“I’ve been ringing you up on the telephone all day,” he said, “and couldn’t get you. Where have you been?”
“Down at the club,” I said, “talking to Malcolmson about the plot—what you’d call the situation I suppose. You can hardly be expected to admit that there is a plot. Now, do tell me what you think about the situation.”
“Damn the situation!” said Gorman.
“That,” I said, “seems the sensible view to take. Is it the one usually held? Is that what they’re saying up there?”
I pointed to the ceiling with my thumb. Somewhere above my head, it might be supposed, statesmen with furrowed brows were taking anxious counsel together for the safety of the nation, retiring now and then when utterly exhausted, to damn the situation in private rooms.
“Some of them are a bit fussed,” said Gorman. “Silly asses! But it isn’t that wretched business that I wanted to speak to you about.”
“Good gracious! Do you mean to say that you can talk of anything else? that you didn’t ring me up to tell me what will happen?”
“Nothing will happen,” said Gorman. “Two or three muddled-headed young fools at the Curragh will get court-martialled. That’s all. What I wanted to see you about is this new invention of Tim’s. There’s really something in it.”
“Gorman,” I said. “You’re fiddling while Rome is burning. How can you reconcile it to your conscience to play with cinematographs when a horrible conspiracy is threatening life and liberty?”
“Surely,” said Gorman, “you don’t really believe that we plotted, as they call it, to murder people in Belfast?”