“I’m sure they like talking to you because they know that you’ll be Foreign Minister, as soon as the electorate comes to its senses.”
“Maybe,” said Sir James. “I’ll be taking Robin with me.”
A faint shadow crossed Lady Docherty’s face. “Do you think you ought to?” she said. “He’s been away such a lot. Four times to France and those trips to the Midlands—”
“My dear,” said Sir James, “you’re talking as though they were holiday jaunts. He’s not wasting his time, you know. He’s studying political science. And what better way to study political science than to see politics in action. When he comes to France with me he meets important people — people who matter. He can see the wheels of international politics turning. When he goes to the Midlands it’s to study these industrial strikes at first hand.”
“Those terrible strikes. Why do they do it?”
“You mustn’t assume,” said Sir James, scooping the sugar out of the bottom of the cup with his spoon, “that the faults are all on one side. Management can be quite as bloody-minded as the workers. More so, sometimes.”
In the next 48 hours a lot of apparently disconnected activities took place. Mr. Calder spent the time working as a porter in Covent Garden helping to load the trucks of an old friend of his in the fruit trade. His spare time was divided between betting shops and public houses, neither in short supply in that neighborhood. The money he made in the former he spent in the latter.
Mr. Behrens, who had reserved a room at the Hotel Continental in the Place Languedoc, spent his time making friends with the hotel staff.
Young Robin Docherty had a prickly interview with his class tutor at the London School of Economics. The tutor said that if Robin spent all of his time running errands for his father in the Midlands and trotting across to Paris with him in the intervals, he was most unlikely to complete the scholastic side of his studies satisfactorily.
The Home Secretary answered two questions and three supplementaries about the strikes and disturbances which were paralyzing the motor industry. And Mr. Fortescue attended to the customers at the Westminster Branch of the London and Home Counties Bank, granting one overdraft and refusing two.
Mr. Calder came to see Mr. Fortescue on the third day.
He said, “What Lewis told us has checked. I still don’t know how the money gets into this country from France, but as soon as it does get here it’s taken to a betting shop in Covent Garden. The Action Committee meets in the back room of a pub just down the road. It’s on their instructions that the cash payments are handed out from the bookmakers. That’s as much as I’ve been able to learn. I can’t get any closer to these people. Some of them know me.”
Mr. Fortescue considered the matter, rotating a silver pencil slowly over in his hand as he did so. Then he said, “If you’ve evidence that stolen money is passing through this betting shop there should be no difficulty about getting permission to listen in to their telephone.”
“You ought to get some useful tips on the races,” said Mr. Calder.
Mr. Fortescue did not smile. His eyes were on his pencil. “Some sort of arrangements must be made for the reception of the money.”
“That probably takes place after the shop’s shut. There’s a back entrance.”
“No doubt. What I mean is, they must know when to expect the money and who’s going to bring it. If we could find that out, we could put our finger on the courier. Then we might be able to backtrack to the person who brings it across the Channel. We shall have to do it very carefully.”
“You will indeed,” said Mr. Calder. “These boys have got eyes in the back of their heads.”
It was exactly a week later when Mr. Fortescue called on the Home Secretary and made his report.
“When you gave us permission to listen in to that betting shop we started to make some real progress. It was the calls after hours that interested us. They were very guarded and came through different intermediaries, but we were able to trace them to their original source.”
“To the carrier of the money?”
“To his house.”
“Excellent. Who is the man?”
“The owner of the house,” said Mr. Fortescue with a completely impassive face, “is Sir James Docherty.”
For a moment this failed to register. Then the Home Secretary swung round, his face going red. “If that’s a joke—” he said.
“It’s not a joke. It’s a fact. The point of origin of these messages is Sir James’s house in Eaton Terrace. Sir James also happens to be a member — a founding member — of The Peaceful People. Taken alone, I agree, neither of these facts is conclusive.”
“Taken together they’re still inconclusive. You told me that The Peaceful People were backing their Action Committee with money. The messages might have been about that.”
“They might have been,” said Mr. Fortescue, “but they weren’t. They had nothing to do with the official business of the Society at all. And here are two other facts. One of my men has been making inquiries in Paris. He has established that there is a regular courier service between the Chinese Trade Commission and the Hotel Continental. Which happens to be Sir James’s regular pied-a-terre in Paris. Add to that the fact that Sir James’s visits are usually arranged at official level. And that this enables him to bring in his valise, which is said to carry official papers, under diplomatic exemption.”
The Home Secretary said, “Do you really believe, Fortescue, that a man in Sir James’s position would lend himself to smuggling currency — a criminal maneuver?”
“Whether or not I believed it,” said Mr. Fortescue, “would depend in the last analysis on my estimate of his 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 science and is dragged round at his father’s chariot wheels, no doubt destined to be turned into a junior model.”
“And that’s our next Foreign Secretary. A fascist with a taste for gunboat 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 traveled backwards and forwards to Paris some twelve times this year,” said Sir James Docherty, “I think you may assume that I have a nodding acquaintance with the regulations.”
“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?”