to tell me and we shall forget the whole thing.’

‘I see,’ said Garth, pointedly non-committal.

‘Good!’ Ryall was a shade too hearty. ‘Now, there are contributary reasons for my wishing to see you, of course, and thinking that you might be of service to me. And also,’ he added sententiously, ‘to your country. We can serve England in many ways, sometimes in the limelight of publicity, with the accompaniment of guns and martial music—the war has produced many heroes. Or we can serve the country quietly; sometimes—in fact very often—without being appreciated. But you will realise that, won’t you, Mr. Garth?’

Garth said defensively: ‘I don’t quite understand you.’

‘I think you do,’ Ryall told him, gently ‘I have followed your career with much interest, Mr. Garth. I know that you are one of the most brilliant and polished orators of the day. I have even heard you speak—and I may say I have been as greatly impressed by your command of words, as by your studied use of rhetoric. You have the power to sway multitudes—but perhaps you do not realise that?’

‘I should hardly have thought―’

‘My dear sir, I understand you!’ Ryall slapped the desk with a heavy hand. ‘You know your powers, but you have received a sharp reprimand—I can read between the lines of newspaper reports, believe me! You feel you have been badly treated—of course you do. And I agree with you. I agree fully with everything you said in America. I only wish that your superiors—as they like to call themselves!’ he amended, with fine scorn—‘realised the importance of speaking frankly to our friends across the Atlantic.’

Garth thought: So the cousins were right.

Although still wary, he could not believe Ryall had any suspicion of the other interview: the man was too self-assured. It would be wise, he decided, to appear to submit to the influence of his undoubtedly powerful personality. The more he agreed with him, the more he was likely to learn. And since Ryall had plainly selected him because of his alleged sense of grievance against his superiors:

‘I’m glad you do,’ he said warmly. ‘It’s time someone—oh, forget it! I shouldn’t have talked so freely,’ he mumbled, with apparent embarrassment.

‘I don’t agree with you,’ Ryall told him. ‘It is your sponsors, not you who were wrong. You said what needed saying. If it cannot be said through Government spokesmen, then it must be said through other channels. Let me assure you, Mr. Garth: I have studied Anglo-American relations for a long time. I have interests in both countries. In my opinion, only frankness will serve. Like you …’

Ryall’s voice dropped, became confidential: ‘I have fallen foul of the pundits in Whitehall. I have grown tired of trying to convince them of the correct way to approach the people—let me emphasise that: the people—of the United States. That being so, I have decided to endeavour to approach them myself. I have influential friends whose only interest is the promotion of a bloc, such as the already-proposed United Nations, to ensure world peace for many years to come. And the corner-stone of such an organisation can only be Anglo-American amity. Don’t you agree, Mr. Garth?’

‘In principle, yes,’ he began. ‘Of course! But I don’t see …’

Ryall waved a hand grandiloquently.

‘In principle, Mr. Garth—that is what matters! We have a common interest and a mutual understanding of the problem, and we have suffered in like fashion from the conservative—perhaps I should say the traditional Establishment—approach to the problem. What we have to discover, then, is an effective method of combating the influences which block progress. Can we agree on that?’

Garth hesitated.

‘Yes … But I ought to be frank, Mr. Ryall. I am in the service of the Ministry, which means that I am not at liberty to make commitments outside it.’

As before, Ryall waved his objection aside.

‘A difficulty, my dear sir—and as such, made to be overcome. Have I studied your career, especially your later speeches, rightly? Do I understand that, deep within yourself, you feel a sense of frustration, an aching awareness of the wrongness of our present methods? Am I not right when I say that in your opinion we are heading for misunderstanding—for a repetition of the folly which brought calamity upon the world?’

Ryall spoke as if he were addressing a meeting, and Garth was aware of the power of the man’s own rhetoric.

He was deliberately presenting an unanswerable case—while subtly implying that he and Garth were far superior intellectually to those with whom they differed. It was easy to imagine the effect Ryall’s words would have on a self-centred individual suffering from wounded vanity over an allegedly unearned reprimand.

All the time, the huge man was eyeing him narrowly, and Garth could imagine the questions running through his mind. Was the spell working? Was Garth as gullible as he hoped? Was the poison of revolt beginning to take effect?

‘Well, Mr. Garth?’ Ryall prompted.

Garth gulped, hesitated, then seemed to let a pent-up store of grievance come flooding out.

‘As a matter of fact we do think along similar lines, Mr. Ryall. I can’t understand how they can’t see that we’re in for serious trouble if they don’t adopt a more realistic attitude. They’re so unbelievably blind! If you’d heard some of the idiotic …’

He broke off then, as if determined not to let pangs of conscience deter him, he drew a deep breath and plunged on: this time, falling into a ‘platform manner’ quite as effective as Ryall’s own.

He expected to be interrupted, but Ryall sat back as if this were exactly what he wanted. Realising this, Garth grew more vehement in his condemnation of the Government’s methods: spreading his criticism to Washington and working himself up until finally he had risen from his seat and was striding about the room, one hand raised and clenched, his face pale, his eyes glowing. Long practice had taught him when such histrionics were necessary on the platform; his knowledge had never been more useful.

Abruptly, he stopped.

Self-consciously, he drew a hand across his forehead: and sinking into the chair again, shot an apologetic glance at Ryall.

‘I’m afraid I’ve let my tongue run away with me,’ he grimaced. ‘I do feel strongly about it—and needless to say it isn’t often I can say exactly what I think.’

‘I quite understand,’ purred Ryall. ‘And I am very glad to know how deeply you do feel. Now, I think perhaps an aperitif? We shall have ample opportunity for talking further, over dinner. A friend and very dear colleague of mine will be present—an American whose views coincide with our own.’

‘Look here,’ said Garth, hastily. ‘All this is strictly between ourselves, Mr. Ryall! It’s definitely confidential—I can’t afford to make more trouble for myself.’

‘Not a word will be breathed to anyone who might carry tales to the Ministry,’ Ryall assured him. ‘My dear fellow, secrecy—to some degree—is necessary for us all. We do not want to find ourselves hampered on every side! You can rely absolutely on my discretion—and that of Paul Russi. You will like Russi: he is a man after your own heart. Perhaps not surprisingly, he is on the staff of the Ministry of Propaganda in Washington, so you see you have much in common.’

‘Russi?’ echoed Garth. ‘I don’t seem to know the name. I did meet a number of their chaps, but …’

‘Russi has been in England for some time,’ said Ryall, smoothly. ‘Come, my friend!’

He rounded the desk as Garth got to his feet, and strode to the door.

Until that moment, Garth had not realised just how massive the man was; nor how tall. He was six-feet-three at least: his breadth of shoulder and thickness of waist was deceptive. He quite dwarfed Garth’s five-feet-eleven.

Following him downstairs, Garth noted another thing. Ryall moved swiftly and with a peculiar lightness; it was almost as if he had reason for stealth.

The dining room seemed, for that house, surprisingly modern, with light walls and a pale beige carpet. The furniture was of fumed oak and the table, set for three, sparkled attractively with crystal and silver and damask napery. The whole impression was of freshness and of wholesome conviviality. And Garth, always sensitive to atmosphere, began to wonder if his suspicions of the man were not entirely baseless. There seemed no tangible reason to attribute dark motives to Ryall—or to Russi.

The American was standing by a cocktail cabinet, a shaker in one hand and a bottle of gin in the other. He finished adding the gin before he looked up and smiled.

A man of medium height in pale grey, American-tailored wild-silk, the most striking thing about him was his completely bald head. The contrast between his baldness and Ryall’s singularly hirsute appearance was quite dramatic. Russi’s face, too, was in equally compelling contrast: clean shaven, with full, red lips and fresh, pink cheeks he looked like an overgrown child.

‘Ah, Russi!’ said Ryall. ‘I want you to meet our good friend, Mr. David Garth. Garth, this is Mr. Paul Russi, of whom I was speaking.’

Russi’s hand looked soft and white, but his grip was firm and his voice unexpectedly deep and resonant.

‘This is a real pleasure, Garth,’ he drawled. ‘I guess I haven’t missed a speech of yours. You sure know how to hand it out. What’ll you have?’

Garth smiled: ‘What are you mixing?’

‘Manhattan.’

‘I’ll have a Manhattan.’

‘And you, Mr. Ryall?’ asked Russi. Garth was surprised by the ‘Mr.’.

‘As usual, lime-juice and soda,’ smiled Ryall. ‘But don’t trouble, my dear fellow: I shall mix it myself.’

There was no doubt, decided Garth, that Ryall himself struck the only false note in the next hour. He did not join in the conversation to any great extent, and his interpolated comments almost invariably steered the subject back from trivialities to the major point: Anglo-American understanding and its mishandling by the Government.

Russi did most of the talking.

It was impossible for Garth to judge what it was all leading up to. But helped by those timely comments from Ryall, Russi was obviously trying to secure his interest so as to make him fall in with their proposition, when it came. And they titillated his interest very astutely: there were times when he found himself warming to the American for his apparently genuine concern.

Yes, he thought, it was cleverly done …

Over a Benedictine, he himself waxed expansive, deliberately adding fuel to the flames in his eagerness to encourage them to get to the point. If there were any sort of chance of breaking the stranglehold officialdom had obtained, he was careful to intimate, he would take it eagerly: there were limits to what the Government should be permitted to do.

When he paused, at last, Russi regarded him with a gentle smile. His eyes seemed innocent of guile, although by then Garth was quite certain the man was, in his way, as clever as Ryall.

‘You really think that way, Garth?’

‘Of course I do!’ said Garth, warmly.

Russi glanced at their host.

‘What do you think, Mr. Ryall?’ he asked mildly. ‘Shall I tell our friend what we have in mind?’

‘I think, my dear fellow,’ murmured Ryall, ‘I shall broach the subject myself. I, perhaps, can present it in a way which may do it less justice than you would contrive, but which might in some respects make it clearer to Mr. Garth.’

‘That suits me,’ said Russi, amiably.

‘Thank you,’ Ryall finished his liqueur, selected a cigar and took a silver cutter from his pocket. ‘Now …’

There was a tap at the door.

Garth was exasperated by the interruption: he was on a knif-eedge of expectancy. But Ryall looked up sharply and called: ‘Come in!’

The neat maid opened the door.

‘Mr. Brown is on the telephone, sir,’ she said. ‘He would like to speak to you.’

‘Oh,’ said Ryall.

Garth was watching him closely, although trying not to make it obvious. He saw the grey eyes narrow as Ryall rose to his feet, murmured an apology, and went out. As the door closed behind him, Russi shook his head admiringly.

‘A very great man, Mr. Ryall.’

‘A most impressive one, certainly,’ said Garth. ‘Have you known him long?’

‘Long enough, I guess,’ Russi shrugged. ‘When you know more about him, you’ll realise what I mean.’ Smoothly, he led the talk into more general matters, while Garth waited with increasing tension for Ryall’s return.

He thought he heard his light footsteps near the door. Then they faded and he fancied he heard another door open and close. A moment later, there came the sound of a car engine. He frowned, and the American rose abruptly.

‘I hope he hasn’t been called away,’ Russi began. ‘He’s busy on a hundred different jobs and never knows where he’ll be called next. He … ah!’

The door opened—but to Garth’s sharp disappointment, only the maid appeared.

‘Mr. Ryall sends his apologies,’ she said, ‘and says to explain that he has been called away on an urgent matter. He asked me to tell Mr. Garth that he will call on him tomorrow.’

‘Oh,’ said Garth, flatly.

‘Hell! That’s too bad!’ Russi grimaced as the door closed again. ‘You were on tip-toes, Garth, weren’t you?’

‘I suppose I was.’ Garth tried to dissemble. ‘I suppose he has that effect on one. Can you give me an idea of what he was going to talk about?’

Russi laughed.

‘I could, but I don’t propose to. I’d say Ryall would be mighty annoyed if anyone were to steal his thunder—he’s made that way. I guess it doesn’t matter all that much either: there’s no urgency in it. And he’s right—he can tell the story much better than I can.’

It was obviously useless to press him—and bad tactics too, Garth decided.

Hiding his disappointment well, he chatted on for some ten minutes more with the American. He found it no hardship. Ryall had impressed him deeply, but there was something vaguely repulsive about the man. Russi, on the other hand, had a genial friendliness which his chubby face and easy smile served to emphasise. He found himself quite liking the American: there was no chance that he could ever like Ryall.

When the maid came again, it was to announce that a car was waiting for Mr. Garth.

It was a different taxi from the one which had brought him from the station—a limousine with a hackney-carriage licence. And Russi, who saw him to the door, told him the driver had instructions to take him right to Jermyn Street.

Not until he was sitting back in the comfortable interior, did Garth realise how summarily he had been dismissed. Had any other host disappeared without offering a word of personal apology, he would have thought it a pretty poor show; somehow with Ryall it seemed in no way surprising. But Russi had played his part in the dismissal smoothly—perhaps too smoothly?

As he was driven along the edge of Wimbledon Common, Garth began to wonder whether the exit had been deliberately staged to keep his curiosity at a high pitch.

He dismissed the possibility as hardly likely.

Far more probably that Ryall had received news from ‘Mr. Brown’ which had caused him some disquiet; surely only an emergency would have taken him away at such a time and in such a manner. He recalled the way Ryall had looked up at the maid’s knock—almost as if he had been prepared for some kind of interruption, but was not pleased by it. The atmosphere in the room had changed at once.

He was still deep in thought when the car deposited him at Jermyn Street little more than half an hour later. But as he mounted the two flights of stairs to his flat, a feeling of anticlimax swept over him.

The mysterious cousins would no doubt get in touch, but he would have little to tell them; he no longer looked forward to their next meeting. Thoroughly disgruntled, he let himself into the flat.

The door of his lounge-cum-study was open.

The sight of it really startled him. He knew he had not only closed but also locked it—the room held many of his most prized possessions, and he had gone to the trouble of having a special lock fitted.

Alarm and apprehension merged in him as he moved toward it. Then began to subside, as he suddenly envisaged finding ‘Mike’ or ‘Mark’, or both, beaming blandly up at him: it was the kind of thing one might expect of them, he felt.

He pushed the door wider. The two hide armchairs were empty and he could see nothing, but the door struck against something and he cannoned into it in mid-stride.

‘Damn!’ he said, feelingly, and stepped through to look behind it.

Then he stood quite still.

A cold chill of fear started at the base of his spine and ran upwards. And suddenly cold from head to foot, he stared at the huddled figure of a girl which lay between the door and wall—and felt quite certain that she was dead.

She lay on her face, with her knees tucked beneath her. Her clothes were dishevelled and one shoulder of her blouse was torn to reveal a patch of creamy skin. A mass of dark hair spread tumbled forward on the carpet, leaving her neck bare.

He saw no sign of injury.

As the momentary paralysis eased, he went down on one knee to check whether by any chance she was still breathing. And only then did the truth strike him.

He let her head fall again, as her name sprang involuntarily to his lips.

‘Anne!’ he gasped. ‘Anne!’

And her voice, over the telephone, seemed to echo in his ears.