Elk 02 The Joker (15 page)

Not a muscle of Stratford Harlow’s face moved.

‘Marling?’ he repeated. His black brows met in a frown; the pale eyes surveyed the detective blankly.. ‘Marling?’ he said again. ‘Now where have I heard that name? You don’t mean the fellow who was my tutor? Good God! what a question to ask! I have never heard of him from the day he left for South Africa or somewhere.’

‘The Argentine?’ suggested Jim.

‘Was it the Argentine? I’m not sure. Yes, I am - Pernambuco - cholera - he died there!’

The underlip came thrusting out. Harlow was passing to the aggressive.

‘The truth is, Marling and I were not very good friends. He treated me rather as though I were a child, and I cannot think of him without resentment. Marling! How that word brings back the most uncomfortable memories! The succession of wretched cottages, of prim, neat gardens, of his abominable Greek and Latin verses - differential calculi, the whole horrible gauntlet of so-called education through which a timid youth must run - and be flayed. Why do you ask?’

Jim had his excuse all ready. He might not recover the ground he had lost, but he could at least consolidate himself against further retirement.

‘I have had an inquiry from one of his former associates.’ He mentioned a name, and here he was on safe ground, for it was the name of a man who had been a contemporary of Marling’s and who was in the same college. Not a difficult achievement for Jim, who had spent that morning looking up old university lists. Evidently it had no significance to Harlow.

‘I seem t remember Marling talking about him.’ he said. ‘But twenty-odd years is a very long time to cast one’s memory! And very probably I am an unconscious liar! So far as I know’ - he shook his head - ‘Marling is dead. I have no absolute proof of this, but if you wish I will have inquiries made. The Argentine Government will do almost anything I wish.’

‘You’re a lucky man.’ Jim held out his hand with a laugh.

‘I wonder if I am?’ Harlow looked at him steadfastly. ‘I wonder! And I wonder if you are, Mr Carlton,’ he added slowly. ‘Or will be!’

Jim Carlton was not in a position to supply an answer. His foot was on the doorstep when Harlow called him back. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he said.

Jim supposed that he was talking about the offer he had made, but this was not the case.

‘It was a crude and degrading business, Mr Carlton - but I have a passion for experiment. Such methods were efficacious in the days of our forefathers, and I argued that human nature has not greatly changed.’

Carlton was listening in bewilderment.

‘I don’t quite follow you - ’

Mr Harlow showed his teeth in a smile and for a moment his pale eyes lit up with glee.

‘This was not a case of your following me - but of my following you. A crude business. I am heartily ashamed of myself!’

Jim was half-way to Scotland Yard before the solution of this mysterious apology occurred to him. Stratford Harlow was expressing his regret for the attack that had been delivered by his agents in Long Acre.

Jim stopped to scratch his head.

That man worries me!’ he said aloud.

THE NEWS that Mr Stratford Harlow was entertaining the Middle East delegates at his house in Park Lane was not of such vital importance that it deserved any great attention from the London press. A three-line paragraph at the foot of a column confirmed the date and die hour. For Jim this proved to be unnecessary, since a reminder came by the second post on the following day, requesting the pleasure of his company at the reception.

‘They might have asked me to the dinner,’ said Elk. ‘Especially as it’s free. I’ll bet that bird keeps a good brand of cigar.’

‘Write and ask for a box; you’ll get it,’ said Jim, and Elk sniffed.

‘That’d be against the best interests of the service,’ he said virtuously. ‘Do you think I’d get ‘em if I mentioned your name?’

‘You’d get the whole Havana crop,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve got a pick. Anyway, there’ll be plenty of cigars for you on the night of the reception.’

‘Me?’ Elk brightened visibly. ‘He didn’t send me an invite.’

‘Nevertheless you are going,’ said Jim definitely. ‘I’m anxious to know just what this reception is all about. I suppose it’s a wonderful thing to stop these brigands from shooting at one another, but I can’t see the excuse for a full-scale London party.’

‘Maybe he’s got a girl he wants to show off,’ suggested Elk helpfully.

‘You’ve got a deplorable mind,’ was Jim’s only comment.

He was not the only hard-worked man in London that week. Every night he walked with Elk and stood opposite the new Rata building in Moorgate Street. Each room was brilliantly illuminated; messengers came and went; and he learnt from one of the extra staff whom he had put into the building, that even Ellenbury, who usually did not allow himself to be identified publicly with the business, was working till three o’clock every morning.

Scotland Yard has many agencies throughout the world, and from these the full extent of Rata’s activities began dimly to be seen.

‘They’ve sold nothing, but they’re going to sell’, reported Jim to his chief at the Yard; ‘and it’s going to be the biggest bear movement that we have seen in our generation.’

His chief was a natural enemy to the superlatives of youth.

‘If it were an offence to “bear” the market I should have no neighbours,’ he said icily. ‘Almost every stockbroker I know has taken a flutter at some time or other. My information is that the market is firm and healthy. If Harlow is really behind this coup, then he looks like losing money. Why don’t you see him and ask him plainly what is the big idea?’

Jim made a face.

‘I shall see him tonight at the party,’ he said, ‘but I doubt very much whether I shall have a chance of worming my way into his confidence!’

Elk was not a society man. It was his dismal claim, that not in any rank of the Metropolitan Police Force was there a man with less education than himself. Year after year, with painful regularity, he had failed to pass the examination which was necessary for promotion to the rank of inspector.

History floored him; dates of royal accessions and expedient assassinations drove him to despair. Sheer merit eventually secured him the rank which his lack of book learning denied him.

‘How’ll I do?’

He had come up to Jim’s room arrayed for the reception, and now he turned solemnly on his feet to reveal the unusual splendour of evening dress. The tail coat was creased, the trousers had been treated by an amateur cleaner, for they reeked of petrol, and the shirt was soft and yellow with age. ‘It’s the white weskit that worries me,’ he complained. ‘They tell me you only wear white weskits for weddin’s. But I’m sure the party’s goin’ to be a fancy one. You wearin’ a white weskit?’

‘I shall probably wear one,’ said Jim soothingly. ‘And you look a peach, Elk!’

‘They’ll take me for a waiter, but I’m used to that,’ said Elk. ‘Last time I went to a party they made me serve the drinks. Quite a lot never got by!’

‘I want you to fix a place where I can find you,’ said Jim, struggling with his tail coat. ‘That may be very necessary.’

‘The bar,’ said Elk laconically. ‘If it’s called a buf-fit, then I’ll be at the buf-fit!’

There was a small crowd gathered before the door of Harlow’s house. They left a clear lane to the striped awning beneath which the guests passed into the flower-decked vestibule. For the first time Jim saw the millionaire’s full domestic staff. A man took his card and did not question the presence of Elk, who strolled nonchalantly past the guardian.

‘White weskits!’ he hissed. ‘I knew it would be fancy!’

The wide doors of the library were thrown open and here Mr Harlow was receiving his guests. Dinner was over and the privileged guests were standing in a half-circle about him.

‘White weskit,’ murmured Elk, ‘and the bar’s in the corner of the room.’

Harlow had already seen them; and although Mr Elk was an uninvited guest, he greeted him with warmth. To his companion he gave a warm and hearty hand.

‘Have you seen Sir Joseph?’ he asked.

Jim had seen the Foreign Secretary that afternoon to learn whether he had made any fresh plans, but had found that Sir Joseph was adhering to his original intention of attending the reception only. He was telling Harlow this when there was a stir at the door and, looking around, he saw the Foreign Secretary enter the room and stop to shake hands with a friend at the door. He wore his black velvet jacket, his long black he straggled artistically over his white shirt front. Sir Joseph had been pilloried as the worst-dressed man in London and yet, for all his slovenliness of attire, he had the distinctive air of a grand gentleman.

He fixed his horn-rims and favoured Jim with a friendly smile as he made his way to his host. ‘I was afraid I could not come,’ he said in his husky voice. ‘The truth is, some foolish newspaper had been giving prominence to a ridiculous story that went the rounds a few weeks ago; and I had to be in my place to answer a question.’

‘Rather late for question time, Sir Joseph,’ smiled Harlow. ‘I always thought they were taken before the real business of Parliament began.’

Sir Joseph nodded in his jerky way.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, a little testily, ‘but when questions of policy arise, and a member gives me private notice of his intention of asking such a question, it can be put at any period.’

He swept Parliament and vexatious questioners out of existence with a gesture of his hand.

Jim watched the two men talking together. They were in a deep and earnest conversation, and he gathered from Sir Joseph’s gesticulations that the Minister was feeling very strongly on the subject under discussion. Presently they strolled through the crowded library into the vestibule, and after a decent interval Jim went on their trail. He signalled his companion from the buffet and Mr Elk, wiping his moustache hurriedly, joined him as he reached the door.

The guests were still arriving; the vestibule was crowded and progress was slow. Presently a side door in the hall opened, and over the heads of the crush he saw Sir Joseph and Mr Harlow come out and make for the street. Harlow turned back and met the detectives.

‘A short visit,’ he said, ‘but worth while!’ Jim reached the steps in time to see the Foreign Minister’s car moving into Park Lane and he had a glimpse of Sir Joseph as he waved his hand in farewell…

‘He stayed long enough to justify a paragraph in the evening newspaper - and the uncharitable will believe that this was all I wanted! You’re not going?’

It was Harlow speaking.

‘I am sorry, I also have an engagement - in the House! said Jim good-humouredly; and Mr Harlow laughed.

‘I see. You were here on duty as well, eh? Well, that’s a very wise precaution. I now realise that not only are you a lucky but you are a short-sighted young man!’

‘Why?’ asked Jim, so sharply that Harlow laughed.

‘I will tell you one of these days,’ he said.

The two detectives waited until a taxicab had been hailed; they drove into Palace Yard at the moment Sir Joseph’s car was moving back to the rank.

‘I don’t see why you pulled me away from that party, Carlton,’ grumbled Elk. ‘Look on this picture and look on that! Look at gay Park Lane and dirty old Westminster!’ And then, when his companion did not reply, he asked anxiously: ‘Something wrong?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve only a sort of feeling that we’re going to see an earthquake - that’s all,’ said Jim emphatically, as they passed into the lobby.

Sir Joseph was in his room and could not be disturbed, a messenger told them. Jim had signed tickets and they passed into the chamber and took a seat under the gallery.

The house was well filled, except the Government benches, which save for the presence of an under-secretary deeply immersed in the contents of his dispatch box, were untenanted. Evidently some motion had been put to the House and the result announced just before the two visitors arrived, for the clerk was reading the terms of an interminable amendment to a Water and Power Bill when Sir Joseph strode in from behind the Speaker’s chair, dropped heavily on the bench and, putting on his glasses began to read a sheaf of notes which he carried.

At that moment somebody rose on the Opposition front bench.

‘Mr Speaker, I rise to ask the right honourable gentleman a question of which I have given him private notice. The question is: Has the right honourable gentleman seen a statement published in the Daily Megaphone to the effect that relationships between His Majesty’s Government and the Government of France are strained as the result of the Bonn incident? And will he tell the House whether such a statement was issued, as is hinted in the newspaper account, with the knowledge and approval of the Foreign Office?’

Sir Joseph rose slowly to his feet, took off his horn-rims and replaced them again, nervously gripped the lapels of his coat, and leaning forward over the dispatch box, spoke:

‘The right honourable gentleman is rightly informed,’ he began, and a hush fell on the House.

Members looked at one another in amazement and consternation.

‘There does exist between His Britannic Majesty’s Government and the Government of France a tension which I can only describe as serious. So serious, in fact, that I have felt it necessary to advise the Prime Minister that a state of emergency be declared, all Christmas leave for the Armed Forces be cancelled and that all reserves shall be immediately mobilised.’

A moment of deadly silence. Then a roar of protest.

There was hurled at the Government benches a hurricane of indignant questions. Presently the Speaker secured silence; and Sir Joseph went on, in his grave, husky tone: ‘I am not prepared to answer any further questions tonight, and I must ask honourable members to defer their judgement until Monday, when I hope to make a statement on behalf of His Majesty’s Government.’