“I saw Major Finn in London, sir.’
“Finn?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How was he?”
“Very well, sir. Sent his respects. He said my French was not up to liaison work at battalion level.”
“Ah.”
That was General Liddament’s sole comment. He drank more tea in huge gulps, while he studied a map. The fact that Cocksidge entered the room a minute or two later did not, I think, affect the conversation in any way; I mean so far as further discussion of my own affairs by the General might have taken place. That was already at an end. Cocksidge was quite overcome by finding the Divisional Commander already almost at the end of breakfast.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I do believe they’ve given you the chipped cup. I’ll change it at once, sir. I wonder how often I’ve spoken to the Mess Sergeant about that cup, sir, and told him never to give it to a senior officer, and above all not yourself, sir. I’ll make sure it never happens again, sir.”
Military action in Syria had been making it clear why there had been call for more British liaison officers with the Free French overseas. I thought of the 9th Regiment of Colonial Infantry being harangued by someone with better command of the language — and more histrionic talent — than myself. Then the Germans attacked in Crete. The impression was that things were not going too well there. Meanwhile, the Division continued to train; policies, units, began to take more coherent shape, to harden: new weapons were issued: instructors improved. The Commanding Officer of the Reconnaissance Unit remained unappointed. I asked Widmerpool if he had progressed further in placing his own candidate. The question did not please him.
“Difficulties have arisen.”
“Someone else getting the command?”
“I can’t quite understand what is happening,” said Widmerpool. “There has been no opportunity to go into the matter lately. This Diplock case has been taking up so much of my time. The more I investigate, the more incriminated Diplock seems to be. There’s going to be hell to pay. Hogbourne-Johnson is behaving very badly, making himself offensive to me personally, and doing his best to shield the man and cause obstruction. That is quite useless. I am confident I shall be able to show that Diplock’s behaviour has been not merely irregular, but criminal. Pedlar is almost equally unwilling to believe the worst, but at least Pedlar approaches the matter with a reasonably open mind, even if a slow one.”
“Does the General know about Diplock?”
“Hogbourne-Johnson says there is not sufficient evidence yet to lay before him.”
In the matter of Diplock, I believed Widmerpool to be on the right track. Few things are more extraordinary in human behaviour than the way in which old sweats like this chief clerk Warrant Officer will suddenly plunge into serious misdoing — usually on account of a woman. Diplock might well have a career of petty dishonesty behind him, but this looked like something far more serious.
“Talking of the Recce Unit,” said Widmerpool, “there’s still some sorting out to be done about the officer establishment. At least one of the captaincies assigned to that unit, before it came into existence, is still — owing to some whim of the General’s — in use elsewhere as a local rank. That is one of the things I want you to go into among the stuff I am leaving to-night.”
“Establishments without troops always make one think of Dead Souls. A military Chichikov could first collect battalions, then brigades, finally a Division — and be promoted major-general.”
I said that to tease Widmerpool, feeling pretty certain be had never read a line of Gogol, though he would rarely if ever admit to failure in recognising an allusion, literary or otherwise. On this occasion he merely nodded his head several times; then returned to the fact that, contrary to his usual practice, he would not be working after dinner that evening.
“For once I shall cut office hours to-night,” he said. “I’m giving dinner to that fellow — for the moment his name escapes me — from the Military Secretary’s branch, who is doing a tour of duty over here.”
“Is this in the interests of the Recce Unit appointment?”
Widmerpool winked, a habit of his only when in an exceptionally good temper.
“More important than that,” he said.
“Yourself?”
“Dinner may put the finishing touches to something.”
“Promotion?”
“Who knows? It’s been in the air for some time, as a matter of fact.”
Widmerpool rarely allowed himself a night off in this manner. He worked like an automaton. Work, civil or military, was his sole interest. If it came to that, he never gave his assistant a night off either, if he could help it, because everyone who served under him was expected to do so to the fullest extent of his powers, which was no doubt reasonable enough. The result was that a great deal of work was completed in the D.A.A.G.’s office, some useful, some less useful. On the whole the useful work, it had to be admitted, made up for a fair percentage of time and energy wasted on Widmerpool’s pet projects, of which there were several. I was thinking of such things while stowing away papers in the safe that night, preparatory to leaving Headquarters for bed. I shut the safe and locked it. The time was ten o’clock or thereabouts. The telephone bell began to ring.
“DAA.G.’s office.”
“Nick?”
The voice was familiar. All the same, I could not immediately place it. No officer at Div. H.Q. used just that intimate inflexion when pronouncing my name.
“Speaking,”
“It’s Charles.”
That took me no further. So far as I could remember, none of the local staff were called “Charles.” It must be someone recently arrived in the place, who knew me.
“Charles who?”
“Private Stringham, sir — pardon the presumption.”
“Charles — yes — sorry.”
“Bit of luck catching you in.”
“I’m just leaving, as a matter of fact. How did you know I was here?”
“I rang up F Mess first — in the character of General Fauncefoot-Fritwell’s A.D.C.”
“Who on earth is General Fauncefoot-Fritwell?”
“Just a name that occurred to me as belonging to the sort of officer of senior rank who would own an A.D.C. — so don’t worry if Captain Biggs, who I think answered the telephone, mentions the General to you. He will say there was no message. Captain Biggs, if it was indeed he, sounded quite impressed, even rather frightened. He told me you were probably still working, unless on your way back now. I must say, you officers are kept at it.”
“But, Charles, what is all this about?”
I thought he must be drunk, and began to wonder how best to deal with him. This was just the sort of embarrassment Widmerpool had envisaged. It could be awkward. I experienced one of those moments — they cropped up from time to time — of inwardly agreeing there was something to be said for Widmerpool’s point of view. However Stringham sounded perfectly sober; though to sound sober was not unknown as one of the characteristics he was apt to display after a great deal to drink. That was especially true of the period immediately preceding his going under entirely. I felt apprehensive.
“Yes, I must come to the point, Nick,” he said. “I’m getting dreadfully garrulous in old age. It’s barrack-room life. Look, forgive me for ringing up at this late hour, which I know to be contrary to good order and discipline. The fact is I find myself with a problem on my hands.”