The Big Story Read online

  They were pleased with each other, piqued with interest to learn a little more. The familiar prelude played itself comfortably, question by question.

  “You’re new here? I haven’t seen you before,”

  “I arrived late last night. And you?”

  “Oh, I’ve been here a week—ten days.”

  “On holiday?”

  “Not exactly. Working.”

  “A nice place to work. What do you do?”

  “I’m a correspondent—a newsman.”

  “Interesting. That means you travel, write stories, meet many people. A good life.”

  “Sometimes.” It was a good life now, on the day of his fortieth birthday, with his masterwork an hour from completion, with a blonde beauty smiling at him in the sun, and the small disquiet pushed comfortably to the back of his mind. “By the way, my name’s Ashley ... Richard Ashley.”

  “Elena Carrese.”

  He liked the way she said it, simply, comfortably, with none of the coy, come-hither blushes of the Neapolitan girls.

  “Are you holidaying too?”

  “For today only. My employer arrives tomorrow.”

  “Oh!” The prelude jarred and jangled into discord. Girls whose bosses gave them suites at the Caravino, were very special girls indeed.

  “In the winter we work in Rome. In the summer we come down here.” It came out smoothly, without hesitation or embarrassment.

  “Lucky people,” said Ashley, dryly. “What sort of work do you—I mean does your employer do?”

  She made a wide and careful gesture so that the wrap fell away from her shoulders and Ashley had to bend close to her to retrieve it.

  “What does he do? Oh… many things, politics, investment, banking… He travels a good deal. So, naturally, I travel too.”

  “Naturally. Come to think of it, I’d probably know him.”

  “Probably.” There was no malice in her eyes, no hint of irony in her smile. “If you are a correspondent, you may even have met him. He is quite famous in Italy.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Vittorio, Duke of Orgagna.”

  Well for a man that he has played poker at the cable desk for the young years of his life! Well for a man that he has charmed stories from the Ambassador’s typist, while his colleagues were drinking the Ambassador’s sherry! Well for a man that he has come to forty years and learned to control his face muscles while his stomach cramps with sudden fear! Richard Ashley made a little comedy of surprise and deference and said:

  “Orgagna? Of course! I’ve interviewed him several times.”

  He might have said: ‘I know this Orgagna better than you will ever know him, sweetheart. You work for him. You may even share his bed. But I have lived his past and his present. I am the arbiter of his dubious future. I know how much money he has and how he came by it. I know the stretch of his power and the limit of his influence. I know the men he has bought. I have traded with those who are selling him in their turn. I know the woman he married and the others he has loved—all except you, sweetheart, who are something of a surprise to me. I have tallied his triumphs and today I shall compass his final defeat. Tomorrow I shall publish his damnation to the world.’

  He might have said it, but he didn’t. Instead he grinned, an engaging crooked grin, arranged the stole over the sleek shoulders of Elena Carrese and told her:

  “Tomorrow you belong to Orgagna. Today, you belong to me. It’s my birthday and I’ve had good news. I’d like to celebrate. Will you have a drink with me?”

  “Senz’altro, signore! Certainly!” said Elena Carrese, and, swaying her lithe body against him, she walked into the lounge.

  The radio was playing softly ‘A’nnamurata Mia’ and Roberto was polishing glasses and ranging them on the black glass shelves of the bar. He looked up as they entered and his face broke into a goatish smile of approval when he saw the girl.

  They settled themselves on the high stools at the bar and ordered drinks. They made a laughing little ceremony out of the toasts. Ashley made extravagant compliments in Neapolitan, and she pouted prettily and said “Vergogna!” and let her hand rest for a moment on his own. It was all so frank and charming and natural—a holiday encounter in the Siren Land.

  Or was every line of it an elaborate lie?

  For more than six months he had been dredging the murky waters of ltalian politics and finance. Impossible to make a secret of an operation like that. Incredible that Orgagna himself should remain ignorant of the man who was investigating him. Equally incredible that this climactic day should pass without some action to prevent publication of his indictment. Perhaps this meeting with Elena Carrese was the beginning of it.

  But she was still smiling at him, still chattering and making her pretty mannequin gestures.

  “You told me you had good news?”

  “News?” His mind was far away. “Oh—oh yes.”

  “You have not yet told me what it is.”

  ‘Now,’ he thought, ‘now we come to the core of it. Piano, piano…! Softly, in the Italian way, we come to it. Tell me your news, kind sir, so that I may tell it to my master who is Vittorio, Duke of Orgagna.’ He shrugged in deprecation.

  “Oh… it’s just one of those professional things. I’ve written a news story which turned out to be a good story. My paper has just given me permission to buy certain documents. Now, I have a very good story.”

  “What sort of a story is it?” Her eyes were wide and innocent.

  “Political.”

  “Oh!” said Elena Carrese, and the little exclamation hung like a suspended chord of music.

  “When we get to know each other better, I’ll tell you about it.”

  “A singular indiscretion,” said a flat English voice.

  Ashley swung round with an angry exclamation and his drink slopped over the bar. The girl turned too and they saw before them a small dapper fellow with a bland, boyish face and mild eyes. He was dressed in the English fashion, in a blue reefer jacket, grey slacks, a silk shirt and a meticulous foulard scarf. He had the incongruous youthful air of those born under a cold star. Ignoring Ashley’s obvious displeasure, he moved towards the bar. Elena Carrese watched him warily. He held out hi s hand in greeting.

  “Ashley, my dear chap, so nice to see you.”

  “Sure… very nice.” Ashley gave him an indifferent handshake and an indifferent introduction. “Elena Carrese—George Harlequin.”

  Harlequin nodded casually to the girl and turned back to Ashley.

  “We seem to run across each other everywhere, don’t we?”

  “Don’t we!”

  “Press club in Venice, spring festival in Florence, Joe’s Bar and Grill, Rome, Stampa in Naples. And now here. Odd really.”

  “Very.’

  Abruptly, George Harlequin switched to Italian. He bowed ironically to the girl and said:

  “You’re looking very beautiful, Lena.”

  “Thank you,” said the girl, without enthusiasm.

  “Do you two know each other?” Ashley was surprised and cautious.

  “We have met,” said Elena, stiffly. She slid quickly off the stool and turned away from the bar. “Excuse me, I must go.”

  “Look, you can’t just…”

  “Please excuse me.” Already she was half-way to the door.

  “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

  ‘I’m sorry. It is impossible.”

  “After dinner, then—coffee?”

  She had reached the door. In a moment she would be gone. Then she halted and turned back.

  “Very well then, after dinner—coffee.”

  Then she was gone and George Harlequin was perched on the stool, chuckling like a pixie. Ashley was blazing with anger.

  “All right, Harlequin, let’s have it. You’ve been dogging my tracks for months. Now we’ve both come to the end of the line. What do you want?”

  “First, I’d like a drink,” said George Harlequin coolly.

&n
bsp; “Name it.”

  “Scotch and water.”

  “Subito, signore,” said Roberto.

  “We’ll drink at the table.”

  Ashley moved across to the small coffee-table where his manuscript still lay in its stiff manila cover. Harlequin followed him and Roberto watched them warily as he poured the drinks. The Englishman lit a cigarette and smoked quietly until the glasses were set on the table and Roberto had retired discreetly to his cubby-hole at the end of the bar. Then he raised his glass, grinning at Ashley over the rim.

  “Good luck, Ashley!”

  “Damn your eyes!” Ashley drained his drink at a gulp and set the glass down on the table. “Okay, Harlequin, let’s have it, chapter and verse. Who are you? What do you want—and why?”

  Harlequin’s eyes were mild and deceptive. His mouth twisted in wry distaste.

  “I think you know the answers already.”

  “I’d like to hear them from you.”

  The little man shrugged and laid his cigarette carefully on the lip of the ash-tray.

  “Very well.” He laid his hands together, finger-tip to finger-tip, in a fastidious gesture. “For the past six months you’ve been preparing an indictment.”

  “I’ve been building a news story.”

  “Which is, in effect, an indictment of certain Italian politicians for fraud, gerrymandering and misappropriation of dollar relief funds.”

  “Check.”

  “It’s an impressive piece of work, Ashley.”

  “You’ve read it, of course,” said Ashley, with heavy irony.

  “I have indeed,” said George Harlequin genially. “Every line, even the marginal additions.”

  Ashley stared at him in hostile surprise.

  “The hell you have!”

  “For a long-service professional, you’ve been very careless with your papers.”

  Ashley thrust himself forward across the table. His eyes were narrow. His mouth was grim.

  “What the devil are you?”

  “A professional.”

  “Professional what?”

  Harlequin waved an airy hand.

  “Contact man, courier, negotiator…”

  “Agent?”

  “Call it any name you like.”

  “Whom do you represent?”

  “The Government of Her Britannic Majesty. Er—unofficially, of course.”

  “So that’s it!”

  Ashley leaned back in his chair and laughed. The tension in him relaxed. The taste of triumph was sweet again on his tongue. The big story was bigger than he had dreamed. The dovecotes were fluttering in White-hall. Tomorrow they would be squawking in panic at the headlines. Doubt and uncertainty fell away from him. He prepared to enjoy the comedy.

  “You make me feel very important, Harlequin. Why should the British Government be interested in me?”

  “You’re buying the Orgagna photostats, aren’t you?”

  Ashley’s eyes hardened. He felt uneasy again.

  “So you know about those, too?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Okay, then! I’m buying them. I’m buying them in say twenty minutes from now, in this room, at this table.”

  “Then your indictment will be complete?”

  “Complete. The big men and the little ones will be arraigned at the bar of public opinion. The photostats are final and conclusive evidence of one of the biggest politico-financial scandals of the twentieth century, planned and executed by His Excellency the Duke of Orgagna.”

  “Pity,” said George Harlequin, with donnish distaste. “A very great pity! When will you run the story?”

  “I imagine it will break the day after tomorrow. It’s quite timely. The Italian elections are only ten days off.”

  “The Americans have a great sense of theatre,’ said Harlequin regretfully. He heaved himself out of the chair, walked over to the door that led on to the terrace and stood looking out across the sunlit water. Then he turned back. “Mind if we talk out here? It’s a little more private.”

  “Just as you like.”

  Ashley picked up the manuscript folder and walked out on to the terrace. Harlequin began to pace slowly up and down the long cat-walk slung out over two hundred feet of bright emptiness. Ashley fell into step beside him. The little man was not smiling now. His air of urbane mockery had dropped away like an actor’s cloak. His voice was sober and thoughtful.

  “Ashley, I think you understand the political situation in this country. There is an extreme Left wing, strong and well-organised. There is a small, but highly capitalised reactionary Right. There is a weak coalition of the Centre—the moderates of both groups who hold the governing votes.”

  “That’s right.”

  “It is to the interest of Europe, it is to the interest of Great Britain and America, to maintain and strengthen this coalition of the Centre.”

  “Right again.”

  “The man who has held them together so far is Orgagna.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Ashley, with blunt conviction.

  Harlequin took it calmly enough. It was as if he were at pains to avoid an open breach.

  “Let us say then, that, in the opinion of some—in the opinion of my government—Orgagna is the key to unity. He has connections with the Right and the Left. He is a skilled negotiator. He has a certain dash which goes down well with the public. Take him away and you are left with mediocrities. You see?”

  Ashley flared into sudden anger.

  “I see damn well! You’re asking me to kill this story so that an expert in grand larceny can hold a portfolio in the Italian Government.” He laughed bitterly. “That’s a hell of a line for one professional to hand to another.”

  The bland, boyish face smiled disarmingly.

  “It’s the only line I have, Ashley. If I could bribe you, I would. If I could blackmail you, I’d do that, too. In the present circumstances I have no other argument than the truth. I’m using it to the best of my ability.”

  Ashley stopped in his tracks and faced him.

  “Fine! I admit your sincerity. Now I’ll tell you what you’re really asking. You want me to suppress a criminal act—a whole series of criminal acts—for the sake of a political expedient.”

  “You might put it that way, yes! But I’d like to add a rider—a political expedient on which the stability of European defence may depend.”

  Ashley gaped at him a moment, then burst out:

  “God, how I love the British! They are the most moral nation in the world—the Royal family, the Established Church and the sacred rituals of cricket! Yet their whole history is founded on economic immoralities and political expedients! Their heroes are pirates and filibusters. Their saints are eccentrics and anarchists. They preach morals on the floor of the House and plot their wars in the Conservative Club. They rail against Wall Street and American expansionism and their business-men are buccaneers in striped pants! And when they slip up, they invoke the Old Pals Act and the bonds of British Brotherhood. For God’s sake, Harlequin!

  Harlequin was unmoved by the outburst. He said, mildly:

  “It’s an extreme view and now is not the time to argue it. I think we’re talking at cross purposes, my dear chap.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re talking about morals. I’m talking about politics. The two are mutually exclusive.”

  “That’s a fallacy and you know it.”

  “I don’t think it is. Politics is the art and science of governing imperfect men through imperfect systems.”

  “It’s bad politics to put false men and venal men in positions of power.”

  “Not always. False men can be directed. Venal men can be bought. It is the diplomat’s job to profit from the fear of the liar and the greed of the peculator.”

  “And the truth?”

  “The truth?” George Harlequin shrugged wryly. “The truth, my dear Ashley, is a luxury available only to those who are not involved in its consequences.”
/>
  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that you, personally, are not involved in Italy, nor in Europe for that matter. Your story can tip this tottering government off its pedestal, can plunge this country into economic and political chaos, can upset years of staff-work on European defence and Mediterranean strategy. And you yourself can fly next week to India or Java or Australia and feel no consequence in your body or your soul.”

  “And you, of course, are involved?” Ashley grinned at him sardonically.

  Quietly and carefully the small man measured out his answer.

  “As a professional, yes. I am not an observer, as you are. I am a participant. I am involved because my country is involved, because I live thirty miles from the shores of Europe, and the politics of Europe determine whether I have dry toast or devilled kidneys for breakfast. You are the press—the peripatetic truth-pedlars. I am the man who must live with lies and make terms with injustice and compromise with corruption, because these are constant elements in human society.”

  “You, and men like you, perpetuate injustice by coming to terms with it.”

  “And men like you?”

  “We’re involved, too,” said Ashley slowly. “We’re involved because we see, more than you, more often than you, the consequences of lies and injustice. We see starvation in the streets, while you read about it in a white paper. We see murder done and send you photographs to prove it. We see children shot and women raped six months before you read a ten-line memorandum about a border incident. We’re involved, make no mistake. We’re involved, because in our wrong-headed way we believe there’s honour in peddling the truth. Even Socrates managed to make quite a reputation at it.”

  “And was poisoned for his pains.”

  “We accept that as a professional risk.” Ashley shrugged wearily and leaned back against the iron balustrade. “All this gets us nowhere. The position is quite simple. You, or your government, want to put Orgagna in the Cabinet. I want to put him in gaol. Your motive is political expedience. Mine is truth.”

  “Is that your only motive, Ashley?”