Jon Breen - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 57, No. 3. Whole No. 328, March 1971

“What exactly happened?”

“Our Ambassador had a highly confidential document — a memorandum in the General’s own hand — and Sir James offered to act as courier. The Head of Chancery put the document in Sir James’s valise — which was almost empty as it happens — saw the valise sealed, and handed it to the Ambassador’s Secretary, who took it back to the hotel and himself saw it locked up in Sir James’s bedroom. The Secretary didn’t leave the hotel. He stayed there, lunched with young Robin, and the two of them escorted the valise to the Airport.”

“And what was Sir James doing all this time?”

“Sir James was having lunch with our Ambassador, the French Minister of the Interior, and the wife of the French Minister of the Interior.”

“How precisely is it suggested that the notes got into the valise?”

“There’s no mystery about that. Microscopic examination of the seal — what was left of it — shows that it had been removed, whole, with a hot knife and refixed with adhesive. Probably during lunch hour.”

“And it’s suggested that Behrens did that?”

“He was at the hotel.”

“So were two hundred other people.”

“You don’t think, Fortescue, that he might — just conceivably — have thought he was being helpful.”

Mr. Fortescue said, “I have known Behrens for thirty years. Impossible.” After a pause he added, “What is Sir James going to do?”

“He’s been to the Prime Minister. He wants the people responsible discovered and dealt with.”

Mr. Fortescue smiled a wintry smile. He said, “I do not often find myself in agreement with Sir James, but that sentiment is one with which I heartily concur. I shall need to make an immediate telephone call to Paris.”

“I’m afraid you won’t catch Behrens. He’s on his way back.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Fortescue. He seemed to have recovered his good humor. “Excellent. We may need him. The person I wished to speak to was the Ambassador’s Private Secretary. Perhaps your office could arrange it for me? Oh, and the manager of the Hotel Continental. Then we must have Behrens intercepted at the airport and brought straight round to Sir James’s house — to meet me there.”

“You’re going to see Sir James?”

“I have really no alternative,” said Mr. Fortescue genially. “In his present mood he would certainly not come to see us, would he?”

Sir James was at ease in front of his drawing-room fire, the bottom button of his waistcoat undone, a glass of port in one hand, an admiring audience of two, consisting of wife and son, hanging on every word.

“And it might have come off,” he said, “if I hadn’t been wide-awake and, I admit it, had a bit of luck. I could have been in a very awkward spot.”

“And now it’s them who are on the spot,” said Robin with a grin.

“In the old days,” said Lady Docherty, “they’d have had their heads cut off.”

“Even if they don’t lose their heads I think we can be sure that the people concerned will lose their jobs. I’m seeing the Prime Minister again tomorrow. I wonder who that can be?”

“I’ll go,” said Robin. “The girl’s out. What do I do if it’s a reporter?”

“Invite him in. The wider the publicity this deplorable matter receives the better for” — he was going to say “my chances at the next election,” but changed it to — “the country.”

Robin came back, followed by two men. “I don’t think it is the Press,” he said. “It’s a Mr. Fortescue and a Mr. Behrens.”

“I see,” said Sir James coldly. “Well, I’ve nothing much to say to you that can’t be said, in due course, in front of a Tribunal of Enquiry, but if you’ve come to apologize I’m quite willing to listen. No, stay where you are, my dear. And you too, Robin. The more witnesses we have, the better.”

“I agree,” said Mr. Behrens.

“Kind of you.”

“It would be appropriate if your son were to remain since most of what I have to say concerns him.” Mr. Fortescue swung round on the boy, ignoring Sir. James. “I’ve just spoken to the Ambassador’s Private Secretary in Paris. He tells me that you were away from the luncheon table for nearly half an hour. Making a long-distance call, you said. Why did you lie about it?”

“Don’t answer him,” said Sir James. But the boy appeared to have forgotten about his father. He said, in his pleasant, level voice, “What makes you think it was a lie, sir?”

“I know it was a lie because I’ve talked to the hotel manager. He tells me that no long-distance call in or out was recorded during that period. On the other hand, Behrens here saw you leave the dining room. He followed you up to the bedroom, saw you go in, and heard you lock the door.”

“And who do you suppose,” fumed Sir James, “is going to believe your agent provocateur?”

“Well, Robin,” Mr. Fortescue went on, “if you weren’t telephoning, what were you doing?”

Sir James jumped up and forced himself between them. “I’ll deal with this,” he said. “If you think you can shift the blame onto my son on manufactured evidence—”

“Don’t you think he might be allowed to speak for himself?”

“No, I don’t.”

“He’ll have to sooner or later.”

“Unless you can produce something better than the word of your own spy he’s not going to have to answer at all.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of evidence,” said Mr. Fortescue mildly. “Robin’s been a member of the Action Committee of your Society for two years — that’s right, isn’t it, Robin? I would surmise that during all that time he’s been using your diplomatically protected luggage to bring back funds for the Committee from France.”

“Lies,” said Sir James in a strangled voice.

“He has also taken a personal part in a number of demonstrations. He was up in the Midlands last week—”

“Collecting information for me.”

“No doubt. He also put in some time kicking a police superintendent. Have you the photographs, Behrens?”

Sir James glared at the photograph. “A fake!”

Robin said, “Oh, stop bluffing, Dad. Of course it isn’t faked. How could it be?”

There was a. moment of complete silence, broken by Lady Docherty who said, “Robin” faintly.

“Keep out of this, mother.”

Sir James recovered his voice. He said, “Your mother has every right—”

“Neither of you,” said Robin, silencing his parent with surprising ease, “has any rights in the matter at all. I’m twenty-one. And I know what I’m doing. You talk about violence and ruthlessness, Dad. But that’s all you ever do — you and your Peaceful People. Talk, talk. I don’t believe” — a faint smile illuminated his young face — “that you’ve ever actually hit anyone in your life. Really hit them, meaning to hurt. Have you?” Sir James was past speech. “Well, I have, and I’m going to go on doing it, because if you truly believe in something that’s the only way you’re going to make it happen — in your own lifetime anyway. By breaking the law and hurting people and smashing things. And young people all over the world have seen it. They know what to do. Don’t talk. Kick out.”

Mr. Fortescue said, “I take it that includes kicking people when they’re on the ground.”

“Of course,” said Robin. “It’s much easier to kick them when they’re lying down than when they’re standing up. Why not?”

“I left that to Sir James to answer,” said Mr. Fortescue, sometime later, to the Home Secretary. “He’s a politician and used to answering awkward questions.”