For a time I could not find the street in which Jack lived. He had given up his flat, George said; he had returned to his parents’ house. I had never been there in the past. When I first knew him, it was one of his mysteries to mention that he could not invite us to his house — and then, after his self-revelation that night in the park years ago, I had not expected to be asked.
Now, when at last I discovered it, I smiled, in spite of my errand. For the street, as I made my way down the faces of the houses, peering at the numbers in the diffused lamplight, seemed the perfect jumping-off place for daydreams of magniloquence: and, on the rebound, when he repented of those, just as good a place to let him imagine himself among the oppressed and squalid.
The houses were a neat row from the beginning of the century. Their front doors gave onto the street and the paint on most smelt fresh as I went close; it was a row of houses such as artisans lived in by thousands throughout the town; it was a frontier line of society, the representative street of the highest of the working class and the lowest of the middle. Few windows were lighted at this time of night.
I came to Jack’s number. There was a light in the window, shining thin slats of gold between the Venetian blinds. I knocked softly on the door; a movement came from inside. The door opened slowly. A voice, light, querulous, said: ‘Who’s there?’
I answered, and he flung the door open.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve come to worry you,’ I said. ‘I expect you’ve had enough for one day.’
‘I was just going to bed.’
‘I’m sorry, Jack. I’d better come in.’
Then my eyes, dazzled after the darkness, gradually took in a room full of furniture. A tablecloth, carrying some used plates and a dish, lay half over the table. A saucepan of milk was boiling on the hob.
‘I have to live here occasionally. It gives them a bit of pleasure.’ Jack pointed upstairs. He was wearing a new, well-cut suit. His eyes were excessively bright. I nodded, then threw my overcoat on a chair, and sat down by the fire.
‘And so you’re after my blood as well.’ A smile, mischievous and wistful, shot through his sullenness. As I replied, telling him I had been with George, it was replaced by an injured frown.
‘He must have told you everything,’ said Jack. ‘It’s no use me going over it all again.’
‘It may be the greatest use.’
‘Then you’ll have to wait. I’m tired to death.’ He poured out the boiling milk into a tumbler. This, ignoring me, he placed on the hearth. I remembered once laughing at him at the farm, when he went through this ritual of drinking milk last thing at night; he had produced pseudoscientific reasons for it. He had always shown intense concern for his health. It was strange to see it now.
I pressed him to talk, but for a long time he was obstinate. I told him that I should be George’s lawyer, if it came to a trial — and his, if he would have me. He accepted that, but still would not describe his interview in the afternoon. I said once again: ‘Look, Jack. I tell you we’ve got to be ready.’
‘There’s plenty of time.’
‘As I say, they’ll be making inquiries while we do nothing.’
Suddenly he looked up.
‘Will they have gone to Olive yet?’
‘Probably,’ I said.
‘She was visiting a cousin. She won’t get back to the town today. I suppose I ought to see her before they do. Clearly,’ said Jack.
Then, for the first time, he was willing to talk of their businesses. He did it sketchily, without George’s command. He finished up: ‘I can’t imagine why they expect to find anything shady. It’s — it’s quite unreasonable.’ Then he said: ‘Incidentally, I told the chap this afternoon, and I don’t mind telling you, that if you search any business you’ll find something that’s perfectly legal but doesn’t look too sweet. He took the point.’ Jack looked at me. ‘I’ll show you what I mean, sometime, Lewis. It’s all legal, but you’d expect me to try a piece of sharp practice occasionally, wouldn’t you? I’ve never been able to resist it, you know. And it’s never worth the trouble. One’s always jumpy when one’s doing it, and it never comes to anything worthwhile.’
I was certain that the ‘sharp practice’ had nothing to do with the suspicions: I did not follow it up. We were both silent for a moment: Jack pulled out a case and offered me a cigarette. I thought I recognised the case, and Jack said, with his first smile since I tried to question him: ‘Yes. It’s the famous present.’ His smile stayed as he ran a finger along the initials. ‘I like having something permanent to remind me exactly who I am. It gives me a sort of solidity that I’ve always lacked.’
We both laughed. Then Jack said quietly: ‘I simply cannot understand what these people expect to find. It’s simply unreasonable for them to think they might pull out a piece of dishonesty. Why, if there’d been anything of the kind, I could have covered it up ten times over. If I’d had to meet every penny a month ago, I could have covered it completely. I happened to have an extra offer of money to tide me over any difficulty just about that time.’
‘Who from?’
‘Arthur Morcom.’
I exclaimed.
‘Why ever not? Oh, you were thinking of his keeping away because of Olive. I don’t see why he should.’ He hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘he made the same offer this afternoon.’
‘It’s not useful now,’ I said.
‘It might be extremely useful,’ said Jack. Then he took back the words, and said: ‘Of course you’re right. I can’t use money until they give up these inquiries.’ He broke off: ‘You know’ — he showed, instead of the fear and resentment I had seen so often in his face that night, a frank, surprised and completely candid look — ‘these inquiries seem fantastic. They ask me about something I’ve said years ago — what I told people about the profits of the agency and so on. I just can’t believe that what I said then might ruin everything now. Even if I’d done the dishonest things they believe I’ve done — which I’ve not — I’m certain that I still couldn’t believe it. All those actions of mine they ask about — they’re so remote.’
Yes, that was honest. On a different occasion, I had been through the same myself.
When I left, I walked straight to Morcom’s. It was after one o’clock, but I had to speak to him that night. As it happened, he was still up. From the first word, his manner was constrained. He asked me to have a drink without any welcome or smile. I said straight away: ‘I’ve just come from Jack’s. He tells me that you offered him money this afternoon.’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you see it might be dangerous?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If Jack skips now, they’ll take George for certain. For him, it’s inevitable disaster. If you make it possible for Jack to go — and, well, it’s crossed his mind. He’s no hero.’
‘That is true,’ said Morcom, still in a cold, disinterested tone.
‘I had to warn you tonight,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
After a silence, I said: ‘I’m not too happy about them.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Morcom. ‘I told you this was likely to happen. I thought you wouldn’t be able to stop it. I might as well say, though, that I rather resent you considered it necessary to tell people that I was paralysed with worry. I dislike being made to look like a nervous busybody. Even when it turns out to be justified.’