‘Well, we’ve got the man at all events.’ Sir Hubert Lesley spoke with grim satisfaction. He seemed to attach much more importance to that fact than to the dead body of young Farly.
Lord Arthur had taken it for granted that the man would have escaped and had been far too much occupied during the last ten minutes in seeing to the disposal of the body and examining the wreckage of his room to bestow more than a passing thought on the perpetrator. He looked round eagerly.
‘You’ve got him?’
Sir Hubert nodded. ‘My men outside caught him making off. He must have mistimed his bomb. Another three minutes, and he’d have been clear away.’
‘I doubt if he mistimed it, sir,’ respectfully suggested the Superintendent who had arrived with Sir Hubert. ‘Our men were on to him as soon as he fired at Mr Farly. He must have set the fuse for almost instantaneous explosion and then run for it, hoping for the best.’
‘It was the fellow who said he was a messenger from Scotland Yard?’ Lord Arthur asked.
The grimness of the Commissioner’s expression deepened. ‘It was. He walked right past the noses of my prize idiots outside. There’ll be a word or two coming to them later. As if anyone couldn’t get hold of a Government porter’s uniform!’
‘He’s English?’
‘Not he. He’s an Indian. Light enough to deceive anyone at a few yards, I grant you, but the porter downstairs should have spotted him. Young Farly probably did, and that’s why he got shot. Well, it’ll be like old times to me. And if,’ added the Commissioner, ominously, ‘I don’t get something out of him, I shall be very much disappointed.’
Lord Arthur forbore to inquire into the methods by which the Commissioner proposed to obtain his information. After all, it was the Prime Minister’s life, in a way, against this man’s silence; and squeamish though we are in our treatment of the unconvicted thug, squeamishness would be out of place now.
‘What do you think happened, Lesley?’ he asked.
The Commissioner pulled at his chin. ‘Well, I think it’s fairly clear. This fellow told the porter downstairs that he had an important message from me to you, to be delivered to you personally. You tell me that you gave Farly instructions to sign for it. The man probably told Farly that he would wait for you; that would account for the ten minutes’ delay. Then Farly must have got restive, or spotted him, and may have been about to give the alarm; so the fellow shot him, chucked his bomb into your room, and legged it.
‘Curiously enough,’ added the Commissioner, ‘we had a warning a couple of hours ago that there might be some sort of an attempt to blow this place up. I’ve had it under guard, naturally, after what’s been happening in India; I rather suspected they might try the same sort of thing here. But it was funny we should get a warning.’
‘Whom from?’
‘God knows. Anonymous call, from a telephone box in Ludgate Circus. Asked for one of the Detective Chief Inspectors – not me or any of the Superintendents. My man says he’s pretty sure it was an English voice, but speaking as if he had a hot potato in his mouth; meaning that he was trying to disguise it. Cultured, but so low he could hardly hear it. All he said was that there was going to be an attempt this evening to blow up the India Office and this fellow thought we ought to know about it. Then he rang off. Curious, very.’
‘Ludgate Circus?’ Lord Arthur repeated, thoughtfully. ‘That doesn’t help you at all?’
‘Not much, would it? We had a man at the call-box within three minutes, but there was nothing to be seen. After all, Ludgate Circus is one of the busiest spots in London. No doubt that’s why it was chosen. Well, so far as their main object was concerned, they drew a blank. I suppose from Farly’s manner the fellow guessed you were in your room, and Farly wouldn’t let him in to you. Obviously they followed you here.’
‘But I only came round by chance,’ Lord Arthur objected.
‘Suited their book all right. Two birds with one stone. By the way, I’ve detailed a couple of men to escort you out of here wherever you want to go; and they’ll wait outside while you’re there. Keat will tell you who they are. Give them a list of your movements. Where are you dining?’
‘At No. 10.’
‘Good. You’ll come under the ordinary guard there. That will set you two free for a couple of hours for something else.
‘We’re short-handed enough as it is,’ grumbled the Commissioner.
An uneasy, cold feeling began to make itself felt in the region of Lord Arthur’s spine. ‘But why all this?’ he protested.
The Commissioner looked at him pityingly. ‘Well, my dear fellow, what do you imagine that fellow who shot Farly was really after?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Why, you,’ said the Commissioner, and turned on his heel.
Lord Arthur stared at the little knot of detectives clustered in his room, at the doctor busy with Farly’s body on the couch, at the detective-constables who passed him with brisk tread on their various errands bent. It seemed to him that all returned his gaze with looks of pity and apprehension. Did they really think that he was next on the assassins’ list?
‘Good God!’ muttered Lord Arthur with feeling.
It was in a curious mood that he returned to Whitehall Court with the two plain-clothes men on his heels: part uneasiness, part bravado, and part exhilaration. The feeling of danger was bracing; the sensation that the danger might take the form of a shot in the back was not so pleasant. Lord Arthur did not try to hide his relief as the friendly portal of Whitehall Court received him safe and sound. The bravado had forbidden him to take a taxi – but he was glad when the walk was over.
Near the entrance to the Court a newsman was bawling his wares.
‘Attempt to blow up the India Office,’ he intoned, amplifying the more laconic wording of the placard, ‘Bomb Explosion in Whitehall.’
Lord Arthur’s wonderment found expression in a question to the man as he stopped to buy a copy of the newspaper.
‘How long have these papers been on sale?’
“Bout five minutes after the bomb bust, guv’nor,’ the man grinned. ‘Tuppence, it is.’
Lord Arthur glanced at the paper in his hand and saw that it was not an evening newspaper, but a copy of The Sunday Record.
‘Speshul edishon,’ amplified the man.
Lord Arthur’s wonderment increased. ‘But they can’t have got a special edition out in this time. Why, it’s barely a quarter of an hour since it happened.’ He glanced at the paper. A short notice in the stop-press stated baldly that an attempt had been made to blow up the India Office shortly after six o’clock; the damage had been slight, and since the building was empty at the time there had been no casualties. So apparently the police had seen fit to censor the news of young Farly’s death.
One of the plain-clothes men, who had looked at the paper over Lord Arthur’s shoulder, suggested an explanation. ‘I should say this would probably be the provincial edition, my lord. That would have gone to press at about three o’clock this afternoon. They diverted it when the news came through, and got it on the streets at once. I should say they’ve got a scoop too,’ he added, listening. ‘I can’t hear any other man shouting it.’
‘That’s right,’ grinned the newsman. ‘Fust with the noos, that’s The Sunday Record. An’ I orter know. I’ve bin ‘awking it nah fer twelve years. Thank you, guv’nor,’ he added, as Lord Arthur supplemented his inadequate penny with a sixpence.
On his way up in the lift Lord Arthur unfolded the paper and looked at the headlines on the front page. What he saw startled him. Splashed right across the page, in huge type, was the banner:
MURDERED MINISTERS
Below, supplementary headings made public the information which had hitherto been so rigorously suppressed: that the Secretary of State for India and his Successor, the Colonial Secretary, had been murdered by means of poisoned thorns by Indian Terrorists in the House of Commons as a result of disregarding threats against the Indian Restriction Bill. The Sunday Record had broken faith-and landed the biggest scoop of modern times.
Before he went into his bedroom to dress Lord Arthur hurriedly ran through the rest of the paper. The whole story was there, even down to the wording of the anonymous letters: while under the heading, ‘Sacrifice No More Lives,’ the leading article contained an impassioned appeal to the Government to postpone the Bill until the Terrorist organisation had been broken up and its leaders were in prison. Dr Ghaijana, it was suggested, was a very minor cog in the wheel; and doubts were even thrown upon the fact of his being a cog at all.
Well, the milk was spilled with a vengeance. As he submitted to the silently sympathetic ministrations of his valet, Lord Arthur was not sure that he was sorry. A genuine democrat in his views, he was never in favour of concealing from the people the true facts of a bad situation. The British, after all, were not given to panic. It was only right that they should know what had been happening. The censorship of Farly’s death seemed not only unnecessary but stupid, and he determined to suggest as much to the Prime Minister that evening.
The thought occurred to him: who owned The Sunday Record? It had changed hands frequently during the last few years, descending with rapidity from old-fashioned dignity and sobriety to the worst kind of yellow vulgarity. Lord Arthur could not remember if he had heard who was its last purchaser, but it was obviously a lone wolf in the domain of newspaper ownership. There would be some fat frying in that camp tonight, reflected Lord Arthur, not without amusement.
Downstairs his two attendants were waiting.
‘We’ll have a taxi, I think,’ Lord Arthur told them solemnly.
He was not quite sure what was the correct etiquette, but the plain-clothes men took the matter into their own hands. One got in beside the driver, the other followed Lord Arthur inside. He had noticed that as the three of them crossed the pavement, the men had unobtrusively ranged themselves on either side of him, although the pavement was quite empty. It all seemed rather absurd and quite unreal. Hadn’t someone written a novel once called It Can’t Happen Here? But it could happen. Young Farly’s death showed as much. Perhaps the Jews had said that in Germany a few years ago. And after all, what was there more improbable in the Indian malcontents bringing their methods of bomb and murder to London than that a whole nation, which the world had once thought civilised, should revert to the savagery and tortures of the Middle Ages? No, it could happen here.
‘There was an interesting point in that paper I bought,’ Lord Arthur made conversation to his escort. ‘You saw that they’ve made the whole affair public, no doubt? The leading article was very emphatic that if we continue to disregard the Terrorists, we may expect bombs and arson in London as well as Calcutta. It’s interesting that the man who wrote that should have been proved right before the paper was even on sale.’
‘Ah, there’s not much that gets past the newspapermen,’ opined the detective, with resignation.
The Prime Minister did not appear before dinner, and Lord Arthur was given his glass of sherry by Isabel. He was unreasonably annoyed to find that there was again to be no tête-à-tête. The Home Secretary, Mr Beamish, was already installed; and a much perturbed Mr Beamish at that.
‘It’s not safe,’ he was saying fussily as Lord Arthur was shown in, and immediately turned to the latter for confirmation. ‘Eh, Linton? Isn’t that right? The Prime Minister ought to have gone to Chequers as usual. We could have guarded him there easily enough. I could have come down to him. But here in London…’
Lord Arthur tasted his sherry and exchanged a small smile with Isabel.
‘Surely you can guard him more easily still in Downing Street?’ he suggested.
Mr Beamish snorted. ‘Against what? That’s the trouble. We don’t know what we’re up against. They’re using bombs now, you know? Oh, of course, you know; you were there. Yes, well, imagine the effect of a bomb in Downing Street now. You saw the crowds? The slaughter would be horrible. There’d be a panic. It’s only a step from bombs to aeroplanes, you see. We don’t know what resources these people have. Imagine a bomb dropped on Downing Street from an aeroplane now! Why, it’s war in a way – war!’ Evidently Mr Beamish was very badly rattled.
‘They could drop bombs on us at Chequers, just as easily,’ Isabel said, brightly.
‘Yes, yes. But they might not hit it. And there wouldn’t be anything like the same moral effect,’ Mr Beamish retorted, testily. ‘You don’t grasp my point at all.’
To Lord Arthur the conversation seemed to be verging on the fantastic. He changed it abruptly.
‘You think it a good thing to hide up Farly’s death from public knowledge?’
Mr Beamish blinked. ‘Hide it up?’ he was beginning, when Isabel interrupted him with a little cry.
‘Oh, Arthur, it’s terrible. Poor young man! If they’re going to do that sort of thing…’
Lord Arthur glanced at her in surprise. Isabel looked quite white and shaken. It was unlike her, he thought. Somehow he had never thought of Isabel as… well, for want of a better word, womanly.
‘Come, Isabel,’ he rallied her. ‘It’s not like you to lose your nerve.’
‘No, I mustn’t, of course,’ she muttered, turning away.
‘But… it might have been you.’
Mr Beamish was impatient of these exchanges. ‘Hide up Farly’s death?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Didn’t your department give orders to the Press that Farly’s death was not to be mentioned?’
‘Certainly not. And that’s another thing!’ Mr Beamish’s shirt-front gaped with agitated indignation, showing a glimpse of grey wool inside. ‘Have you seen The Sunday Record? It’s outrageous. The plainest flouting of instructions. Positively, I wish sometimes that we had a Press censorship here. There are some things that the Dictator countries manage better. Now, of course, they’ll all follow suit. One of the evening papers is out with it already. They must have had it set up in type in advance. It’s – it’s scandalous.’
‘Personally, I think it’s a very good thing,’ Lord Arthur said, a little shortly. ‘The public ought to know.’
‘Nonsense! The public ought to know what’s good for ‘em to know, and no more.’
‘But this is sheer Fascism, Mr Beamish,’ Isabel smiled. She had recovered herself already, Lord Arthur was glad to see.
‘Fascism? Certainly not. It’s government.’ Mr Beamish took a gulp of sherry. It seemed to do him good. ‘But that no doubt will be Mansel’s excuse,’ he added in a milder tone.
‘Mansel?’ Lord Arthur pricked up his ears. ‘Does Mansel own The Sunday Record?’
‘He does. And I hope to have a word personally with him concerning his action with it this evening.’
Lord Arthur was thinking. It was like Mansel to do the spectacular thing. It was like him, too, to seize the chance of a magnificent scoop, and let the ethical question slide. But there were queer points about the story.
‘I wonder why it was specifically stated that there were no casualties?’ he said aloud.
Mr Beamish snorted. ‘Typical inaccuracy. One of their men happened to be on the spot no doubt, heard the explosion, just stopped to ask whether anyone was hurt and got the stereotyped answer from someone that the building was empty, and rushed off to print false information.’
‘I wonder.’ Lord Arthur did not like to say that according to the official police view, which perhaps Mr Beamish had not heard, it was he himself who had been the intended object of the attack. It sounded rather important; and, besides, it might upset Isabel; Lord Arthur secretly hoped it would – and then wondered why he should hope such a thing. But surely any reporter worth his salt would have nosed that out, to say nothing of Farly’s death, before rushing off as Mr Beamish supposed. And there were other things, too.
‘And that false information was on sale in the streets within ten minutes or so,’ he went on slowly. ‘Well, I suppose that’s possible. I don’t know much about newspaper offices. But the contents bill was properly printed. No smudgy, stop-press effect: clear lettering. Isn’t that a bit odd?’
‘Oh!’ Isabel stared at him. ‘But, Arthur, you can’t possibly think…?’
‘I’m just saying it’s odd,’ Lord Arthur repeated.
Mr Beamish had taken the point more slowly, but it had penetrated at last. He looked at Lord Arthur with a new respect.
‘That’s a most interesting observation, Linton. Most interesting.’
‘I think an interview with Mr S P Mansel is indicated?’
‘Undoubtedly. And without delay. I’ll ring up Lesley at once,’
‘Would you mind letting me see him?’ Lord Arthur hesitated. It sounded presumptuous to say so, but he felt sure that he could get more out of Mansel than the police could.
‘I don’t know why you should,’ Mr Beamish fussed. ‘This may be very serious. We must…’
‘The idea was mine, and I want to follow it up,’ Lord Arthur interrupted, with an authority which obviously surprised the Home Secretary.
The entrance of the butler saved the latter from a reply.
‘Mr Lacy is asking for you on the telephone, my lord,’ Dean said to Lord Arthur. ‘Do you wish to speak to him?’
‘I’ll go,’ Lord Arthur nodded.
Behind him he could hear Dean add to Isabel:
‘The Prime Minister wishes dinner not to be kept waiting for him. He may be detained some time.’
Over the telephone came Lacy’s indolent, rather high-pitched voice:
‘That you, Linton? I say, have you seen The Sunday Record? You have? Good. Oh, congratulations on your escape, by the way – Yes, well, no doubt certain queernesses made themselves evident to you? Eh? I mean, you can put two and two together as well as I can. Explanations are rather called for from a certain quarter, don’t you think? I just thought I’d ring up in case you hadn’t seen it.’
‘Many thanks. Yes, I had done the sum. And I’m just about to call for the explanation,’ Lord Arthur replied, grimly.
‘Then I’ve wasted my penny,’ sighed Mr Lacy. ‘Goodbye.’
Dean was waiting about as he hung up, and Lord Arthur asked him to summon Mr Verreker.
‘Mr Verreker has not returned from Scotland Yard yet, my lord,’ the butler said, unhappily.
‘Oh, no, of course not. Well, anyone who is on duty.’
‘Mr Jeans is upstairs, my lord. Shall I ask him to come down?’
‘Yes, No, don’t bother. I’ll run up myself.’
Lord Arthur felt he needed the physical action. As he took the stairs two at a time he was thinking that young Mr Lacy might enamel his fingernails, but his head was screwed on shrewdly enough. He wondered if the police had done that sum in addition, too.
Upstairs he took authority into his own hands without excuse or even justification.
‘Find out if Mr S P Mansel is in London,’ he told the Secretary, ‘and ask him if it would be convenient for him to call at 10, Downing Street at half-past nine this evening.’