Destination Unknown - Agatha Christie [77]
‘We won’t put our faith in governments,’ said Jessop. ‘Governments and diplomats have their hands tied. But we’ve got to have them here, because they’re the only ones with authority. But as far as believing is concerned, I’m pinning my faith elsewhere.’
‘And on what in particular do you pin your faith, my friend?’
Jessop’s solemn face suddenly relaxed into a grin.
‘There’s the press,’ he said. ‘Journalists have a nose for news. They don’t want it hushed up. They’re ready always to believe anything that remotely can be believed. The other person I have faith in,’ he went on, ‘is that very deaf old man.’
‘Aha, I know the one you mean. The one who looks as though he crumbles to his grave.’
‘Yes, he’s deaf and infirm and semi-blind. But he’s interested in truth. He’s a former Lord Chief Justice, and though he may be deaf and blind and shaky on his legs, his mind’s as keen as ever–he’s got that keen sense that legal luminaries acquire–of knowing when there’s something fishy about and someone’s trying to prevent it being brought into the open. He’s a man who’ll listen, and will want to listen, to evidence.’
They had arrived back now in the lounge. Both tea and apéritifs were provided. The Minister congratulated Mr Aristides in well rounded periods. The American Ambassador added his quota. It was then that the Minister, looking round him, said in a slightly nervous tone of voice:
‘And now, gentlemen, I think the time has come for us to leave our kind host. We have seen all there is to see…’ his tone dwelt on those last words with some significance; ‘all here is magnificent. An establishment of the first-class! We are most grateful for the hospitality of our kind host, and we congratulate him on the achievement here. So we say our farewells now and depart. I am right, am I not?’
The words were, in a sense, conventional enough. The manner, too, was conventional. The glance that swept round the assembly of guests might have been no more than courtesy. Yet in actuality the words were a plea. In effect, the Minister was saying, ‘You’ve seen, gentlemen, there is nothing here, nothing of what you suspected and feared. That is a great relief and we can now leave with a clear conscience.’
But in the silence a voice spoke. It was the quiet, deferential, well-bred English voice of Mr Jessop. He spoke to the Minister in a Britannic though idiomatic French.
‘With your permission, sir,’ he said, ‘and if I may do so, I would like to ask a favour of our kind host.’
‘Certainly, certainly. Of course, Mr–ah–Mr Jessop–yes, yes?’ Jessop addressed himself solemnly to Dr Van Heidem. He did not look ostensibly to Mr Aristides.
‘We’ve met so many of your people,’ he said. ‘Quite bewildering. But there’s an old friend of mine here that I’d rather like to have a word with. I wonder if it could be arranged before I go?’
‘A friend of yours?’ Dr Van Heidem said politely, surprised.
‘Well, two friends really,’ said Jessop. ‘There’s a woman, Mrs Betterton. Olive Betterton. I believe her husband’s working here. Tom Betterton. Used to be at Harwell and before that in America. I’d very much like to have a word with them both before I go.’
Dr Van Heidem’s reactions were perfect. His eyes opened in wide and polite surprise. He frowned in a puzzled way.
‘Betterton–Mrs Betterton–no, I’m afraid we have no one of that name here.’
‘There’s an American, too,’ said Jessop. ‘Andrew Peters. Research chemistry, I believe, is his line. I’m right, sir, aren’t I?’ He turned deferentially to the American Ambassador.
The Ambassador was a shrewd, middle-aged man with keen blue eyes. He was a man of character as well as diplomatic ability. His eyes met Jessop’s. He took a full minute to decide, and then he spoke.
‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘That’s so. Andrew Peters. I’d like to see him.’ Van Heidem’s polite bewilderment grew. Jessop unobtrusively shot a quick glance at Aristides. The little yellow face betrayed no knowledge of