Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [23]
The Hotel Liberty, Jacksonburg, was folded in the peace of Saturday afternoon, soon to be broken by the arrival of the weekly train from the coast but, at the moment, at four o'clock, serene and all-embracing. The wireless station was shut and the fifteen journalists were at rest. Mrs. Earl Russell Jackson padded in stockinged feet across the bare boards of the lounge looking for a sizable cigar-end, found one, screwed it into her pipe, and settled down in the office rocking-chair to read her Bible. Outside � and, in one or two places, inside � the rain fell in torrents. It rang on the iron roof in a continuous, restful monotone; it swirled and gurgled in the channels it had cut in the terrace outside; it seeped under the front door in an opaque pool. Mrs. Earl Russell Jackson puffed at her pipe, licked her thumb and turned a page of the good book. It was very pleasant when all those noisy white men were shut away in their rooms; quite like old times; they brought in good money these journalists � heavens what she was charging them! � but they were a great deal of trouble; brought in a nasty kind of customer too � Hindoos, Ishmaelites from up country, poor whites and near-whites from the town, police officers, the off-scourings of the commercial cafes and domino saloons, interpreters and informers and guides, not the kind of person Mrs. Earl Russell Jackson liked to see about her hotel. What with washing and drinking and telephoning and driving about in the mud in taxicabs and developing films and cross-questioning her old and respectable patrons, there never seemed a moment's peace. Even now they were not all idle; in their austere trade they had forfeited the arts of leisure.
Upstairs in his room Mr. Wenlock Jakes was spending the afternoon at work on his forthcoming book Under the Ermine. It was to be a survey of the undercurrents of English political and social life. I shall never forget, he typed, the evening of King Edward's abdication. I was dining at the Savoy Grill as the guest of Silas Shock of the New York Guardian. His guests were well chosen, six of the most influential men and women in England; men and women such as only exist in England, who are seldom in the news but who control the strings of the national pulse. On my left was Mrs. Hogbaum the wife of the famous publisher; on the other side was Prudence Blank, who has been described to me as "The Mary Selena Wilmark of Britain"; opposite was John Titmuss whose desk at the News Chronicle holds more secrets of state than any ambassadors... big business was represented by John Nought, agent of the Credential Assurance Co...I at once raised the question of the hour. Not one of that brilliant company expressed any opinion. There in a nutshell, you have England, her greatness � and her littleness. Jakes was to be paid an advance of twenty thousand dollars for this book.
In the next room were four furious Frenchmen. They were dressed as though for the cinema camera in breeches, open shirts, and brand new chocolate-coloured riding boots cross-laced from top to bottom; each carried a bandolier of cartridges round his waist and a revolver-holster on his hip. Three were seated, the fourth strode before them, jingling his spurs as he turned and stamped on the bare boards. They were composing a memorandum of their wrongs. We the undersigned members of the French Press in Ishmaelia, they had written, protest categorically and in the most emphatic manner against the partiality shown against us by the Ishmaelite Press Bureau and at the discourteous lack of co-operation of our so-called colleagues...
In the next room, round a little table, sat Shumble, Whelper, Pigge and a gigantic, bemused Swede. Shumble and Whelper and Pigge were special correspondents; the Swede was resident correspondent to a syndicate of Scandinavian papers � and more: he was Swedish Vice-Consul, head surgeon at the Swedish Mission Hospital, and proprietor of the combined Tea, Bible and Chemist shop which was the centre of European life in Jacksonburg � a pre-crisis resident of high standing. All the journalists tried to make friends with him; all succeeded; but they found him disappointing as a news source. These four were playing cards. "I will go four no hearts," said Erik Olafsen. "You can't do that." "Why cannot I do that? I have no hearts." "But we explained just now..." "Will you please be so kind and explain another time?" They explained; the cards were thrown in and the patient Swede collected them in his enormous hand. Shumble began to deal. "Where's Hitchcock today?" he asked. "He's onto something. I tried his door. It was locked." "His shutters have been up all day." "I looked through the keyhole," said Shumble. "You bet he's onto something." "D'you think he's found the Fascist headquarters?" "Wouldn't put it past him. Whenever that man disappears you can be sure that a big story is going to break." "If you please what is Hitchcock?" asked the Swede.