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Authors: John Bingham
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imperturbable voice.
“Yes, I cut us off,” I said.
“I thought it was the operator. The service is so bad these days.”
“The service isn’t so bad. And it wasn’t the operator.”
I suppose he didn’t expect a counter-attack. I think he was accustomed to dealing with people who crumpled quickly. After a few moments he said:
“Hello? Mr. Compton?”
“Don’t worry. I’m still here,” I said, repeating his phrase.
“I don’t care if you are or not,” he said.
“Then why are you ringing again?”
“I think we ought to get down to brass tacks,” he said.
“Yes, do—do so now. I’m bored.”
“You’re not.”
“Let’s stop it,” I said. “Let’s assume you’ve been successful in this psychological warfare nonsense.”
“I have been successful,” he said.
“Good old you! Now what?”
“Now nothing.”
“Nothing?” I said. “What do you mean, nothing?”
“Nothing in regard to Lucy Dawson. From you or by you. That’s all.”
In an odd way I was enjoying the exchanges. I felt keyed up, alert, and this was at least a human contact, with whom I could get to grips.
“Are you a crook?” I asked pleasantly. “Are you a crook by any chance?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Like most of the citizenry. Are you God? Why hasten the Day of Resurrection? Mrs. Dawson needs no flesh and blood from your hands.”
“You’re the fourth person who has been on at me about this. Fifth, if you count that miserable woman in the train.”
“What woman in what train?”
“The one who gave me the note.”
“I thought it arrived by carrier pigeon.”
He gave a whinnying laugh. It sounded like a green woodpecker and contrasted with his well-modulated voice.
“That’s not funny,” I said. “It’s corny.”
“Not funny. Not corny. Evasive.”
“Mrs. Dawson can’t betray you,” I said. “She’s dumb for ever. What’s the matter with you? What are you afraid of? Who are you? Not that you’ll tell me, not that I expect you to tell me, I’m just keeping the social chit-chat going, Buster.”
“My name’s not Buster.”
“Surprise, surprise. Who are you? Not that I’ll believe you.”
“I am seven, like the devils in the Bible—seventeen or seventy—or seven hundred. Anything you choose, really.”
“Good luck to you all.”
“And you are one,” he murmured. “How much do you hope to make out of the story? Five hundred pounds? A thousand?”
“That’s not on,” I said.
“Used one-pound notes?”
“We aren’t speaking the same language.”
There was silence. After about five seconds he asked:
“What language are you speaking? How much?”
“I might have got fed up with the case,” I said, “if you hadn’t been so silly, all seven hundred of you. Now it’s a matter of principles.”
I heard a groan come over the ’phone.
“Dear God, dear God! A matter of principles! Poor, poor old hackneyed phrase! Last refuge of the obstinate who’ve run out of arguments, final defence of the dull witted, end of the line of reason. When our flanks crumble and our centre caves in, and the trumpets sound Retreat, what do we do but fall back on that last massive, mossy, hoary old citadel?”
“Well delivered, but too many similes and analogies. Any other prepared speech by you?”
He reverted to ordinary conversational tones:
“Well, it’s been nice talking to you.”
I heard a click and guessed he had replaced the receiver.
“Hello?” I said. “Hello?”
“Did you think I’d hung up?” He gave another of his green woodpecker laughs. “I was just pretending, like when one’s a dear little child. A d-e-e little, innocent little child. Did you used to play ‘Let’s pretend’ when you were a dee little, innocent little child? I bet you did, Jamie, boy. I bet you’re still a dee innocent little child at heart. Let’s pretend now.”
“You’re barmy. Mad,” I said, and meant it.
“Not barmy. Not mad. Cool, clear brain.”
“They all
“Yes, I cut us off,” I said.
“I thought it was the operator. The service is so bad these days.”
“The service isn’t so bad. And it wasn’t the operator.”
I suppose he didn’t expect a counter-attack. I think he was accustomed to dealing with people who crumpled quickly. After a few moments he said:
“Hello? Mr. Compton?”
“Don’t worry. I’m still here,” I said, repeating his phrase.
“I don’t care if you are or not,” he said.
“Then why are you ringing again?”
“I think we ought to get down to brass tacks,” he said.
“Yes, do—do so now. I’m bored.”
“You’re not.”
“Let’s stop it,” I said. “Let’s assume you’ve been successful in this psychological warfare nonsense.”
“I have been successful,” he said.
“Good old you! Now what?”
“Now nothing.”
“Nothing?” I said. “What do you mean, nothing?”
“Nothing in regard to Lucy Dawson. From you or by you. That’s all.”
In an odd way I was enjoying the exchanges. I felt keyed up, alert, and this was at least a human contact, with whom I could get to grips.
“Are you a crook?” I asked pleasantly. “Are you a crook by any chance?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Like most of the citizenry. Are you God? Why hasten the Day of Resurrection? Mrs. Dawson needs no flesh and blood from your hands.”
“You’re the fourth person who has been on at me about this. Fifth, if you count that miserable woman in the train.”
“What woman in what train?”
“The one who gave me the note.”
“I thought it arrived by carrier pigeon.”
He gave a whinnying laugh. It sounded like a green woodpecker and contrasted with his well-modulated voice.
“That’s not funny,” I said. “It’s corny.”
“Not funny. Not corny. Evasive.”
“Mrs. Dawson can’t betray you,” I said. “She’s dumb for ever. What’s the matter with you? What are you afraid of? Who are you? Not that you’ll tell me, not that I expect you to tell me, I’m just keeping the social chit-chat going, Buster.”
“My name’s not Buster.”
“Surprise, surprise. Who are you? Not that I’ll believe you.”
“I am seven, like the devils in the Bible—seventeen or seventy—or seven hundred. Anything you choose, really.”
“Good luck to you all.”
“And you are one,” he murmured. “How much do you hope to make out of the story? Five hundred pounds? A thousand?”
“That’s not on,” I said.
“Used one-pound notes?”
“We aren’t speaking the same language.”
There was silence. After about five seconds he asked:
“What language are you speaking? How much?”
“I might have got fed up with the case,” I said, “if you hadn’t been so silly, all seven hundred of you. Now it’s a matter of principles.”
I heard a groan come over the ’phone.
“Dear God, dear God! A matter of principles! Poor, poor old hackneyed phrase! Last refuge of the obstinate who’ve run out of arguments, final defence of the dull witted, end of the line of reason. When our flanks crumble and our centre caves in, and the trumpets sound Retreat, what do we do but fall back on that last massive, mossy, hoary old citadel?”
“Well delivered, but too many similes and analogies. Any other prepared speech by you?”
He reverted to ordinary conversational tones:
“Well, it’s been nice talking to you.”
I heard a click and guessed he had replaced the receiver.
“Hello?” I said. “Hello?”
“Did you think I’d hung up?” He gave another of his green woodpecker laughs. “I was just pretending, like when one’s a dear little child. A d-e-e little, innocent little child. Did you used to play ‘Let’s pretend’ when you were a dee little, innocent little child? I bet you did, Jamie, boy. I bet you’re still a dee innocent little child at heart. Let’s pretend now.”
“You’re barmy. Mad,” I said, and meant it.
“Not barmy. Not mad. Cool, clear brain.”
“They all
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