He showed his season ticket to the man at the lift.
“I shall have to get it renewed the day after-to-morrrow,” he said affably, and tied a knot in the corner of his large white handkerchief to remind him of the fact.
There is no need for that knot, old Rampole; you will never again travel in the Hampstead Underground.
He opened his morning paper as he had done, five days a week, years without number. He turned first to the Deaths, then to the correspondence, then, reluctantly, to the news of the day.
Never again, old Rampole, never again.
The police raid on the Ministry of Information, like so many similar enterprises, fell flat. First, the plain-clothes men had the utmost difficulty in getting past the gate-keeper.
“Is Mr. Silk expecting you?”
“We hope not.”
“Then you can’t see him.”
When finally they were identified and allowed to pass, there was a confused episode in the Religious Department, where they found only the nonconformist minister, whom, too zealously, they proceeded to handcuff. It was explained that Ambrose was unaccountably absent from duty that morning. Two constables were left to await his arrival. All through the day they sat there, casting a gloom over the Religious Department. The plain- clothes men proceeded to Mr. Bentley’s room, where they were received with great frankness and charm.
Mr. Bentley answered all their questions in a manner befitting an honest citizen. Yes, he knew Ambrose Silk both as a colleague at the Ministry and, formerly, as one of their authors at Rampole’s. No, he had almost nothing to do with publishing these days; he was too busy with all this (an explanatory gesture which embraced the dripping sink, the Nollekens busts and the page of arabesques beside the telephone). Mr. Rampole was in entire charge of the publishing firm. Yes, he thought he had heard of some magazine which Silk was starting. The Ivory Tower? Was that the name? Very likely. No, he had no copy. Was it already out? Mr. Bentley had formed the impression that it was not yet ready for publication. The contributors? Hucklebury Squib, Bartholomew Grass, Tom Barebones-Abraham? Mr. Bentley thought he had heard the names; he might have met them in literary circles in the old days. He had the idea that Barebones-Abraham was rather below normal height, corpulent, bald ? yes, Mr. Bentley was quite sure he was bald as an egg; he spoke with a stammer and dragged his left leg as he walked. Hucklebury Squib was a very tall young man ? easily recognizable, for he had lost the lobe of his left ear in extraordinary circumstances when sailing before the mast; he had a front tooth missing and wore gold ear- rings.
The plain-clothes men recorded these details in shorthand. This was the sort of witness they liked, circumstantial, precise, unhesitating.
When it came to Bartholomew Grass, Mr. Bentley’s invention flagged. He had never seen the man. He rather thought it might be the pseudonym for a woman.
“Thank you, Mr. Bentley,” said the chief of the plain-clothes men. “I don’t think we need trouble you any more. If we want you I suppose we can always find you here.”
“Always,” said Mr. Bentley sweetly. “I often, whimsically, refer to this little table as my grindstone. I keep my nose to it. We live in arduous times, Inspector.”
A posse of police went to Ambrose’s flat, where all they got was a piece of his housekeeper’s mind.
“Our man’s got away,” they reported when they returned to their superiors.
Colonel Plum, the Inspector of Police and Basil were summoned late that afternoon to the office of the Director of Internal Security.
“I can’t congratulate you,” he said, “on the way this case has been handled. I’m not blaming you, Inspector, or you, Seal,” and he fixed Colonel Plum with a look of detestation. “We were clearly onto a very dangerous set of men and you let four out of five slip through your fingers. I’ve no doubt that at this moment they are sitting in a German submarine, laughing at us.”
“We’ve got Rampole, sir,” said Colonel Plum. “I’m inclined to think he’s the ringleader.”
“I’m inclined to think he’s an old booby.”
“He has behaved in the most hostile and defiant manner throughout. He refuses to give any particulars about any of his accomplices.”
“He threw a telephone directory at one of our men,” said the Inspector, “and used the following expressions about them: ‘nincompoops,’ ‘jacks-in-office…’ “
“Yes, yes, I have the report. Rampole is obviously a violent and thoroughly unreasonable type. It won’t do him any harm to cool his heels for the rest of the war. But he’s not the ringleader. This fellow Barebones-Abraham is the man I want and you haven’t been able to find a trace of him.”
“We’ve got his description.”
“A fat lot of good that is when he’s halfway back to Germany. No, the whole thing has been grossly mismanaged. The Home Secretary takes a very poor view of it. Somebody talked and I mean to find out who.”
When the interview, painfully protracted, came to an end, the Director told Basil to remain behind.
“Seal,” he said, “I understand you were the first man to get onto this gang. Have you any idea how they were warned?”
“You put me in a very difficult position, sir.”
“Come, come, my boy, this is no time for petty loyalties when your country’s future is at stake.”
“Well, sir, I’ve felt for some time that there’s been too much feminine influence in our Department. Have you seen Colonel Plum’s secretary?”
“Hokey-pokey, eh?”
“You could call it that, sir.”
