book.
'It's always the same,' he complained. 'You want the answer in minutes when it takes me days to find out what the question is.'
Loomis peered vaguely at the book's front cover. The purple garters were there, all right. There superbly, in fact.
'All right,' Wetherly snapped. 'He's sane enough, but he's under a great emotional strain, most probably fear. The man McLaren is important to him in a way I find it hard to explain. You might say that he represents for him a sort of super-Craig-a realization of all Craig's aspirations and needs.'
'Never mind the codology,' said Loomis. 'This is urgent.'
Wetherly sighed.
'Now he's not so sure. He's beginning to suspect that McLaren wanted to take his own advice.' 'So?'
'Craig's ashamed of himself. He's failed all along the line.'
'He's made a fortune. Mind like a razor, and he could crush you with one hand. How on earth can he have failed?'
Wetherly sighed.
'You use the same words as I do, but they all have a different meaning,' he said. 'He's failed with his wife, failed with his friends, he thinks he may fail with his girl. He's a very violent man. People who come close to him get hurt.'
'So long as I can pick the people,' said Loomis. 'What's this got to do with McLaren?'
'If he's a sort of super-Craig, and he's failed too, Craig won't feel so bad. If he's succeeded-'
'How do you mean-succeeded?'
'Craig thinks he may be a schoolteacher. In Craig's estimation, that would argue a high degree of success. I shouldn't advise a meeting if he is. On the other hand, if he's what Craig would consider a failure-a meeting may be useful for your purposes.'
'I'll find out what he's doing,' said Loomis, still looking at the cover of the book.
'He gave me McLaren's address.'
Loomis held out his hand, not looking.
'It won't make any difference,' said Wetherly, 'but I can assure you that that young woman's development is anatomically impossible.'
Loomis looked hurt.
'We all have our dreams,' he said. 'We have to. Otherwise you'd be out of a job.'
CHAPTER 11
That evening Grierson drove Craig out to the studios of the Express Television Company in his Lagonda. His arm had only just stopped aching and his temper was vile. He loathed Craig, and the easy contempt with which he'd thrown him and hurt him, and it was now a matter of urgency that Craig should be impressed, if not terrified.
The big, soft-purring car was impressive by any standards, and so was his driving skill as he threaded it north to Hampstead and through increasing London traffic; then over the Heath and north on to the Al, letting in the supercharger, watching the rev counter and speedometer climb, up and over, until they reached a hundred and kept on going, the car handling beautifully, beautifully handled. There, you bastard, Grierson shouted in his mind at Craig. There. And he four-wheel-drifted a curve, feathered out so that his revs hardly fluttered, and pressed his foot down again. Craig, who hadn't spoken in minutes, sat up then and listened to the car's eager roar, then turned to Grierson.
'Your plugs need cleaning,' he said.
For a moment Grierson was so angry that he almost crashed the car, then he eased back on his right foot and risked a glance to his left. Craig was laughing at him.
Grierson put his foot down again and the car leaped forward, then once more he eased off and he too began to laugh.
'All right,' he said. 'I give in. I suppose you drive at Le Mans too.'
'No,' said Craig. 'I wish I could. I used to drive an E-type Jag, but I swapped it for a Bristol. My wife-' he hesitated, 'she liked a roof. You were really going a bit there.'
'A hundred and ten's her top,' said Grierson. 'At her age, it isn't kind to ask for more.' He eased back further. 'Now remember. I'm a bloke sent down by the advertising people because they want to keep in good with me and I said I wanted to watch a recording. You're an old pal of mine who's come because I invited him. That means I'll be the one that people will watch.'
'Suits me,' said Craig. 'Imagine. Old McLaren. On the old telly.' His voice was mocking, and Grierson looked at him again. Craig didn't look angry; just mildly amused, mildly pitying.
'What's your name?' asked Grierson.
'John Reynolds.'
'Profession?'
'Company director,' Craig said. 'Big bass fiddle.' 'What's the name of the advertising company?' 'Jansen, Caldecott and True.'
'Roger,' said Grierson. 'There's a party on at McLaren's when it's all over. I've fixed it for us to go if you want to.'
'I'll see.'
'Let me know,' said Grierson. 'Now tell me all about your companies, you greedy bastard.'
Express Television was a great, glass-fronted building, set among lawns and fountains and flowers. Enough Hertfordshire woodland had been spared to give it a frame that softened its angular opulence, and in the spring night its glass glowed with the warmth of many lights. There was a doorman with a uniform that compromised between that of an officer of the Blues and an R.A.C. patrolman, doors which were great, unblemished slabs of glass and opened of their own accord, elevators that smelled of carnations, and a studio executive so devoted, so absorbed, so happy just to serve the cathode ray tube that the two men felt ashamed to admit they knew nothing of TV.
The executive, Slatter, was there to enlighten them. He whipped them over the course in fifteen minutes, took them to his office for large pink gins, and from there to the studio, through the maze of cables and sound booms and cameras to the outcasts' corner from which, in reverent, utter silence, they might watch the creation of viewing time. Craig looked at the procession of performers: dancers dressed like birds of paradise; two comedians in football jerseys; four youths who were all teeth and electric guitars, and a Scotsman called Archie McPhee, who told Scots stories in a soft, Highland voice, and philosophized gently about the rush of urban life and how badly it compared with the ripple of a trout stream and the cry of whaups among the heather. The philosopher's real name was McLaren.
When the rehearsal ended, Slatter took them to his office for chicken sandwiches and Moselle, then back to the viewing room to watch in its entirety 'Scotland the Brave,' written by and starring Archie McPhee. Grierson had wanted to sit with the studio audience, but Craig, not yet ready for the substance, concentrated instead on the nickering shadow. First the company sign, a screaming diesel belting over a bridge, and then the pipers like guardsmen, the rattling side-drums, the roar of studio applause as Archie McPhee came on and told stories about the gnomic wisdom of the Hieland man, and rhapsodized about gray hills and purple heather. The dancers next, for hard-edged modernistic dancing, and then the comedians in football jerseys. Commercial break. More Archie. A Scots tenor, thinly disguised as Bonnie Prince Charlie. More comedians. Birds of Paradise chorus. Commercial break. The dentate youths with guitars. More Archie, singing, this time, the thin wailing mouth music for a team of dancers, the men all disguised as Bonnie Prince Charlie, the women as Flora Macdonald, but dancing this time the real stuff, the genuine hundred-proof that McLaren had called the fag-end of a culture that would die with the war. Then the orchestra took up the tune and turned it into a twist, and the chorus (Flora
Macdonalds all, halfway through a strip) were twisting too in the background, the stars came on and waved, and the music softened as Archie stepped forward, remembered again the cry of the curlew, the plash of water where the brown trout rose. And then it was over, and the audience yelped with laughter as two chorus girls tried
