Add a Dash of Pity

PETER USTINOV

You really are a great procrastinator,” said Philip Hedges.

John Otford fidgeted in his swivel chair and smiled noncommittally. It was a beautiful late autumn day. The sun caught the shivering golden leaves, while the slight breeze made their shadows caress the rows of ancient books which lined the walls of his study. Near the window, particles of dust floated idly in various directions.

“I’m lazy, I admit it,” said Otford briefly, “but then the nature of my work is distinctly devitalizing, and anyway, I feel like golf.”

“I do too,” Hedges sighed, “but I daren’t give in to temptation. We go to press in ten days.”

“Oh, you and your encyclopedia, why can’t you just reprint what I wrote five years ago? I sweated blood to get my stuff ready then.”

“If you read my letter, which I doubt,” said Hedges, with a touch of friendly acidity, “you may remember that we had no wish to alter your admirable and scholarly piece on Oliver Cromwell’s battles or on Napoleon in Egypt, but since the Italian campaign in the recent war has been mentioned so frequently in the memoirs of generals, some new facts have come to light which may bear consideration.”

“Memoirs of generals,” snorted Otford. “Most of them are damn bad writers, or at least show the same lack of discrimination in selecting their ghost writers as they do in selecting their staff officers.”

“I don’t know how you can say that,” said Hedges. “The copies of the books I sent you years ago for your perusal are still here, on your table, under a handsome coating of dust. Patton’s book, Mark Clark’s, Omar Bradley’s, Eisenhower’s, Manstein’s! I see Monty’s is on top. Is there any symbolism in this?”

“It was the last to arrive.” Otford became a little impatient. “Philip,” he said, “you’re a dear fellow, but I wish you’d leave me alone. The piece I wrote about the Italian campaign was extremely painstaking, well documented, and, I flatter myself, written in pure and sober style. In spite of your aspersions, I did skim through these books when they first arrived, and, quite frankly, they do not alter a single known fact. Now, to cap it all, you bring me a five-hundred-page epic, hot from the press, the dull adventures of Sir Crowdson Gribbell, a thoroughly undistinguished officer, whose only claim to fame is to have engineered the passage of the Rizzio River against vastly inferior enemy forces.”

“John, you’re impossible.” Hedges laughed.

Otford picked up General Gribbell’s book and glanced at the cover with distaste. “Look at this ludicrous cover, Philip, a face so undistinguished it is impossible to forget, framed against a montage of burning tanks and retreating men, probably his own. Those Were My Orders, he calls it. A marvelous, equivocal phrase. No doubt when events went in his favor, he could reflect that the action was successful because those were his orders, and they were obeyed, whereas when things went against him, he could shrug his shoulders and say, ‘Those were my orders,’ and blame those who guided his destinies and against whose follies he had no power. It’s a marvelous title, when you consider it. So typical of the Army. It means nothing, and everything. It’s grandiloquent, and yet it doesn’t commit the author. Full marks to Gribbell on his title, anyway. It’s like a shout of triumph in a soundproof room.”

“You’re remarkably cynical for a military historian.”

“It is impossible to be a military historian without being cynical, my dear fellow. If I had the time and wasn’t by nature very indolent, I could write a tome as weighty as ten encyclopedias solely on the mistakes of generals. Napoleon, Blücher, Marlborough, Ney, they all made the most flagrant and unforgivable errors of judgment.”

“Could you have done better?”

Otford smiled sweetly. “Of course not, that’s why I’m a military historian, not a soldier.”

Hedges tried again. He became very serious.

“What about it, John?”

“Why don’t you get someone else?”

“Because when you put your mind to it, you’re a thoroughly entertaining writer, quite apart from being a penetrating scholar.”

“Stop flattering me.”

“And you’re not going to tell me you haven’t plenty of time to do it. Every time I come here, I find you sitting in your office, staring out of your window, with an expression on your face which suggests that you blame mankind for not being in the South of France.”

John grinned. He recognized the portrait of himself. “It’s no joke, being the keeper of arms and armor in a great museum,” he said. “All you’ve got to do is to keep the relics clean. I have no allocation to buy anything new. The great difficulty in my job is keeping awake.”

“Then you admit you have the time to do other work.”

“I admit I have the time,” said Otford. “but I don’t have the inclination.”

JUST then Mr. Pole knocked and entered. He was an old man, charged with preventing warlike children from stealing the scimitars and halberds from the museum. He wore a dark blue uniform, with a pair of golden crowns on his collar.

“That woman’s here again, sir,” he said.

Otford blanched. “Send her away.”

“She won’t go. Both Mr. Elvis and Sergeant Oakie have tried to get her to go, but she’s most persistent, to put it mildly.”

“Tell her I’ve gone.”

“She saw your car, sir.”

“How did she know it was mine?”

“I don’t know, sir, but she said it was yours, and I couldn’t very well deny it. She knew the number.”

Hedges laughed. “A woman?” he said. “Maybe I can blackmail you into revising that article. Does Jean know?”

“It’s no joking matter,” Otford muttered. “For the last two days she’s been making my life a misery, calling every quarter of an hour, either by phone or in person.”

“Who is she?”

“Blowed if I know. A Mrs. Allen or Alban or something.”

“Mrs. Alban,” said Mr. Pole. “A Mrs. Alaric Alban.”

“I’ll leave by the back way, Pole,” Otford said, “and perhaps you could ask Sergeant Oakie to bring the car round into Treadington Mews.”

“What do I do in the meanwhile, sir?” asked Pole. “The poor lady seems very upset. She’s sitting down in the Etruscan room. I had to get her a glass of water.”

“Use your initiative, Pole,” Otford answered.

Hedges was puzzled. “But why are you so scared of her, John?”

“She’s thoroughly hysterical on the phone, incoherent even.”

Hedges smiled. “I thought that sort of thing only happened to film stars and crooners. What did she say, or is that secret?”

“It’s very secret. She kept it to herself. I didn’t understand a word, except that it’s something to do with her husband.”

“Her husband?”

“That’s funny,” said Pole suddenly, staring at the copy of Sir Crowdson Gribbell’s autobiography, which Otford had replaced on his desk. “Every time she’s been here, she’s been clutching a copy of that book.”

“Are you sure?” Otford asked.

“Positive.”

“That doesn’t seem very suitable reading for a hysterical woman,” said Hedges. “How old is she?”

“In her fifties, I’d say, sir.”

“She may be one of Gribbell’s discarded mistresses from Old Delhi,” muttered Otford, intrigued in spite of himself.

“What was her name again?” asked Hedges.

“Alban. Mrs. Alaric Alban,” said Pole.

In silence, Hedges opened the book and thumbed through the index. Suddenly his eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Alban, Brigadier Alaric, later Colonel, page 347. Brigadier, later Colonel. That’s curious.”

Hedges found page 347 and cleared his throat.

“It was November 29th,” he read, “when my division had already been holding the line of the River Rizzio for rather more than a month, that one of those rare incidents occurred which cast their pall over a soldier’s career, and force him to take decisions which, however disagreeable they may be, are necessary to the success of a campaign —”

“Pompous ass,” interrupted Otford. “I can just hear him dictating that.”

“On the evening of the 28th, I returned by light airplane from protracted discussions with General Mark Clark, who had asked me whether, in my opinion, it would be possible for me to launch a full-scale attack in concert with the Polish Division on my right flank on a very narrow front, the idea being to ford the Rizzio and seize the road junction of San Melcchore di Stetto, thereby splitting the enemy line at a vital point. The Polish general was willing, but I remonstrated, believing that our troops were in no condition to do more than hold the line until we had properly built up our supplies to ensure success. Intelligence had ascertained that there were elements of two enemy divisions, on the north bank, the 381st and the crack Grosser Kurfürst Grenadiers, and I was certainly opposed to any unnecessary waste of life which a rash and unprepared attack against a formidable opponent would most surely entail. The American general, while remaining courteous, was most insistent in trying to engage my support for his plan, and I was not helped by the rash and even boastful attitude of the Polish commander, who indulged in the most unnecessary braggadocio. I told General Clark I would give him my answer within twenty-four hours, and left for my headquarters in the hamlet of Valendazzo. The atmosphere at my departure was somewhat unpleasant, but restrained. Upon arrival at Valendazzo, I immediately asked my brigade commanders to dinner. Freddy Archer-Brown, my aide-de-camp, and Tom Hawley, my intelligence officer, were also present. Brigadier Foulis supported my plan entirely, the only opposition coming from Brigadier Alban, an officer with a fine record of personal courage but of a somewhat unbalanced and turbulent disposition. Brigadier Alban became very aggressive in the course of dinner, and told me I didn’t know what I was doing. He left headquarters in high dudgeon, and the next morning, acting entirely on his own initiative, he launched a local attack without the benefit of artillery support, and although two companies managed to get a precarious foothold on the further bank of the river, the casualties were enormous and I was forced to bring them back. Brigadier Alban was court-martialed and retired with the rank of colonel. This was a generous verdict, and only made possible by his record of high personal courage.”

There was a pause. Otford frowned.

“D’you feel like seeing her now, Sherlock?" asked Hedges,

“Gribbell was probably right,” said Otford.

“How unlike you.”

“Pole, bring the lady in.”

Pole left the room briefly, and then returned.

“She’s gone,” he said.

THERE was no trace of an Alaric Alban in the phone book, and so that evening, instead of going straight home, Otford went to a club on St. James’s Street. He tried to pretend to himself that he was only going there for a drink, but in truth his sense of adventure had been stirred. The club was one to which he had been elected some time ago but which he had never frequented, because it reminded him too acutely of his public school. The members, mostly superannuated military with a smattering of the prematurely old, had never liberated themselves from the hierarchical aspects of their scholastic lives. They sat around in deep chairs with hostile expressions on their faces, trying to assess their exact positions in the scheme of things from the relative servility or arrogance of other faces.

Otford entered, left his hat in the cloakroom, and strolled through the ample rooms as though looking for someone. There was a churchlike murmur of soft conversation. The carpet absorbed his feet as he walked. He veered away from the bar, since no less than three notorious bores were seated there, waiting for victims like streetwalkers in a dive. Eventually he spotted Leopard Bately seated alone in the reading room, glancing at a magazine devoted to horse racing. Not a bad chap, the Leopard, a major general on the active list. He was a man with a febrile military imagination and a private fortune to back up the most outrageous ideas and make of his career a hobby. His rather grand nickname had not sprung from any exceptional deeds of valor, but rather from the fact that he had been dogged by a skin disease from youth.

“Good evening, sir.”

The Leopard looked up and smiled. “Otford. we don’t have the pleasure of seeing you here very often.”

“May I join you?”

“By all means. I’m only killing time, and I find I’m damn bad at it.”

Over a Scotch and soda, Otford asked him if he’d ever known a Brigadier Alban.

The Leopard frowned. “Alaric Alban? Yes. Unfortunate affair that. Had it coming to him though. Couldn’t have ended any other way

“Was he a bad soldier?”

“Oh no, too good by half. And a half’s too large a margin to be good by, if you understand me. What happened to him nearly happened to me on more than one occasion. And then — I don’t really know whether he drank excessively, didn’t know him well enough for that, but he always seemed to be drunk. He had a kind of slurred speech and a bleary eye and the very devil of a temper. I think he was probably allergic to stupidity, and if you’re allergic to stupidity in the Army you take a drink, and eventually you blow your top at the wrong moment and find yourself a bitter, disagreeable civilian.”

“D’you think that’ll happen to you?”

“Lord no, I’m not allergic to stupidity. I’m amused by it. I’ll probably end up a field marshal.”

After a slight pause, Otford asked the Leopard, “Have you read Gribbell’s book, by any chance?”

“Gribbell’s book, did you say? Didn’t know the fellow could write.”

“It was probably written for him.”

“No, I’ve got better things to do than to embark on a voyage of discovery into a thoroughly mediocre mind.”

The copy of the Times opposite them lowered, and they found themselves fixed by a pair of eyes remarkable for their lack of expression.

“We were just discussing your book, sir,” Otford stammered.

“My book? It’s only been out two days.”

“I’ve read most of it already,” said Otford.

“It’s a fascinating story, isn’t it?” answered Gribbell as a statement of fact.

“I haven’t read it,” said the Leopard with some irritation.

“What’s that?”

“I haven’t read it.”

“I think you’ll like it, Bately, makes fine reading.”

Otford bit his lip, and took the plunge. “The description of the fording of the Rizzio threw an entirely new light on the Italian campaign,” he said.

Gribbell’s face became almost kind, even grateful. He put his newspaper down. “Are you a soldier, sir?" he asked.

“I’m a historian.”

“Military?”

“Yes. My name’s John Otford.”

Gribbell did not react to this. He seemed to hear only what he wished to hear, and when John revealed his identity, the General was already thinking of his own next phrase. “You know,” he said, “some of you fellows have been confoundedly unfair to some of us, the poor saps who actually did the fighting.”

“Isn’t it true to say that some of you fighting fellows have been confoundedly unfair to each other? Having read Ike and Blood-and-Guts and Monty and Omar Bradley, I think it’s a wonder we won at all.”

Gribbell didn’t hear this. “Nobody has ever realized,” he went on, “that if I hadn’t crossed the Rizzio when I did, on Christmas Day, we might all still be in Italy to this day.” He smiled wanly, and seemed to be waiting for congratulation.

“What if you had attacked when Mark Clark wanted you to attack?”

Gribbell treated this question as an impertinence. “My dear young sir,” he said with surprising venom, “if I had done as I was told, I’d have lost two thousand men for no reason.”

“And what if you had supported Brigadier Alban’s attack?”

Gribbell rose to his feet as though his face had been slapped. “I didn’t come here to be insulted,” he said stiffly. “May I ask if you are a guest at this club, or a member?”

“A member,” John replied steadily.

“I am extremely sorry to hear it.”

Gribbell stalked off.

“Full marks,” murmured the Leopard.

And suddenly Gribbell was back. “There are certain things a man cannot put into a book because of the libel laws,” he said, more reasonably. “There’s one aspect of Alban’s attack which I couldn’t mention. The man was drunk. He led the attack in pajamas.”

AS OTFORD drove home, his mind was working under great pressure. He had to make a conscious effort to obey the red and green lights. Why had General Gribbell taken such an exaggerated degree of offense at the mention of Alban’s name? And why had he made such an impressive, if conventional, exit, only to ruin it by returning with a comparatively rational explanation of Alban’s behavior? What strange importance he had given the whole event by his extreme of anger and his gratuitous explanation for it!

Otford parked his car and was about to switch off the lights, when he fancied he saw a woman standing flush with the hedge about thirty yards away. After a momentary hesitation, he did switch off the lights, got out, and locked the car. Then he waited. He thought he heard the noise of a heel shifting on gravel, and then all was silent.

“Mrs. Alban,” he called.

Silence.

He opened the door of the car again, turned the ignition key, and slowly edged forward in the pitch darkness. Suddenly he switched on the headlamps, and there was a miserable, whitefaced woman caught in the beam. She was grasping a copy of Those Were My Orders. Otford braked, opened the door, and said, “Mrs. Alban, would you care for a drink?" in as casual a voice as he could muster.

“Why do you keep running away from me?” she blurted.

“I didn’t realize who you were.”

“You’re laughing at me !”

“Why should I laugh at you?” Otford was a little taken aback. For a moment, neither knew what to say.

“Do come in, where we can talk in peace and quiet.”

Jean Otford was furious because her husband had failed to phone that he would be late for dinner, and, when he finally appeared, he was not alone but with a disheveled lady who looked like a vagrant.

They ate dinner in silence, a barrier of fury separating husband and wife, and Mrs. Alban adding fuel to the mute discord by remarking that the food was excellent, that she had had no intention of staying to dinner but that Otford had insisted, and that she had missed her last connection to Sunningdale, and what could she do?

After coffee, Jean stomped out of the room, not having said a word, and Otford turned to Mrs. Alban. “Tell me,” he said, “why have you repeatedly telephoned me and badgered me for the last two days?”

“I’m afraid your wife is not very pleased with me,” Mrs. Alban observed, meekly.

“It’s me she’s not very pleased with, even if you happened to be the cause. I wish you’d answer my question.”

“Did you ever meet my husband?" she asked, with evident difficulty. She was a highly nervous woman and not very appealing.

“No.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you’ve read this book.”

“I have, yes.”

“Oh.”

She paused. Otford felt he knew what was coming, but she was having to consider how to present her case, and it took time. She was pitiful, almost a harridan, her eyes bloodshot, her white hair disheveled.

“You read about Brigadier Alban, then.”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe it?”

“ I have no reason not to.”

Mrs. Alban began to cry, but curiously enough she evoked very little sympathy, so much did tears seem to be a normal feature of her face. “It’s unfair,” she cried, “utterly unfair.”

“Were you there?” asked Otford, a little surprised at his own toughness. Curiously enough this pathetic woman was irritating him.

“Of course I wasn’t there, but I know Ric, I know my husband.”

She was so defiant that Otford felt slightly guilty, but just looked down and waited. After all, this woman had caused a row between him and his wife, she had eaten his food, why should he help her to end her long, embarrassing pauses?

“I know my husband, and I know Crowdy Gribbell.”

“Oh?” Otford looked up sharply. “Where did you know him?”

“India, Mesopotamia, I knew both him and Flora. I was at school with Flora. We were cousins, vaguely.”

“Flora? Mrs. Gribbell?”

“Lady Gribbell,” Mrs. Alban corrected. Even enemies must be given their due in England. “A selfish, opinionated, greedy woman if ever there was one.”

Mrs. Alban passed a hand across her face as though trying to make a fresh start. “Crowdy was two years older than Ric, but Ric overtook him very quickly. My husband won a D.S.O. and bar in 1917, when he was only eighteen years of age. He fought in Estonia against the Bolsheviks and then joined Ironside in Archangel. At the age of twenty-four, he was a captain in India, while Crowdy was only a stick-in-the-mud lieutenant with the 1st Battalion of his regiment in the North of England. They served together in the Madras region in the early thirties. Ric was the youngest major but one in the Army, while Crowdy Gribbell was an acting captain, in charge of a company of footsloggers. At the outbreak of war, my husband was forty-one. He was a lieutenant colonel in charge of a regiment of armored cars. Crowdy was forty-three then. He was still a captain, and talking of retirement. Ric was captured at Dunkirk, but escaped. It was one of the most spectacular escapes of the war, but he never wrote about it, nor would he even speak about it. In the winter of 1940, he was back in England, full of ideas about how to hit the Huns hard, where it would hurt them most. In 1941, he led a raid of eight volunteers onto the Channel Islands and captured a vital piece of German equipment. He was congratulated and reprimanded in the same breath.”

“Why?” Otford asked.

“He didn’t tell anyone he was going. Later that year they gave him an armored brigade in Ethiopia, and he pushed far ahead of the main Army, capturing six Italian generals and all their men. In 1942 there was talk of his getting a division, but nothing came of it. He lost his temper with all the wrong people, Jumbo Wilson, the Secretary for War. He was given a desk job in Warhouse until he took over the 241st Brigade, but by then Crowdy Gribbell had crept up in his unspectacular way, and poor Ric found himself under the orders of the very man he least wanted to have anything to do with.”

“They hated each other?”

“I don’t think Ric really hated Crowdy. They had had some pretty bitter rows in the past, but Ric isn’t a vindictive man. He hated what Crowdy stands for rather than Crowdy himself; the dull, the unadventurous, the servile. ‘Why on earth did a man like that ever join the Army?’ he used to say.”

“In order to become a general was the answer,” said Otford, who found this kind of military wife jarring. “But tell me, please, in your desire to clear your husband, why did you come to me?”

“I looked you up in the back of the encyclopedia at the public library. You wrote about the campaign in Italy. You see, Ric will never write a book. But you do write the one authoritative commentary which everyone can read. It is part of the record.”

Just then Jean burst in. She was in a nightdress and bathrobe.

“Are you coming to bed?” she asked.

For a moment, Otford felt tempted to flare up. Instead he answered very casually, “In a moment, my dear. I’m just going to drive Mrs. Alban to Sunningdale.”

To Jean the idea of a journey to Sunningdale at that hour of the night was so preposterous it was almost comic. She just slammed the door.

THE journey took much longer than Otford had imagined, and all the while Mrs. Alban droned on, venting all the sour emotions of a regimental Lady Macbeth. She referred endlessly to the injustice which had befallen her husband, but she never produced a shred of evidence to prove that Gribbell hadn’t been justified in his actions.

When they eventually reached the low shack in which Mrs. Alban said she lived, the front door was open and a tall, gaunt figure stood silhouetted against the light of the hallway.

“Oh, dear,” muttered Mrs. Alban, genuinely alarmed.

“Where the hell have you been?” shouted the Colonel.

“Mr. Otford was kind enough to bring me back,” she said nervously.

“Otford? Are you the stuffed shirt who wrote all that pompous drivel about the Italian show in the encyclopedia?”

“How did you know?” asked his wife, surprised.

“Yes,” said Otford.

“And I suppose,” the Colonel went on, “that my wife has been badgering you with a lot of tearful tales about me.”

Otford glanced at Mrs. Alban and felt for her, perhaps for the first time. She looked so utterly desperate, so lost, so betrayed. “It is I, Colonel Alban, who have been badgering her.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Otford got out of the car. He felt it was more dignified. The Colonel, he noticed, was in pajamas. There was a smell of whisky in the wind.

“You can believe what you damn well like,” snapped Otford, surprising even himself by his courage. “The fact is that I am interested in the crossing of the Rizzio, and as a historian I want to find out what I can from whatever source possible.”

“I don’t know why you’ve got out of your car,” the Colonel retorted. “If you think I’m going to ask you in you’re very much mistaken, and if you cherish an illusion that I’m going to thank you for bringing my wife back safely, you’re even more mistaken. I couldn’t possibly care less where she’s been, what she does, or whether I ever see her again. The same, sir, goes for you.” He suddenly aimed a fairly powerful blow at his wife, which missed her, although whether it missed her by intention or miscalculation was not clear. With a little moan, she vanished into the shack. One or two windows opened in neighboring houses, and sleepy people shouted for a bit of quiet.

“And now,” said the Colonel, “clear out, hop it, vamoose.”

“I’m beginning to believe what Sir Crowdson Gribbell told me,” Otford called after the vanishing figure. “You got the sack because you were drunk!”

The Colonel turned and came back slowly. In a quiet voice, he said, “Quite correct. I was drunk as a lord. Not only was I drunk, but I was wearing pajamas on that particular occasion, white ones with a thin blue stripe. I led an attack in disobedience to orders and was broken by a court-martial, a fate which I richly deserved. General Sir Crowdson Gribbell knew what he was doing, and I did not. The result of my precipitate action cost us four hundred and twenty-four men killed and nearly eight hundred wounded. Satisfied?”

Slowly and a little unsteadily, he walked back to his front door.

Otford, chastened, said, “I hope, sir, that you won’t take my foolishness out on your wife.”

“That,” replied the Colonel, “like the battle of the River Rizzio, is my business.”

The next morning there was a coldness at breakfast, and even then Otford did not have the stomach to end it. He could somehow think clearer in the strained silence. He left, for the office without saying good-by.

At the office there was, as usual, nothing to do. He sat and stared and yawned. Suddenly he reached a decision. He rang a friend of his at the War Office and set in motion a search of the regimental records of Alban’s unit. Within a few hours, and after some expensive phone calls which could be explained away or paid for later, Otford had discovered that Alban’s A.D.C. at the time of the crossing of the Rizzio had been a certain Lieutenant Gilkie, who was now farming in Kenya, and that Alban’s batman had been a Private Jack Lennock, who was believed to be a member of the Corps of Commissioners. With the help of that organization. Jack Lennock was soon traced to a cinema in Leicester Square. Forgoing his lunch, Otford took a cab to Leicester Square, went up to the tall, florid doorman in his resplendent operetta uniform, and asked for Lennock. The doorman revealed that Lennock worked in the offices upstairs, but that he did not come on until three o’clock.

As Otford sat in a milk bar, eating an inferior hamburger, he couldn’t think why he was so impatient. All the evidence pointed to the fact that there was no mystery. Gribbell and Alban had agreed, and Alban, the defendant, had been if anything more energetic in his protestation of guilt than Gribbell, the plaintiff. And yet, Otford’s instinct told him that he was on the eve of a discovery, that the investigation must go on.

At three o’clock, Otford went into the offices of the movie company, located above the cinema, and, on the eighth floor, found Lennock seated at a desk. He was dressed in his dark uniform and wore a row of medals. When Otford approached him, he looked up and smiled. He had a pleasant, open face. “And whom would you like to see, sir?” he asked.

“I believe it’s you I’m looking for.”

Otford introduced himself and then asked point-blank about Alban.

The expression on Lennock’s face changed. An ancient pain seemed to be rekindled in his eyes. “I’ve been through that enough, sir,” said Lennock, “and so’s the old man, I reckon. I’d rather forget the whole thing.”

Otford offered him a pound note, which Lennock refused.

“Did you like him?”

“Me? I never saw finer. But you had to know him, of course. He had his ups and downs, like anyone else.”

“Was he rather fond of the bottle, though?”

Lennock looked at Otford with suspicion and even a little anger. “He’d like a drink at the right time, sir, same as you would.”

“Did you take part in the crossing of the river?”

“I did, sir, yes,” said Lennock.

“Were you one of those who reached the other side?”

“We all reached the other side, sir.”

“All of you? The whole brigade?”

“The whole brigade.”

Otford frowned. “How far did you get?”

“I’m not one to ask, sir. I was wounded in the foot as soon as we got over, and went to hospital. When I came out, I was sent to the Far East to our 8th Battalion, and I never saw any of the lads again.”

“Is there anyone you keep in touch with, anyone I could ask?”

“There’s not many in London, sir, apart from Company Sergeant Major Lambert, of “C” Company. He’s in charge of the Turkish baths at the Automobile Athletic Club, down on Jermyn Street. I see him occasionally.”

Just then an employee of the film company wandered out and called Lennock.

“Excuse me a moment, sir,” he said, and went.

Otford did not wait for him to return. He left the building, hailed a taxi, and went to the Automobile Athletic Club. It was quite a business for a nonmember to enter, but the fact that Otford was a member of at least one other reputable club seemed to convince the secretary, and after some quite unnecessary conversation Otford was escorted to the Turkish bath and presented to C.S.M. Lambert, a small wiry man with a sharpness about his features which would make even a serene conscience uneasy. He was dressed from head to foot in white and moved with the springy step of the physical training instructor.

Otford wasted no time in asking his questions.

“I don’t know if it’s my place to answer, sir, seeing as I don’t have any precise knowledge as to your authority to ask them.”

“But you must have some opinions,” said Otford, who loathed the pomposity of the joyously downtrodden.

“Opinions I may have, sir, but that don’t mean I have the permission at all times to express same, if you follow my meaning.”

“No, I don’t follow your meaning.” John was annoyed.

“Well, put it this way. I don’t know whether what we went through at the crossing or fording of the River Rizzio is still on the secret list or not.”

“Has anyone told you it is?”

“No one has told me it isn’t,” said the Sergeant Major cannily, believing he had won a point. Dear God, what a fool.

“You knew Brigadier Alban?”

“Colonel Alban, sir.”

“If you insist on being ungenerous.”

“I’m being accurate, sir.”

“Was he, in your opinion, a good officer?”

“My opinions don’t count, sir. What counts is one, a man’s record, and two, the findings of the court-martial.”

“Did you agree with the findings of the courtmartial?”

“It’s not up to me to agree or disagree, but to act according.”

“But great heavens, man, you were there!”

“Exactly!” said the Sergeant Major, with irritating emphasis.

Otford tried a fresh approach. “You crossed the River Rizzio on the 29th of November. That is common knowledge.”

“If you know it, sir, it must be.”

“I gather the entire battalion got across the river before it was brought back.”

“I can’t tell you that, sir.”

“Who d’you think it’s going to help if you do,” cried Otford, “the Germans? They’re on our side now, and very eager to be helpful.”

“Then why don’t you ask them?”

“By Jove, that’s an idea!”

The Sergeant Major lost his composure. The thought that he might have given Otford an idea was dismaying. “What do you intend to do, sir?” he asked, his eyes narrowing melodramatically.

“I intend to take your advice and find out the truth from the Germans.”

“I never advised you to do that!”

“You did,” Otford replied. “You said why don’t I just ask them.”

“I didn’t mean exactly that, sir, but if there is anything you want to know, I’d be obliged if you’d check with Major Angwin. He took over the battalion when the old man, Colonel Radford, was killed.” Now he was all anxiety and breathlessness.

“That’s better,” said Otford. “Major Angwin, did you say? D’you know where I can reach him?”

“Yes, sir. We still exchange Christmas cards, sir. He’s a truck distributor now, sir, in Lincoln. Angwin Brothers is the name of the firm.”

“Thank you very much.”

Otford held out a pound note, which the Company Sergeant Major accepted with a little bow.

OTFORD reached the museum at about half past four and found that there had been no messages and that no one had phoned. He glanced once again at the copy of Those Were My Orders.

“Although two companies managed to get a precarious foothold on the further bank of the river, the casualties were enormous and I was forced to bring them back,” he read again.

And yet Lennock had said that the entire brigade had crossed. Perhaps Lennock wasn’t in a position to know. Perhaps Gribbell wasn’t either?

Otford found the number of Angwin Brothers in Lincoln quite easily, and soon he was talking to Major Angwin on the long-distance line. Judging by his voice, Angwin fancied himself as a born leader of both men and trucks.

“Alban?” he said. “I detested the fellow, illmannered as they come, vain as all hell, and eccentric to boot. Used to wear his cap back to front and take a parade in pajamas. You know the type of thing. Regular show-off. Mind you, I’ll say this for him, the men would follow him anywhere. He had a kind of magic. He made them laugh. They thought he was mad, and there certainly wasn’t a dull moment when he was around, but when you got him in the officer’s mess, he was a real menace.”

“Did he drink?”

“Yes, but he held his liquor remarkably well. I’ve never known a fellow could hold his drink the way he did. Incredible. And I never saw him lose his lucidity.”

“Did you ever come across Sir Crowdson Gribbell?”

“Yes, another perfectly vile fellow. Poles apart from wild man Alban, of course, a real Colonel Blimp. Never took a risk in his life. Never advanced an inch unless he was sure of success, and until the divisions on his flanks had done all the dirty work. At least Alban kept you awake, but a conversation with Yawner Gribbell had you snoring in no time.”

Refreshing, this man Angwin.

“General Gribbell’s written a book.”

“The Yawn? Glad I haven’t any money in it. What’s he say?”

“He says that when Alban launched his attack, only two companies got across, and —”

“That’s a complete and utter lie. My battalion was in reserve, and we got across behind the two other battalions of the brigade.”

“He says the foothold was precarious.”

“Would you believe it? The aim of the exercise was to try and reach the village of San something or other —”

“San Melcchore di Stetto.”

“That’s it. Well, we occupied the place in less than half an hour after the attack started. Casualties were very light. Alban began digging in and sent a message back, asking for divisional support. The only answer he got was an order to retreat. He refused at first but had to give in in the end. There was practically a mutiny when the men found themselves retreating for no reason. That move of ours gave Jerry confidence, and he opened up a murderous fire. Ninety-five per cent of our casualties were suffered during the retreat.”

“Good God.”

“Yes, well, there it is, for what it’s worth. Anytime you’re in Lincoln . . .”

FEVERISHLY Otford called the War Office again and found out from his contacts there that the German general opposing Gribbell’s division had been a certain General Schwantz, who was, as luck would have it, still on the active list and attached to the North Atlantic Treaty Forces in Paris. Although it was getting late, Otford placed a call to Paris and found that General Schwantz was not at headquarters but could be reached at the Hotel Raphael. Glancing anxiously at his watch, he placed a call to the Raphael, only to find that General Schwantz was out, probably at a reception at the German Embassy, honoring some visiting American leader. Relentless, Otford phoned the German Embassy, and, mustering the few words of German at his disposal, he asked for General Schwantz. Someone at the other end went to look for him, and Otford could hear the muffled roar of cocktail voices. Otford reflected that he could do with a drink. Eventually a voice came on the line and said in rather high, soft tones, “Hallo, hier Schwantz.”

“Do you speak English, sir?”

“Who is on the apparatus?”

Otford explained that he was a military historian and apologized for bothering the General at such a time. Since the Germans have a great respect for historians of any kind, especially military ones, the General was more than courteous.

“I want to ask you a question about the crossing of the River Rizzio, sir.”

“Rizzio? Yes. Perhaps I send you my book, Sonnenuntergang in Italien. Is here difficult to talk because is much noise.”

“You’ve written a book?”

“Yes. For two weeks it appeared in Munich, in German of course. I send it to you.”

“Thank you very much indeed, sir. I shall read it with pleasure. May I just ask you one more question, though?”

“Please.”

“Did the November 29th attack take you by surprise?”

“Completely. There was no artillery preparation. We were accustomed to the English always attacking in the same way. Artillery and then, after one hour or so, infantry. Here was something quite different. The attack was led by an officer in white. What he was wearing looked like pajamas. He was smoking a pipe and holding one Union Jack in his hand. Many of the soldiers were smoking, too, and playing pipes and bugles and hitting drums. It was a form of attack we used during World War I called a psychological attack, and in this case the morale of my soldiers was so low, they abandoned their positions often without firing. They had come from Russia, you see, and the general staff considered Italy like a holiday after Russia, but of course it was as bad, only smaller. Some of the soldiers were so nervous, they thought this white figure was a ghost, or a, how you say, corpse. The strange cacophony, all this was very clever, the cleverest thing I have ever seen in war, because the psychological moment was chosen for doing it. In 1914 to 1918 we lost many men by doing it when the enemy was fresh and his morale was high. I was unable to save our headquarters in the village of San Melcchore di Stetto, and our line was broken. One of my last actions was to send an urgent message asking for help to the corps commander, General Von Hammerlinck, but I knew that Von Hammerlinck would have to order a general retreat, because we had no reserves at this time. I had under my command small elements of the 381st Division, two hundred men perhaps, about five hundred of the Grosser Kurfürst Grenadiers, some overage soldiers of various holding units, and about three hundred fanatics from the SS Division SeyssInquart. I mixed them as much as was possible, because if prisoners should be taken, I wished to give the impression to the British that we were strong. I had already ordered a local retreat in order to prevent a complete collapse of morale — some of our soldiers had been in the line without relief for eight, nine months — when for some reason which was never explained the British themselves retreated. When the message was brought to me, I did not believe it, but I ordered a full attack. When soldiers are tired and morale is low, they must have activity. Even a hopeless charge is better than nothing. Within two hours we had returned to our original positions, and we inflicted severe casualties on the enemy. I was awarded the Ritterkreutz with diamonds, but I admit in my memoirs that I did not deserve this. Never in my military career have I known such an extraordinary and even mysterious mistake as the British made on that occasion. Does this answer your question?”

The Germans are nothing if not thorough. For a man who had begged to be excused because of the difficulty of talking within earshot of a cocktail party, General Schwantz had certainly done his subject proud.

“Thank you very much, Herr General,” said Otford, “you’ve given me more than enough information, and I will take the liberty of sending you a book to read.”

“Please?”

The General talked almost perfect English when he was recounting a military exploit, but in conversation he was not so happy.

“Thank you very much,” said Otford.

“Thank you, and best wishes with your very interesting work.”

Otford hung up and smiled grimly.

He called Philip Hedges and told him there might be a slight alteration to be inserted into the new version of the encyclopedia. Hedges was delighted. Then Otford went to the florist, bought a large bouquet of red roses, and drove home.

His wife was weary of the oppressive silence of a family dispute which only had a degree of thoughtlessness at its base and no sinister intentions. The gift of roses made her cry, since the gesture was so unlike her husband, and in bed that night he told her the whole story.

“I somehow couldn’t tell you before,” he said, “since it wasn’t clear in my own mind.”

“I understand,” she whispered, although she really didn’t.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and grinned. “I’ll need your help tomorrow, though. We’re going out to see Colonel Alban in the morning.”

“You need my help?” She was flattered.

“Yes, indeed,” he said. “If I went alone, he might be tempted to knock me down. In front of a lady, I hope he won’t dare.”

THE next morning, the Otfords motored out to Sunningdale. They arrived at the Colonel’s shack at about half past eleven. In daylight, it looked considerably humbler than it had looked at night. It was made of corrugated iron, its bleakness somewhat disguised by vines and other creepers. Only the tiny garden was remarkable for its tidiness. Otford rang the doorbell. After a pause, Mrs. Alban opened the door.

She seemed horrified to see Otford.

“What is it?” a gruff voice called from the interior of the house.

She did not dare answer, but just hovered uncomfortably.

The Colonel appeared, a dead pipe reversed in his mouth. He was wearing shorts and a thick gray pull-over.

“What the hell d’you want?” he said abruptly. “I thought I showed you the door last time you came.”

“You didn’t show me the door,” answered Otford gamely. “You didn’t even ask me in. This is my wife, Jean.”

Alban nodded curtly, his brown eyes moving uncertainly from one to the other.

“Hadn’t they better come in?” Mrs. Alban ventured timidly.

“No, What d’you want?”

“I know the truth about the crossing of the River Rizzio, and I intend to publish it.”

“There’s no truth about it which isn’t generally known.”

“That’s not Private Lennock’s opinion.”

“Private Lennock? Where did you dig him up?”

“Never mind.”

“He’s not qualified to say what happened.”

“What about C.S.M. Lambert and Major Angwin?”

“Lambert’s the worst type of regular soldier, a timeserver. As for Angwin, he’s a headstrong fool, an amateur aping the professionals. Anything they might state, I would deny.”

“How about General Schwantz?”

“General Schwantz?”

Colonel Alban smiled slightly, the smile of one who recognizes a point gained by an opponent.

“Come in,” he said. “Madge, look after Mrs. Otford, will you? I want to talk to Mr. Otford alone. In my study.”

Jean looked at her husband, who nodded encouragingly.

“I’d like to show you some of the jams I’ve been making,” said Mrs. Alban.

Jean followed her with a singular lack of enthusiasm. It was a man’s world.

Otford followed the Colonel.

“Now, before you say anything,” said Alban, “d’you notice anything about this room?”

“Well, I notice a fantastic, a tremendous collection of plants. A regiment of plants, one might almost say.”

The Colonel’s voice became hard again. “I will allow any collective noun but that.”

“Some of these are Oriental, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” said the Colonel, “that little fellow’s Tibetan, this rather ugly blighter’s from Kashmir, they’re from all over the world. Very tricky, they are, too. Have to be kept at different temperatures under glass, and it isn’t easy in a private house. Still, with a little ingenuity, almost anything can be done.” He smiled. “As you have proved.”

“How long have you been doing this?” Otford asked.

“Ever since I left the Army. You notice nothing else? Of a negative nature perhaps?”

Otford looked around the room in silence, searching for clues.

“It’s nothing detailed,”Alban went on. “Have you ever been in the room of a military man?”

Suddenly it struck Otford. “There’s not a single photograph of a regimental reunion,” he said, “not a single relic, no framed portraits of field marshals.”

“Exactly,” Alban replied. “Now you have put me at ease. Scotch? It’s all I have.”

“Isn’t it a little early?”

“Never too early for Scotch.”

Alban poured out two neat ones and gave a glass to Otford.

“Could I have a little —”

“Water spoils it,” said Alban. “Now.”

He sat down on a campstool, leaving a broken armchair for Otford.

“I want to clear something up,” Otford said. “Why were you so abrupt in manner until I mentioned Schwantz’s name? And why are you so hospitable now?”

The Colonel laughed and scratched his cheek with a nicotined finger. He filled his pipe slowly while thinking how to answer. “There’s nothing on earth I admire more than intelligence. I admire people who know when to obey their instincts. That’s part of intelligence too. You must have done that. You proved to me that you weren’t just a fool out for a sensational story, you were a man who smelled a rat and used your head smelling it out. I did everything to discourage you the other night. I put you off the scent, and you came right back on it. I admire that, and it made you worthy of my hospitality.” The man was certainly a leader by temperament. He was so serene in his vanity that it was impossible to take offense. He lit his pipe slowly.

“You think you’re going to get a story out of me,” he went on. “You’re not. The most I can do for you is to make you comfortable for a moment.”

“You’re not even eager to know what Schwantz said?” Otford asked.

“No. He undoubtedly told the truth. I wish he hadn’t.”

“You’re content to let Gribbell’s version of the story go unchallenged?”

“Oh, yes.” Alban was almost negligent in his reply. He looked up, saw Otford’s puzzled face, and laughed aloud. “I was spoiled by my superiors. I was a kind of overgrown boy scout really, and that’s what the Army approved of in those days. The Balkan campaign at the end of World War I was real fun, full of intolerant French officers, Serbs on their dignity, Bulgarians with hurt national feelings, and Greek merchants making a lot of money with delightful impertinence. Estonia was fun too, raiding the Bolshevik lines, capturing women soldiers — I felt as Byron must have felt in Greece. Archangel was too cold for comfort, but the weekends I had spent in English country houses were admirable training for it, and I managed to enjoy it. Later on, in India, I played a great deal of polo really well and consequently got rapid promotion. People were killed all the time, of course, but I was younger, and it seemed to be the luck of the game.”

He paused for a moment and stared at the smoke from his pipe. “The rot began to set in when I got to France in thirty-nine. It seemed to me that I was surrounded by the biggest bunch of jackasses I had ever seen together at the same time. Their stupidity was so crushing that it was consistently entertaining. The men spent their time polishing their buttons and rushing at sacks with their bayonets, screaming so loud they frightened themselves. All the training seemed to be directed toward making the men as conspicuous as possible, I beefed and complained to no avail. When Jerry made his big push, we did what we could to facilitate his task, and we can flatter ourselves we lost even more convincingly than he won.

“After that, Ethiopia was like a reversion to the kind of wars I had enjoyed. Not much killing, just a lot of extremely beautiful scenery, and a healthy life out in the open. Then London, the hothouse, deskwork galore, throwing bits of vaguely worded papers from tray to tray. I was beginning to tire of it all, when they sent me out to give old Crowdy Gribbell a helping hand. He was horrified when he saw me again after all those years, and he hadn’t the character to insist that I go. Not much character, Crowdy. I’m being overgenerous. No character. We sat on the south bank of that lousy stream with the pretty name — the troops called it the Ritzy — for a full two months, doing nothing but waiting for the enemy to retreat.

“I knew perfectly well Jerry was putting on a big act. There was far too much movement on his bank of the river for it not to be just for show, but it took old Crowdy in. He was in mortal terror of a Hun attack. Then they called him up to HQ and put him on the mat. He came back white with anger. He was always very easily hurt, old Crowdy, usually because he didn’t quite understand what was being said to him, and he wanted to be on the safe side. He asked some of us to dine with him. Bloody awful dinner, I remember. Bloody by any standards. He asked for our support in his determination not to stick his neck out by attacking. ‘Damned if I’ll show my hand before the Boche does,’ he said. I lost my temper and told him I was ashamed to be serving with him and a lot of other things rather less temperate.

I always overdid it a bit, chiefly because he wouldn’t have understood it otherwise. I stalked off to my brigade HQ and planned to use one of Jerry’s oldest tricks on Jerry himself. Just after dawn, “A” Company went forward on a very narrow front, banging tin trays, smoking, faces blacked, some of them in underwear, others carrying sheets tied to their rifles. I led the charge in pajamas, smoking a pipe and reading a copy of the Illustrated London News as I walked. We made as much noise as we could. One fellow had some bagpipes, there were four buglers, three harmonicas, a mouth organ or two, and a hell of a lot of shouting. We went through the Hun like a knife through butter and marched into San Melcchore di Stetto half an hour later.”

“What were your casualties?”

“One killed, four wounded. Then I made my fatal mistake. Instead of appealing to the Polish commander on my flank for support, I sent the message to Crowdy. He replied that I was under arrest and ordered our immediate retreat, declaring that I had ruined his overall plan for seizing San Melcchore. I replied that since San Melcchore was now in our hands, there was no further need of an overall plan. This only made matters worse. He sent word that I was a liar, and the last order I obeyed in the Army was a criminal retreat. We lost four hundred and twenty-four men in that withdrawal. There.”

He frowned in anguish, then smiled again.

“I have done precisely what I said I wasn’t going to. I have told you my story. D’you know why I decided to do it?”

“No.”

“Because I’m a good judge of character. That was the price I was willing to pay in order to induce you to keep quiet about this.”

“You mean you don’t want me to correct the record?” Otford almost shouted.

“The record? What’s the record?” Alban poured himself another drink. “At every board meeting or meeting of Parliament they go to endless lengths to keep the record straight, and then no one ever looks at it again.”

“Unless there’s a lawsuit.”

“A lawsuit needs a plaintiff. In this case, there isn’t one.” Alban fixed Otford with a penetrating stare and drew his campstool closer to the armchair.

“I wonder whether you can understand this,” he said, very quietly, almost reverently. “I’ve always wanted children, and we never had any, and nothing makes you more respectful of life than the desire to give life, linked to the inability to do so. I realize certain things have to be done in the world, and there are certain talents which have to be obeyed. I was a good soldier. I don’t know whether you’ve ever watched a game of lawn tennis. There are moments when the ball lingers on the net, undecided as to which way to fall. There are soldiers like that, and I was one of them. Either they become great military leaders, or they’re cashiered because they behave like great military leaders when they haven’t the rank to get away with it. That was me. I had a gift for soldiering — it might have been called genius if I’d been a bit more patient — but at heart I don’t think I cared enough about the glamour when I was no longer a front-line soldier, and I began to care too much about the men when I was no longer allowed to be among them. What finally did it was that retreat, that damn, stupid, criminal retreat from the village. We lost four hundred and twenty-four men. I saw them dropping around me like flies. I hoped a bullet would get me in the small of the back as I walked back to our lines. It was what I deserved for being cowardly enough to obey Crowdy’s pigheaded orders instead of sitting it out in the village until someone with a grain of sense in his head and adequate brass on his hat realized the importance of our victory. But by then, you know, I was eager to give up. Those four hundred and twenty-four casualties weren’t just four hundred and twenty-four lives thrown down the drain, four hundred and twentyfour embryos, four hundred and twenty-four names on a sheet of paper, they were four hundred and twenty-four educations, four hundred and twenty-four intelligences, four hundred and twenty-four sensibilities, four hundred and twenty-four characters, four hundred and twenty-four ways of thought, and the regret of eight hundred and forty-eight parents. They died because Crowdy Gribbell was annoyed with me, for no other reason.”

“Doesn’t that prove my point?” said Otford, hotly. “Gribbell’s comportment was utterly atrocious, and you were forced to take the blame for a crime committed by someone who has taken all the credit for the subsequent victory!”

“Is that the way you see it?” asked Alban quietly. “I don’t agree with you, because frankly I don’t care. I can’t allow you to stir up all those dormant sorrows in the hearts of the parents of these boys by making them realize that these deaths could have been avoided. I would rather take the blame. And d’you know why? Because I’ve shoulders broad enough to carry the burden; Crowdy hasn’t. For me, it’s a closed chapter; for him, it isn’t. He’ll spend the rest of his life trying to justify his action, fearful lest the controversy should reopen. I’ve got my plants, Otford, and I don’t care. It’s splendid to see something growing, a fraction of a leaf more a day, breaking the soil, reaching for the light, breathing. It’s a compromise, but it’s satisfying, beautifully, thrillingly satisfying. I’m tired of death, and mud, and tears, and the decisions which lead to them. I’m a happy man. Crowdy isn’t. He sits in that depressing club he frequents and wonders what’s going to happen next. He can’t take it. I can. I’ve less on my conscience.”

“You want me to forget the whole thing,” said Otford slowly.

“Yes, I do. I want you to promise me to forget it.”

“General Schwantz has written a book.”

“Who’s going to read it? Who’s going to read Crowdy’s, for that matter? And who’s going to read your articles? Only friends, enemies, and a few students. We’re not terribly important, you and I, in the span of history. Are you going to forget it?”

“Well —" Otford was loath to commit himself, even though he was deeply stirred by the tranquillity of Alban’s spirit.

“I’ll tell you something else about Crowdy,” said the Colonel. “His wife died a year ago, and his only boy was killed in France, in the last week of the war. He never knew much about love, so that all he feels now is an emptiness, a sense of being cheated. He’s stupid enough to be bitter. Well, you can’t be angry for long with a poor empty shell like that.”

He poured himself a third whisky.

“I’ve read articles by you,” he said. “You write well, with a crisp, malicious style. You’re a good bit younger than I am, but one day you’ll suddenly realize that there’s more in everyone than meets the eye, you’ll add a dash of pity to your writing, and then you’ll begin to grow, like those plants. Have you children?”

“No,” said Otford, glumly.

“There’s no ... no reason why you can’t have, is there?”

“No. I suppose we’ve just never got round to it.”

“Good God!” Alban exploded. “You don’t know what you’re missing!”

“ Do you?”

“No one knows better than a parent without children,” said Alban stoutly, with a smile. “And now I know we understand each other, and that you will conveniently forget everything but my insubordination. Soldiers arc children who never grow up, Otford. I’m growing up. Give me a chance. And incidentally, grow up yourself, before it’s too late and they find a permanent armchair for you in that crèche for second childhood on St. James’s Street, where the old babies go to die.”

As they walked to the door. Alban added, “Incidentally, I didn’t hit my wife the other night. I never do. I was putting on an act for your benefit. She’s a wonderful girl, Madge, but she cares, as you seem to, and she can never forgive me for no longer caring.”

“I can’t really forgive you for that either,” said Otford, smiling awkwardly.

Otford hardly talked in the car, and since Jean had had a miserable time indulging in small talk with Mrs. Alban, a stormy atmosphere began to gather again in the silence.

“Where are you going?” Jean said suddenly.

“I’ve something to do in town,” Otford answered curtly.

“Then drop me off home first.”

“It won’t take long.”

They didn’t talk again until they reached St. James’s Street, but Jean could tell from her husband’s aggressive driving that he was upset. “If the police come, tell them I’ll be out in a moment,” he said, as he parked the car.

He ran up the steps three at a time and walked briskly into the murmuring caverns of his club. General Sir Crowdson Gribbell sat in his usual chair, staring at nothing. Otford gazed at him in cold fury. The General always carried his head at a strange angle, tilted slightly upwards, as though wondering whether an invisible fly would attempt to land on him. He expressed very little otherwise, apart from vague determination and a gray kind of breeding. Occasionally he blinked, and his white eyelashes caught the sunlight. Nobody sat near him. He was alone.

An old waiter entered, with a quarter bottle of champagne, and placed it on the low table before the General.

“Celebrating, sir?” the waiter asked as he pulled the cork and poured the wine into a glass.

“Yes,” answered the General tonelessly, “my son’s birthday.”

Otford felt a sudden lump in his throat and fled the club.

As he approached his car, he saw his wife sitting inside. She was pretty, but she had aged a little. Or perhaps her expression was just sadder than it had once been, her lips more compressed, her eyes less merry.

He got into the driver’s seat and smiled at her. “Darling,” he said, “I want to know you better.” She laughed, not happily. “What on earth are you talking about?” He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time, and kissed her as if they were not yet married.

Later in the day, John wrote Hedges that there would be no alterations in the article, and a few days later, when General Schwantz’s book arrived, John even forgot to open the package.