Charles Snow - George Passant

Several nights in the middle of the case, George switched off to study the figures of the business. They were not over-complicated, but it was a distraction he wanted to be spared: particularly as it soon became clear that Jack was expecting money to ‘set it straight’. George discovered that Morcom had heard of this misfortune a week before; he exploded into an outburst that lasted a whole night. ‘Do you think I’m the sort of man you can ignore till you can’t find anyone else? Why don’t you let other people finish up the business? There’s no need to come to me at all.’ He was half-mollified, however, to be told that Morcom’s advice had only delayed the crisis, and that he had volunteered no further help.

Affronted as he was, George did not attempt to throw off the responsibility. To me in private, he said with a trace of irritated triumph: ‘If I’d asserted myself in the first place, he’d have been settling down to the law by now.’ But he took it for granted that he was bound to set Jack going again. He went through the figures.

‘You guaranteed this man—?’

‘Yes.’

‘What backing did you have?’

‘It hasn’t come off.’

In the end George worked out that a minimum of fifty pounds had to be provided within a month. ‘That will avoid the worst. We want three times as much to consolidate the thing. I don’t know how we shall even manage the fifty,’ George said. As we knew, he was short of money himself; Mrs Passant was making more demands, his sister was going to a different school; he still lived frugally, and then frittered pounds away on a night’s jaunt.

It surprised me how during this transaction Jack’s manner towards George became casual and brusque. Towards anyone else Jack would have shown more of his finesse, as well as his mobile good nature. But I felt in him a streak of ruthlessness whenever he was intent on his own way: as he talked to George, it came almost to the surface.

I mentioned this strange relation of theirs to Morcom, the evening before I went to London for my examination: but he drove it out of my head by telling me he was himself worried over Martineau.

There was no time for him to say more. But in the train, returning to the town after the examination, I was seized by the loneliness, the enormous feeling of calamity, which seems lurking for us — or at any rate, all through my life it often did so for me — when we arrive home at the end of a journey. I went straight round to George’s. He was not in, although it was already evening. His landlady told me that he was working late in the office; there I found him, in his room on the same floor as those which carried on their doors the neat white letters ‘Mr Eden,’ ‘Mr Martineau’. George’s room was smaller than the others, and in it one could hear trams grinding below, through the centre of the town.

‘How did you get on?’ George said. Though I felt he was wishing the inquiries over so that he could pass on to something urgent, he insisted on working through my examination paper.

‘Ah,’ George breathed heavily, for he had been talking fast, ‘you must have done well. And now we’ve got a bit of news for you.’

‘What is it? Has anything gone wrong?’ I was full of an inexplicable impatience.

‘I’ve got the case absolutely cut and dried,’ said George enthusiastically. I heard his explanation, which would have been interesting in itself. When he had finished, I asked: ‘Anything new about Martineau?’

‘Nothing definite.’ George’s tone was uncomfortable, as though the question should not have been put. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘Morcom rang up to ask if he could come in tonight and talk something over. I believe it’s the same subject.’

‘When?’ I said. ‘When is he coming?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, quite soon.’

‘Do you mind if I stay?’ I said.

‘There’s a slight difficulty,’ said George. He added: ‘You see, we’ve got to consider Morcom. He’s inclined to be discreet—’

‘He’s already spoken to me about it,’ I said, but George was unwilling until I offered to meet Morcom on his way.

When I brought him back, Morcom began: ‘It’s rather dull, what I’ve come to you about.’ Then he said, after a question to me: ‘But you know a good deal about Martineau, George. And you’re better than I am at figures.’

George smiled, gratified: ‘If that’s what you want, Lewis is your man.’

‘All the better,’ said Morcom. ‘You can both tell me what you think. The position is this. You know that Martineau is my landlord. Well, he says he can’t afford to let me keep on my flat. It seemed to me nonsense. So I asked for an account of what he spends on the house. I’ve got it here. I’ve also made a note of what I pay. That’s in pencil; the rest are Martineau’s figures. I want to know what you think of them.’

George was sitting at the table. I got up and stood behind him, and we both gazed for some minutes at the sheet of notepaper. I heard George’s breathing.

‘Well?’ said Morcom.

‘It’s not very — careful, is it?’ said George, after a long hesitation.

‘What do you say?’ Morcom said to me.

‘I should go further,’ I said. ‘It’s either so negligent that one can hardly believe it — or else—’ I paused, then hurried on: ‘something like dishonesty.’

‘That’s sheer fatuity,’ George said. ‘He’s one of the most honest people alive. As you both ought to know. You can’t go flinging about accusations frivolously against a man like Martineau.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, if one didn’t know him and saw that account—’

‘It’s a pity,’ said George, ‘that you didn’t say that.’

‘How do you explain the figures?’ Morcom asked.

‘I reject the idea of dishonesty,’ George said. ‘Right from the beginning; and if you don’t, I’m afraid I can’t continue with the discussion.’

‘I shouldn’t believe it. Unless there turned out nothing else to believe,’ Morcom said.

George went on: ‘I grant it might have been dishonest if Lewis or I had produced an account like that. But we shouldn’t have done it with such extraordinary clumsiness. Anyone could see through it at a glance. He’s put all sorts of expenses down on the debit side that have got as much to do with his house as they have with me.’

‘I saw that,’ said Morcom.

‘That proves it wasn’t dishonesty,’ George was suddenly smiling broadly. ‘Because, as I say, a competent man couldn’t have done it without being dishonest. But on the other hand a competent man wouldn’t have done it so egregiously. So the person who did it was probably incompetent and honest. Being Martineau.’

‘But is he incompetent?’

‘He’s not bad at his job,’ George admitted slowly. ‘Or used to be when he took the trouble. He used to be pretty good at financial things—’

Morcom and I leapt at the same words.

‘Took the trouble?’ said Morcom. ‘When has he stopped? What do you mean?’

‘I didn’t want to say anything about this.’ George looked upset. ‘You’ll have to regard it as in absolute confidence. But he’s been slacking off gradually for a long time. The last month or two I’ve not been able to get him to show any kind of recognition. I tried to make some real demands on him about the case. He just said there were more important things. He’s become careless—’

‘That was what you were quarrelling about,’ I cried out. ‘That Friday night — do you remember? I found the two of you alone.’

‘Yes,’ said George, with a shy grin. ‘I did try to make one or two points clear to him.’

‘I heard him,’ I said to Morcom, ‘before I left the gardens.’