Stone's Fall (28 page)

“You are asked by your Government to commit a crime, Mr. Cort. Do you do it or not? What factors determine your answer?”

This question came out of the blue after a response on my part to a question about whether I considered dividends of North American railway stock to be sustainable (an easy one, that: of course they weren’t) and it took me so completely by surprise I hardly knew what to answer.

“It would depend on my position in relation to the Government,” I said after a while. “A soldier invading a foreign country I suppose commits a crime, but is not held personally accountable. An individual with no official status might be in a less comfortable position.”

“Assume you are a private individual.”

“Then it depends on who is asking this of me. I assume it is a crime for the good of the country. I would have to have a very profound trust in the judgement of the person making the request. Why do you ask such a question?”

This was my second attempt, by that stage, to discover the purpose of the meeting. It was brushed aside, as the first had been.

“Your duty to your country is a matter of personal relations?” he asked, arching his eyebrows in something I took to be scorn. I was becoming a little annoyed by this stage, having endured these incessant questions for more than an hour, so that my plate lay almost as untouched as his; I thought I had been remarkably patient.

“Yes,” I snapped back. “We are not talking about the country. We are talking about its representatives, only some of whom have the authority or stature to decide what is in the national good. Also I speak as one of Her Majesty’s subjects, who has a right to have an opinion on such matters. Besides, I was not aware that our Government committed crimes.”

I glared; he now smiled sweetly back, as though I had just said how pretty his little daughter was. (I met his family once, some years later. His daughter, slightly older than I, was the most terrifying female I ever encountered: the brains of the father, multiplied by the remarkable force of character of the mother. She was not, however, particularly pretty.)

“Goodness gracious me!” he said. “I don’t believe you just said that! Of course it does. Not unless they can be avoided, of course. Let me give you an example. Suppose we learn that France, our great, civilised but entirely annoying neighbour, has advanced plans for an invasion of this country. Suppose we know how to obtain these plans. Should we do so?”

“Of course. That is a matter of war.”

“No,” he replied, wagging a finger in correction. “No war has been declared. We would be committing an outright theft from a nation which has done us no harm, and whose Government is currently almost cordial towards us, despite popular opinion.”

“Which cordiality may turn out to be a mere deception. It is obviously legitimate to discover if someone wishes you harm. Naturally it would be permissible to steal this information.”

“And if someone tries to prevent this theft? A guard or soldier? Even a member of the public? What measures could be taken against them?”

“Any that were required.”

“Including killing them?”

“I very much hope that could be avoided. But if that was the only way of gaining information that might save thousands of lives, then yes.”

“I see. Let us reverse the question then. Suppose a Frenchman comes to this country to steal our plans for invading France. What measures could be taken against him, should his whereabouts and intentions become known?”

“We plan to invade France?” I asked, astonished. Again, he found my response amusing.

“We should,” he said with a chuckle. “It is the army’s job to prepare for all such possibilities. However, I very much doubt such a plan exists. Our generals have a long tradition of being woefully unprepared, and in any case they seem to find shooting people armed only with spears quite difficult enough. Nonetheless, such plans should exist, as it is obvious that sooner or later there will be another war in Europe, and we do not know if we will be able to stand by and watch. No matter. Assume, if you can, that the generals are better prepared and more far-seeing than they are. How to react to the presence of this Frenchman on our soil?”

“Stop him.”

“How?”

“By whatever means necessary.”

“But he is only trying to do that which you have already declared legitimate.”

“I act to save the lives of my countrymen. And would do so again in this case.”

“Lives of Englishmen are more valuable than lives of Frenchmen?”

“Not in the eyes of God, perhaps, but I have no responsibility for the well-being of the French, while I am bound to the inhabitants of my country.”

“So, that is two murders you have committed. Quite a bloodthirsty fellow, are you not, Mr. Cort?”

“I am nothing of the sort,” I said. “I specialise in the syndication of international loans.”

“So you do. So you do. And you travel widely in pursuit of your business. France, Germany, even Italy. I gather you are competent at the languages of those countries as well.”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “I’d like you to do me a little favour,” he said, changing the subject abruptly. “When you are in Paris next week, I’d be most grateful if you could pick up a package for me. And bring it back. Would you oblige me in that matter?”

“Plans to invade England?” I asked.

“Oh, goodness me, no! We have those already; they’re really quite good. No, this is something quite different. This is of no great secrecy or importance, routine correspondence, that is all; I merely want to ensure it gets here swiftly. I planned to get someone else to do it, but, alas, he had a small accident and cannot assist me.”

“I’d be happy to assist,” I said. “Except that I’m not going to Paris next week. I believe my employers have no plans at all to send me anywhere, at present.”

He smiled sweetly. “So kind of you to come and meet me today,” he said. “I have greatly enjoyed our little conversation.”

I hardly knew what to make of this strange encounter, and was eager to discuss it with my chief, Mr. Hector Samson of Syndication. He, however, although normally very strict about time-keeping, never referred to my absence for so many hours and, when I raised the matter, changed the topic so swiftly I realised he did not even want to know. The only indication I had that my employers were aware of the meeting was a letter dropped on my desk late that afternoon. I was to go to Paris the following Monday to supervise the final details of the flotation of a loan for an American railway company, they of the unsustainable dividends, although naturally such misgivings were not to be communicated to the other participants. That was their problem; all Barings had to do was get rid of the stock as swiftly as possible. Anyway, it was a small matter, already settled, the centre of which was to be in London with only a small participation from one Paris bank. Barings’ own correspondents in France could—and regularly did—supervise such matters, and Barings were notoriously tightfisted about extravagances like sending people on journeys. Even I could reason out what had happened.

I filled up much of my time on my recent voyage from Calcutta reading some of those stories of espionage which are so popular these days, which amused me greatly. I sometimes wonder if those few people who suspect my activities believe that I live a life of equal excitement. I am glad to say I do not. All this running around over deserts and feats of daring against sinister foreigners and secret societies makes splendid entertainment, but I do not know anyone of sense who conducts business in such a way. All governments, naturally, can call on people who are more proficient with muscle than with brain in certain circumstances. That’s what armies are for. The task of discovering a rival’s intentions and capabilities is, by and large, conducted in a more civilised fashion. In general, it is as dangerous and exciting as a busy day on the Baltic Exchange.

Except, that is, for my first venture into the business, which very nearly resulted in my deciding to have nothing to do with Henry Wilkinson. Hang the Empire, was my opinion, if it depends on this sort of thing.

It happened like this: I took the train to Dover as my employers directed, crossed the Channel by steamer to Calais, and arrived at the Gare du Nord at seven in the evening. I then went to my hotel in the rue Notre-Dame des Victoires. Not a grand hotel by any means; the Baring family was far too cautious with its money to allow luxury; it was why many people hankered after a job with the Rothschilds, who had a finer appreciation of their employees’ comforts. But it had running water, was clean and was only a short distance from the Bourse: I have stayed in much worse. My business, such as it was, could be dealt with in half an hour the following morning, and so I had the evening to myself. Or to attend to the note that was pushed under my door ten minutes after I arrived. It contained an address, and a time. Nothing more. Fifteen, rue Poulletier. Nine o’clock.

Now, the hero of a spy story would have managed to discover the whereabouts of this address and get there with such ease it might not even be mentioned. I, on the other hand, took some forty-five minutes to acquire a map which even gave the location (shops never close in adventure stories; alas, they shut promptly at seven-thirty in reality) and then another hour to get there. Perhaps there was a tram which might have taken me, but I never discovered it. It was raining—a fine, persistent and depressing drizzle—and all the carriages were occupied. I had no umbrella, so had to walk, my hat getting sodden, my coat turning into blotting paper, into an area of Paris I had never even visited in daylight before.

This was the Ile Saint-Louis, an infested, rat-ridden tangle of criminality and sedition lying at the very heart of the city. It had once been fashionable and well-to-do, but those days had long since passed. Every building was crumbling and neglected, there was no street lighting (and, I guessed, not much progress had been made in installing modern sewage) and it was deathly quiet. The police of Paris never venture onto the island between sundown and sunrise; it becomes an independent country in the dark, answerable to no authority, and anyone who goes there must take full personal responsibility for his fate. Most of the revolutionaries and many of the anarchists and criminals who grace the pages of the popular press with their activities give their address as the Ile Saint-Louis; they inhabit great houses which once echoed to the laughter of the aristocracy and now are cut up into dozens of squalid little rooms for rent by the month, the day or the hour. It is a den of cutthroats and fugitives, perfect for people who need or wish to disappear. The address I was seeking lay right at its heart, past the raddled women standing in the alleyways; past the men with narrow faces and suspicious eyes who watch as you walk by; past the long shadows, and sudden noises of something moving behind you; past the soft laughter that you hear faintly down side alleys.

It was terrifying. I have never in my life been so petrified, and if this disappoints, then I am sorry to disabuse you still further of any notions of heroism. I did not join a banking house to get my head kicked in down some malodorous Parisian alleyway. I was cursing myself and that wretched civil servant for bringing about my presence there. I could have turned on my heel and walked out, the banks of the Seine were scarcely a hundred yards away and there at least was some gas lighting. The bridge to the Ile-de-la-Cité was another few minutes’ walk. Even less if you ran in total panic, not caring for your dignity. I did not take this course. Instead, I stopped at every flicker of light coming from an open window and consulted my map, wiping the rain from my eyes, and slowly made my way forward, getting ever closer to my destination, keeping all thoughts of what on earth I might find there at the back of my mind. I have always had a stubborn streak in me; it can be a disadvantage, sometimes.

I could not decide whether I was being manfully determined or childishly stupid. I continued until I reached the door on the left that the curt instructions had mentioned. I gently pushed it with my hand. It was not locked. It was hardly on hinges at all, and was kept in place mainly by its own weight as it dragged on the floor and leaned against the door posts. Knocking seemed a little absurd in the circumstances, so I put my shoulder to it and levered it up and forwards until a gap large enough for me to slip through opened up.

The passage inside it was completely dark, and the musty smell of neglect and damp hung about it. I waited to see if my eyes could make something out but the blackness was so total that this accomplished little. Unlike the well-equipped agent of novels, I had no matches. There was no sound except for the patter of rain outside and the chuckle of the water as it ran down the street. The thing I was most aware of was my feet, which were soaking wet and icy cold. As standing feeling frightened and cold accomplished nothing, I gingerly made my way forwards, arms out like a blind man, and bumped first into a wall this way, then into another that way. Then I caught something brushing against my sleeve as I turned, and realised I had touched a banister. There was a staircase! Carefully, I put my foot on the first step, thinking to go up quietly. That was useless; the wood gave a crack like a gun going off as my full weight came upon it, so I abandoned all notion of discretion and concentrated simply on not falling, feeling my way up, step by step, until I came to a landing. There the stairs ended, and there, on the left, I felt a door. Assuming I was in the right street and the right building (about which I had no confidence whatsoever), I must have arrived at my destination. I listened carefully, but could hear nothing. I knocked; softly at first, then in frustration and annoyance, hammered on the door as loudly as I could.

I heard a low groan after my first knock and the sound of someone falling out of bed after my second, then a muttering. Next a sound like someone being sick, then urinating in a metal pot. The door opened, just a crack at first, then more widely. An oil lamp was held up, its glare preventing me from seeing who was holding it. “Come in, then,” I heard. A gruff voice, speaking in a mumbling French I could barely understand.