John Carr - The Reader Is Warned

Yeah, that's right: Dodsworth.

Hello? Ray? This is Louie Westerham of the Floodlight. How-zit, Ray? Look: for crissake what's all this about a CzechoSlovakian scientist getting ready to knock off Hitler with a death-ray?

‘What?

So it's all a lot of hooey?

What do you mean, it's a better story than that?

What?

Look, Ray, can I depend on that?

Story! Holy jumping - why, it's the biggest thing that - wait a minute, wait a minute; let's see how it looks in a head. T-E-L -holy jumping -

What? -

What do you mean, 'go easy?'

Oh, for crissake, Ray, why bother about that? It's new, ain't it? It's big, ain't it? Suppose nobody does know what it is; that won't keep 'em from talking, will it? We'll sell Teleforce to the American people, thaf s what we'll do. We'll make every man, woman, and child in this country Teleforce-conscious. Now wait, Ray; don't go 'way; I want you to talk to -

Allo! Allo!

Ne coupez pas, mademoiselle, ne coupez pas! Quelqu'un sur la ligne. Retirez-vous, imbecile! Is it again the British Ministry for War ? Bon!

All, my friend, it is still you ?

I spoke, my friend, to offer you my sincerest congratulations. Of a truth it is magnificent. It will be of an inestimable service to the Entente Cordiale, will it not?

Ha, ha!

We know of what I speak, do we not? Boum! The machine which your engineers have constructed ?

No, no, I say no more. I do not press you. It is necessary to be discreet. I only offer congratulations.

Your tone is admirable. I, too, suspect that the wire is tapped.

But our engineers may call on you, perhaps ?

I cannot understand you. The wire makes sputtering sounds; it is tapped. Yes, it is beautiful weather here in Paris. The tulips are out in the gardens of the Tuileries.

A'voir, my friend.

CHAPTER XIII

On Tuesday it rained. It was raining in a solid sheet when Dr Sanders got out of the Underground at Trafalgar Square and hurried across to the restaurant at the top of Whitehall where he was to meet Masters and H. M. for a conference over lunch.

He was relieved to be back in town again, in the steamy bustle where fantasies could be forgotten. But something followed and caught up with him; with the difference that whereas in the country it had been only a whisper, here it was several million voices. From the table behind the big plate-glass window giving on the street, where Masters rose to meet him, he could see newspaper bills. And they were enough.

H. M. was only a few minutes late. They saw him get out of his car and waddle in through the rain, in a large transparent oilskin with a hood, which swathed him entirely (including his hat) and made him resemble a particularly malevolent ghost in a cloud of ectoplasm.

He disentangled himself from this, tossed it to a waiter, and sniffed the steam of good cooking. Masters rose at him.

'You promised, sir -

H. M. howled back.

'It's no good goin' for me, Masters,' he said. 'I couldn't go down to Fourways yesterday. I couldn't. There's blue blazes to pay here; and unless I can get myself out of this I'm headed for the House of Lords as straight as an onion to Covent Garden.'

'Trouble?'

'Trouble?' said H. M., sticking the end of his napkin under his collar and looking up over the menu. 'Oh no. We nearly had an international situation on our hands, that's all. It's better now. Or at least I hope it is. I'd like to know-what fathead started that report about us havin' a death-ray that would knock any bomber out of the sky if it wasn't more'n half a mile up. We're supposed to be crafty. Crafty. Oh, my eye! You know, Masters, it seems like every time a mess starts in this world it's our fellers who have to go out and smooth it over; and all we get for our pains is a kick in the pants for not bein' more active.'

Masters pointed to a newspaper bill in the rain.

'But how long is this nonsense going on, sir?'

'I dunno. I'm hopin' for a short row and a merry one.'

'But Pennik can't do that!' Masters pointed out.

'Without doubt, my old one. Only he's doin' it.'

'It's this campaign in the newspapers. I never saw anything like it in all my born days. Trams, tubes, buses: nothing but Teleforce, Teleforce, Teleforce, and what do we propose to do about it ? Very nastily said, too. It's a disgrace, they say. One gentleman buttonholed me in the train this morning and quite seriously suggested sticking Pennik away in a zinc-lined box like a tube of radium. It's the newspapers; and I wish I knew who was encouraging them.'

H. M. tapped his chest with the menu. 'I'm encouragin' 'em,' he said. 'What?'

'Sure. Note, son, that there ain't a soul in Fleet Street who claims Pennik is a true prophet. There's a very strong tinge of The Bird hoverin' round every line that's written. And if I can manage -'

'But people are believing it!'

'Oh yes. Pennik's mustard. Wait till you hear him on the wireless to-morrow night.'

'Goddelmighty,' said Masters. 'You don't mean they're going to let him broadcast over the B.B.C. ?'

'No. But they are in France. He goes on over Radio Brittany at 7.15; commercial programme; sponsored by. Spreedona Cheese Biscuits. Y'know, Masters' - H. M. ruffled his hands across his big bald head - 'there are features of our modern life that puzzle me. They do, honestly. How that's supposed to be a great recommendation for a product beats me. "Here we are, ladies and gentlemen. Listen to Herman

Pennik, who knocks 'em off without even the aid of Spreedona Cheese Biscuits."'

'And I suppose you encouraged that too, sir?'

'Uh. Well. I didn't altogether discourage it.' Masters did not say anything. He studied H. M. as though he could think of a place of incarceration for him much more suitable than the House of Lords.

And H. M. was not joking. He drew himself up.

'I'm the old man, son,' he said with great dignity. 'You trust me and everything will be all right. I've got my reasons. Only-' -

'Only?'

'Well, if the thing won't work and I take a toss over this, I hate to think what's goin' to happen. I'll be packing my bag and departin' for Siberia with such promptness as to baffle the eyesight.'

'You will that,' said the chief inspector grimly; and Sanders knew that H. M. was really worried.

'Which is why,' he returned, 'that we got to get down to business and do it straightaway. I want every fact I can lay my hands on. I want every dagger in the arsenal, because Pennik's got a few himself. I've been reading your report.' He looked at Sanders. 'And yours, son. You did the postmortem on Mrs Constable yesterday ?'

'Yes,' said Sanders.

'And still no sign of what caused death?'

'No. Except that she was so chronically run down in every organ, so burnt out except for actual physical strength, that she was the easiest possible victim -'

'For whatever it was?'

'Yes.'

'Uh-huh. Finally, I want your whole story. I want to hear everything that happened to you on Sunday night, after we left you to your fate. And Mrs Constable to hers, God help us! Now tell me: slow, steady and careful.'

Sanders told him. It lasted through the soup-course and half-way through the beef; it was the dozenth time he had told it, but he omitted nothing. H. M., his napkin stuck firmly into his collar, listened while he ate; occasionally he would stop and peer over a loaded fork. What parts of the story struck him as significant Sanders could not tell, though at times his eye was curious.

At the end of it H. M. put down his knife and fork.

'So,' he muttered, folding his arms. 'So!'

'It'd seem, sir,' interposed Masters, 'it'd seem we may have made a bit of a mistake about Mrs Constable.'

'Oh ? And that makes you still more dubious, hey ? If I'm so cocky about thinkin' I'm on the right track in this business, I got to explain how that mistake came to be made, haven't I ? I wonder if you can guess.'