Neither Five Nor Three (Helen Macinnes) (22 page)

Orpen followed his glance. “You must learn to be punctual,” he said with his quiet humourless smile. He pulled his pipe out of his jacket pocket. “Well, what is wrong? You don’t look particularly happy.”

“I had a little trouble tonight,” said Scott. “Rona.” He had meant to mention Rona only at the end of this meeting, but Orpen had a way of making him blurt everything out in the first few minutes.

“Ah? Didn’t she enjoy the party at Thelma’s?”

“It was you who told me to take her there.” He couldn’t keep a note of reproach out of his voice.

“And now you see for yourself,” said Orpen with considerable bite to his words.

Scott looked up at him sharply. The light beside him got in his eyes; he couldn’t see Orpen’s face clearly.

Orpen was pulling out his tobacco pouch, filling his pipe methodically.

Scott rose, and began walking around the room. “I told you it was too soon to take Rona to one of Thelma’s parties. She isn’t ready for that, yet.”

“Nor will she ever be.” Orpen’s voice was angry. He lit his pipe, his eyes narrowing. “Come back and sit down, Scott. I didn’t bring you here to argue about Rona Metford. I’ve told you before, as your friend, that she isn’t the girl for you. When I think of all the women you could have fallen in love with—” he broke off, and flung his hands up in mock despair. He was being amused, now.

“I’m in love with Rona,” Scott said quietly. “We’re getting married. In September.” He came back to his armchair then.

“Are you?”

There was a note in Orpen’s voice that kept Scott from answering.

Orpen went on. “You aren’t staging a small revolt by any chance? That would be foolish. At this stage of your work. I’m speaking as a friend, Scott.”

Scott shook his head slowly. “It’s just that I’m—well, I’m tired of all this...” He hesitated.

“All this what?”

“All this play-acting. I’d like something definite, something that achieves real results.”

Orpen said sharply, “Smoke screens have their uses in any battle. Believe me, Scott, there’s nothing irrelevant in this fight. Everything is at stake. And every means must be used.
Every
means,” he insisted, “no matter how irrelevant, how trivial it may seem. You do as you are instructed, you ask no questions, and we’ll get results.”

“I’ve always followed your instructions,” Scott said. He thought of all the nights in those last six months, when he had had to curtail an evening with Rona, even cancel it, for the sake of Orpen’s meetings, Orpen’s arrangements.

“But until you got tied up thoroughly with this Metford girl, you didn’t evade my orders.”

“I don’t evade them,” Scott insisted.

“You’ve been getting restless.”

“But—” Scott began.

“But what?”

“I’ve begun to feel you don’t trust me,” Scott said with some hesitation.

“What makes you feel that?” Orpen looked amused.

“Four years ago, when I was discharged from the army, I came to you. I told you how I felt. I knew, from the old days, that you’d agree with me.”

“And I did,” Orpen said.

“You did more than that. You made me believe I could be of some real use; you said there was real work waiting for me, an essential job to be done.”

“Only after I had talked with you for over a year,” Orpen reminded him sharply. Then he smiled. “You make me sound a very slap-dash recruiter,” he added. “Not that I ever doubted your sincerity. But we need more than sincerity, you know. We need discipline, determination.”

“I’ve tried to give proof of that, too,” Scott said quietly.

“Yes, you’ve done very well. You’ve been accepted. You’ve followed instructions and kept yourself clear of suspicion. You’ve learned most of the disciplines. Except patience, I’m afraid.”

“But I don’t seem to have done anything of importance,” Scott argued.

“You’ve been working with me. You don’t think that’s of any importance?” For a moment, Orpen was angry. Then his mouth relaxed once more, and he said with amusement, “Because I’ve been your friend for so many years, you are quite sure I’m of no importance?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No? Well, perhaps my job is of no importance.” And yet, the expression in his voice showed that he didn’t believe what he had suggested. Suddenly, he rose from his chair. He went over to the desk. He spoke over his shoulder, as he searched among some papers. “Have you decided about Rona Metford?” he asked quietly.

Scott looked up. Orpen’s voice had warned him. “What has Rona got to do with all this?” he asked quietly.

“Everything.”

“I don’t see—”

“You’ll have to see, Scott. You have only one choice. If you want the assignment that is waiting for you.” Orpen returned from the desk to his chair. He was carrying a sheet of paper.

“An assignment?”

“Yes. Difficult. But important. We consider it of prime importance.” There was no doubting Orpen’s sincerity as he emphasised these last words.

Scott’s face changed. He sat forward on his chair, alert, expectant. But he waited for Orpen to explain, as if to prove that he had learned the discipline of patience. It wasn’t easy, though. He could tell from Orpen’s smile that this assignment was as important as he had hoped for.

Then Orpen looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. He pursed his lips. Scott waited.

Orpen said, “About Rona Metford... Until now I’ve always spoken to you as a friend. I’ve listened to your explanations, I’ve watched your compromises, and I’ve waited for you to realise that you can’t put your own wishes before your duty to the Party. You’ve been persuading yourself that you can handle Rona, that your personal life was your own affair. Now, I’m going to speak to you officially. Your personal life is our affair. We can risk no breach of security. And Metford is dangerous.”

Scott said, “She isn’t politically mature, I agree. I haven’t tried to educate her. You told me to avoid political discussions. But, if you let me handle this, she can learn to follow Party doctrine without ever having to become an accepted member. That would be safe enough.”

Orpen threw back his head and laughed. “Safe? My dear Scott, safe? After this evening at Thelma’s? I got full reports on that, you know.”

“But she has had no instruction. If you will let me—”

“Nonsense. She’s completely unreliable. She has already done a lot of damage. She lost Blackworth his job at
Trend.
She put the finger on him.”

“By accident. She didn’t even know what she was doing. She’s told me the story.”

“Yes,
her
story. Did anyone else notice the way Blackworth was selecting articles for publication? Did that fool Weidler see that Blackworth was ‘slanting’ his use of material? No. He had to wait until Metford put that word into his mouth. And what is Blackworth’s report on her?” Orpen held up the sheet of paper, angrily, almost threateningly. “She said he had been printing one-sided arguments amounting to distortion. Distortion! Blackworth gave
Trend
the only true facts it has ever published.”

Scott looked down at his hands. He interlocked his fingers. He said, “Blackworth made a mistake in publishing those articles on housing. Rona’s been making a study of that for almost a year. It was the one thing on which she could trip him up—she had the facts and figures. If he hadn’t published that series, he would still be working at
Trend
.”

Orpen stared at him. Scott’s face flushed as he realised what he had said.

Orpen said, “
Our
facts are the real facts. They show the United States as we see it. That is the only realism, the only truth.” Then his voice quieted, and he said softly, “She is beginning to corrupt you. You have proved my point about her. She is unacceptable.” He let the report on Rona fall beside his chair.

Scott said nothing. He rose. He stood with his arm leaning on the mantelpiece, his head bent, his eyes staring down at the narrow black hearth with its scattered pipe ashes and cigarette stubs and burnt matches.

Nicholas Orpen rose too. He never remained seated when another man stood over him. He went over to the table and picked up a newspaper. “We’re in danger, Scott,” he said. “We are at a moment of crisis. This wave of hysteria, this witch-hunting...” He dropped the paper in disgust. “We need men like you, loyal, dependable, intelligent. Men who have attracted no attention. Men who can remain unnoticed. Yes, Blackworth was a fool. I agree. But not for your reasons. He misjudged his margin of security... He took five years to build up; he came hurtling down in one morning. And every time that happens, we not only lose a good position, we have to work against increasing curiosity, increasing suspicion. But you aren’t a fool, Scott. You’ve calculated every step of the way. Your only mistake has been Rona Metford. And even with her you’ve been efficient.”

Orpen paused. His voice changed again, became cold and hard. “But you are reaching a point where she’s an extravagance you can’t afford. We don’t trust her. You keep telling me she is ignorant. We don’t trust her to stay ignorant. She will find out. And your work will be undone. Your usefulness will be over. You will be discredited. Do you know what happens to those who are discredited?”

Scott left the mantelpiece. He paced across the room. He stopped by the phonograph, looking down at the pile of record albums on the floor at his feet. On the evening he had spent here listening to them, had he been calculating each step of the way? Or had he willingly shut his eyes and let each step be calculated for him?

Orpen was repeating, “What happens to those who are discredited? They are discarded. Once they are discovered, we must write them off as a loss. They may have to wait years before they can be of any real use. Or they may have to change their names, their identities, start all over again where they can’t be recognised. It’s a slow, wasteful business. It sets us back. Do you think we can feel any particular confidence in those who’ve let themselves be discredited?”

“No,” Scott said at last. He sat down on the nearest chair. He covered his eyes with his hand.

“What’s your decision?” Orpen asked sharply. “Are you with us?”

“You can trust me,” Scott said slowly, with difficulty.

“I want a direct answer. Don’t be a fool, Scott!”

Scott raised his head. “I’m not the only one who’s a fool. What about Murray?”

“What about him?” I told him, thought Orpen angrily, to keep a better guard on his tongue after Scott reported his indiscretion at Metford’s party. “What about Murray?”

“He brought Paul Haydn to Thelma’s. What was Haydn doing there?”

Orpen relaxed. “Murray’s been testing him. Haydn’s a simple-minded soul. He’s got no ideas of his own.”

“Hasn’t he? Rona told me that he agreed with her about Thelma, about Murray, about everything that happened this evening.”

It was Orpen who was silent this time.

“Do you know Haydn’s war service?” Scott asked.

“Of course we know,” Orpen said irritably.

“Do you know that a lot of his activities were only cover for Military Intelligence?”

Orpen said, “And did Metford tell you this, too?”

“Not in these words. But she gave me the lead without knowing it. When we were having dinner, tonight, I asked her about Haydn. I’ve been wondering about him.”

Orpen half-smiled. “I see how you can persuade yourself that she could be useful to you instead of dangerous. Rona Metford might be good cover for your activities—isn’t that what you’re trying to prove to me? But only if you hadn’t this assignment, only if you were to be an ordinary Party member.” He paused and let the significance of his last words sink deep into Scott Ettley’s mind. “You see, she would have doubts about the job we are giving you. She wouldn’t accept it without questions.”

“What is it?”

“Once you know that, you’ve accepted it. There is no turning back. If you are accepting it, meet me tomorrow night. At the northwest corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Madison Avenue. At half-past nine.”

“Tomorrow? Orpen, give me time!”

“There’s no time to give. If you don’t meet me, I will have to report that you have broken with us. And you must take the consequences.”

“My God, don’t you see—”

“Yes, I see.” Orpen came over to Scott Ettley and laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Scott, haven’t I given up my own personal ambitions, my own private inclinations? I am not asking you to do anything that I haven’t done myself.”

Scott Ettley nodded. He didn’t speak. He rose as if to leave.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Half-past nine,” Orpen said crisply. “You’ll be told about your assignment then.” He smiled. “You are going to meet some of those really important people you’ve been wondering about. You’re moving into the big league, Scott. You’re leaving the Murrays and the Blackworths and the Thelmas far behind you.” He held out his hand; his voice was friendly and conversational once more. “I’ll be glad to get all this settled before I leave New York. I’m going on Thursday, so we haven’t much time. You see? Good night, Scott.” His grip was strong and brief.

The door closed silently behind Scott Ettley. He made his way cautiously, quietly, downstairs. In the street, a rising wind caught a torn sheet of newspaper and circled it over the roofs of the parked cars. The wind had an edge to it. The lights in the distant high buildings were cold and bleak.

He started walking. He didn’t know where. Nor did it matter. It was four o’clock, and a new day dawning, before he reached his own street at last.

12

Next morning Rona waited in her apartment until after nine o’clock. But there was no telephone call from Scott. Twice, she almost ’phoned him. And then, each time, she decided against it. She was always the first to apologise, she told herself bitterly. After all, who began this quarrel?

She walked restlessly around the small living-room, leaving the morning mail unopened,
The Times
unread, the bedroom untidied, the breakfast dishes unwashed. She went over yesterday’s events again, recalling what she had said and done, as if she hadn’t lain awake most of the night remembering. What had started all this, anyway? Admitting that she had been wrong to act so impulsively, so childishly, when she had run away from Scott, why had she done it? Because she had lost her temper when he had challenged her about Paul Haydn? Yes, that had angered her. It was so untrue. Scott knew she loved him, knew she thought only of him. Why did he keep torturing her—and himself—with this talk talk talk of Paul Haydn? She had given up many of her friends for Scott, she had stopped meeting them because he didn’t particularly like them. Even at the last party she had given, at least half of the guests had been Scott’s choice. And those who had been her friends had come only because of old loyalties, just as she had invited them with the feeling that it had been far too long since she had seen them. When she had welcomed them, it had been with a sense of guilt. When she had said goodbye, they had made gestures (half-sadly, as if they knew quite well she was moving slowly away from them) toward seeing her soon again. And she had made the same gestures, equally cordial, equally well-intentioned. Yet, later, she had refused their invitations because Scott was meeting her for lunch that day, or Scott had asked her to keep that evening free, or Scott had said, “Let’s go dancing on Saturday.”