“I lost half a million on those shares,” he yelled at Blodger. “Half a bleeding million.”
Blodger commiserated. “I said at the time I thought you were being a little hasty,” he said.
“You thought? You didn’t think at all,” Sir Giles screamed. “If you’d thought you would have known that wasn’t me on the phone.”
“But it sounded like you. And you asked me to call you back at your flat.”
“I did nothing of the sort. You don’t seriously imagine I would sell four thousand President Rand when the market was at rock bottom. I’m not fucking insane you know.”
Blodger looked at him appraisingly. The thought had crossed his mind. It was Schaeffer who brought the altercation to an end.
“If you must swear,” he said, “I can only suggest that you would do so more profitably before a Commissioner of Oaths.”
“And what would I want with a Commissioner of Fucking Oaths?”
“A sworn statement that the signatures on the share transfer certificates were forgeries,” said Schaeffer coldly.
Sir Giles picked up his hat. “Don’t think this is the end of the fucking matter,” he snarled. “You’ll be hearing from me again.” Schaeffer opened the door for him. “I can only hope fucking not,” he said.
But if his stockbrokers were not sympathetic, Mrs Forthby was.
“It’s all my fault,” she wailed squinting at him through the two black eyes he had given her for her pains. “If only I hadn’t gone out for those fish fingers this would never have happened.”
“Fish fucking…” he began and pulled himself up. He had to keep a grip on his sanity and Mrs Forthby’s self-denunciations didn’t help. “Never mind about that. I’ve got to think what to do. That bloody wife of mine isn’t going to get away with this if I can help it.”
“Well, if all she wants is a divorce…”
“A divorce? A divorce? If you think that’s all she wants…” He stopped again. Mrs Forthby mustn’t hear anything about those photographs. Nobody must hear about them. The moment that information got out he would be a ruined man and he had just three weeks to do something about them. He went back to his flat and sat there trying to think of some way of stopping the motorway. There wasn’t much he could do in London. His request to discuss the matter with the Minister of the Environment had been turned down, his demand for a further Enquiry denied. And his private source in the Ministry had been adamant that it was too late to do anything now.
“The thing is under construction already. Barring accidents nothing can stop it.”
Sir Giles put down the phone and thought about accidents, nasty accidents, like Maud falling downstairs and breaking her neck or having a fatal car crash. It didn’t seem very likely somehow. Finally he thought about Dundridge. If Maud had something on him, he had something on the Controller Motorways Midlands. He telephoned Hoskins at the Regional Planning Board.
“He’s out at SHMOCON,” said the girl on the switchboard.
“Shmocon?” said Sir Giles desperately trying to think of a village by that name in South Worfordshire.
“Supreme Headquarters Motorway Construction,” said the girl. “He’s Deputy Field Commander.”
“What?” said Sir Giles. “What the hell’s going on up there?”
“Don’t ask me,” said the girl, “I’m only a field telegraphist. Shall I put you through?”
“Yes,” said Sir Giles. “It sounds batty to me.”
“It is,” said the girl. “It’s a wonder I don’t have to use morse code.”
Certainly Hoskins sounded peculiar when Sir Giles finally got through to him. “Deputy Field -” he began but Sir Giles interrupted.
“Don’t give me that crap, Hoskins,” he shouted. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Some sort of war game?”
“Yes,” said Hoskins looking nervously out of the window. There was a deafening roar as a charge of dynamite went off.
“What the hell was that?” yelled Sir Giles.
“Just a near miss,” said Hoskins as small fragments of rock rattled on the roof of the caravan.
“You can cut the wisecracks,” said Sir Giles, “I didn’t call you to talk nonsense. There’s been a change of plan. The motorway has got to be stopped. I’ve decided…”
“Stopped?” Hoskins interrupted him. “You haven’t a celluloid rat’s hope in hell of stopping this little lot now. We’re advancing into the Gorge at the rate of a hundred yards a day.”
“Into the Gorge?”
“You heard me,” said Hoskins.
“Good God,” said Sir Giles. “What the hell’s been going on? Has Dundridge gone off his head or something?”
“You could put it like that,” said Hoskins hesitantly. The Controller Motorways Midlands had just come into the caravan covered in dust and was taking off his helmet.
“Well, stop him,” shouted Sir Giles.
“I’m afraid that is impossible, sir,” said Hoskins modulating his tone to indicate that he was no longer alone. “I will make a note of your complaint, and forward it to the appropriate authorities.”
“You’ll do more than that,” bawled Sir Giles, “you’ll use those photographs. You will -”
“I understand the police deal with these matters, sir,” said Hoskins. “As far as we are concerned I can only suggest that you use an incinerator.”
“An incinerator? What the hell do I want with an incinerator?”
“I have found that the best method is to burn that sort of rubbish. The answer is in the negative.”
“In the negative?”
“Quite, sir,” said Hoskins. “I have found that it avoids the health risk to incinerate inflammable material. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have someone with me.” Hoskins rang off and Sir Giles sat back and deciphered his message.
“Incinerators. Police. Negative. Health risks.” These were the words Hoskins had emphasized and it dawned on Sir Giles that all hope of influencing Dundridge had gone up in flames. He was particularly alarmed by the mention of the police. “Good God, that little bastard Dundridge has been to the cops,” he muttered, and suddenly recalled that his safe at Handyman Hall contained evidence that hadn’t been incinerated. Maud was sitting on a safe containing photographs that could send him to prison. “Inflammable material. That bitch can get me five years,” he thought. “I’d like to incinerate her.” Incinerate her? Sir Giles stared into space. He had suddenly seen a way out of all his problems.
He picked up a pencil and detailed the advantages. Number One, he would destroy the evidence of his attempt to blackmail Dundridge. Number Two, he would get rid of those photographs Blott had taken of him in Mrs Forthby’s flat. Number Three, by acting before Maud could divorce him he would still be the owner of the ashes of Handyman Hall and liable for the insurance money and possibly the compensation from the motorway. Number Four, if Maud were to die… Number Four was a particularly attractive prospect and just the sort of accident he had been hoping for.
He picked up the sheet of paper and carried it across to the fireplace and lit a match. As the paper flared up Sir Giles watched it with immense satisfaction. There was nothing like a good fire for cleansing the past. All he needed now was a perfect alibi.
At Handyman Hall Lady Maud surveyed her handiwork with equal satisfaction. The fence had been finished in ten days, the lions, giraffes, and the rhinoceros had been installed and the ostriches were accommodated in the old tennis court. It was really very pleasant to wander round the house and watch the lions padding across the park or lying under the trees.
“It gives one a certain sense of security,” she told Blott, whose movements had been restricted to the kitchen garden and who complained that the rhinoceros was mucking up the lawn.
“It may give you a sense of security,” said Blott, “but the postman has other ideas. He won’t come further than the Lodge and the milkman won’t either.”
“What nonsense,” said Lady Maud. “The way to deal with lions is to put a bold front on and look them squarely in the eyes.”