Scoop-Evelyn-Waugh [49]
When it was dinnertime in Jacksonburg, it was teatime in London. "Nothing more from Boot," said Mr. Salter. "Well, make up the Irish edition with his morning cable � rewrite it and splash it. If the follow-up comes in before six in the morning, run a special."
William returned home with a mission; he was going to do down Benito. Dimly at first, then in vivid detail, he foresaw a spectacular, cinematographic consummation, when his country should rise chivalrously to arms: Bengal Lancers and kilted Highlanders invested the heights of Jacksonburg; he at their head burst open the prison doors; with his own hands he grappled with Benito, shook him like a kitten and threw him choking out of his path; K�hen fluttered towards him like a wounded bird and he bore her in triumph to Boot Magna...Love, patriotism, zeal for justice and personal spite flamed within him as he sat at his typewriter and began his message. One finger was not enough; he used both hands. The keys rose together like bristles on a porcupine, jammed, and were extricated; curious anagrams appeared on the paper before him; vulgar fractions and marks of punctuation mingled with the letters. Still he typed. The wireless station closed at nine; at five minutes to, William pushed his sheaf of papers over the counter. "Sending tomorrow," said the clerk. "Must send tonight; urgent," said William. "No tonight. Summer holiday tonight." William added a handful of banknotes to the typewritten sheets. "Sending tonight," he said. "All right." Then William went round to dinner alone at Popotakis's.
"Two thousand words from Boot," said Mr. Salter. "Any good?" asked the General Editor. "Look at it." The General Editor looked. "RUSSIAN PLOT�COUP D'ETAT�OVERTHROW CONSTITUTIONAL GOVERNMENT... RED DICTATORSHIP�GOAT BUTTS HEAD OF POLICE... IMPRISONED BLONDE�VITAL BRITISH INTEREST JEOPARDIZED," he read. "Stop the machines. Stop the machines at Manchester and Glasgow. Clear the line to Belfast and Paris. Scrap the whole front page. Kill the Ex-Beauty Queen's Pauper Funeral. Get in a photograph of Boot." "I don't suppose we've got a photograph of Boot in the office." "Ring up his relatives. Find his best girl. There must be a photograph of him somewhere in the world." "They took one for his passport," said Mr. Salter doubtfully, "but I remember thinking at the time it was an extremely poor likeness." "I don't care if it looks like a baboon �" "That's just how it does look." "Give it two columns depth. This is the first front page foreign news we've had for a month!" When the final edition had left the machines, carrying William's sensational message into two million apathetic homes, Mr. Salter left the office. His wife was still up when he got home. "I've made your Ovaltine," she said. "Has it been a bad day?" "Terrible." "You didn't have to dine with Lord Copper?" "No, not as bad as that. But we had to remake the whole paper after it had gone to bed. That fellow Boot." "The one who upset you so all last week. I thought you were sacking him." "We did. Then we took him back. He's all right. Lord Copper knew best." Mr. Salter took off his boots and Mrs. Salter poured out the Ovaltine. When he had drunk it, he felt calmer. "You know," he said meditatively, "it's a great experience to work for a man like Lord Copper. Again and again I've thought he was losing grip. But always it turns out he knew best. What made him spot Boot? It's a sixth sense...real genius."
Popotakis's was empty and William was tired. He ate his dinner and strolled home. When he reached his room he found it filled with tobacco smoke; a cheroot, one of his cheroots, glowed in the darkness. A voice, with a strong German accent, said: "Close the shutters, please, before you turn on the light." William did as he was asked. A man rose from the armchair, clicked his heels and made a guttural sound. He was a large blond man of military but somewhat dilapidated appearance. He wore khaki shorts and an open shirt, boots ragged and splashed with mud. His head, once shaven, was covered with stubble, uniform with his chin, like a clipped yew in a neglected garden. "I beg your pardon?" said William. The man clicked his heels again and made the same throaty sound, adding, "That is my name." "Oh," said William. Then he came to attention and said, "Boot." They shook hands. "I must apologize for using your room. Once it was mine. I did not know until I found your luggage here, that there had been a change. I left some specimens of ore. Do you by any chance know what has become of them?" "I have them safe." "Well, it is of no importance now...I left a wife, too. Have you seen her?" "She is in prison." "Yes," said the German, without surprise. "I suppose she is. They will put me in prison too. I have just come from my Consulate. They say they cannot protect me. I cannot complain. They warned me before we started that if I failed they could not protect me...and I have failed...If you will excuse me, I will sit down. I am very tired." "Have you had any dinner?" "Not for two days. I have just returned from the interior. We could not stop to sleep or to look for food. All the way back they were trying to kill me. They had paid the bandits. I am very tired and very hungry." William took a case from the pile of stores; it was corded and wired and lined and battened to resist all emergencies. He struggled for some time while the German sat in a kind of melancholy stupor; then he said, "There's some food in here if you can get it open." "Food." At the word the German came to his senses. With surprising dexterity he got the blade of his clasp knife under the lid of the box; it fell open revealing William's Christmas dinner. They spread it on the table