‘I know you do; you’re lighting up like a Christmas-tree. Well, you can read through the report and check it for spelling — you know what I’m like. I don’t suppose it will make you any the wiser, though.’
She threw him one of her ha-ha looks and left. Simmel finished reading Cartwright’s letter and closed the file. He was just preparing to leave the room when Alec Manson burst in. He did not waste time on common courtesies.
‘Why in hell,’ he bellowed, ‘wasn’t I informed of this before?’ Simmel had become quite used to these little scenes. And by now he knew exactly how to get Manson’s goat without putting himself in the wrong. He spoke quietly. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘it’s not for me to keep senior members of the Department informed?’
‘The damn stupidity of it all!’ continued Manson, ignoring this remark altogether. ‘Do you know those prints were sent to my laboratory for analysis without my knowing it?’
Simmel pressed on the tiller and came in closer to the wind. ‘Perhaps you weren’t there, sir?’ he suggested gently.
‘There? Of course I wasn’t there! How could I be? I was up in Scotland with Jack Seff. I thought everybody knew that. Didn’t you?’
‘I knew,’ said Dick. ‘But it wasn’t my job to—’
‘Wasn’t your job!’ Manson slammed his fist down on to the desk with a crash, so that the ink-well jumped up and slopped over some clean quarto. ‘Is that the only thing people ever think of these days?’ He paused for a few panting breaths, then tensed himself in the way that he did when he wanted people to say afterwards: ‘Alec Manson nearly burst a blood-vessel.’ His voice dropped a few tones, and pulsated with assumed, overplayed emotion. ‘Well, whose job was it? — that’s all I’d like to know!’
Simmel prepared to duck; in a moment the sail would wrench at the boom and swing right across. ‘The only person,’ he said, ‘who was in a position to give you the facts was the Director. He’s your man.’ Simmel went on hastily, before the mast snapped off altogether: ‘Anyway, nobody knew until three o’clock this morning, sir. I expect Sir Robert didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘I see.’ Then again: ‘I see.’ There was a bead of sweat exactly over the bridge of his nose. Dick watched it, fascinated, wondering which side it was going to drop. Alec Manson covered up his deflation by saying: ‘If you’d explained that in the first place, it would have made everything much simpler.’
Simmel didn’t point out that Manson had given him no chance to do so — he knew that already. Dick changed the subject. ‘The Director wants you to bring the prints to the conference tomorrow.’
‘I know. Sir Robert spoke to me about them himself.’
Simmel picked up the script-board and put a vertical line through the item. He always did this rather ostentatiously with the senior staff — especially Manson — so that they could not say that they hadn’t been told. It was a weapon.
Manson took out a huge, grass-green handkerchief and mopped his brow. Dick made a move towards the door. ‘If there’s nothing else, I must go in to Sir Robert.’
Manson was desperately searching his brain for some remark that might help to even the score. Apart from anything else, he was acutely aware that the Director had made it clear he wished to be alone with Frank Gresham, the Deputy Director; and now the mere P.A. had been called in, though he himself was still excluded. In the end he chose the ‘I’m a bit busy myself’ routine.
As Simmel politely ushered him out of the office he said: ‘Kindly tell the Director I can be found in the laboratory.’
‘Very well, Mr Manson,’ said Simmel. ‘I’ll tell him.’
Meticulously polite though Simmel was on taking his leave, Manson was still somehow left with the impression that he had been thrown out of the office.
Frank Gresham stopped in the middle of a sentence to greet the P.A. ‘‘Mornin’, Dick,’ he said. ‘Spoiled my golf this morning!’
Simmel grinned. ‘Yes, sir. ‘Fraid I did.’ He added: ‘Spoiled Manson’s, too.’ Gresham knew exactly what, he meant, acknowledging it with a slight smile in his eyes only. The Director frowned.
‘The report?’ he said.
Simmel handed it to him. ‘I’ve sent it in for duplication,’ he said. ‘If you’d check it now—’
‘I haven’t time. Is it all right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Dick, crossing his fingers mentally.
The Director glanced up at him for a moment, then picked up his pen and slashed Robert Hargreaves across the bottom of the second sheet. ‘What about the stencil? Hadn’t I better sign that?’
‘It would save time if I stuck an old signature of yours on the bottom.’
‘All right. But, for God’s sake, don’t ever do that without asking my permission each time.’
‘No, sir,’ said Simmel, looking at the wall. Actually it had become almost standard practice. Hargreaves gave him the full benefit of his stare for a moment. ‘Well, not on anything important, anyway.’ He was really quite human sometimes. He went on: ‘What about that other business — has the letter from that Heatherfield chap been Roneoed?’
‘It’s still in with Duplicating. But I think Kate — I think Miss Garnet has a copy.’
Gresham said: ‘You’d better tell me yourself, Dick. I want to know the background, not just the bare facts.’
‘I’ll talk to Manson,’ said Hargreaves. ‘Is he out there?’ Meaning the outer office — Kate’s domain.
‘He went down to the lab,’ said Simmel.
‘Blast the man! Always disappearing. What does he think I asked him to come here for? Send for him, will you, Dick? No, it’s all right; I’ll get Miss Garnet to. You bring Frank up to date.’ He left the office.
‘Don’t be too technical, old chap,’ said Gresham. ‘You know me!’
Frank Gresham had a large, baby face, rather chubby and rubicund. He wore a regimental-type moustache, giving him the look of a retired army colonel — which in fact he was. He was one of the old school, and liked all the things that went with it — hunting and the rest. At the same time, he regarded himself as a kind of joke, someone left over from a bygone age who had suddenly found himself in an essentially modern job. His gentle dignity was a great asset to the Department; he seemed to be the one imperturbable, the one really stable person in it. He was a good influence, although he lacked the pace, energy and brilliance of the Director himself. He had other qualities, almost as rare, and Hargreaves chose him because of these. He was a throwback to a dying species whose values did not vary with the market price.
Simmel smiled. He had always liked Gresham, had found him a good ally — even a friend. Whenever Simmel had to book him an air passage he always put him on the B.E.A. Viscount flight, whereas people like Manson got any old charter plane that happened to be lying around. In such domestic matters the P.A. wielded a certain amount of power, which he used quite ruthlessly to favour those he thought deserved comfort and consideration.
Gresham said: ‘Is Heatherfield the Nairobi man?’
‘Yes. As you probably know, he will be at the meeting tomorrow.’
‘You’ve spread your net wide,’ he said.
‘It’s not our doing,’ said Simmel. ‘It just happened slowly and inevitably, with no help from anyone.
‘When we got Cartwright’s letter a couple of days ago,’ he continued, ‘the first thing we had to find out was whether this weird phenomenon was confined to one particular tin or whether it was more general. The illness of the child suggested, you see, that she had been eating radioactive food — incredible though it seems — for quite a long time.’