“What about this blackmail stunt you thought this fellow Lopes might have been up to? He wouldn’t have wanted you to see that, would he, old Buckmaster?”
“Oh, I soon came to the conclusion it couldn’t be blackmail. His demeanour didn’t seem right for that, especially not afterwards, and from what he said … he didn’t bother to concoct any sort of story. No, I think he was just afraid of a bit of a dust-up, a dispute over a debt, that kind of thing. He’s the sort of chap who hates any, you know, unpleasantness. All through that chauffeur row I could tell he was loathing every minute of it.”
Hyman shook his head. “Well, it all sounds rather fine-spun to me. I think you made up your mind you liked the old boy, even if he did bore you and put on this I’m-great-you-see act. And anyhow you were his guest. So you looked round for reasons for thinking he was what he claimed to be.”
“My mind doesn’t work like that.”
“What? You’re absolutely hopeless about people you like or who you think like you. People you don’t happen to like never get a bloody chance and the others can get away with murder. They jump on your stomach and you lie there pointing out that their home circumstances were unfortunate.”
“Utter rubbish. Who jumps on my stomach?”
“Oh, well … you know what I mean. All sorts of people, chaps you’re friendly with and so on, some of those Welsh pals of yours particularly. You … you give them too much rope. You let them kick you around too much.”
“Now you’re talking like Barbara.”
“Well, she ought to know, oughtn’t she? Still, we’re getting away from the point. Let’s finish off about the Buckmaster business. You got the right answer, that’s the main thing, however you got it. Can I have another look at that photograph?”
Bowen took it Out of its envelope and passed it across.
It showed Buckmaster some twenty years younger, but unmistakably Buckmaster, sitting awkwardly at a café table opposite a man with a small mouth and an apostolic expression. Around them were various items of a continental nature. An inscription in ink mentioned John Wulfstan Strether and sincere friendship.
“We’ll get that signature checked, of course,” Hyman said. “But it’s got to be genuine, hasn’t it? Can’t help being. Laurence Binyon. They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old, but they’re dead, aren’t they? Can you beat it?”
“I had quite a time seeming honoured when he made me a present of that. He did so much want me to have it, it was extraordinary. And there was a lot of other stuff he said he hadn’t had the heart to burn. Letters from Granville-Barker urging him to write a play, that kind of caper. I reckon there must have been about half a dozen chaps who knew who he was, but he made sure they were the kind to keep their mouths shut. Well, Bennie, what about it? Do I get that job or not?”
Hyman sighed. “Afraid not, chumbo,” he said, blushing slightly. “Old Weinstein was delighted with your bit of special investigation. But he’s promised a frightful little turd of a failed barrister that he can come in in the autumn. So that’s that. I really am sorry. I’m going to get Weinstein to write you a personal letter explaining the whole thing. Then perhaps you won’t think I was leading you up the bloody garden about it all.”
“That’s all right, Bennie, don’t you worry.”
“I feel very mean about it.”
“Well, don’t. You did your stuff for me over that landlord business. I saw him last night when I got in. He’d brushed his hair specially and his voice was about half the volume it usually is. He kept on hoping I’d find everything satisfactory, felt awfully cut up about the unfortunate misunderstanding there’d been, it had got him down no end. What did you do to him?”
“Oh, we got by on abuse and threats, really. Your cable didn’t give us a great deal to go on, you see. Not that it mattered. He started apologising as soon as he laid eyes on old Levine. Couldn’t blame him.”
“You know, he put in a lot of work persuading me to go on using the room we had the dispute about in the first place. It was important to his wellbeing that I should.”
“Let me know any time he needs a refresher course.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Mind you do. You’re not looking too bright, Garnet. Bit on the shagged side.”
“Yes, I need a holiday.”
“Was it a complete wash-out in Portugal?”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t say that. Some of the time it was hardly any worse than it is here. That’s when you start thinking you really love it and must come back the first chance you get. I’ve been thinking it over. I think what it is, there’s such a host of things that can go wrong, so many more than there are here, that when you’re not actually being eaten up by insects and your guts aren’t playing hell with you and an official isn’t telling you your papers aren’t in order and nobody’s putting you right in the picture about the local writers and you’ve got a decent bed and you aren’t writhing about with sunburn and there aren’t any smells to speak of and you haven’t got to start looking for a hotel and in general you won’t have to deal with anybody for the rest of the day and you’ve got something to read, well then you tell yourself you’re having a bloody marvellous time. You know, like it was in the war. Remember how tremendous it was in the canteen having sausages and chips and a cup of
