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John Dene of Toronto; a Comedy of Whitehall

<h3> CHAPTER XV </h3> <h4> MR. LLEWELLYN JOHN BECOMES ALARMED </h4> <h4> I </h4> Mr. Llewellyn John was obviously troubled. With the forefinger of his right hand he tapped the table meditatively as he gazed straight in front of him. The disappearance of John Dene was proving an even greater source of embarrassment to the War Cabinet than the internment of aliens. The member of parliament who translated his duty to his constituents into asking as many awkward questions as possible of the Government, found a rich source of inspiration in the affaire John Dene. Mr. Llewellyn John disliked questions; but never had he shown so whole-hearted an antipathy for interrogation as in the case of John Dene. The fact of the Home Secretary being responsible for the answers constituted an additional embarrassment, as Sir Roger Flynn was frankly critical of his chief in regard to the disappearance of John Dene. He had not been consulted in the matter of offering a reward, as he should have been, and he was piqued. His answers to the questions that seemed to rain down upon him from all parts of the House were given in anything but a conciliatory tone, and the method he adopted of "dispatching them in batches like rebels," as Mr. Chappeldale put it, still further alienated from the Government the sympathy of the more independent members. In this Mr. Llewellyn John saw a smouldering menace that might at any time burst into flame. He had come to wish with deep-rooted earnestness that Sir Roger Flynn would take a holiday. He had even gone to the length of suggesting that the Home Secretary was not looking altogether himself; but Sir Roger had not risen to the bait. "Ah! here you are," cried Mr. Llewellyn John with a smile, that in no way mirrored the state of his feelings, as Sir Roger entered, and with a nod dropped into a chair. "Eight more questions on the paper," he said grimly. "I suppose you appreciate the seriousness of it all." "What would you suggest doing?" enquired Mr. Llewellyn John tactfully. "Get a new lock for the stable door now the horse is gone," was the uncompromising retort. "I've asked Colonel Walton to step round," said Mr. Llewellyn John, ignoring his colleague's remark. "It's all that fellow Sage," grumbled Sir Roger. "I went round to see him yesterday, and he was as urbane as a money-lender." "But surely you wouldn't quarrel——" "I always quarrel with a fool who doesn't see the consequences likely to arise out of his folly," said Sir Roger. "If he would only play golf," murmured Mr. Llewellyn John plaintively. "He'd resign at the first green because someone had shouted 'fore.' The man's a freak!" Sir Roger was very downright this morning. "I wish we had a few more of the same sort," was Mr. Llewellyn John's smiling rejoinder. Sir Roger grumbled something in his throat. Malcolm Sage was too often in antagonism with his Department for the Home Secretary to contemplate with anything but alarm a multiplicity of Sages. Mr. Llewellyn John, who deeply commiserated with those heads of departments who had suffered from Malcolm Sage's temperament, was always anxious to keep him from coming into direct touch with other Ministers: the invariable result was a protest from the Minister, and resignation from Malcolm Sage. Once he had been summoned before the War Cabinet to expound and explain a certain rather complicated enquiry in connection with a missing code-book. Before he had been in the room five minutes he had resigned. At Scotland Yard he was known as "Sage and Onions," the feebleness of the jeu d'esprit being to some extent mitigated by the venom with which it was uttered. Nothing short of the anti-criminal traditions of the Yard had saved Malcolm Sage from assassination at the hands of its outraged officials. His indifference was to them far more galling than contempt. He seemed sublimely unconscious of the fact that he was not popular with the police officials, a circumstance that merely added to the dislike with which he was regarded. There was much to be said for Scotland Yard, which was called upon to carry out instructions from "a pack of blinking amachoors," as one of Sage's most pronounced antagonists had phrased it. Added to which was the fact that they were dealing with a man who seemed entirely unable to discriminate between courtesy and venomous hatred. Like the German nation, the officials discovered that there was little virtue in a hymn of hate that was not recognised as such. "It's no good scrapping a man because he doesn't keep to your own time-table," said Mr. Llewellyn John, mentally making a note of the phrase for future use. Sir Roger had remarked that the Prime Minister lay awake half the night coining phrases which would not win the war. "This John Dene has caused more trouble at the Home Office than all the rest of the war put together." Sir Roger was obviously in a bad temper. "We must learn to think Imperially, my dear Flynn." The Home Secretary made a movement of impatience. "There'll be murder at Scotland Yard one of these days," he announced. "That fellow Sage goads the officials there to madness." "And yet he's so popular with his own men," said Mr. Llewellyn John. "At Department Z. they would do anything for him." "Well, I wish they'd do it and keep him there." Whilst Mr. Llewellyn John and Sir Roger Flynn were discussing Department Z., Colonel Walton was seated at his table drawing diagrams upon the blotting paper, and Malcolm Sage sat opposite, engaged in the never-ending examination of his finger-nails. "The Skipper's got the wind up, Sage," said Colonel Walton. "I expected as much." "I've got to go round there in a quarter of an hour. Sir Roger's trying to force his hand." "Let him," said Malcolm Sage. Colonel Walton shook his head with a smile. "That's all very well, Sage; but it isn't the language of diplomacy." "Ours isn't the department of diplomacy, chief. Why not promise him something dramatic in a few weeks' time? That's bound to appeal to him." For a moment a fugitive smile flittered across Sage's features. "I think," he added, "we shall surprise him." "In the meantime we must be diplomatic," said Colonel Walton. "That's why I'm not taking you with me this morning." "You think I'd resign," queried Sage with an odd movement at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sure of it," was the response, as Colonel Walton rose. "I suppose you know," he continued, "that Scotland Yard is absolutely congested. You can have no idea of what Sir Roger said when I met him in Whitehall yesterday." "If it's anything at all like what comes through to me——" and Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders. Ten minutes later Colonel Walton was shown into Mr. Llewellyn John's room. "Ah! here you are," cried Mr. Llewellyn John, as he motioned Colonel Walton to a seat. "Is there any news?" "None, sir," was the response. "This is getting very serious, Walton," said Mr. Llewellyn John, "something really must be done." "Have you tried Scotland Yard, sir?" asked Colonel Walton evenly, looking across at Sir Roger, who made a movement as if to speak, but evidently thought better of it. "I didn't mean that as a rebuke, Walton," said Mr. Llewellyn John diplomatically. "But this John Dene business is really most awkward. Scotland Yard has apparently been entirely disorganised through your advertisements, and Sir Roger has just been telling me that there are eight more questions down on the paper for to-day. Every day the Admiralty endeavours to call up Auchinlech by wireless," continued Mr. Llewellyn John, "but they can get no response." "The thing is, where is John Dene?" demanded Sir Roger, speaking for the first time, and looking at Colonel Walton, as if he suspected him of having the missing man secreted about his person. "I think the popular conception of the detective is responsible for all the trouble," said Colonel Walton quietly, looking from Sir Roger to the Prime Minister. "What do you mean?" demanded Sir Roger. "I think Sage expressed it fairly accurately," continued Colonel Walton, "when he said that if a man disappears, or a criminal is wanted, the detective is always expected to produce him as a conjurer does a guinea-pig out of a top hat." "It isn't that," said Mr. Llewellyn John irritably. "It's the reward that's causing all the trouble." "What is the detective for if it's not to solve mysteries?" demanded Sir Roger aggressively. "I think that is a question for Scotland Yard, sir," said Colonel Walton. Sir Roger flushed angrily, and was about to speak when Mr. Llewellyn John stepped into the breach. "You know, Walton, we have to consider the political aspect," he said. "What is Department Z.'s conception of the detective then?" demanded Sir Roger. "To watch for the other side's mistakes and take advantage of them," was the reply, "just as in politics," with a smile at Mr. Llewellyn John. Mr. Llewellyn John nodded agreement. "You remember the Winthorpe murder case, Sir Roger?" "I do," said the Home Secretary. "There Scotland Yard tracked a man who had been three weeks at large. He made the mistake of calling somewhere for his washing, and the police had been watching the place for three weeks." "That's all very well," said Sir Roger, obviously annoyed. "But you must remember, Colonel Walton, that this John Dene business has a political significance. It's—it's embarrassing the Government." "But while they are worrying about that," remarked Colonel Walton imperturbably, "they're dropping the 'intern all aliens' cry." Mr. Llewellyn John smiled. "I'm convinced," he said, "that there's quite a large section of the public that would like me to intern everybody whose name is not Smith, Brown, Jones or Robinson." "Or Sage," suggested Colonel Walton slyly. "Sage!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, "he ought to be in the Tower. But seriously, Walton. What I want to know is how long this will last?" "In all probability until the full four months have expired," was the rejoinder. "Good heavens!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John in consternation. "I should not be alarmed, sir, if I were you," said Colonel Walton with a smile. "The public will soon get another cry. Sage suggests they may possibly hang an ex-minister." Mr. Llewellyn John laughed. Colonel Walton's reference was to a previous Prime Minister who on one occasion had enquired of a distinguished general if he had ever contemplated the effect on the public of the possibility of Great Britain losing the war. "They'd hang you, sir," the general had replied, leaning forward and tapping the then Prime Minister on the knee with an impressive forefinger. For a few moments there was silence, broken at length by Sir Roger. "But that does not relieve my congested Department," he said complainingly. "I'm afraid," said Colonel Walton, turning to Mr. Llewellyn John, "that it's impossible for Department Z. to work along any but its own lines. If Sage and I do not possess the confidence of the War Cabinet, may I suggest that we be relieved of our duties." "Good heavens, Walton!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John. "Surely you're not going to start resigning." "In the light of Sir Roger's remark, it's the only course open for me," was the dignified retort, as Colonel Walton rose. "No, no," murmured Mr. Llewellyn John, looking across at the Home Secretary. "You must remember, Walton, that Sir Roger has had a very trying time owing to—to these—advertisements, and—and——" He paused and again he looked expectantly at Sir Roger, who seemed engrossed in fingering the lower button of his waistcoat. "Neither Sage nor I have any desire to embarrass you or the Home Secretary," continued Colonel Walton, "but——" "I'm sure of it, Walton, I'm sure of it, and so is Sir Roger." Again Mr. Llewellyn John looked across at his colleague who, seeming to lose interest in his lower waistcoat button, suddenly looked up. "The question is, how long is this to continue?" he asked. For some moments Colonel Walton did not reply. He appeared to be weighing something in his mind. "We're up against the cleverest organisation in the world," he said at length, "and Sage believes that a single man controls the lot." "Nonsense!" broke in Sir Roger. "This spy craze is pure imagination." "In any case it causes the War Cabinet a great amount of concern," said Mr. Llewellyn John drily. "I think," proceeded Colonel Walton, "that before the expiration of the four months stipulated for by John Dene, Department Z. will have justified itself." "How?" demanded Sir Roger. "I can say nothing more," said Colonel Walton, moving towards the door, "at present." "Well, carry on, Walton," said Mr. Llewellyn John and, with a wave of his hand, "and good luck." "Those two men have megalomania in its worst possible form," growled Sir Roger, as he too rose to take his departure. "Well, if they don't make good on this," said Mr. Llewellyn John, "you can decide whether or not their resignations be accepted." With a nod Sir Roger left the room, conscious that he had to explain to the permanent officials at the Home Office why Department Z. was still in being. <h4> II </h4> During the weeks that followed the disappearance of John Dene, a careful observer of Apthorpe Road could not have failed to observe the trouble that it was apparently giving the local authorities. A fatality seemed to brood over this unfortunate thoroughfare. First of all the telephone mains seemed to go wrong. Workmen came, and later there arrived a huge roll of lead-covered cable. Labour was scarce, and never did labourers work less industriously for their hire. On the morning after the arrival of the men, Mr. Montagu Naylor paused at the spot where they were working, and for a minute or two stood watching them with interest. Was there any danger of the telephone system being interrupted? No, the cable was being laid as a precaution. The existing cable was showing faults. Mr. Naylor passed on his way, and from time to time would exchange greetings with the men. They were extremely civil fellows, he decided. Mr. Naylor felt very English. The telephone men had not completed their work when the water-main, as if jealous of the care and attention being lavished upon a rival system, developed some strange and dangerous symptoms, involving the picking up of the road. Again Mr. Naylor showed interest, and learned that the water pressure was not all that it should be in the neighbourhood, and it was thought that some foreign substance had got into the pipes. Just as the watermen were preparing to pack up and take a leisurely departure, two men, their overalls smeared and spotted with red-lead, arrived at the end of the street with a hand-barrow. In due course a cutting of some fifteen or twenty feet was made in the roadway, and the reek of stale gas assailed the nostrils of the passer-by. Obviously some shadow of misfortune brooded over Apthorpe Road, for no sooner were these men beginning to pack up their tools, than the road-men arrived, with a full-blooded steam-roller, bent upon ploughing up and crushing down Apthorpe Road to a new and proper symmetry. In short the thoroughfare in which Mr. Montagu Naylor lived seemed never to be without workmen by day, and by night watchmen to protect municipal property from depredation. "I'm not so sure," remarked Malcolm Sage to Thompson who had entered his room soon after Colonel Walton had gone to pay his call at 110, Downing Street, "that the m�nage Naylor isn't a subject for investigation by the Food Controller." Thompson grinned. "Eighty pounds of potatoes seems to be a generous week's supply for three people." "And other things to match, sir," said Thompson with another grin. "Haricot beans, cabbage, they're nuts on cabbage, salad and all sorts of things that are not rationed. I think it must be diabetes," he added with another grin. "Possibly, Thompson, possibly," said Malcolm Sage; "but in the meantime we will assume other explanations. Some people eat more than others. For instance, the German is a very big eater." "And a dirty one, too, sir," added Thompson with disgust. "I've been at hotels with 'em." "Seven meals a day is one of the articles of faith of the good German, Thompson," continued Malcolm Sage. "And what's the result, sir?" remarked Thompson. "I suppose," remarked Sage meditatively, "it's the same as with a bean-fed horse. They go out looking for trouble." "And they're going to get it," was the grim rejoinder. "Well, carry on, Thompson," said Sage by way of dismissal. "You'll learn a great deal about the green-grocery trade in the process." "And waterworks—and gas and things, sir," grinned Thompson. As Thompson opened the door of Malcolm Sage's room, he stepped aside to allow Colonel Walton to enter, and then quietly closed the door behind him. "Bad time?" enquired Sage as Colonel Walton dropped into a chair and, taking off his cap, mopped his forehead. "On this occasion I resigned for both of us." For once in his life Malcolm Sage was surprised. He looked incredulously across at his chief, who gazed back with a comical expression in his eyes. "I thought I was left at home for fear I might resign," said Malcolm Sage drily when Colonel Walton had finished telling him of the interview. But Colonel Walton did not look up from the end of his cigar, which he was examining with great intentness. "I'm not a sceptic," remarked Malcolm Sage presently, as he gazed at his brilliantly-polished fingernails, "but I would give a great deal for a dumb patriot domiciled in Apthorpe Road." "Dumb?" queried Colonel Walton. Malcolm Sage nodded without raising his eyes from his finger-nails. "I have no doubt that Apthorpe Road is exclusively patriotic; but if we were to ask one of its residents to lend us a front-bedroom and, furthermore, if we spent all our days in the bedroom at the window——" He shrugged his shoulders. "There's always the domestic servant," suggested Colonel Walton. "Not much use in this case, chief," was the reply. "It means that Thompson has had to turn road-mender. Good man, Thompson," he added. "He'd extract facts from a futurist picture." Colonel Walton nodded. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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