The Deadly Affair

Mr. Fennan, we know it's idiotic,

but when the Foreign Secretary finds

that sort of letter in his in-tray,

it's like London airport getting an anonymous phone call

to say that there's a bomb on the Prime Minister's plane,

and somebody's got to do a check.

Was the letter anonymous?

Yes.

Was it literate?

Oh, yes, properly spelt, properly punctuated.

No cranky stuff.

Handwriting?

It was typewritten.

An Olivetti portable. Westminster postmark.

And what exactly did it allege?

It said that you were a member

of the Communist Party at Oxford in the '30s

and that you were still secretly sympathetic

with the communist cause.

But my dear Mr...

Dobbs, Charles Dobbs.

Practically everybody was a member of the Party at Oxford in the '30s.

Half the present Cabinet were Party men.

Please!

You know, Mr. Dobbs, when you're young,

you hitch the wagon of whatever you believe in

to whatever star looks likely to get the wagon moving.

When I was an undergraduate,

the wagon was social justice,

and the star was Karl Marx.

We perambulated with banners.

We fed hunger marchers.

A few of us fought in Spain.

Some of us even wrote poetry.

I still believe it was a good wagon, but an impracticable star.

We had faith and hope and charity.

A wrong faith, a false hope,

but I still think the right sort of charity.

Our eyes were dewy with it.

Dewy and half-shut.

Who opened them?

- Ann? - No, no, Appleby.

Oh, Bill! I'm sorry.

Well, I hope you're wide awake, old boy,

because your subject Fennan has shot himself.

But when I was in the park with him this morning,

he was as happy as a bloody lark.

I liked him.

We had a perfectly satisfactory interview,

and I as good as promised him full security clearance.

What on Earth makes them think it was suicide?

Body position.

- Yes. I'll be right over. - How long?

In, well, about 20 minutes if I can get a taxi.

Ann took the car

and I don't think she's back yet.

Does the Adviser know yet?

Yes.

Oh, hell.

Well, I'll be as quick as I can. Bye.

Ann?

I want to go to...

Oh, well, that's my own car coming back.

There you are, five bob, all right?

Oh, thanks. Thanks very much.

Good night.

Good night.

Are you arriving or leaving, Charles?

Leaving. Just the office. There's a flap on.

You have a good evening?

Yes,

I'm afraid so.

Who was it this time?

Oh, I see. Somebody I know.

Do you want the car?

- Darling... - Get back to bed, darling.

Back?

I turned your fire on. It's bloody cold.

Oh, Charlie, you're in the nick of time.

What for?

To stop the Adviser from having kittens, darling.

He just left Scotland Yard in a state of advanced pregnancy.

There's a squabble going on about which department handles the case.

- Special Branch says... - Special Branch.

CID says CID.

Poor old Surrey Police don't know what's hit them.

Well, what does the Foreign Office say?

Oh, Foreign Office think they do know what's hit them.

The death of a loyal and talented staff member, blah, blah, blah.

Well, he was, Bill.

Worried sick and driven to suicide

by the Gestapo methods

of a brutal intelligence officer, blah, blah.

You know that's a load of bull.

I had a perfectly friendly interview

with this man in the park.

I left him happy.

Well, if you tell that to the Adviser, you'll leave him unhappy.

He's scared enough about the newspapers splashing a suicide.

If this department starts even hinting

that Fennan might have been murdered,

and then it turned out to be wrong...

I warn you, he'll want to play it safe.

Tell us exactly what happened.

Fennan and his wife lived down in, um...

Surrey.

At Walliston, I know that!

She went to the local theater alone this evening,

well, yesterday evening now.

She came home about 10:45,

found he'd shot himself in the living room.

He left a sealed letter addressed to the Foreign Secretary.

Has it been opened?

Appleby.

Has Dobbs arrived?

Yes, Adviser.

At once, please!

Save a kitten for me, darling!

Thank you.

The police believe it to be a clear case of suicide.

Do you?

What I believe is not the point, Dobbs.

The point is, the Foreign Office believe the police.

It's unfortunate that in this distressing matter

we are now answerable to the two public bodies

with whom our current relations are most,

shall I say, uneasy.

If, of course, there are facts

not included in your confidential report

which point to Fennan's suicide for reasons

other than his interview with you,

I shall be happy to hear about them. Are there?

Have they opened his suicide letter?

They're Photostatting the original.

It was typed on Fennan's own machine

and signed with what's indubitably his own signature.

It carries not only the date, January the 3rd,

but also the time, 10:30 p.m.

That's a little unusual.

A methodical man could still be methodical in extremis.

"My dear Minister, after some hesitation

"I have decided to take my life.

"I cannot spend my remaining years

"under a cloud of suspected disloyalty.

"I realize that I am the victim

"of paid informers and that my career is ruined.

"Yours sincerely, Samuel Fennan."

May I have your comments?

Yes, you may.

He must have been raving mad.

The letter sounds perfectly sane.

But so did he when I interviewed him!

He was a little over-talkative perhaps,

but I put that down to understandable nervousness.

Quite.

That's why I suggested we clear out of his office,

which was rather public anyhow,

with people coming and going,

and conduct the interview less formally in the park.

Then I may take it that his suicide and, of course, his letter,

came as a complete surprise to you.

You find no explanation?

No.

You have no idea who denounced him?

No, neither had he.

He was married, you know.

Yes.

A somewhat unusual woman.

Foreign. Jewish, too, I gather.

Suffered rather badly in concentration camps during the war,

which rather adds to our embarrassment.

It seems conceivable that she might be able to fill in some of the gaps.

I think you ought to go and see her.

Me?

But she thinks that I'm responsible

for her husband's death.

If you want police cooperation at Walliston,

we've put in Inspector Mendel down there as our liaison officer.

I don't think you've worked with him before.

He's a CID man. I thought he'd retired.

He has.

That makes it easier for him

to serve two masters impartially,

the police and us.

Sir, the Minister is calling.

Put him on.

- Martin? - Yes, Minister.

- Any progress? - Yes.

I have the man in charge of the case

with me now.

He will be with the widow at 8:15 this morning.

Good. Keep me informed.

Yes, naturally. The moment I have his report.

Right. Right.

Yes. Goodbye, Minister.

Could you see her at 8:15?

Do you really think that this woman will...

I'll telephone you at 8:45.

You better go home now and get some sleep while you can.

If I can.