On the eighth day after the discussion in Department Z, three men sat in a small room in a house in Park Lane.
The owner of the house, a distinguished statesman with a justifiable pride in his achievements, sat next to an equally prominent politician—whose efforts, mostly frustrated, had at least been sincere. Until that time the two men, friends in private, had been bitter antagonists on the political platform. They were both heralded as coming leaders of their parties. And they were young, in politics: both aged between fifty-five and sixty.
One was Sir Joseph Scanling, Bart.: the other, Mr. Gowsby-Loam. They were men of medium height, with a similarity of feature, greying hair, and slightly pompous bearing.
They were sitting opposite a fat man with a red face and penetrating brown eyes. And they were listening to him.
‘The time is very near,’ said Arnold Serle, quietly and confidently, ‘when we shall be able to make our first public move. Meanwhile I am asked to warn you of the necessity of having the party machine ready at any moment. Our campaign will be sudden and swift, and it might be necessary to start it at very short notice.’
Serle smiled, pleasantly.
‘Quite understood, quite understood,’ rumbled Gowsby-Loam, taking off his pince-nez and polishing them vigorously. ‘We shall be ready, Serle; we shall be ready. I prophesy a sweeping triumph at…’
‘But we can’t just kick the present Government out,’ Sir Joseph Scanling put in thoughtfully. He was one of those rare politicians with a sense of humour. ‘And I don’t anticipate a General Election before November. Do you, Gowsby-Loam?’
‘You never know,’ said the other, sententiously.
There was a gleam in Scanling’s eyes. ‘No,’ he admitted, looking at Serle. ‘I’ve no idea, of course, what our friend has up his sleeve.’
Serle smiled, deprecatingly.
‘The matter is not in my hands, gentlemen. I am merely looking after some of the—er—propaganda.’
‘For whom?’ asked Scanling, casually.
Serle smiled again.
‘All in good time,’ he said, suavely, ‘all in good time, Sir Joseph.’
Scanling shrugged good-humouredly. He was used to subterfuge and mystery, but he was intrigued by Arnold Serle, and he was curious about the identity of the man behind the cricketer.
His interest had started nearly four years before. He hardly knew why, and occasionally he was inclined to wonder whether he was being wise. But he did know that Arnold Serle had persuaded him very easily that power and office would reward him for his support. Sir Joseph was very eager to secure power and office; indeed, it would be the fulfilment of his life’s ambition. So he had helped inaugurate the New Age Party, which professed to be non-political and non-sectarian.…
Three years before, it had been composed chiefly of the youth of both sexes. At first, it had been largely scoffed at by the stalwarts of the old order. The Junior Imperialists, the Young Socialists, the British Union of Fascists and the League of Young Liberals alike had regarded it as a joke. What was an organisation without politics?
Nothing. At first.
But the New Age Party had flourished. Its branches grew strong numerically, and its members were more constant and more sincere. There was no hysteria, no fanaticism. The object of the Party was pleasure rather than politics—which accounted, said the politicians, for its popularity. But it meant, said the politicians, that the enthusiasm would soon die; solid worth would prove itself.
In the first two years of the Party’s life, a surprising number of secessions took place from the older political camps. Youth certainly seemed more interested in its amusements than in its country’s future. No matter how the politicians scoffed—and, later, pleaded—the ranks of their junior associations steadily thinned. Claims that this was new evidence of the decadence of youth fell on deaf ears. The New Age Party went from strength to strength.
In the third year of its existence, a subtle change was noticed in its make-up. Its members were not only youths. Sports still flourished, but there was a strong influx of family members. It was, people who thought about it opined, like a masonic lodge without the secrecy.
Pleasure still apparently remained its chief object. It grew, slowly enough, into a kind of social organisation, with branches in the churches and chapels—Catholic, Church of England and Nonconformist alike.
There was one remarkable thing, and one which James Kenyon and Gordon Craigie saw, eventually, as significant. Of the older members of the New Age Party, few came from the political camps. Men and women who hitherto had interested themselves only in their homes and their gardens found satisfaction in the various activities of the New Age.
The growth was strong and the membership considerable, but very little was heard of the movement itself. It presented a phenomenon in that it thrived without publicity. The political parties blared their creeds in various Press organs, by poster campaigns and at loudly-conducted public meetings. But the New Age Party remained in the background, a kind of family group united throughout the length and breadth of the land by the Creed of Pleasure. It opposed no other party, took part in no elections, and comforted those politicians who had viewed with alarm the success of its youth organization.
Through those years, Sir Joseph Scanling and Mr. Gowsby-Loam had watched its progress with interest amounting, in the case of Gowsby-Loam, to excitement. It was all he could do to repress his feelings; he wanted to shout his knowledge from the house-tops. But Serle, who had interested Scanling as well as Gowsby-Loam, dissuaded him. It was obvious, said Serle, that the party was so strong that once it had become politically minded, it could seriously challenge the established parties—at which time Gowsby-Loam would be invaluable.
So would Scanling. Both men possessed the power to move multitudes to tears or laughter. They were just the men needed to launch the New Age Party into the holocaust of party strife. Meanwhile, they retained most of their own political friends.
On the occasion of the meeting in Park Lane, there had been a certain coolness. Scanling had learned that Serle was wanted by the police. He had challenged Serle, who had convinced him that he was suffering from a persecution inspired by political parties.
The suggestion was absurd; it would have been absurd if the other parties had known of the significance of the New Age, but they didn’t. And yet, despite the absurdity, Scanling was persuaded.
He looked down at his fingers as he heard Serle speaking again, and absently he traced the little pink crescent beneath the nail of his forefinger. The pink mark fascinated him. It had been there for a long time, and he sometimes forgot it was there, although he knew that the same kind of marks were on Gowsby-Loam’s square-tipped fingers.
‘You understand,’ said Serle, quietly, ‘that you will probably be called upon to make three or four speeches a day during the campaign. We have other speakers, but you, if I may say so…’ He smiled pleasantly, and Gowsby-Loam preened himself: ‘are our stars. And, gentlemen—I hope you will appreciate that it will not be discreet to mention my—er—call, today. As Sir Joseph pointed out, I’m not as popular as I might be.’
Scanling returned his smile. He felt very good-humoured, very pleased with life. So, by the look of him, did Gowsby-Loam.
Serle shook hands with both, and left the house.
A closed limousine was waiting for him, and from the front door to the car itself there was a distance of some twelve feet, a fact which would give him a distance, Serle considered, short enough for him to pass through unrecognised. In spite of the clammy heat of the August day he was wearing a mackintosh, and he turned the collar up around his chin.
The curtains of the car were drawn. At the end of his journey, Serle knew that he would be safe from the curious eyes of the passer-by and the prying eyes of Craigie’s men. The risk of his visit to the Park Lane house had been small. Nevertheless, he realised that it existed. He knew that Craigie’s men, especially Kenyon, would break every law in the world to get him—even though there was, as yet, no criminal charge against him. For his own part, he had been reluctant to make the trip that day. But he had had his instructions.
The Dancer Street saleroom of the Persian Sales Company was very busy on the day of Arnold Serle’s visit to Park Lane.
In the office opposite, Davidson and Curtis—weary with waiting, but worried enough to make no protests, even to themselves—noticed the constant stream of people, most of whom were well known. Only those with money could afford to patronise that exclusive establishment.
Lady Denise Clare had called. Lord and Lady Stenner had followed her. Two distinguished politicians and their wives, a European prince and an American millionaire’s daughter had caused a flutter of activity. The two agents could see through the window, and gained some comic relief from the antics of the salesmen and their victims.
And then Mick Randall arrived, with an unusually pretty girl.
He looked round as he left his car—a Triumph Sports—and as they saw the expression on his face the two watchers were startled.
‘He’s having a rough time,’ said Curtis.
‘Breeze right up,’ agreed Davidson.
They were right. Mick Randall looked scared. His face was pale and his mouth was set tightly. He looked at his companion, without a smile.
‘Who’s the girl?’ asked Curtis.
‘Not sure,’ said Davidson, ‘but I’ve seen her before.’
Curtis watched, closely. Davidson took up the telephone and called Whitehall five fours, the then number of Department Z.
‘Well, Davidson?’ said Gordon Craigie, and Curtis could almost see the pipe drooping from the corner of his mouth.
‘Mick Randall at the saleroom,’ Davidson told him. ‘And looking glum. He’s with a girl. I think I ought to follow…’
‘I’ll send someone to relieve you,’ said Craigie.
One of the mysteries of Craigie’s organisation was the speed with which he could move his agents from one spot to another. Less than ten minutes after the telephone call, and while Mick Randall’s Triumph was waiting outside Number Three Dancer Street, a cheerful-looking man of some forty summers arrived at the office opposite. He asked Davidson whether that gentleman thought it was going to rain, and Davidson said that he didn’t think so, unless the wind changed.
‘Number Twenty-Seven,’ said the middle-aged man.
‘And I thought,’ said Curtis, mournfully, ‘that you were a respectable city broker with a wife and family.’
‘Browning’s worse than I,’ said Davidson, grinning cheerfully at Agent Twenty-Seven, whom the others knew well, ‘he daren’t even think of marriage. How’s that little blonde, old…’
‘Here comes Mick,’ interrupted Curtis. ‘With the girl. Don’t recognise her, do you?’
Browning looked out of the window as Davidson made for the door, and as Mick Randall and his companion came out of Persian Sales. ‘Yes,’ said the newcomer. ‘Scanling’s daughter.’
‘The political V.I.P.?’ murmured Curtis.
Davidson, meanwhile, was slipping into his Alfa-Romeo, which was parked in Oxford Street. Special permission for that parking had been obtained, and every policeman who patrolled the Street of Shops felt that he had been deprived of promotion.
Mick Randall’s Triumph turned out of Dancer Street; Davidson’s Alfa-Romeo followed. The journey did not last long. Randall pulled up in the first side street past Scanling’s Park Lane house, and hurried with his companion into the house. Davidson, waiting nearby, noticed a Daimler standing outside.
Very soon, a fat man whose face was half-hidden by his upturned collar hurried from the house and into the waiting car. During the two seconds in which he was on view, Wally Davidson felt the first real rush of excitement since he had started this job.
The Daimler moved off, towards Hyde Park Corner.
The Alfa-Romeo followed. It took them twenty minutes to reach Victoria, and another twenty to reach Chelsea Town Hall. Then the Daimler began to gather speed.
Davidson had managed to scrawl a message during the first part of the run, and at Sloane Square he handed it to a policeman, who read:
Supt. Miller, S.Y. Following Daimler XZY 71823 in F.N. LOND. 81. Looks a Portsmouth Road job.
‘What was the man like?’ demanded Miller, on the telephone.
‘A rather big man, sir. Dressed in grey. Looked as if—as if he’d been out all night,’ said the policeman, in a rush of inspiration.
‘Thanks.’ Miller picked up another telephone as he replaced the receiver of the first.
‘Craigie,’ he said, ‘I’ve had a message from someone who sounds like Davidson.’
Within ten minutes three cars, with two of Craigie’s men in each, started to break all speed rules between Whitehall and Putney. Miller, meanwhile, had radioed a call for the Daimler and Alfa-Romeo—for observation.
At Putney the first of the three following cars pulled up, and the constable on duty at the bridge was questioned. Yes, a Daimler and an Alfa-Romeo had passed, about a quarter of an hour before.
‘They went straight up the High Street, sir,’ he volunteered.
‘The Portsmouth Road for a pint,’ said the driver.
At Kingston the message had been received, and the two watched cars had a lead of ten minutes over the pursuers. At Esher, after a drive along the by-pass that caused six retired military gentlemen to write to The Times, the three cars had closed up to within a few miles of their quarry.
‘We’ll be in time for supper,’ said the cheerful driver of the first, whose name was St. John Dane and who was called—blasphemously according to many people—Righteous.
He spotted Davidson’s car a mile outside Cobham, and as he roared past it—for Righteous was driving a supercharged Bentley, new version—he bellowed:
‘Going to rain?’
‘If the wind changes!’
‘What a clever man Craigie is,’ remarked Dane to his companion, a very small man whose name was Besset and whose clothes and features somehow achieved the same height of immaculate neatness.
Besset grunted.
The Bentley passed Daimler XZY 71823 before entering Ripley. Each of its occupants knew that the curtains were drawn, and believed that the driver of the Daimler knew nothing of the cavalcade in front of and behind it.
The big car turned left, two miles outside Godalming, crossed a narrow bridge near the main road and swung into the drive of a small manor house. The change from the speeding to the running to earth had its complications, but the three cars that Craigie had sent roared past the entrance to that house. Davidson had kept on the main road, from where he could see the white drive-posts of Serle’s hiding place.
Within an hour, the inns of that district were invaded. Three of them agreed to lodge pairs of amiable-looking young gentlemen for the night, and the next night if necessary. One such inn, the Blue Boar, was within a hundred yards of Serle’s house. Dane and Besset staked their claim there.
After conferring with the others, Davidson scorched Londonwards. He was filled with the hope that he had made the first progressive step for eight or nine days.
He was right; and the step was more important than he imagined.