more freedom of speech than they would have permitted themselves if the VIP's had remained.
The first remarks made were somewhat disjointed.
'Thank goodness they took George Packham with them,' said Colonel Pikeaway. 'Worry, fidget, wonder, surmise — gets me down sometimes.'
'You ought to have gone with them. Admiral,' said Colonel Munro. 'Can't see Gordon Chetwynd or George Packham being able to stop our Cedric from going off for a top-level consultation with the Russians, the Chinese, the Ethiopians, the Argentinians or anywhere else the fancy takes him.'
'I've got other kites to fly,' said the Admiral gruffly. 'Going to the country to see an old friend of mine.' He looked with some curiosity at Colonel Pikeaway. 'Was the Hitler business really a surprise to you, Pikeaway?'
Colonel Pikeaway shook his head.
'Not really. We've known all about the rumours of Adolf turning up in South America and keeping the swastika flying for years. Fifty-to-fifty chance of its being true. Whoever the chap was, madman, play-acting impostor, or the real thing, he passed in his checks quite soon. Nasty stories about that, too — he wasn't an asset to his supporters.'
'Whose body was it in the Bunker? It is still a good talking point,' said Blunt. 'Never been any definite identification. Russians saw to that.'
He got up, nodded to the others and went towards the door.
Munro said thoughtfully, 'I suppose — eh — Reichardt knows the truth — though he played it cagey.'
'What about the Chancellor?' said Horsham.
'Sensible man,' grunted the Admiral, turning his head back from the doorway. 'He was getting his country the way he wanted it, when this youth business started playing fun and games with the civilized world — Pity!' He looked shrewdly at Colonel Munro.
'What about the Golden-Haired Wonder? Hitler's son? Know all about him?'
'No need to worry,' said Colonel Pikeaway unexpectedly.
The Admiral let go of the door-handle and came back and sat down.
'All my eye and Betty Martin,' said Colonel Pikeaway, 'Hitler never had a son.'
'You can't be sure of that.'
'We are sure — Franz Joseph, the Young Siegfried, the idolized Leader, is a common or garden fraud, a rank impostor. He's the son of an Argentinian carpenter and a good-looking blonde, a small-part German opera singer — inherited his looks and his singing voice from his mother. He was carefully chosen for the part he was to play, groomed for stardom. In his early youth he was a professional actor — he was branded in the foot with a swastika — a story made up for him full of romantic details. He was treated like a dedicated Dalai Lama.'
'And you've proof of this?'
'Full documentation,' Colonel Pikeaway grinned. 'One of my best agents got it. Affidavits, photostats, signed declaration, including one from the mother, and medical evidence as to the date of the scar, copy of the original birth certificate of Karl Aguileros — and signed evidence of his identity with the so-called Franz Joseph. The whole bag of tricks. My agent got away with it just in time. They were after her — might have got her if she hadn't had a bit of luck at Frankfurt .'
'And where are these documents now?'
'In a safe place. Waiting for the right moment for a spectacular debunking of a first-class impostor –'
'Do the Government know this? — the Prime Minister?'
'I never tell all I know to politicians — not until I can't avoid it, or until I'm quite sure they'll do the right thing.'
'You are an old devil, Pikeaway,' said Colonel Munro,
'Somebody has to be,' said Colonel Pikeaway, sadly.
Chapter 19
SIR STAFFORD NYE HAS VISITORS
Sir Stafford Nye was entertaining guests. They were guests with whom he had previously been unacquainted except for one of them whom he knew fairly well by sight. They were good-looking young men, serious-minded and intelligent, or so he should judge. Their hair was controlled and stylish, their clothes were well cut though not unduly old-fashioned. Looking at them, Stafford Nye was unable to deny that he liked the look of them. At the same time he wondered what they wanted with him. One of them he knew was the son of an oil king. Another of them, since leaving the university, had interested himself in politics. He had an uncle who owned a chain of restaurants. The third one was a young man with beetle brows who frowned and to whom perpetual suspicion seemed to be second nature.
'It's very good of you to let us come and call upon you, Sir Stafford,' said the one who seemed to be the blond leader of the three.
His voice was very agreeable. His name was Clifford Bent.
'This is Roderick Ketelly and this is Jim Brewster. We're all anxious about the future. Shall I put it like that?'
'I suppose the answer to that is, aren't we all?' said Sir Stafford Nye.
'We don't like things the way they're going,' said Clifford Bent. 'Rebellion, anarchy, all that. Well, it's all right as philosophy. Frankly I think we may say that we all seem to go through a phase of it but one does come out the other side. We want people to be able to pursue academic careers without their being interrupted. We want a good sufficiency of demonstrations but not demonstrations of hooliganism and violence. We want intelligent demonstrations. And what we want, quite frankly, or so I think, is a new political party. Jim Brewster here has been paying serious attention to entirely new ideas and plans concerning trade union matters. They've tried to shout him down and talk him out, but he's gone on talking, haven't you, Jim?'
'Muddle-headed old fools, most of them,' said Jim Brewster.
'We want a sensible and serious policy for youth, a more economical method of government. We want different ideas to obtain in education but nothing fantastic or highfalutin'. And we shall want, if we win seats, and if we are able finally to form a government — and I don't see why we shouldn't — to put these ideas into action. There are a lot of people in our movement. We stand for youth, you know, just as well as the violent ones do. We stand for moderation and we mean to have a sensible government, with a reduction in the number of MP's, and we're noting down, looking for the men already in politics no matter what their particular persuasion is, if we think they're men of sense. We've come here to see if we can interest you in our aims. At the moment they are still in a state of flux but we have got as far as knowing the men we want. I may say that we don't want the ones we've got at present and we don't want the ones who might be put in instead. As for the third party, it seems to have died out of the running, though there are one or two good people there who suffer now for being in a minority, but I think they would come over to our way of thinking. We want to interest you. We want, one of these days, perhaps not so far distant as you might think — we want someone who'd understand and put out a proper, successful foreign policy. The rest of the world's in a worse mess than we are now. Washington 's razed to the ground, Europe has continual military actions, demonstrations, wrecking of airports. Oh well, I don't need to write you a news letter of the past six months, but our aim is not so much to put the world on its legs again as to put England on its legs again. To have the right men to do it. We want young men, a great many young men and we've got a great many young men who aren't revolutionary, who aren't anarchistic, who will be willing to try and make a country run profitably. And we want some of the older men — I don't mean men of sixty-odd, I mean men of forty or fifty — and we've come to you because, well, we've heard things about you. We know about you and you're the sort of man we want.'
'Do you think you are wise?' said Sir Stafford.
'Well, we think we are.'
The second young man laughed slightly.
'We hope you'll agree with us there.'
'I'm not sure that I do. You're talking in this room very freely.'
'It's your sitting-room.'
