Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens (12 page)

The Home Secretary said, “Do you really believe, Fortescue, that a man in Sir James’ position would lend himself to smuggling currency – a criminal manoeuvre?”

“Whether I believed it,” said Mr. Fortescue cautiously, “would depend, in the last analysis, on my estimate of Sir James’ character.”

The Home Secretary turned this reply over in his mind for a few moments. Then he grunted and said, “He’s a loud-mouthed brute, I agree. And I loathe his politics. But that doesn’t make him a crook.”

“I am told that he is something of a domestic tyrant. I would not assert that he beats his wife, but she certainly goes in considerable awe of him. His only son, Robin, has been forced to study political economy, and is dragged round at his father’s chariot wheels, no doubt destined to be turned into a junior model in due course.”

“And that’s our next Foreign Secretary. A Palmerstonian Fascist, with a taste for gun-boat diplomacy. What do you want to do? Tap
his
outgoing calls?”

“Yes. And have his mail opened. And have him watched, day and night, in England and in France. If he’s our man he’ll slip up sooner or later, and we’ve got to be there to catch him when he falls.”

“If
he’s our man,” said the Home Secretary. “And if he isn’t, by any chance, and if he finds out what we’re doing – there’ll be an explosion which will rock Whitehall from end to end.”

“So I should imagine.”

“The first head that will roll will be mine. But make no mistake about it, Fortescue. The second will be yours.”

The young Customs officer at Heathrow Airport produced a printed form and said, “You know the regulations, sir?”

“Since I have travelled backwards and forwards to Paris some twelve times this year,” said Sir James Docherty, “I think you may assume I have a nodding acquaintance with the regulations. Yes.”

“And have you made any purchases while you were abroad?”

“None whatever.”

“Or acquired any currency?”

Sir James looked up sharply and said, “I don’t
acquire
currency when I travel. I spend it.”

“I see, sir. Then would you mind opening this valise?”

“I would mind very much.”

“I’m afraid you must, sir.”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to examine the seal on the lock. I take it you are capable of recognising an embassy seal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And perhaps you would also read this note from our ambassador, requesting you to confer the customary exemption from search on this bag, which, I might add, contains important diplomatic documents.”

The Customs officer glanced at the letter and handed it to the thick-set man in a raincoat who was standing beside the counter. This man said, “I’m afraid, sir, that I have an order here, signed by the Home Secretary, over-riding the ambassador’s request.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Calder.”

“Then let me tell you, Mr. Calder . . .”

“I think we ought to finish this in private.”

Sir James started to say that he was damned if he would, realised that he was shouting and that people were starting to look at him, and resumed his public relations manner.

“If you wish to continue this farce,” he said in a choked voice, “by all means let us do it in private.”

“But it wasn’t a farce,” said Mr. Calder. “There was £2,000 in fivers, stowed away flat at the bottom of his valise.”

“What explanation did he give?”

“He was past rational explanation. He screamed a bit, and stamped and foamed at the mouth. Literally. I thought he might be having some form of fit.”

“But no explanation?”

“I gathered, in the end, that he said someone must have been tampering with his baggage. Frame-up. Police state. Gestapo. That sort of line.”

“I see,” said Mr. Fortescue. He said it so flatly that it made Mr. Calder look up.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“I gather,” said Mr. Fortescue, “that Sir James managed to persuade our masters that we have made a very grave mistake.”

“But, good God! I
saw
the notes. We all did. How does he suggest they got there?”

“He suggests,” said Mr. Fortescue sadly, “that Behrens put them there. I am seeing the Home Secretary in an hour’s time. I rather fear that we may be in for trouble.”

“Incredible though it may seem,” said the Home Secretary, “it really does appear that the one person who can’t have put the money there was Sir James himself – unless he bribed half the ambassador’s private staff.”

“What exactly happened?”

“Our ambassador had a highly confidential document – a memorandum in the General’s own hand – and Sir James offered to act as courier. The Head of Chancery put the document in Sir James’ valise – which was almost empty, as it happens – saw it sealed, and handed it to the ambassador’s secretary, who took it back to the hotel and himself saw it locked up in Sir James’ bedroom. The secretary didn’t leave the hotel. He stayed there, lunched with young Robin, and the two of them escorted the valise to the airport.”

“And what was Sir James doing all this time?”

‘’Sir James was having lunch with our ambassador, the French Minister of the Interior, and the French Minister of the Interior’s wife.”

“How exactly is it suggested that the notes got into the valise?”

“There’s no mystery about that. Microscopic examination of the seal – what was left of it – shows that it had been removed, whole, with a hot knife and re-fixed with adhesive. Probably during the lunch hour.”

“And it’s suggested that Behrens did that?”

“He was at the hotel.”

“So were two hundred other people.”

“You don’t think, Fortescue, that he might—just conceivably . . . thinking he was being helpful?”

Mr. Fortescue said, “I have known Behrens for thirty years, Home Secretary. The suggestion is ludicrous.” After a pause he added, “What is Sir James going to do?”

“He’s been to the PM. He wants the people responsible discovered, and dealt with.”

Mr. Fortescue smiled a wintry smile. He said, “I do not often find myself in agreement with Sir James, but that sentiment is one with which I heartily concur. I shall need to make an immediate telephone call to Paris.”

“I’m afraid you won’t catch Behrens. He’s on his way back at this moment.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Fortescue. He seemed to have recovered his good humour. “Excellent. We may need him. The person I wished to speak to was the ambassador’s private secretary. Perhaps your office could arrange it for me? Oh, and the manager of the Hotel Continental. Then we must have Behrens intercepted at the airport and brought straight round to Sir James’ house, to meet me there.””You’re going to see Sir James?”

“I have really no alternative,” said Mr. Fortescue genially. “In his present mood he would certainly not come to see us, would he?”

Sir James was at ease, in front of his drawing room fire, the bottom button of his waistcoat undone, a glass of port in one hand, an admiring audience of two, consisting of wife and son, hanging on every word.

“And it might have come off,” he said, “if I hadn’t been wide awake and, I admit it, had a bit of luck. I could have been in a very awkward spot.”

“And now it’s them who are on the spot,” said Robin with a grin.

“In the old days,” said Lady Docherty, “they’d have had their heads cut off.”

“Even if they don’t lose their heads, I think we can ensure that the people concerned lose their jobs. I’m seeing the PM again tomorrow. I wonder who
that
can be?”

“I’ll go,” said Robin. “The girl’s out. What if it’s the press?”

“Invite them in. The wider the publicity this deplorable matter receives the better for . . .”he was going to say “my chances at the next election,” but changed it to “. . . the country.”

Robin came back, followed by two men. “I don’t think it
is
the press,” he said. “It’s a Mr. Fortescue and a Mr. Behrens.”

“I see,” said Sir James coldly. “Well, I’ve nothing much to say to you that can’t be said, in due course, in front of a tribunal of enquiry, but if you’ve come to apologise, I’m quite willing to listen. No, stay where you are, my dear. And you, Robin. The more witnesses we have, the better.”

“I agree,” said Mr. Behrens.

“Kind of you.”

“It would be appropriate if your son were to remain, since most of what I have to say concerns him.” Mr. Fortescue swung round on the boy, ignoring Sir James. “I’ve just spoken to the ambassador’s private secretary in Paris. He tells me that you were away from the luncheon table for nearly half an hour. Making a long-distance call, you said. Why did you lie?”

“Don’t answer him,” said Sir James. But the boy also appeared to have forgotten about his father. He said, in his pleasant, level voice, “What makes you think it was a lie, sir?”

“I know it was a lie, because I’ve talked to the hotel manager, too. He tells me that no long-distance call, in or out, was recorded during that period. On the other hand, Behrens here saw you leave the dining room. He followed you up to the bedroom, saw you go in and heard you lock the door.”

“And who do you suppose,” fumed Sir James, “is going to believe your tame
agent provocateur?”

“Well, Robin,” said Mr. Fortescue, “if you weren’t telephoning, what were you doing?”

Sir James jumped up and forced himself between them. “I’ll deal with this,” he said. “If you think you can shift the blame on to my son, on manufactured evidence . . .”

“Don’t you think he might be allowed to speak for himself?”

“No. I don’t.”

“He’ll have to, sooner or later.”

“Unless you can produce something better than the word of your own spy, he’s not going to have to answer anything at all.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of evidence,” said Mr. Fortescue mildly. “Robin’s been a member of the action committee of your society for two years – that’s right, isn’t it, Robin? I would surmise that during all that time he’s been using your diplomatically protected luggage to bring back funds for the committee.”

“Lies,” said Sir James in a strangled voice.

“He has also taken a personal part in a number of demonstrations. He was up in the Midlands last week . . .”

“Collecting information for me.”

“No doubt. He also put in some time kicking a police superintendent. Have you the photographs, Behrens? The
Mail
shows it best, I think.”

Sir James glared at the photograph. “A fake!”

Robin said, “Oh, stop fluffing, Dad, of course it isn’t faked. How could it be?”

There was a moment of complete silence, broken by Lady Docherty who said, “Robin” faintly.

“Keep out of this, Mother.”

Sir James had recovered his voice. He said, “Your mother has every right . . .”

“Neither of you,” said Robin, silencing his parents with surprising ease, “have any rights in the matter at all. I’m twenty-one. And I know what I’m doing. You talk about violence and ruthlessness, Dad. But that’s all you ever do. You and your Peaceful People. Talk. I don’t believe . . .”a faint smile illuminated his young face,”. . . that you’ve ever actually hit anyone in your life. Really hit them, meaning to hurt. Have you?”

But Sir James was past speech. “Well I have, and I’m going to go on doing it, because if you truly believe in something, that’s the only way you’re going to make it happen – in your own life-time anyway. By breaking the law and hurting people, and smashing things. The Negroes in America have seen it. And young people all over the world. They’re just beginning to see it. Don’t talk. Kick out.”

Mr. Fortescue said, “I take it that includes kicking people when they’re on the ground.”

“Of course,” said Robin. “It’s much easier to kick them when they’re lying down than when they’re standing up. Why not?”

“I left that to Sir James to answer,” said Mr. Fortescue, some time later, to the Home Secretary. “He’s a politician and used to answering awkward questions.”

Mr. Calder first met Colonel Garnet in 1942 in the Western Desert.

The colonel, who had commanded an Armoured Regiment with such dash that it had lost most of its tanks, was doing a stand-in job as GSO2 at Corps. He had acquired the reputation of turning up more often at the dangerous end than was usual with staff officers. Nevertheless it did surprise Mr. Calder to see him at that particular time and place; seeing that the Infantry Regiment to which he was attached was about to do one of the things which infantry regiments dislike greatly. It was due, in five minutes’ time, to advance over a stretch of open desert which was certainly registered by enemy mortars and was probably full of anti-personnel mines.

Colonel Garnet had engaged Captain Calder in a learned discussion on modern theories of artillery support, whilst Captain Calder kept an anxious eye on his watch. When the whistle blew, and he climbed cautiously out of the line of slit trenches, he was staggered to observe that the colonel was climbing out with him. It appeared that there were some additional observations on artillery support which he had not had time to finish, and that he saw no reason that these contributions to military thought should be lost. “Just exactly,” as Mr. Calder said afterwards to his CO, “as though we were out for an afternoon stroll. And the odd thing is that the mortars didn’t open up, and if there were any mines we, at least, didn’t tread on them. In fact, we had remarkably few casualties. When we reached our objective, he said, ‘Well I must get back, I suppose. Can’t stand about all day gossiping.’”

“He’s quite mad,” said the CO. “That’s why he’s collected two DSOs already.”

Later on, Colonel Garnet went to Burma and finished up with a brigade and a second bar to his DSO. His rise after that was steady, if not spectacular, and it was generally felt that he had reached his limit as GOC Southern Command, when he was unexpectedly appointed Vice-Chief of the Defence Staff. This was not, normally, a very exacting job, but became so when his chief, Air Marshal Elvington, had to retire to a nursing home with a heart condition, brought on, it was rumoured in Whitehall, by his attempts to cope with a Government which thought that free wigs and dentures were more important than fighter aircraft.