Background to Danger (31 page)

“Quick!” cried Zaleshoff. “Off the road!”

The road was built on a low embankment fringed on either side with birch trees. The two jumped down the side of the embankment and, keeping their heads low, ran along the gully at the bottom towards the blazing car. Already flames were leaping eighteen feet into the air, and the blazing petrol was pouring all over the road like liquid fire. Zaleshoff stopped and raised his head cautiously. A shot rang out above the roar of the flames and a bullet hit the edge of the road two feet away. Zaleshoff ducked down again.

“They’ve taken cover down off the other side of the road. We’ve got to do something quickly. If anyone comes along we’re done. Get back to the car and get across the road behind it. You’ll be able to take pot shots at them from there. It doesn’t matter whether you hit them or not—you won’t at that distance—but I want to keep them busy so that I can get at them from this side.”

“All right.”

Kenton ran back along the gully and got into position behind the car. Through the space between the spare wheels and the back of the body he could see Mailler and Saridza crouching beside a pile of stones below the road
level. Tamara got out of the driving-seat and stood beside him. He rested the revolver on the spare-wheel casing, squinted along the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked and he saw Mailler duck his head.

“Have you ever fired a revolver before?” said the girl.

“No, why?”

“You nearly hit your man.”

His ears still singing from the report, Kenton tried again; but the smoke from the burning wreckage of the car obscured his target. At his third shot he had the satisfaction of seeing Mailler peer round uncertainly looking for the source of the danger. The next moment the girl gave a little cry.

“What is it?”

“Look!”

Then he saw that Zaleshoff had left the shelter of the embankment and was crawling across the road.

“He’s crazy! He’ll get killed!”

As he spoke he saw the Russian’s arm shoot out and a stab of flame from his gun. Mailler’s hands went to his head. Almost at the same moment Saridza fired and Zaleshoff fell forward. The next instant Saridza turned and vanished among the trees.

Kenton dashed along the road. When he got to Zaleshoff, the Russian was trying to get to his feet, his hand clasped to his side, his face contorted with pain. Kenton went to help him. The wounded man waved him away.

“Saridza,” he gasped. “He’s got away.”

“All right,” said Kenton. He turned to the girl as she came running up, her face white.

“Get back to the car. He may try to get away with it.”

“Do what he says, Tamara.”

The girl turned and ran back. Revolver in hand Kenton plunged down the embankment and threaded his way among the trees. Then he stopped and listened. For a
moment or two there was not a sound but dripping of water from the branches. Then he heard a slight movement ahead and to the left. He made his way carefully in the direction of the sound. Suddenly a twig snapped beneath his foot. A second afterwards a gun crashed and a bullet whipped through the undergrowth. He bent double and crept forward. The man ahead fired again. Kenton halted. Then, through a gap between the trees, he saw Saridza. The man was peering about him like a hunted animal. Kenton raised his gun. At that moment Saridza saw him. His arm jerked up. The revolver in his hand clicked twice, but no shot came. Kenton saw panic seize him. Saridza dropped the revolver and put his hands up.

“I surrender,” he said quickly.

His finger quivering on the trigger, the journalist walked forward into the clearing. His eyes met those of the other man and he knew that he could not shoot.

Saridza licked his lips.

“What are you going to do?”

“I haven’t decided. I’m trying to think of a single reason why I shouldn’t shoot you as dead as you would have shot me a minute ago.”

“You were armed.”

“If our positions were reversed, you would tell me that to run out of ammunition was part of the fortune of war—that is, if you bothered to do any explaining.”

Saridza regarded him warily.

“I know you want the photographs. Let me go free and you shall have them. That is a fair bargain.”

“You are not in a position to bargain. I could take the photographs off your dead body. I know what you are thinking at the moment. You are thinking that the longer you can keep me talking the less likely I am to shoot you down in cold blood. You forget that I cannot afford to let
you go alive. Mailler may be dead. You would go to the police.”

He had expected protestations. To his surprise a look of genuine amusement came into Saridza’s eyes.

“You must have a very poor opinion of your friend Zaleshoff if you think that he would allow himself to be caught like that. He would have dozens of witnesses to prove that he and you never left Prague to-day.”

Kenton raised his revolver until it was pointing at the man’s chest.

“I don’t think we need prolong this interview.”

The amusement faded from Saridza’s eyes. His face went a yellow grey.

“I’ll give you half a minute to get those photographs from your pocket and throw them on the ground where I can pick them up. Which pocket are they in?”

“The right-hand one, inside my coat.”

“Put your left hand in slowly and take them out. Keep the other hand up. I hope your nerves are good because if your hand jerks a fraction of an inch I shall fire.”

Saridza obeyed. A packet fell at Kenton’s feet. Keeping his eyes fixed on the man in front of him, Kenton stooped and picked it up. He eased the prints out of the packet and counted them.

“There are only ten here. Where are the other five?”

Saridza hesitated. Kenton thumbed back the hammer of the revolver.

“In the left-hand pocket.”

A few seconds later another envelope was lying on the ground. Kenton counted the remaining prints carefully and put them in his pocket with the others.

“All right, walk back four paces.”

Saridza did so. Kenton stepped forward and picked up the revolver the man had dropped? They faced each other.

“May I ask you a question, Mr. Kenton?”

“Yes?”

“Who released you from that tank?”

“No one. We released ourselves.”

“I bow to your ingenuity. May one ask how?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t got time to go into that now. Turn round.”

The other obeyed.

Kenton reversed the revolver he had picked up and held it by the barrel like a club. He walked up behind Saridza.

“Just a moment, Mr. Kenton.”

“What is it?”

“Before you knock me insensible I should like to remind you of an offer I made to you last night.”

“Well?”

“That offer is still open, but I would, if you cared to reconsider your decision, double the retaining fee. A letter addressed to me care of Mr. Balterghen of the Pan-Eurasian Petroleum Company, London, will always find me. That’s all.”

Kenton stood back.

“Turn round, Saridza.”

The man turned. Kenton regarded him grimly.

“The Anglo-Saxon sense of humour, Saridza, is one of the most emasculating influences known to mankind. I am the unfortunate possessor of such a sense of humour. You can go. Go on. Clear out. But I warn you. If you show your face within the next twenty-four hours I shall shoot you on sight.”

Saridza turned without a word and walked off among the trees. He did not look back.

Kenton made his way back to the road.

Zaleshoff had crawled to the side of the road and was lying in the mud attempting to staunch the wound in his side with a blood-soaked handkerchief. His face was white
and drawn, his eyes searched the journalist’s face anxiously as Kenton clambered up the embankment.

“You failed?”

Kenton took the two envelopes from his pocket and scattered the contents on the ground by the wounded man. Zaleshoff examined them feverishly. Then he looked up.

“I heard shots. You killed him?”

Kenton shook his head. The Russian was silent for a moment.

“It is a pity,” he said at last, “but I am glad you did not. It would have worried you.”

Kenton glanced at the body of Mailler lying at the bottom of the embankment.

“What about him?”

“Dead. Have you got a match?”

Kenton went down on one knee, crumpled the photographs together and set light to them. When they were burned, he scattered the ashes with his foot.

It was late in the afternoon and the light was going when Madame Smedoff waddled into her parlour. Kenton sat up on the divan on which he had been dozing.

“How is he?”

Madame Smedoff rolled down the sleeves of her black silk dress and rearranged her shawl.

“He has a little fever but the wound is not dangerous. The bullet passed right through the side, just below the rib-case. In a fortnight he will be able to get up.”

“Oughtn’t we to get a doctor?”

She fluttered her eyelids at him and smiled impishly.

“I am a doctor, Mr. Kenton. I was trained at the Sorbonne.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t be a silly boy. Go in and see Andreas Prokovitch. He needs sleep badly, but says he must see you.” She
looked at him solemnly. “He is embarrassed. He asked me to thank you for what you did for him to-day. He does not wish you to think him ungrateful.” She patted his arm.

Kenton smiled and went into the bedroom.

Tamara was sitting beside the bed. Her eyes were shining in a way Kenton had not seen before.

Zaleshoff greeted him weakly.

“Look at Tamara,” he added, “she is happy. For years I have not seen her look so happy. And all because I say we will go to Moscow for a holiday. It is incredible.”

His eyelids drooped wearily.

Kenton saw that there were tears in the girl’s eyes.

“No more snakes and ladders for a bit?”

She smiled.

“What are you talking about?” muttered Zaleshoff. “Did she tell you, Kenton, that Ortega was arrested this morning?”

“Yes, how did you work it?”

“He was found by the railway track, dead.”

“Dead!”

“He died the night after he killed Borovansky. The confession was found by his body with the gun that killed him. He committed suicide.”

“I’m ready to make allowances for a sick man, Andreas, but you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

“He committed suicide just as surely as if he had fired the gun himself. Just before we got you back to Kölnerstrasse, he tried to escape from Rashenko. That
is
suicide.”

“Then where has he been all this time?”

“In the empty room below Rashenko as I told you. Rashenko owns the whole of that house. The woman who lives downstairs is his cousin.”

“And do you mean to say that you let the police go on hunting me when you could have cleared the thing up as you have now?”

“I told you to stay with Rashenko. When you turned up in Prague I asked for instructions. I was told to keep you with me in case you communicated with the newspapers or the English authorities. I did so.”

Kenton swallowed hard.

“Well, Zaleshoff,” he said at last, “when I classed you with Saridza and Mailler as my pet banes, I did them a gross injustice. You beat them with plenty to spare.”

Zaleshoff opened his eyes. His gaze flickered from Kenton to his sister. Then a slow smile spread over his face, and he closed his eyes again.

“You know, Tamara,” he murmured drowsily, “I like this guy Kenton. He amuses me.”

Two days later Kenton boarded the Berlin train at Prague.

A lot of sleep, numerous baths and new clothes (supplied by an adamantly insistent Zaleshoff) had done much towards repairing the ravages of the previous few days. An invitation, issued by Zaleshoff through Tamara, and ultimately received via Madame Smedoff, to visit Moscow in two months’ time had induced an optimistic outlook. He was feeling good.

The train was fairly crowded. He shared a compartment with three men. One of them he judged to be Hungarian. The other two were Czechs. From their conversation, Kenton gathered that all three were commercial travellers. He began to read the newspaper he had bought on the station.

The train drew slowly out of the station. He put the paper down and felt in his pocket for a cigarette. The Hungarian caught his eye.

“Pardon,
mein Herr,”
he said, “we are about to play a game of poker-dice—one
pfennig
is the maximum stake. We are three. Would you care to play also?”

Kenton hesitated. Then he smiled regretfully and shook his head.

“Thank you,
mein Herr
. It is good of you. I am afraid I don’t play.”

BACKGROUND TO DANGER

Kenton’s career as a journalist depended on his exceptional facility with languages, his knowledge of European politics, and his quick judgment. Where his judgment sometimes failed him was in his personal life. When he finds himself on a train bound for Austria after a bad night of gambling, he eagerly takes an opportunity to earn money helping a refugee smuggle securities across the border. He soon discovers that the documents he holds have more than monetary value, and that European politics has more twists and turns than the most convoluted newspaper account.