The White Father (33 page)

“I think it’s all going to be all right,” said Shrieve. “Really and truly I think it’s going to be all right. When Bloaku says a thing, he means it. It sounds a terrible thing to say, but I’d trust him more than a hundred Sir Sebastian Filmers or Patrick Mallorys.”

“Perhaps,” said Edward, “some of the principles which built the empire, but which now seem mysteriously to have vanished, remain as young seedlings in our ancient possessions. Excuse me, I’m a bit tight. And I’ve got to go and play at a party after dinner. When shall I see you?”

“Oh, ring me up any time. I don’t know what I shall do. I suppose I’ll hang around till the conference issues its communiqué or whatever it’s called. They think that’ll be Friday. And then I have to go to a naval reunion on Friday night. So I’ll be in London till the end of the week, anyway.”

“There’s nothing more to be done?”

“Nothing,” said Shrieve. “We’ve done everything that can possibly be imagined. Short of arming the Ngulu with cobalt bombs, we are now in the hands of history.”

“You sound a bit tight yourself,” said Edward. “See you, then.”

He went to shake hands with Mallory, but he was too busy talking to notice him. Avoiding Carver, who followed him across the room with his eyes in a way which annoyed him, he said goodbye to Lady Georgina instead. Then he went down the stairs and into the street. The long rich cars gleamed in the twilight like sleek black rocks, the chrome fenders and grilles like foam and seaweed.

I really must be tight, Edward thought. To prove it, he hailed a taxi.

*

“I said, Mr Martin, when I appointed you in sole charge of the Sway, that I did not expect many conferences between us to prove necessary. You are wondering, therefore, why I have summoned you here this morning.”

Fred Martin had never been in Mr Brachs’s office before, and he was awestruck. He had stumbled crossing the carpet, and his terror on regaining his balance and seeing the enormous dark red picture louring at him had made him stumble again. He had arrived breathless at Mr Brachs’s desk, and now, perched uncomfortably on one of the leather chairs, with his eyes on a level with Mr Brachs’s bottom ribs, he felt like a schoolboy in front of the headmaster, with no idea why he’d been summoned, but a hundred fearful possibilities fluttering in his stomach.

“I have been extremely perturbed of late, Mr Martin, by the amount of disloyalty within my organisation. I find very few
people are to be trusted. I am aware of infiltration at all levels. I suspect secrets are being sold. There are spies among us, Mr Martin. And there are gross, perverted rumours being deliberately spread as to my mental capacity. These, as you will recognise, are the standard tactics of international
Communism
. They are to be expected. But when the managing director of one of my largest concerns is spreading the foul lies, then ruthlessness, and only ruthlessness, will save us.”

Martin stared at him, seriously alarmed. The eyes,
inscrutable
behind the thick lenses, did not waver in returning the stare. Martin switched his gaze to the amber television.

“At the same time, Mr Martin, a campaign of economic sabotage has been launched. There is an extraordinary and unexplained amount of wastage. Each item, taken alone, seems inconsiderable. But when all the items are taken together, the amount is colossal. Typewriter ribbons, paper-clips, carbon paper—insignificant things, you may be thinking. But in an empire as large as mine, they can add up to an enormous sum. Extravagance and sabotage are rife in every department.”

Martin could think of nothing to say.

“There are all too few subordinates whom I feel I can trust at a time like this, Mr Martin. The enemy is within. I trust you. I want you, therefore, to take especial care in all your activities not to betray, inadvertently, any of our secrets. If you think it wise, have the locks on your drawers and filing cabinets altered. The infiltrators must be thwarted. They must be discovered. Counter-espionage must begin.”

Martin nodded, still speechless.

“Counter-espionage,” said Mr Brachs calmly, “has already begun. I do not propose to involve you in this work, Mr Martin. Your duty is simply to be more vigilant. To be most vigilant. Champney, Morrison, Dulake is perhaps the most easily entered of our departments. Daily strange people arrive for auditions and recordings. There is a constant coming, a constant going. It is there that the enemy has made his main beachhead.”

“Oh, sir!”

“It is hard to believe,” said Mr Brachs. “It is nonetheless true. The particular reason for this conference is that I have evidence, not conclusive but highly suggestive evidence, that Sammy Sweet is an agent of the enemy.”

“Sammy Sweet? You mean Edward Gilchrist?”

“I mean Gilchrist, yes. He associates with musicians who are not clients of Champney, Morrison, Dulake. With
musicians
, indeed, who have refused to become clients of Champney, Morrison, Dulake. Gregory Smith turned down an offer of ours. Peter Harrisson expressed no interest at all. These people are all connected with the agent Hepwith at the Racket and with the drummer Frank Barrett. I have here a note from my night confidential secretary Mr Burgess about a conspiracy between Hepwith and Barrett. Hepwith is to be dismissed forthwith.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand that Hepwith pretended ignorance of our previous interest in Gilchrist when he submitted his comments. Clearly he was lying. Mr Burgess originally imputed the ignorance to incompetence. Neither he nor I was then aware of the many ramifications of the enemy. Of the enemy’s deviousness. We are in constant danger, Mr Martin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Sway will not now be sung by Edward Gilchrist. But we must not allow the enemy to disrupt our plans. That would be to concede defeat. Under no circumstances will we concede defeat, Mr Martin. A new Sammy Sweet must be found at once.”

Martin was aghast. He was a man of simple ambitions. He wanted a cream Bentley with red upholstery and his own initials on the number-plate: FM 1. He wanted a black Humber for his wife (FM 2), an Aston-Martin for his son (FM 3) and something small but sporty for his daughter—an
Austin-Cooper
Mini, perhaps—which would be FM 4. Then there would be a house in the country—near Horsham, say—instead of the present one at Richmond. So far the Martins had to be content with a white Consul with plastic covers over the seats
and a valueless numberplate—XYT 306. Even that now seemed in danger.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” he said.

“I do, Mr Martin. Albert Swetman. Swetman to Sweet will be a sweet change.” Mr Brachs permitted himself a small, saccharine smile.

“Albert Swetman!” said Martin. “But is he quite suitable?”

“Perfectly. He is poor. He has a reliable manager, Sidney Carnaby. We can deal with him without letting him into the Building at once. He is malleable, unintelligent, small.”

“He has, it’s said, rather peculiar tastes, sir.”

“So long as he indulges them in private, there is no
objection
. I understand it is something to do with a drummer, is it not?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. He likes, it seems, to be tied up with piano wire, then played on. There has to be a naked girl present, too. I believe she just sits and watches.”

“It seems unnecessarily complicated,” said Mr Brachs, “but at least it is musical.” He smiled again briefly. “Sign on the drummer and the girl, too, if necessary. They may not appear in public with him, but they can be given innocuous titles—secretary, perhaps, and personal assistant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would like to hear a recording of the new Sammy Sweet before the end of the week,” said Mr Brachs. “That is all, Mr Martin.”

Martin rose.

“Do not forget my warnings. Spies are everywhere. Conduct negotiations in Carnaby’s office. Until Swetman has been cleared, he is not to be admitted to the Brachs Building.”

“No, sir.”

Mr Brachs watched Martin retreat down the long office. He flinched, as was proper, from the Rothko. He kept his eyes on the carpet. He seemed impressed by what he had been told. Mr Brachs was pleased with Fred Martin.

Fred Martin was not a bit pleased with Mr Brachs. As he went over to the lift he wondered what on earth to do. The
old man was going right round the bend, obviously. But if Mr Brachs said there were spies everywhere, to say nothing of counter-spies, it was probably true. It wouldn’t be safe to open one’s mouth.

As he was about to enter the lift, he was stopped by Bray, the day confidential secretary.

“Could I have a word with you, please, Mr Martin?” he said. “It’ll only be a moment. Would you come into my office?”

Christ, what now? thought Martin.

“Do sit down, Mr Martin,” said Bray. “I just wondered if you had gained any impression—this is very difficult to say, I’m afraid, and I hope you won’t misunderstand me—if you’d gained any impression of Mr Brachs’s—how shall I put it?—his general state of health. Some of us have been a little worried recently whether he may not have been overworking. But we see him all the time, and an outsider’s view would …” His voice trailed off.

Oh, good grief, thought Martin. What should he say? Was Mr Brachs going mad? Or was he right about the conspiracy against him? He took a deep breath and said, “I saw nothing out of the ordinary. I can’t think what you mean.”

Bray looked at him for several seconds, then his face took on its usual mask of blandness and he said, “I’m glad to hear that, Mr Martin. That’s most encouraging. Good. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”

When Martin got back to his office, he told his secretary to get new locks put on all his drawers and filing cabinets at once. No doubt Mr Brachs would get to hear of it soon enough. There was no harm in going along with the old monster, mad or not, and there could be a lot of harm in not going along with him. The cream Bentley glittered in his mind’s eye.

But Albert Swetman! Albert Swetman was impossible. The short youth with the face like putty and dyed hair who had followed Pete and Edward on their one appearance at the Racket was, as Mr Brachs had said, certainly malleable. He was also stupid. His manager, Sid Carnaby, described him as
something
to rattle around the bottom of the barrel. Yet something
could perhaps be done with him. What he lacked in personality could be forcibly injected by the Sway. He could be worked on. He could be given some new teeth, for instance, and his face could be pushed into some sort of shape. Dyed hair was perfectly acceptable in show business. That he could be made in all senses need not be a drawback. The more eccentric his private vices, the less likely he would be to get involved in unfavourable publicity with girls. The papers simply didn’t print things about people who liked to be tied up with piano wire unless they came out in a public tribunal about spies or something. The laws of libel were mercifully restricting. Albert Swetman was an awful little runt, of course, but Sid Carnaby was reliable. If necessary, Swetman could be bought.

He began to look at his notes. Sway shirts, slacks and skirts were being already being designed. Sway songs were being written and subjected to rigorous examination. His big idea, which he hadn’t, in the circumstances, been able to suggest to Mr Brachs, was a Sway Festival to tour the country. Instead of the usual one-night stands in theatres and cinemas, the Festival would visit dance-halls, staying in one city for a week or two at a time. The Sway would be taken to the kids, in fact, instead of waiting for the kids to come to the Sway. With Sammy Sweet and the Swaymen would go a group of dancers trained to make the most of the new craze. (It was already, in Martin’s mind, a craze.) The dancers would give an exhibition together, then break away to take partners from the audience. Thus there would be free lessons as part of the attraction. Sway with the Swayers—it would be a good gimmick. There would be a tie-up with the distributors of Free in the various areas, and with the Brachs clothes shops. Childishly simple
competitions
, involving little more than an ability to write (Include six Free bottle-tops with each entry—Enter as often as you like!), would have free tickets to the Festival as prizes. These, to help things along, could be called Free tickets. Martin had a vision of crowded dance-halls with spotlights slowly turning over the happy youth of England, while the Swaymen belted out the new tunes and Sammy Sweet stood in front of them,
shimmering in a spangled new white suit, gyrating and yelling out the words, smiling his spangled new white teeth.

The buzzer went on his desk.

“Mr Gilchrist to see you, Mr Martin.”

“Tell him,” said Martin, “that I’m not in. I’m sorry, but I have an urgent meeting. Tell him I’ll get in touch. Tell him we’ll call him, and not to call us.”

“Very good, Mr Martin.”

Fred Martin sighed. He rang Sid Carnaby and asked if he was free for lunch. Fortunately he was.

*

“There wasn’t,” said Edward, “an opportunity to say anything at all. The secretary’s face went all sort of dead and she told me to go away. It was the first time I’d seen any of those girls in the Brachs Building stop smiling.”

“She actually said that?” said Judy. “She said ‘Go away’, just like that?”

“Well, no, not actually. She said Mr Martin was busy, he had an important meeting, he’d get in touch.”

“Perhaps he will,” said Pete. “Maybe he suddenly had the chance to get Elvis Presley over here. They’d cancel everything if they had a chance to negotiate that.”

“I don’t think so. The girl said not to bother to call them, they’d call me.”

“It’s incredible,” said Judy. “You mean she actually
said
that? There really are people in the world who say that?”

“Yes,” said Edward. “She actually said it.”

“I hope that’s the end of all this pop rubbish, that’s all,” said Pete. “Listen, I’ve practically got the money for the club. I don’t care what you decide to do in the end, Edward, but will you please at least stick around for the next couple of months. I want to be able to get a band together at a moment’s notice.”