Jim made a face.
‘I shall see him tonight at the party,’ he said, ‘but I doubt very much whether I shall have a chance of worming my way into his confidence!’
Elk was not a society man. It was his dismal claim, that not in any rank of the Metropolitan Police Force was there a man with less education than himself. Year after year, with painful regularity, he had failed to pass the examination which was necessary for promotion to the rank of inspector.
History floored him; dates of royal accessions and expedient assassinations drove him to despair. Sheer merit eventually secured him the rank which his lack of book learning denied him.
‘How’ll I do?’
He had come up to Jim’s room arrayed for the reception, and now he turned solemnly on his feet to reveal the unusual splendour of evening dress. The tail coat was creased, the trousers had been treated by an amateur cleaner, for they reeked of petrol, and the shirt was soft and yellow with age. ‘It’s the white weskit that worries me,’ he complained. ‘They tell me you only wear white weskits for weddin’s. But I’m sure the party’s goin’ to be a fancy one. You wearin’ a white weskit?’
‘I shall probably wear one,’ said Jim soothingly. ‘And you look a peach, Elk!’
‘They’ll take me for a waiter, but I’m used to that,’ said Elk. ‘Last time I went to a party they made me serve the drinks. Quite a lot never got by!’
‘I want you to fix a place where I can find you,’ said Jim, struggling with his tail coat. ‘That may be very necessary.’
‘The bar,’ said Elk laconically. ‘If it’s called a buf-fit, then I’ll be at the buf-fit!’
There was a small crowd gathered before the door of Harlow’s house. They left a clear lane to the striped awning beneath which the guests passed into the flower-decked vestibule. For the first time Jim saw the millionaire’s full domestic staff. A man took his card and did not question the presence of Elk, who strolled nonchalantly past the guardian.
‘White weskits!’ he hissed. ‘I knew it would be fancy!’
The wide doors of the library were thrown open and here Mr Harlow was receiving his guests. Dinner was over and the privileged guests were standing in a half-circle about him.
‘White weskit,’ murmured Elk, ‘and the bar’s in the corner of the room.’
Harlow had already seen them; and although Mr Elk was an uninvited guest, he greeted him with warmth. To his companion he gave a warm and hearty hand.
‘Have you seen Sir Joseph?’ he asked.
Jim had seen the Foreign Secretary that afternoon to learn whether he had made any fresh plans, but had found that Sir Joseph was adhering to his original intention of attending the reception only. He was telling Harlow this when there was a stir at the door and, looking around, he saw the Foreign Secretary enter the room and stop to shake hands with a friend at the door. He wore his black velvet jacket, his long black he straggled artistically over his white shirt front. Sir Joseph had been pilloried as the worst-dressed man in London and yet, for all his slovenliness of attire, he had the distinctive air of a grand gentleman.
He fixed his horn-rims and favoured Jim with a friendly smile as he made his way to his host. ‘I was afraid I could not come,’ he said in his husky voice. ‘The truth is, some foolish newspaper had been giving prominence to a ridiculous story that went the rounds a few weeks ago; and I had to be in my place to answer a question.’
‘Rather late for question time, Sir Joseph,’ smiled Harlow. ‘I always thought they were taken before the real business of Parliament began.’
Sir Joseph nodded in his jerky way.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, a little testily, ‘but when questions of policy arise, and a member gives me private notice of his intention of asking such a question, it can be put at any period.’
He swept Parliament and vexatious questioners out of existence with a gesture of his hand.
Jim watched the two men talking together. They were in a deep and earnest conversation, and he gathered from Sir Joseph’s gesticulations that the Minister was feeling very strongly on the subject under discussion. Presently they strolled through the crowded library into the vestibule, and after a decent interval Jim went on their trail. He signalled his companion from the buffet and Mr Elk, wiping his moustache hurriedly, joined him as he reached the door.
The guests were still arriving; the vestibule was crowded and progress was slow. Presently a side door in the hall opened, and over the heads of the crush he saw Sir Joseph and Mr Harlow come out and make for the street. Harlow turned back and met the detectives.
‘A short visit,’ he said, ‘but worth while!’ Jim reached the steps in time to see the Foreign Minister’s car moving into Park Lane and he had a glimpse of Sir Joseph as he waved his hand in farewell…
‘He stayed long enough to justify a paragraph in the evening newspaper—and the uncharitable will believe that this was all I wanted! You’re not going?’
It was Harlow speaking.
‘I am sorry, I also have an engagement—in the House! said Jim good-humouredly; and Mr Harlow laughed.
‘I see. You were here on duty as well, eh? Well, that’s a very wise precaution. I now realise that not only are you a lucky but you are a short-sighted young man!’
‘Why?’ asked Jim, so sharply that Harlow laughed.
‘I will tell you one of these days,’ he said.
The two detectives waited until a taxicab had been hailed; they drove into Palace Yard at the moment Sir Joseph’s car was moving back to the rank.
‘I don’t see why you pulled me away from that party, Carlton,’ grumbled Elk. ‘Look on this picture and look on that! Look at gay Park Lane and dirty old Westminster!’ And then, when his companion did not reply, he asked anxiously: ‘Something wrong?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve only a sort of feeling that we’re going to see an earthquake—that’s all,’ said Jim emphatically, as they passed into the lobby.
Sir Joseph was in his room and could not be disturbed, a messenger told them. Jim had signed tickets and they passed into the chamber and took a seat under the gallery.
The house was well filled, except the Government benches, which save for the presence of an under-secretary deeply immersed in the contents of his dispatch box, were untenanted. Evidently some motion had been put to the House and the result announced just before the two visitors arrived, for the clerk was reading the terms of an interminable amendment to a Water and Power Bill when Sir Joseph strode in from behind the Speaker’s chair, dropped heavily on the bench and, putting on his glasses began to read a sheaf of notes which he carried.
At that moment somebody rose on the Opposition front bench.
‘Mr Speaker, I rise to ask the right honourable gentleman a question of which I have given him private notice. The question is: Has the right honourable gentleman seen a statement published in the Daily Megaphone to the effect that relationships between His Majesty’s Government and the Government of France are strained as the result of the Bonn incident? And will he tell the House whether such a statement was issued, as is hinted in the newspaper account, with the knowledge and approval of the Foreign Office?’
Sir Joseph rose slowly to his feet, took off his horn-rims and replaced them again, nervously gripped the lapels of his coat, and leaning forward over the dispatch box, spoke:
‘The right honourable gentleman is rightly informed,’ he began, and a hush fell on the House.