"He was alive," Stccker said. "But only just—they never admitted him to hospital. The ambulance driver called out the casualty officer to have a look, and then they took him straight to the morgue. I believe it saves a lot of paperwork that way. So I think we can rely on Major Butler's assessment there."
Sir Frederick nodded. "Hmm . . . And you haven't got anything on him, Bob ? Is that so ?"
"Absolutely nothing, Sir. No name, no address, no next-of-kin. Nobody's lost him and nobody's claimed him. And no prints on record—as far as we're concerned he never existed. He's definitely one of theirs."
"And his car?"
"Much the same applies. Its documentation's totally false. It was stolen two years ago in Hendon. And Major Butler was right about the engine too. We'd have had a job catching him once he got going."
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"And you have no doubt he was the one who set light to your tail-feathers, Jack?"
Butler demurred. "He was the man I saw from the attic. And the man I chased—unless there were two men wearing that make of driving-jacket. Whether he started the fire behind me, that I can't say."
Sir Frederick smiled thinly at him. "I think it reasonable to presume so, Jack. And in that case I think we have emerged, thus far, more satisfactorily than we deserved—wouldn't you agree?"
It was plain to see what he meant even if it didn't make much sense yet, thought Butler bitterly. The dead man must have had a watching brief on Eden Hall—a brief to wait and see if anyone came to check on Neil Smith. Only then, when it was clear that the authorities were interested in Smith, was he empowered to obliterate the evidence.
But if that was how it had been, then things hadn't turned out as planned. Thanks to the freak accident between the van and the fire engine—a truly accidental accident—the enemy would not know what had happened exactly in the Hall. They would know that something had occurred, but not whether the Smith documents were destroyed. Nor would they know the identity or fate of the British agent involved.
But all that, in Butler's book, was no cause for satisfaction. His own carelessness and then his unsuccessful pursuit of the dead man provided greater cause for dissatisfaction.
And that had to be faced.
"I cocked it up," he growled.
"My dear Jack—" Sir Frederick held up his hand—"you do yourself an injustice. You might say equally that we should have warned you that there might be complications. But I do assure you that they were not expected. And if we'd sent young Roskill hobbling down to Thanet things might have turned out far worse. So you mustn't blame yourself; under the circumstances you did very well—you made the fellow put his foot down on the pedal too hard!"
It was odd that he seemed to rate the harrying of the man to his death as more important than the crumpled records of Smith's career which he had delivered to Stocker a couple of hours earlier. Except that Butler had long ceased to be much surprised about his superiors' order of priorities. He confided that they knew better than he did even though they seemed to rate luck a more desirable quality than diligence.
"So I think we may proceed to the next matter," Sir Frederick continued suavely. "Carry on, Bob."
Stocker shuffled the papers in front of him, straightened their edges, and then brought his palms together under his chin in an attitude of prayer.
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"Major Butler—what do you think of the younger generation?"
Butler stared at Stocker. A bloody stupid question deserved a bloody stupid answer, but Stocker had already been a brigadier when he exchanged a promising military career for this thankless task, so rank protected him from insult now.
"I don't think I'd care to generalise," he replied carefully.
"The question isn't as silly as it sounds, Jack," murmured Sir Frederick. "We really do have to know where you stand."
"I don't stand on questions like that, Sir Frederick. Young people, Jews, Catholics, Frenchmen, blacks—"
"How do you feel about blacks, Major?" cut in Stocker.
Butler smiled then, but inwardly, and it was a smile of pure malice. The technique he recognised, for it was a favourite one of his own. But it was not that which gave him pleasure —it was that Stocker had unwittingly walked into a trap.
"When I was a lad I used to follow Lancashire League cricket, the way lads follow football today. That was real cricket, too, not what they play today. When the Australians had a young chap who was a test match possible they used to send him over here for a couple of seasons of Lancashire League, to get a bit of polish."
"I don't see—"
"There was a black man, Veejy Rao, who scored a thousand runs and took a hundred wickets in one season in the league. I'd rather have been him—and he was black as the ace of spades—than any man alive."
He held up his hand to stop Stocker breaking in.
"The only prejudice I've ever had was against people who'd rather spend the afternoon playing tennis on the other side of Alexandra Meadows when they could be watching East Lancashire play Nelson. Once I'd learnt to tolerate them I never had any trouble with anyone else."
He ran his hand through the red stubble on his head and sat back, embarrassed suddenly at having said just a bit too much.
Stocker grinned. "Not even with students?"
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"They get too much press coverage for their own good." (That was Dingle talking—but there was no disgrace in agreeing with a shrewd old bird like Dingle.) "But I doubt they're any worse or any better than they used to be."
"You wouldn't object to taking an assignment involving you with students, then." Sir Frederick spoke gently. "It's rather out of your line, I know."
"It's not for me to object, sir," replied Butler stiffly. "If you think I'm suitable—"
"Hah! The spirit of the Light Brigade: there are the enemy—and there are the guns! No, don't get angry, my dear Jack! The service is so full of specialists who can't turn their hands to anything, or prima donnas who won't, that your old-fashioned attitude always comes as a refreshing surprise."
Not so much old-fashioned as archaic, thought Butler; he had sharp hearing and the habit of using it, even in the corridors of the department, and he knew very well what the younger generation of Sir Frederick's bright young men called him behind his back: the Thin Red Line.
It would have galled them to know that their nickname was a source of great pride to him, indifferent though he was to their half-baked opinions. And now it was a simple matter of pride to continue with what he had started, without making any more mistakes.
But that, of course, could not be admitted publically; his decision must be explicable in terms that both Sir Frederick and Stocker could accept. For them it would be enough to show a professional interest.
"I wouldn't refuse the opportunity of going on with this," he said. "Not after what happened at Eden Hall. Nothing personal, naturally. But there has to be something damned important at stake to make anyone behave like that."
"You're quite right, Jack. It is important."
"Then naturally I accept."
Sir Frederick and Stocker exchanged glances, with an almost imperceptible nod built into Sir Frederick's glance. It was time, surely, to tell him just what was so important that he'd already nearly died for it.
"Well, Colonel Butler—" Stocker began. Colonel Butler. Sir Frederick's expression was too bland for it to have been a slip: they were promoting him. Just like that!
No! Not just like that—never just like that. On a real battlefield merit on occassion might receive its reward, but not on this battlefield. Here it was only a necessary step in whatever design they contemplated. A means, not an end. Colonel Butler frowned suspiciously.
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"He knows us too well, Bob!" Sir Frederick laughed. "It's a genuine promotion, Jack—well deserved.