The Dogs of War

Sir James Manson continued nodding, staring at the scientist with well-feigned awe.

“It’s incredible,” he said at length. “I know you scientists like to remain detached, impartial, but I think even you must have become excited. This could form a whole new world source of platinum. You know how often that happens with a rare metal? Once in a decade, maybe once in a lifetime.”

In fact Chalmers had been excited by his discovery and had worked late into the night for three weeks to cover every single bag and rock from the Crystal Mountain, but he would not admit it. Instead he shrugged and said, “Well, it’ll certainly be very profitable for ManCon.”

“Not necessarily,” said James Manson quietly. This was the first time he shook Chalmers.

“Not?” queried the analyst. “But surely it’s a fortune?”

“A fortune in the ground, yes,” replied Sir James, rising and walking to the window. “But it depends very much who gets it, if anyone at all. You see, there is a danger it could be kept unmined for years, or mined and stockpiled. Let me put you in the picture, my dear doctor…”

He put Dr. Chalmers in the picture for thirty minutes, talking finance and politics, neither of which was the analyst’s forte.

“So there you are,” he finished. “The chances are it will be handed on a plate to the Russian government if we announce it immediately.”

Dr. Chalmers, who had nothing in particular against the Russian government, shrugged slightly. “I can’t change the facts, Sir James.”

Manson’s eyebrows shot up in horror. “Good gracious, Doctor, of course you can’t.” He glanced at his watch in surprise. “Close to one,” he exclaimed. “You must be hungry. I know I am. Let’s go and have a spot of lunch.”

He had thought of taking the Rolls, but after Endean’s phone call from Watford that morning and the information from the local news agent about the regular subscription to the Tribune, he opted for an ordinary taxi.

A spot of lunch proved to be pâté, a truffled omelet, jugged hare in red-wine sauce, and trifle. As Manson had suspected, Chalmers disapproved of such indulgence but at the same time had a healthy appetite. And even he could not reverse the simple laws of nature, which are that a good meal produces a sense of repletion, contentment, euphoria, and a lowering of more resistance. Manson had also counted on a beer drinker’s being unused to the fuller red wines, and two bottles of Côte du Rhône had encouraged Chalmers to talk about the subjects that interested him: his work, his family, and his views on the world.

It was when he touched on his family and their new house that Sir James Manson, looking suitably sorrowful, mentioned that he recalled having seen Chalmers in a television interview on the street a year back.

“Do forgive me,” he said, “I hadn’t realized before—I mean, about your little girl. What a tragedy.”

Chalmers nodded and gazed at the tablecloth. Slowly at first, and then with more confidence, he began to tell his superior about Margaret.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said at one point.

“I can try,” replied Sir James quietly. “I have a daughter myself, you know. Of course, she’s older.”

Ten minutes later there was a pause in the talking. Sir James Manson drew a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket. “I don’t really know how to put this,” he said with some embarrassment, “but—well, I am as aware as any man how much time and trouble you put in for the company. I am aware you work long hours, and the strain of this personal matter must have its effect on you, and no doubt on Mrs. Chalmers. So I issued this instruction to my personal bank this morning.”

He passed the carbon copy of the letter across to Chalmers, who read it. It was brief and to the point. It instructed the manager of Coutts Bank to remit by registered mail each month on the first day fifteen banknotes, each of value £10, to Dr. Gordon Chalmers at his home address. The remittances were to run for ten years unless further instructions were received.

Chalmers looked up. His employer’s face was all concern, tinged with embarrassment.

“Thank you,” said Chalmers softly.

Sir James’s hand rested on his forearm and shook it. “Now come on, that’s enough of this matter. Have a brandy.”

In the taxi on the way back to the office, Manson suggested he drop Chalmers off at the station where he could take his train for Watford.

“I have to get back to the office and get on with this Zangaro business and your report,” he said.

Chalmers was staring out of the cab window at the traffic moving out of London that Friday afternoon. “What are you going to do about it?” he asked.

“Don’t know, really. Of course, I’d like not to send it. Pity to see all that going into foreign hands, which is what must happen when your report gets to Zangaro. But I’ve got to send them something, sooner or later.”

There was another long pause as the taxi swung into the station forecourt.

“Is there anything I can do?” asked the scientist.

Sir James Manson breathed a long sigh. “Yes,” he said in measured tones. “Junk the Mulrooney samples in the same way as you would junk any other rocks and bags of sand. Destroy your analysis notes completely. Take your copy of the report and make an exact copy, with one difference—let it show the tests prove conclusively that there exist marginal quantities of low-grade tin which could not be economically mined. Burn your own copy of the original report. And then never mention a word of it.”

The taxi came to a halt, and as neither of his passengers moved, the cabbie poked his nose through the screen into the rear compartment. “This is it, guv.”