‘Talkative blighter!’ exclaimed Hargreaves.
This required no comment. Frank Gresham was Sir Robert’s closest friend. Part of Simmel’s job was to know that such comments were not made for him to share. Dick had only attempted a reply on one ill-timed occasion; and that had been a mistake.
‘Gatt will be phoning at eleven,’ said Dick. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll be able to contact him before then.’
‘That’ll do. But if he doesn’t come through, don’t leave it too late. He must be here tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll go and arrange the other things now.’
‘Don’t so much as even think of moving from your office without telling me first, will you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The same applies to Miss Garnet. You will both have your lunch sent up.’
Dick paused by the door. ‘Do you want me in your office when Gresham gets here?’ he asked.
‘I’ll buzz if I want you.’
Simmel withdrew.
‘Anything I can do?’ asked Kate.
‘Yes. The Old Man is having a special conference, starting tomorrow. In his own room.’
‘Golly! Must be a special occasion.’
‘It is. Be a good girl and get all the paraphernalia sent down and ready by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘How many customers?’
‘I don’t know yet. Better say a dozen for the moment. Oh, and he says we’re not to leave the building without asking him. You’re invited to lunch in my office — Her Majesty’s Government paying.’
‘What time?’
‘Order something for one o’clock; and with luck we’ll eat it at three, when it’s cold and disgusting. Incidentally, Gresham and Manson are due here soon. Whip them straight in to the Director.’
Kate passed a hand through her springy red hair. It was cut very short, lending her a crisply attractive appearance. ‘I gather there’s quite a panic on,’ she said mildly. She caught his look. ‘All right, I won’t ask questions.’
‘See you for lunch,’ said Dick.
She grinned and looked like a tomboy.
Simmel had scarcely reached his office when the buzzer of the intercom sounded. He snapped down the switch.
‘I shall want a report on that photographer fellow,’ said the Director. His voice, rendered metallic and distorted by the instrument, had a mechanical quality that was stripped of any human characteristic. ‘What’s his name again?’
‘Cartwright,’ said Dick. ‘Do you want him on call?’
‘No; I think we can spare him that. I’d like those prints though, as soon as you can get them up here.’
‘They’re downstairs in the lab.’
‘Well, you’d better let Manson see them first; we must put him in the picture as quickly as possible. As it is, it’s unfortunate that we had to use his laboratory without his foreknowledge. However, I’m sure he will forgive us in the circumstances.’ Dick thought differently but didn’t say so. ‘You’d better have that letter from Kodak duplicated and attached to your report. Any questions?’
Dick asked when Heatherfield would get in from Nairobi.
‘Get in touch with the Colonial Office and find out. You’d better make sure that arrangements have been made to meet him. And get him a decent hotel while you’re at it. And Dick…’ — a more personal note.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I’m going to have plenty on my hands for a while. So make as many of your own decisions as you can. If in doubt, act first and tell me afterwards. You’ve been around long enough to know what’s what.’ The click of the switch being cut.
Simmel rolled a clean sheet of quarto into the typewriter, paused to light a cigarette, and typed the heading: For Conference Circulation, April 1959.
CHAPTER TWO
The air was still for March, and the be-gowned cyclists of Oxford made cheerful sounds with bicycle bells. The sun, brighter than it was warm, beat down hopefully upon the academic scene, as if by its brilliance it could make up for its lack of heat. Great Tom caught its glint and proclaimed his pleasure by striking the hour of ten. The echo of the bell’s deep tones did the rounds of the quad, then ventured out into the High, hopping from building to building, magnificently offering its information to the people it served. Even farther along the valley, on towards Abingdon, the sound sailed with the slight breeze. Across the fields it went, skittling along the main road and up the hill. Until it reached a row of houses known as ‘The Wall’ — so named because the backs of these residences presented a flat, vertical surface for a distance of about fifty yards, giving on to the open country where cattle grazed. Only the double row of modern windows, unbroken for the entire length of the block, relieved the elongated rectangle of brickwork, giving it the appearance from this viewpoint of a modern factory. The fronts of the houses, however, were pleasing enough, each having a long finger of a garden the width of a house-front, and extending twenty yards or so down on to the main road, so that it was necessary to walk quite a distance from the wicket gates to the brightly coloured front doors.
In the garden of Number 14, the gay, busy little sound of a light lawn-mower, being used without the bin. Cartwright never used the bin because, he claimed, the cut grass acted as a fertiliser when it rotted. Actually, it was because the bin was so battered that it didn’t fit any more, and he couldn’t be bothered to get it fixed. However, thought Julia, he was at least cutting the grass, and that was something. She ran over the windowsills with a duster, and then called out.
She was considerably younger than John Cartwright, and it was more noticeable to their friends now than it had been, say, ten years ago. Not that they were any the less happy for it — indeed, they had fewer skeletons in their cupboard than most. John was even happy with his job — a rare state of affairs, it seemed, in ‘The Wall’ — and daily set out in the 1946 Morris, quite content with life, towards the motor works at Cowley.
John paused when he saw her open the window.
‘Coffee up!’ she called.
He left the mower where it was, without bothering to finish the strip he was on. He made a detour round the swinging seat, pushing it thoughtfully as he went past, and stepped into the hallway.
Julia said: ‘Darling, how can you possibly mow the lawn without moving the chaise-longue?’
He took the coffee-cup from her. It was one of those huge affairs, like a soup-bowl on a saucer; so shallow that you had to be careful not to slop it over. ‘It isn’t a chaise-longue,’ he said.
‘Well, what is it, then?’
‘Maureen calls it the Ice-cream Cart.’
‘Why ever?’
‘Search me, my dear!’ He sipped perilously. ‘Wishful thinking, I suspect.’
‘Well, whatever it is, you’ll have to move it.’
‘I haven’t got to that bit yet.’ He had planned to skirt round it, as he usually did.
‘You’re as bad as Maureen,’ said Julia. ‘Lazy, the both of you!’ She topped up her cup and peered up at him over the rim. ‘As a matter of fact, that child gets me quite worried at times, John.’
‘Why? She seems pretty well adjusted to me.’
Julia laughed and said ‘Oh!’ at the same time. ‘You and your books on child upbringing! I simply meant that she seems listless.’ She came over and sat beside him. ‘Haven’t you noticed?’ John rested a large hand on her knee, flopping it there loosely with a little pat. ‘Don’t worry, old thing,’ he reassured. ‘I’m listless sometimes. I feel listless now.’
‘You!’ she said. ‘You’re just listless because you’ve got to mow the lawn! There’s something else you’ve got to do after that, too.’