"Oh, the fluence--the gism--the real stuff--the thing you know when yousee it but haven't got a name for," he replied off-handedly. "I supposeyou writer-fellows call it genius.... How old's Smith? Twenty-four Ishould say, so it isn't a matter of accumulated experience. He couldn'tbe more dead right if he was a hundred-and-four."
"Right about what?"
"Well, about his job. Aviation. What it's for, just as much as ever nowthe War's over."
"Tell me--but remember I'm a journalist."
"All the better," he replied promptly. "The more you rub it in thebetter. The War only ended a few months ago, but a good many people seemto be trying to think there's never been one. That's right enough fromthe economic point of view, of course--gets people back to workagain--but there is the other side, and I wish you would rub it in."
"Well, what do you want rubbed in?"
The eyes that had caught mine in Esdaile's studio rested on my faceagain now. Then he pulled out a fat cigarette.
"Civil aviation's for War, of course--the next War," he said almostcontemptuously. "You're not one of those who think it's forexpress-letters, are you? Or carrying a cheap-jack Bradford agent tomake a dicker in wool? That's where so many of you newspaper fellowsmake the mistake. You're all so clever at disguising the truth. Youdon't take people into your confidence enough."
Professionally this began to interest me. The public, its interests andits confidence are supposed to be my business.
"Go on," I said.
"Well, you don't," Hubbard repeated. He has rather a rapid and abruptmanner of speech that enables him better than anybody I know to carryoff the things men are usually a little shy about. "The Bradford man hashis affairs, I know, and it may sometimes be an advantage to get aletter there a couple of hours quicker, but that's not the point. Thereare two points, as a matter of fact. One's the training of your men, andthe other's continuity of manufacture. If this country forgets either of'em it may as well chuck its hand in. Why," he exclaimed in a phrasethat arrested me in a quite remarkable way as chiming in so exactly withmy own private observations, "look at the Elizabethans! What did _they_do? They wanted ships and they wanted sailors. So they developed theNorth Sea fishing industry. Gave 'em all sorts of bonuses and rebatesand privileges. Not for the sake of a few dead fish. Not on your life.It was to keep the men in training and the shipyards running and theSpaniard out. And it's the same with civil aviation to-day."
I won't say that I had never thought of this before. But one thinks ofall sorts of things that evaporate in the thinking, so that forpractical purposes they might just as well never have been thought. Itwas his energy and certitude and single-mindedness that gave it all itsforce. And although I am a journalist, that is why I think that all ourprint is dead and cold until it is vivified by the heard and passionatevoice. Oh, I know the stock argument--that for one that is reached bythe human voice a thousand are influenced by the printed word. Well, sothey are, until a contradictory word is printed and both messages jam toa standstill. But you can't jam the pentecostal flames that give theprophets utterance. I am inclined to think that if there is oneindestructible thing in the world it is the Uttered Word. Naturally Irefrain from dwelling too much on this in the office of the _DailyCircus_. But it lies behind every word of our print for all that.
"Another thing," Hubbard continued. "I don't know much about theElizabethans, but I'm prepared to bet that a good many of 'em wereyoungsters. While old Burleigh was nodding, some infant just out of hiscradle was getting away with it. At all events, there's no reason that Ican see why he shouldn't as well be twenty as ninety--every practicalreason why he should, in fact."
"Do you mean young Smith's like that?" I suddenly asked.
Perhaps it wasn't quite fair. When a man has the pluck to talk on theselines it is rather a cold douche to bring it all down to one finite andfallible human being. Even the pentecostal flame may flicker at times.But I noticed that Hubbard did not say No. Indeed, he did not answer meat all. His eyes were on the child with the fiddle again and the living,climbing fingers.
"Clever hands, aren't they?" he said. "Wish I could play the fiddle."
IX
It was a little later, when we came to speak of the optophone, that Ifound him to be still firmly rooted in the conviction that Esdaile'scellar contained the solution of at least a portion of our mystery. Hewas quite unshakable on this point. I will not trouble to re-state hisrecapitulation of the events of the morning of the farewell breakfast.Of subsequent events, I may say, he knew little.
"Well, I won't pretend to understand you," I said at last. "If youseriously think that Esdaile's got some sort of an optophone in hishouse----"
He waved his hand impatiently, as if to beg of me not to be an ass.
"Oh, cut that out. I'm not given to melodrama any more than you are. Ofcourse he hasn't; that's infantile. But what is there to prevent therebeing something peculiar about the ordinary acoustics of theplace--perfectly ordinarily and naturally, but one of these freakisheffects--there are such things--an echo's the commonest example, ofcourse--then there _are_ these whispering effects--vagaries ofsound----" He tailed off.
"But he heard no sound," I objected, "or at any rate so little that wedecided he couldn't know what it was. He certainly didn't hear what weheard. You've got the whole thing turned round."
"I know," he mused. "And yet he gave you the impression of a man whoknew more than all the rest of us put together. In fact, he practicallyadmitted he did."
"But--if you will have it it's the cellar--two people have been downsince."
He turned quickly. "Who are they?"
"Rooke and Mrs. Cunningham."
"Well, and what had they to say about it?"
I had to admit that, according to Rooke, something about the place hadbrought Mrs. Cunningham to the verge of hysteria, while Rooke himselfhad found the place inexplicably uncanny.
"Then as far as it goes that bears me out?"
"As far as it goes. But they found nothing out of the ordinary. Esdaileeven left the key in the door, and there was nothing to prevent themfrom rummaging to their hearts' content."
"Did they rummage?"
"Rooke didn't. Said he wasn't a policeman to go scratching about otherpeople's houses. I thought it rather decent of him."
"Well--it's possible they didn't know what to look for."
"Do you?" I parried.
"No," he confessed,--"not unless he keeps a tame ghost down there."
"In that case the Chelsea Arts Club would be right," I laughed; and wewent on to speak of other things.
X
Then one morning I had a letter from Joan Merrow, which I give youwithout the alteration of a single word. If you yourself have a modernyoung Anthea who may command you anything and does not hesitate to do soI accept your sympathy in advance. The letter ran:--
"DEAR OLD THING,
"Do be an angel and do one or two little things for me. I'd rather ask you than anybody else because you're the _kindest_ person I know. If you're too busy of course you'll say so straight out, but what I want first of all is for you to get me the addresses of a few nice small houses or convenient flats."
In course of time I had recovered my breath. This, remember, was in1919. It was not the Crown Jewels her ladyship wanted, merely "a nicesmall house"; not the sun, moon and stars, only "a convenient flat." Ithink my nerves might be spared shocks of this kind at my time of life.
"Of course, I know rents have gone up," she continued, "but Chummy thinks there ought to be plenty of quite nice little places for about L70, but you could go up to L75 for a really nice house with a garden, rates and taxes included, of course. There are some sweet little houses right on the edge of the Heath at Hampstead with trees all round them and dear little brass knockers on the doors, but I don't know if any of those are empty, but you might ask."
I seemed to remem
ber those sweet little houses. If I am right, yourfather puts his name down for one of them on his coming of age, and,with luck in the matter of intervening deaths, your son may end his daysthere. I have never had the impiety to ask the rent of them.
"There wouldn't have to be any premium, and there _must_ be a telephone. Speaking of telephones, I do wish you could persuade Philip to have that one of his moved, as where it is everybody can hear every word you say. The house needn't be Hampstead, of course, Wimbledon or Richmond would do if you wouldn't mind having a look round. If you went on the top of a bus you'd be out in the fresh air and the blow would do you good. Then there would be the question of a maid, but we shouldn't want her for a month or two yet."
At this point a little fanning with the letter refreshed meconsiderably.
"And now," the joyous thing continued, "if you happen to be anywhere near Regent Street it would be so kind if you would call at Morny's and get me some soap, I like Chaminade best, and some tooth-powder, any good sort. I know how busy you are, but it is so difficult to get things here. I tried to get some Petrole Hahn the other day, but they'd never heard of it. I'd ask Mrs. Cunningham, but I hear she's away, and you carry colors so well in your head. That's why I wonder if you'd call at that little bead-shop in Oxford Street, nearly opposite Frascati's, and see if they have any amber beads, not the real amber, of course, iron-amber I think they call it. Chummy wants me to have some because of my hair. Not the huge ones, please, but from about the size of a pea to as big as a marble."
"Or a 7.65 mm. bullet," I murmured to myself.
"The weather here is lovely and we're out all day long, and I do wish you were here. But my bathing-costume is a perfect rag. I hate the skirted ones and always wear a plain club one, either navy blue or black; but I'm afraid it won't run to a silk one, though you might ask the price. And now here's something that isn't for me at all. You know Hamley's, either in Regent Street or Holborn, but they have a better selection in Regent Street. The boys want two pairs of water-wings, and they'd better be of different colors or they'll get them mixed up and be always quarreling. And oh, Chummy says it's awful neck, seeing he doesn't know you, but there are some pipes, 'Captanide' they're called, and you get them at Loewe's in the Haymarket. There are two sizes, and he would like the smaller size, two of them, please. You can add them to my bill as they're my present to him and he's giving me the beads, and he'd better have some tobacco for the pipes. His number at Dunhills' is 06369. A pipe is better for him than cigarettes, though I allow him six cigarettes a day and you can only get gaspers here. Any nice kind would do as long as they're Turkish. Thanks so much. How is the novel getting on? We're both so looking forward to reading it. Is it a love story? I do hope it is, as I'm sure you'd do that so beautifully. Do be a pet about the house. I'm sending you some flowers to-morrow.
"JOAN."
With a light sigh I folded the letter and put it into my pocket. At anyrate, there seemed to be two people on whom our Case did not weigh tooheavily.
PART VI
THE MAN IN THE CLUB
I
I always have the lurking feeling that Democracy would be all right butfor its numbers. I am aware that this sounds paradoxical, and that inits numbers is supposed to lie its strength, but I do not see how thatcan ever be a properly directed executive strength. There are too manycooks. Taken one at a time, how admirable are its impulses, how just inthe main its judgments! But block-vote it----! Take away its trust inPrinces and put it in Polls----! Convert its votes, not into effectiveaction, but into arid deserts of statistics----!... Two men can make aholy friendship; among three there can be a useful understanding; butten will ever winnow the wind with talk, and a hundred are a merearithmetical obstruction in the way of ever getting anything done atall.
I am moved to these reflections (as no younger novelist ever dares tosay) by a series of occurrences that began at that time so to harass meand to put me so completely off my private work that, like poor MontyRooke, I might almost as well have stopped in bed till midday. Thesewere the occurrences that I had already dimly foreseen when thatphotograph of the house in Lennox Street had so suddenly appeared inthat morning's issue of the _Roundabout_. By an unforeseen fluke theperil of the coroner's inquest had been safely passed, but I had feltin my bones that others were gathering.
Well, they gathered. I learned, no matter how, that the ScepterInsurance Company was consulting its solicitors and its solicitors wereinstructing counsel. The plane and parachute people, as I had expected,were investigating scraps of twisted metal and pieces of scorchedfabric, and the Accidents Investigation Committees were getting to work.
Understand that none of these happenings were official happenings. Ifthe Scepter wanted to resist, it had its ordinary remedy at civil law.The Committees had no authority whatever except to draw up reports fortheir own information and satisfaction. The interests of the owners andmanufacturers were likewise purely private ones.
In fact, as far as I could see, the only charge that could lay CharlesValentine Smith _directly_ by the heels would be one under thosehalf-baked Orders that so far were the best that could be done towardssolving an entirely new problem with totally unascertained powers.
But there are wheels within wheels, and it is the little wheels that arethe devil. We still speak of things being "official" long after thatimposing word has ceased to have much significance. If only for thearithmetical reason mentioned above, Government works ever more and morethrough channels that are not official and votable on at all. Many aprivate concern has a Minister, or at any rate a Minister's adviser oran influential Member, safely tucked away in its pocket, and you mayinvert this if you wish in the sense of an understanding. This is whybright-eyed secretaries, fresh from a dinner-table or a conference thathas let them into the very heart of some secret matter, are notsupposed to be asked what knowledge they have in their extra-secretarialcapacities; and this is what the Man in the Club understands and whathis brother in the Pub does not. He thumps no tub, enunciates no "firstprinciples." A name, a glance, a shake of the head, and block-votes areput back where they belong. "I'm told Glenfield doesn't wish it" is moreto him than twenty parliamentary returns; "I wonder whether So-and-Sohas quite the power he thinks he has," and three months later the publicis surprised to see that a newspaper has changed its policy.
But let me hasten to reassure you. I am not going to invite you tofollow our Case into quagmires either legal or political. I know toolittle about these things myself. Recent as the judgment on Appeal was,I have to stop and think for a moment before I can remember whether theScepter people won their case or lost it, and I have only the vaguestidea what the findings of the Accidents Investigation Committees were.For most of these things I have taken Billy Mackwith's word. But he wasbriefed in one case, and has followed up the others with just the samepertinacity he showed when he tracked down and brought triumphantly homeagain those early prodigal pictures of Philip Esdaile's.
And, as I had begun to see it, Charles Valentine Smith, whether on oathin the Scepter case or at the invitation of one or other of the privateinquiries, was engaged on something enormously more important than theimmediate results of an aeroplane crash. He was contributing his mite tosomething that would live when he and all else about him had beenforgotten--to the labor and knowledge and unparalleled discovery of histime.
II
Whitaker, in its "list of London Clubs," describes my own as "Social":that is to say, that I and my fellow-members have no common bond ofoccupation or interest other than that of pleasant good-fellowship. Weare drawn from all professions, and this gives me an opportunity I valuehighly, namely, that of hearing scraps of th
e "shop" of other men when Iam bored to death with my own. Saturday nights, when there is nomorrow's issue of my paper to "put to bed," usually find me in thesmoking-room behind my _Pall Mall_ or _Evening Standard_, with a fewother non-weekenders sitting rather widely apart also behind theirpapers, none of us so engrossed in the news that we are unaware of eachother, but using the journals as protective cover. Occasionally we alldrop them to converse; more frequently two or more will engage inconversation with the others interjecting sniping-shots across the room;and it is all rather interesting and quite unexciting and very muchgo-as-you-please.
On a Saturday evening early in June I was sitting after this fashion,half reading, half listening to Ronald Mowbray's remarks on some boxingmatch or other. Mowbray's talk about boxing is sometimes rather good. Hewas a known man of his hands long before the sport (if you can alwayscall it that nowadays) became quite so deadly intensive both physicallyand financially. Moreover, his training as a sculptor has given him agood deal of knowledge of the fundamental mechanics of the humanframework, and how a slight prolongation of the heel-bone can make aDeer-foot or length of humerus a lightning hitter.
"Just at present I don't think Nature's provided the world with a realheavy-weight," he was saying. "Not the real John Hopley kind, I mean. Ittakes more than size. You see, it doesn't matter how hard you _could_hit the other fellow if he gets his in first."
"But surely Wells is quick enough for you, isn't he?" said JackBeresford. His newspaper was on his knee.