Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [31]
It was half an hour's drive, at this season, from the Legation quarter to the centre of the town. William sat in the taxi, lurching and jolting, in a state of high excitement. In the last few days he had caught something of the professional infection of Corker and his colleagues, had shared their consternation at Hitchcock's disappearance, had rejoiced quietly when Shumble's scoop was killed. Now he had something under his hat; a tip-off straight from headquarters, news of high international importance. His might be the agency which would avert or precipitate a world war; he saw his name figuring in future history books...the Ishmaelite crisis of that year whose true significance was only realized and exposed through the resource of an English journalist, William Boot... Slightly dizzy with this prospect, as with the wine he had drunk and the appalling rigours of the drive, he arrived at the Liberty to find the lights out in the lounge and all his colleagues in bed. He woke Corker, with difficulty. "For Christ's sake. You're tight. Go to bed, old boy." "Wake up, I've got a story." At that electric word Corker roused himself and sat up in bed. William told him, fully and proudly, all that he had learned at dinner. When he had finished, Corker lay back again among the crumpled pillows. "I might have known," he said bitterly. "But don't you see? This really is news. And we've got the Legation behind us. The Minister wants it written up." Corker turned over on his side. "That story's dead," he remarked. "But Shumble had it all wrong. Now we've got the truth. It may make a serious difference in Europe." Corker spoke again with finality. "Now go to bed, there's a good chap. No one's going to print your story after the way it's been denied. Russian agents are off the menu, old boy. It's a bad break for Shumble, I grant you. He got onto a good thing without knowing � and the false beard was a very pretty touch. His story was better than yours all round, and we killed it. Do turn out the light."
In his room in the annex Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock covered his keyhole with stamp-paper and, circumspectly, turned on a little shaded lamp. He boiled some water and made himself a cup of cocoa; drank it; then he went to the map on the wall and took out his flag, considered for a minute, hovering uncertainly over the unsealed peaks and uncharted rivers of that dark terrain, finally decided, and pinned it firmly in the spot marked as the city of Laku. Then he extinguished his light and went happily back to bed.
chapter 2
Tuesday morning; rain at six; Jakes's typewriter at a quarter past; the first cry of "Boy!" soon after. "Boy!" shouted Corker. "Where's my boy?" "Your boy in plison," said William's boy. "Holy smoke, what's he been up to?" "The police were angry with them," said William's boy. "Well, I want some tea." "All right. Just now."
The Archbishop of Canterbury who, it is well known, is behind Imperial Chemicals...wrote Jakes.
Shumble, Whelper and Pigge awoke and breakfasted and dressed, but they scarcely spoke. "Going out?" said Whelper at last. "What d'you think?" said Shumble. "Not sore about anything are you?" said Pigge. "What d'you think?" said Shumble, leaving the room. "He's sore," said Pigge. "About his story," said Whelper. "Who wouldn't be?" said Pigge. Sir Jocelyn made himself some cocoa and opened a tin of tongue. He counted the remaining stores and found them adequate.
Presently William and Corker set out to look for news. "Better try the station first," said Corker, "just in case the luggage has turned up." They got a taxi. "Station," said Corker. "All right," said the driver, making off through the rain down the main street. "Oh Christ, he's going to the Swede again." Sure enough, that was where they stopped. "Good morning," said Erik Olafsen. "I am very delighted to see you. I am very delighted to see all my colleagues. They come so often. Almost whenever they take a taxi. Come in, please. Have you heard the news?" "No," said Corker. "They are saying in the town that there was a Russian in the train on Saturday." "Yes, we've heard that one." "But it is a mistake." "You don't say." "Yes, indeed it is a mistake. The man was a Swiss ticket collector. I know him many years. But please to come in." William and Corker followed their host into his office. There was a stove in the corner, and on the stove a big coffeepot; the smell of coffee filled the room. Olafsen poured out three cupfuls. "You are comfortable at the Liberty, yes, no?" "No," said William and Corker simultaneously. "I suppose not," said Olafsen. "Mrs. Jackson is a very religious woman. She comes every Sunday to our musical evening. But I suppose you are not comfortable. Do you know my friends Shumble and Whelper and Pigge?" "Yes." "They are very nice gentlemen, and very clever. They say they are not comfortable, too." The thought of so much discomfort seemed to overwhelm the Swede. He gazed over the heads of his guests with huge, pale eyes that seemed to see illimitable, receding vistas of discomfort, and himself a blinded and shackled Samson with his bandages and Bibles and hot, strong coffee scarcely able to shift a pebble from the vast mountain which oppressed humanity. He sighed. The bell rang over the shop-door. Olafsen leapt to his feet. "Excuse," he said, "the natives steal so terribly." But it was not a native. William and Corker could see the newcomer from where they sat in the office. She was a white woman; a girl. A straggle of damp gold hair clung to her cheek. She wore red gum boots, shiny and wet, spattered with the mud of the streets. Her mackintosh dripped on the linoleum and she carried a half open, dripping umbrella, held away from her side; it was short and old; when it was new it had been quite cheap. She spoke in German, bought something, and went out again into the rain. "Who was the Garbo?" asked Corker when the Swede came back. "She is a German lady. She has been here some time. She had a husband but I think she is alone now. He was to do some work outside the city but I do not think she knows where he is. I suppose he will not come back. She lives at the German pension with Frau Dressler. She came for some medicine." "Looks as though she needed it," said Corker. "Well, we must go to the station." "Yes. There is a special train this evening. Twenty more journalists are arriving." "Christ." "For me it is a great pleasure to meet so many distinguished confreres. It is a great honour to work with them." "Decent bloke that," said Corker, when they again drove off. "You know, I never feel Swedes are really foreign. More like you and me, if you see what I mean."