Kenyon telephoned Craigie.
‘Scanling was killed,’ he reported, ‘while he was talking to me. And I think he was killed because he was talking to me. He confirmed our ideas about the New Age, Gordon.’
‘That’s a help,’ said Craigie.
‘We’ll have to start watching it, somehow.’ There was a hint of weariness in Kenyon’s voice. ‘Ten thousand branches and a million members!’
‘We only want the top men,’ reasoned Craigie.
‘How are we to find who they are?’
‘We can only try,’ said Craigie, drily. And Kenyon laughed, in spite of himself.
‘Meanwhile,’ he suggested, ‘we’d better take Serle. Will you do that?’
‘Yes,’ said Craigie. ‘What charge do you want Miller to use?’
‘We’ve the murderer here,’ Kenyon told him. He was speaking from the police-station to which Mary Randall had taken the message. ‘We can say he’s accused Serle of paying him for the shooting. That won’t be far out.’
‘I’ll see Fellowes,’ said Craigie.
For a second time, Kenyon fancied that Craigie spoke as if dubious of police co-operation. And at ten o’clock at night, it needed something of unusual significance for Craigie to contact the Police Commissioner.
Puzzled, and vaguely uneasy, he replaced the receiver. He found himself wishing suddenly that he could have gone to Godalming in person—been in at the death figuratively speaking, of Arnold Serle.
He told himself he was being an ass: he could safely leave that job to Righteous Dane and the other agents who had followed Wally Davidson. But the vague sense of apprehension persisted as he took Mary home to Regent’s Park.…
The Chesters were in, but Mick Randall was still out.
‘He’ll be back,’ said Kenyon.
‘He’ll be back,’ echoed Mary. ‘Jim…’ Her voice was suddenly very anxious; the tremor in it thrilled him: ‘You’ll go carefully, won’t you?’
‘I haven’t had my licence endorsed yet,’ said Kenyon. ‘Goodnight, my love.’
Sleep, Kenyon believed, was nearer to godliness than was cleanliness. He could manage with a few hours nightly over a short period, but in the long run he liked to average his eight hours.
That night, he was dog-tired. He reached the Gresham Street flat at half-past twelve to find Stinger still waiting up; a Stinger miserable in the making of the new home. The old flat, seven doors away, was still a blackened mass, and in the ashes were the records of Jem Stinger’s reformation.
‘I suppose you’d like coffee,’ he offered glumly.
‘If you feel like that,’ said Kenyon, ‘go to bed and I’ll make my own.’
Stinger became noticeably brighter.
‘Heverything going all right, Mr. K?’
‘Well,’ said Kenyon, dropping into an armchair as Stinger endeavoured to switch on the electric kettle and hand him his slippers at the same time: ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Jem. How’s the eleventh commandment?’
‘Oke,’ said Stinger, sadly. ‘Ain’t ‘ad a caller, Mr. K. Only a bloke from the electric light…’
‘Jem,’ murmured Kenyon, ‘were not electric light gentlemen in the commandment?’
‘This one was O.K.,’ said Stinger, with a reminiscent grin. ‘I told ’im to ’op it. ’E ’opped. ’E came again the next day and I told ’im to skip. ’E skipped. Then he came wiv ’alf a dozen Roberts, including Jowkes and Charlie, what I’ve known for a couple years, so that’s all right, Mr. K.’
Kenyon made allowances for a little exaggeration, but inquired how Stinger had made his man hop, and then skip.
‘Arsk no questions,’ grinned Stinger, rubbing his hands on his trousers. ‘And you hears no…’
‘Kettle’s boiling,’ said Kenyon.
He was reluctant to get out of the chair and make for bed but he knew he would rest better at full length.
‘What time in the morning?’ Stinger asked.
‘Six—I’ll use my alarm.’
At half-past nine next morning Stinger—armed with tea, morning papers and a conciliatory smile—called his lord and master. Kenyon grinned, stretched, reached for the tea and saw the clock.
‘Half-past… !’ he began, and then offended Stinger’s new-found profanity scruples.
‘ ’Ere!’ that worthy protested. ‘All this ‘cos you looked like a coupla mornings after, last night. Have a heart, Mr. K.! And I’ll remind you that…’ And duly reminded him that he was now reformed, that he himself did not swear, and that he did not approve of other people swearing.
Kenyon shaved, bathed, and dressed quickly—and then for the first time, he glanced at a paper. He saw the great headline and the name of Sir Joseph Scanling, and knew what to expect.
Then stared at the headline again, hardly able to believe his eyes. It read:
SIR JOSEPH SCANLING KILLED BY FALL TRAGEDY AT MEETING
Killed by a fall!
Gordon Craigie, who needed less rest than any man whom Kenyon had ever known, looked as though he had not slept a wink for a week.
‘I know,’ he said, wearily, as Kenyon entered the office. ‘It’s a blow, Jim, but we can’t do anything. It’s been officially condemned as unwise, to reveal how Scanling died. There were only one or two people in the hall at the time of the murder, and the truth won’t spread. It’s being hushed up.’
‘Why?’ demanded Kenyon, tonelessly.
‘For the same reason that Serle wasn’t touched last night.’
‘He wasn’t?’
Five minutes before Kenyon would have been staggered by the news. Now, he had half-suspected it. For over a week he had recognised that sense of oppression; that feeling that he was fighting against something much deeper, much stronger, than he had hitherto conceived. The truth of that impression was striking home.
‘Fellowes is all right,’ added Craigie, with a sudden, cheering smile. ‘But he can’t do a thing. He’s being stopped. I’m being stopped. The Powers That Be are…’
‘Marked,’ said Kenyon.
‘Marked,’ agreed Craigie. ‘I was at a conference this morning. I was told that my efforts to re-open the old Rensham scandal were considered unnecessary, and I was asked to submit all my future plans to the Cabinet.’
‘You might as well shut up shop!’ Kenyon experienced a sudden and intense surge of dislike for the politicians who ruled, or thought they ruled.
‘All of them—with three exceptions—had the mark of the crescent,’ Craigie told him, and Kenyon nodded.
The mark was everywhere, he thought bitterly. And its effect, in the first stages, at least, was like some hypnotic drug. Certainly, under its influence, its addicts did as they were told by…
By whom?
That was the question. By whom? Serle was not a big enough man to be at the top of this nationwide organisation. There was someone else, someone leading him, leading all the others.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Kenyon, suddenly. ‘I’d started to think, last night, that the New Age Party was an attempt to gain political power. But if the present Cabinet’s tainted…’
‘Cabinet, not Parliament,’ Craigie reminded him. ‘Not even the Government. And it’s surprising the amount of power a single Cabinet has. It takes months to get past it. You’ll have questions in Parliament; I might even get a question asked about the Scanling hush-hush. But what happens? The Government promises to investigate. The Cabinet advises such and such course of action. It’s taken. The question’s forgotten. It happens hundreds of times every session.’
‘But if they’ve infected the Cabinet,’ murmured Kenyon, ‘why stop there? Why not run through the whole House?’
Craigie smiled as his hand strayed towards his meerschaum.
‘It’s easier to get at a dozen men than several hundred, Jim. One man in the Cabinet could influence them all; he might use cigarettes, he might hold a luncheon-party—there are a dozen ways it could be done. But to get at the whole House is a different matter. And anyhow, supposing they managed to drug everyone at Westminster, and forgot the man in the street? The man in the street would turn his Member out, and the job would have to start all over again. No’—Craigie stuffed his pipe—’it’s been diabolically well arranged, Jim. This hush-hush won’t be needed for long. Just for a few weeks. There’s agitation for an appeal to the country within two or three months. That means Parliament will break up inside a month, and the Government isn’t averse to an election. The rank and file don’t realise what’s in store for them, but they do know that the Government stock is falling fast. In another six months the Socialist vote will sweep the country. A fight now might bring the present crowd back with a majority, even if a slender one.’
Kenyon drummed his fingers on his chair.
‘So we’re going to have a general election, and the New Age Party is going to top the poll. That’s it, eh?’
‘That’s the idea,’ said Craigie, cautiously. He was looking less tired. ‘Of course, this Cabinet disapproval is making it awkward. Fellowes can’t move much. Nor can I—or so they think.’
‘Think?’ Kenyon prodded, eagerly.
‘We’ll work that out in a minute,’ Craigie assured him. I want you to see the whole thing clearly, Jim. You’ve a pretty thorough idea of what’s happening. A strong effort to gain control of the country by constitutional methods is being made. So far as the rest of the world is concerned we’ll still be under a normal Government, if the New Age Party tops the poll.’
‘I see.’ Kenyon’s face was pale.
‘I don’t believe,’ Craigie went on, drily, ‘in the man who wants power for power’s sake. I’m not thinking that we’re going to be presented with a dictator. For one thing, the G.B.P. won’t stand for it.’
‘Money,’ said Kenyon, simply.
‘Money,’ Craigie agreed grimly. ‘It isn’t inconceivable to picture a Cabinet and Government composed almost entirely of men with the mark. Remember, at the election only the New Age candidates will get the New Age vote. Now half a dozen men—the men who are running this—can do exactly what they like with the country’s money. For two or three years they could hide their activities, and in two or three years they would have all they want.’
‘If the New Age Party wins the next election,’ Kenyon summed up slowly, ‘and you think the election will be in a couple of months’ time—we’re for it.’
‘That’s it,’ said Craigie. ‘And now you know how we’re being handicapped. You can take it from me that every permanent official likely to create any fuss and bother about the Cabinet’s actions has been drugged. We can’t move—officially.’
Kenyon was very still. He was sure he had a glimmering of Craigie’s idea, but he wanted to hear it in full.
‘But then,’ Craigie’s voice was very grim: ‘we—the Department—are used to working unofficially. Hitherto, of course, if we’ve run risks by going against regulations, we’ve been able to pull the necessary strings. Now, we can’t. Every member who takes on this job is doing it completely at his own risk. We’ll get no help from the police; no help from anyone. Do you see?’
‘Yes,’ said Kenyon. The big man’s face, tanned dark, was set in hard lines. But there was a curve on his lips and a light in his eyes. His jaw was thrust forward, and he looked capable of anything—everything.
‘My unhappy job,’ Craigie continued, a little wistfully, ‘is to wait back here and report everything I want to do to the Cabinet. I’m going to stick to that, because those gentlemen will then think I’m acting on instructions. But you’ll be out in the field, with the others. Timothy and Toby, too—Dane, Trale, Curtis, the whole crowd. I’ll give you a list of names. Every one of them knows someone else on it, so you’ll have no strangers. Your men will work in pairs, as always. Meanwhile, I’m sending a code letter to all of you. You’re to leave the job you’re working on and drop back into private life. The code letters will be read and decoded by our friends of the Cabinet, and their friends in turn, and it will be believed that I’ve taken the warning to heart. It will be up to you to draw your men together.’
‘Wouldn’t be a bad idea,’ said Kenyon, with a sudden grin, ‘if I organised a cricket match.’
Craigie chuckled, then was serious again. ‘There’s one other thing. Several overseas appointments are being changed, mostly of those who are friends of Hugo Rensham.’
‘You mean Randall,’ Kenyon said, very quietly.
‘Sir Michael Randall’s coming from Paris,’ agreed Craigie, ‘and Howe from Berlin. I’m not sure of our American man, Sladen.’
‘What’s the excuse?’ demanded Kenyon.
‘Ill-health.’ Craigie smiled drily. ‘You’ll probably find all three of them useful, because they’ll be fuming. Only be careful—don’t talk to anyone you’re not sure of. And remember, a man without the mark isn’t necessarily safe.’
‘Meaning,’ Kenyon hazarded, ‘that you think the V.I.P.s are immune?’
‘Whoever’s behind this,’ said Craigie, ‘is sane—brilliant, and sane. And no sane man drugs himself.’