Katharine was sitting on a stool near the wide-open door of the Green Man in Covent Garden—the third and, it would appear, the last pub they would visit that night, for closing time was at hand—listening with amused interest to the professional reminiscences of the two men and occasionally prompting them to fresh efforts. After a couple of hours of “shop” talk she could better understand the nature of the bond between Iredale and Jessop. They were like old campaigners recalling battles jointly fought, or ship-wrecked sailors who had survived a common ordeal in an open boat. There wasn’t any special affinity, but their sense of comradeship was secure. So, at least, it now appeared to Katharine. In the light of their friendly exchanges her earlier fears seemed absurd, and she felt rather sorry that she had deliberately skipped several rounds in the interests of mental clarity. She might just as well have relaxed, for there was evidently nothing for her to be vigilant about.
A few drinks had made Jessop more voluble than usual, but up to now he had been neither self-revelatory nor aggressive. His pressing sense of persecution had been eased by the lance of action. In a glow of good fellowship, he had temporarily forgotten his grievances against the world. He had even forgotten that his original purpose in accompanying Iredale had been to revel in the man’s discomfiture. For the moment—though the old bitterness might flare up at a word—Iredale was his friend again. Katharine, too, was acceptable. As Jessop talked he looked at her repeatedly for appreciation and approval, and from her expression he judged he was getting it. That warmed him. From time to time his fingers touched the tin in his jacket pocket, but without menace or intention.
Iredale, too, was in a much more tranquil frame of mind. Alcohol and pleasant conversation had dispersed his cares. It had been a good idea, this pub crawl a’/ trois. Three were better than two when there was tension in the air—less effort was called for. Jessop’s presence gave him a chance to study Katharine’s profile for long moments without risk of embarrassment. Somehow he felt nearer to her with Jessop there than he had when they had been alone together.
The talk had traversed the world, lingering at the points of laughter. Iredale had been recalling some of his Russian experiences and was telling a story about an American air base in the Ukraine that he had visited during the war. “It was guarded by Russian sentries,” he said, “simple peasant types but very much on their mettle and highly disciplined. Some of the G.I.s told them that the correct thing to do when an American officer went by was to spring smartly to attention and say, ‘Hiya, bud!’ And they did. It was damn funny while it lasted.”
Jessop grinned and ordered a last round. Katharine said, “You two make me feel like one of those starry-eyed boys in the picture, listening to Sir Walter Raleigh talking about the undiscovered lands.”
“Oh, I’m a stay-at-home, too,” said Jessop. “But in my day it wasn’t necessary to go abroad for excitement. Home reporting gave me all the thrills I needed Of course, reporting was a very different sort of job fifteen years ago, eh, Bill?”
Iredale took a reminiscent sip of whisky. “It certainly was,” he said.
“I don’t find it exactly dull now,” said Katharine.
“That’s because you’ve never known the real thing,” Jessop told her condescendingly. “There’s no space to print anything these days, and anyway all the news is streamlined and organised. Most of your stuff’s handed to you on a plate. The readers are blasé, too—they simply don’t get the kick out of good home stories that they used to do.”
“It may only be nostalgia,” said Iredale, “but there seemed to be far more really good stories in those days. Do you remember that fire at Wapping, Ed?—the rubber blaze. Now that was really something. It burned for more than a week, and we covered it in relays. The place was knee-deep in liquid rubber and water from the hoses. It’s the only time I ever charged up thigh-boots on my expenses. Then there was the night the Crystal Palace burned down. What a story!” He smiled at Katharine. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen what we’d call a real fire.”
“I do happen to have seen practically the whole of London burning,” she protested.
Jessop frowned. “That was wartime. Wars have ruined the newspaper business—they’ve made everything else seem flat.” He shied away from the subject. “You know, Bill, one of the stories that made the biggest impression on me was a Mosley riot in the East End. I remember as if it were yesterday. There was a short street with half a dozen mounted police lined up at one end. In the street there was a seething mass of men, women and kids—Fascists and anti-Fascists and people who’d come to look on and people who lived there, all packed tight. Suddenly the police charged straight into the mass at full gallop, swinging their batons and hitting out wildly. You could hear the skulls cracking—it was brutal. They cut swathes, the murderous swine!”
“From what I remember of those riots,” said Iredale, “the police couldn’t do much else at that stage.” He glanced mischievously at Katharine. “I suppose old Munro would have clapped his hands and said, ‘Now, children …”’
“There’s no need to bring that up again,” she said.
“I still say they were swine,” Jessop persisted. He had become rather flushed. “It was all the same to them whose heads they bashed; they probably enjoyed it. What did they care about the underdog? What does anyone care, for that matter? Look at the way people trample on you at the office.”
“Oh, come off it,” said Iredale gently. “You haven’t done so badly, Ed, in spite of all your grousing.”
“Small thanks to them!” The sudden venom in Jessop’s tone startled Katharine, and her slumbering uneasiness revived. “What encouragement did I ever get? There was always some playboy around to take the plums while I did the dirty work.” He plucked the cigarette end from his lips and ground it angrily under his heel. “That sort of thing should be stopped, and it could be. I’d like to get my hands on the place for a few days, I know that.”
“I expect it all looks rather different when you’re in charge,” said Katharine. “It must be hard to keep everyone happy.”
Jessop sneered. “Amateurs like Ede make a lot of fuss about running a newspaper, but it’s not all that difficult. I could do it on my head.”
“You mean you could do it on half a dozen whiskies,” she teased.
“I could do it stone sober—Bill knows that.” Jessop glared at her. “I’d make some changes.”
“Heads would roll,” said Iredale lightly. What a bore, he thought, that Ed had got on to this topic.
“They would,” said Jessop. “A lot of people would get their deserts. Fleet Street stinks, the way it’s run now. There’s no sense of responsibility anywhere, no principles, no conscience. Everyone’s climbing on somebody else’s shoulders. It’s just a bloody jungle.”
“Is it worse than any other business?” asked Katharine. “I think you’ve got a bee in your bonnet about it—don’t you agree, Bill?”
Iredale nodded. He was feeling pleasantly mellow. “You ought to have gone to Malaya, old son.”
“Oh, no,” said Jessop. “Oh, no! They’re not getting me like that. I know they want me out of the way, but I’m not falling for that trick. I’m going to expose them, and I’m going to stay here till I’ve done it. They’ll live to regret the way they’ve treated me.”
Katharine was staring at him. “I do believe you mean it,” she said.
“You bet I mean it.”
“He’s his own Royal Commission,” said Iredale in a bored voice.
“I may be something more than that one of these days,” said Jessop mysteriously.
Katharine wanted to ask him what he meant, but the barman called “Time” and the three of them finished their drinks and went out into the warm night. Jessop lurched a bit, steadying himself against Katharine’s arm. She drew away and stood on the kerb, biting her lip. All the pleasure of the evening had faded. She felt more strongly than ever that Bill had a blind spot.
“Suppose we all go back to my place and brew some coffee,” suggested Iredale. “It’s early yet. What do you say, Katharine?”
“I’d like that,” she said, but her eyes were fixed uneasily on Jessop. “Bill …” She broke off. She couldn’t even hint at her fears with Jessop there. “All right, let’s go,” she finished abruptly.
“We’ll take a cab,” said Iredale. “It’s too hot to walk.”
They strolled into the Strand and he hailed a passing taxi. Katharine seated herself between the two men on the back seat. Jessop lolled in his corner.
“Are you all right, Ed?” asked Iredale. He knew that Jessop had a poor head for liquor, but the man really hadn’t had very much.
“Of course I’m all right,” Jessop muttered. He lay back with his eyes closed, and strange images floated in his brain.
“He needs coffee,” said Katharine with a strained laugh. She stirred restlessly, and her hand touched Iredale’s. He gathered it up.
“Don’t,” she said, releasing it quickly.
“Sorry.” Iredale flushed in the darkness. He heard her bag snap, and a faint perfume filled the taxi. “Why do we all have to sit on this narrow seat?” she said, and moved to a collapsible one opposite. “That’s better. Where is your place, Bill?”
“We’re just coming to it now,” he answered, peering out into the deserted canyon of Chancery Lane. “Wake up, Ed.”
Jessop stumbled out as the taxi stopped. Katharine stayed by Iredale while he paid the driver. Then the three of them squeezed into the old lift and creaked their way past six unlighted office floors. Katharine gave an exaggerated shiver. “What an eerie place! Do you mean to say you live here alone?”
“I have a mistress, of course,” Iredale said nonchalantly. The lift stopped with a shudder and they emerged on to a tiny landing with a single door opening out of it. “I know it isn’t exactly palatial—it’s really only an attic—but I’m here so seldom and for such short periods that there’s no point in looking for anything better.” He opened the door. “Go on in, folks.”
Katharine looked curiously round the flat. There certainly wasn’t much of it—a small bed-sitting room, a kitchen and a miniature bathroom, with the minimum of ancient, battered furniture. It was all rather cramped and angular and hot from the day’s sun on the roof just above, but there was a fine view of the lights of London from the dormer window, and the place had unexploited potentialities. The sitting-room itself was littered with books, suitcases, sun helmets, ski sticks and a collection of curios from odd corners of the earth. There was a rack of tobacco pipes containing, it would seem, every known variety from corn-cob to hookah.
“It’s more like a repository than a flat,” she observed.
“I know,” said Iredale, “but don’t let that put you off. I promise you the coffee will be good.”
Katharine ran a finger over the carving on a heavy wooden chest that stood just outside the kitchen door. “This is rather nice.”
“Very fine, isn’t it? I picked it up in Saigon.”
She looked at the tip of her finger. “You should tell your mistress to dust, though.”
Iredale smiled, and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Jessop had become very quiet and was stalking round the little room with his hands in his pockets. He seemed to have lost interest in the other two. His manner scared Katharine and she joined Iredale in the kitchen. “Bill…” she began again.
Before she could put her mounting fears into words the telephone rang shrilly. The strident bell was like an alarm and her nerves gave a convulsive leap. “I won’t be a minute,” said Iredale. “D’ you mind getting the cups out—they’re in the cupboard over there.”
He went into the sitting-room, casting a quizzical glance at the sombre Jessop. “I bet they’ve discovered you’ve been playing truant, Ed.”
Jessop said nothing, and Iredale bent over the phone. “This is Chancery 45321. Yes, Bill Iredale speaking … Oh, yes?” He had suddenly become wary, for it was Haines on the line. “Yes, I can hear you—go ahead.” As he listened, his expression changed. Incredulity and horror froze his face. He gave one appalled look at Jessop. The knuckles that held the phone showed white, and the receiver felt moist against his cheek as he pressed it hard to keep the sound from the room. “Very well,” he said at last. He saw that Jessop was making for the kitchen. “I must go now,” he ended hurriedly, and threw the receiver back on its rest. Quickly and quietly he followed Jessop, fearful lest Katharine should come to harm.
She was at the sink, washing cups. When she saw. Iredale’s strained, tense face she stood quite still, a mop poised in her hand. “Trouble?” she asked.
“Nothing much,” said Iredale, making a supreme effort to sound unconcerned. He was watching Jessop out of the corner of his eye. “Rather bad news about someone I know, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry,” said Katharine quietly. She went on with her cup-washing as though nothing had happened, but he saw that she knew.
“Now what about this coffee?” he said with feigned heartiness.
Jessop’s mind was still on the telephone call. “Anyone I know?”
Iredale shook his head and wondered how long it would take Haines to arrive. Three or four minutes, perhaps. It should be possible to stall for that time. “It was my girl-friend, as a matter of fact.”
“I didn’t know you had one,” said Jessop suspiciously.
Iredale put a hand on his thin shoulder. “What’s it got to do with you anyway, you old busybody? Can’t you see I’m trying to make Katharine jealous?”
“Was it the office?” Jessop persisted.
“It was not. I told you. Now why don’t you go and take the weight off your feet, old man? Coffee won’t be a minute.”
Jessop’s face had turned a blotchy grey. It had been a man’s voice on the telephone, he knew. He felt certain the call had been about him. That suddenly concentrated manner of Iredale’s, that quick glance across at him, had given everything away. Iredale was keeping something from him. Iredale’s whole manner was peculiar. Peering at him, Jessop no longer saw the pleasant companion of the evening. This was the man who had said he was crazy, the man who wanted to get rid of him by sending him to Malaya, the man who had inveigled him into coming to his flat. This was a trap. Jessop clutched the tin in his pocket. Well, he wouldn’t stay in the trap.
“I think I’ll be off,” he muttered. “It’s getting late.”
“Oh, not yet,” said Katharine. “The coffee’s just ready.”
Jessop gave a cunning smile. “I suppose you think I don’t know what you’re up to. You’re wrong—I can see through you. I tell you, I’m getting out of here.”
“Take it easy, Ed,” said Iredale gently. There was a moment of dead silence in the room. The place felt horribly cut off. Iredale couldn’t think what to do—he had never had to handle a homicidal lunatic before. Ought he to cajole and wheedle? Ought he to be firm? Ought he to seize Jessop and hold him until help came? The man’s face was working; he looked as though he might lose control of himself at any moment. “Take it easy,” Iredale said again, “there’s a good fellow. Come and sit down. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
“Nobody will have the chance,” snarled Jessop, and turned to the door.
With a quick movement Iredale blocked the way. “You can’t go, Ed, not now. You’re not well. Stay here and we’ll look after you.”
“You bloody swine!” Jessop suddenly screamed. A stream of frightful obscenities burst from him. “You damned police spy! I’ve been watching you. You’re all against me. You all want to kill me. You fool, Iredale. You can’t kill me, but I can kill you. You’re in my power. Everyone’s in my power. I’ll show you.”
“No!” yelled Iredale, and leaped at the hand that held the tin. Jessop, twisting and contorting with maniac agility and strength, wriggled from his grasp and with a shout of triumph threw the tin into the wet sink, scattering its contents.
“God, it’s the cyanide,” cried Iredale, and grabbed Katharine. As he did so the kitchen door slammed behind Jessop and there was a sound of something heavy being dragged against it.
“Choke, you swine!” Jessop shouted. “Choke, both of you!” He gave a monstrous cackle and went on piling furniture against the door.