Judgment on Deltchev (15 page)

‘Herr
Valmo
?’ I said.

He smiled. ‘I am afraid a little explanation is due to you,
mein Herr
.’ He had a quiet, monotonous voice.

‘It was not possible for
me
to explain, Herr Foster,’ said Pashik. ‘I could not break a confidence.’

‘Please sit down, Herr Foster, and you, my dear Pashik. A cigarette? Ah, you are already smoking. As our friend Pashik explained to you, I am, you might say, some sort of a policeman, a very’ – he made a belittling gesture with his hand – ‘a very confidential sort of policeman.’ The woman appeared at the door with a tray and he glanced round. ‘Yes, come in, Mentcha. Put it down.’ He turned again, pulled round a chair, and sat facing me. ‘Coffee and a little brandy, Herr Foster. You have had a very upsetting experience, our friend tells me. Thank you, Mentcha. Shut the door. And now,’ he went on as she went out, ‘we must set your mind at rest. In the coffee, the brandy?’

‘Thank you.’

Pashik was sitting deferentially by as if at a conference between his superiors. The hand holding his cigarette was trembling slightly.

Valmo handed me a cup and went on talking as he filled the other two. ‘There is one thing,’ he said, ‘that I must ask of you, Herr Foster. That is that you respect the confidence of what I am about to tell you.’ He held a cup out to Pashik but he looked at me. ‘Pashik tells me that you are not friendly to the regime here. I understand. But I am not a politician. I am a civil servant. Our country is a
centre for many conspiracies against the law and it is my task to destroy them. Can I be certain that you will respect my confidence, Herr Foster?’

‘Yes.’ I tasted the coffee.

‘Very well.’ He put his cup behind him on the table and then leaned forward toward me with his elbows on his knees and his hands together. ‘In my role of policeman, Herr Foster, it was my duty to seek out the perpetrators of the bomb outrage against Herr Deltchev which took place shortly before his arrest. I made certain secret enquiries and investigations. It was believed that the criminals had had the Deltchev family under surveillance, and members of the family co-operated with me in identifying them. I have said that my function is not political. Herr Deltchev’s trial does not relieve me of the responsibility of tracing these criminals. You understand?’

I nodded.

‘For reasons with which I will not trouble you,’ he continued, ‘it became necessary for me to install an agent in the Patriarch Dimo. For convenience and identification, the agent employed my name. Very well. Three days ago my agent reported to me that he had news of the men we were after. That night he was killed.’ He paused impressively.

‘Who found him dead?’ I asked.

He stared at me for a moment. Then he turned round and picked up his coffee cup again. ‘I did, Herr Foster,’ he said blandly. ‘However, let me continue. The agent had collected certain documentary evidence against the conspirators, which he kept hidden in the room. I discovered that this had not been stolen. Therefore, I argued, they did not know of its existence. Therefore, if they were
made aware of its existence they would return for it. Therefore I replaced the true documents with some false ones that I prepared and sat down to wait for results.’

‘You mean you put a secret watch on the house to catch the murderer when he returned?’

He smiled gently and shook his head. ‘I am afraid you do not know the street of the Patriarch Dimo, Herr Foster,’ he said. ‘That sort of secret could not be kept there. No. I set a different kind of trap. All I wanted was to get the false documents into the conspirators’ hands. I had reason to believe that in fact that had happened. Tonight I asked Herr Pashik, who is a friend of mine and also sometimes a helper, to go to the house and make sure.’ He spread his hands out like a conjuror. ‘He finds you there.’

‘With a letter addressed to you.’

‘Exactly. Katerina Deltchev had recalled an important piece of evidence. She wrote to tell me of it.’

‘Through your agent.’

‘Naturally. This address is most confidential, Herr Foster. So you see how it has happened and the need for your discretion.’ He sat back with a smile, clicked his lighter, and held the letter in the flame of it. As it caught fire, he smiled at me again. ‘I’m sure you do,’ he added.

I thought quickly. It was just not quite good enough. The man who called himself Valmo and said that he was of the secret police had had a certain initial advantage; he did not look like the conventional secret policemen of fiction. If he had been vaguer and more mysterious about his story, it might even have been convincing. There would have been nothing unlikely about a secret policeman who was secretive. But this man had seen the holes in his story as he was telling it and instead of leaving them had tried
to cover them up. For instance, having indicated an official connection between the Deltchev household and Patriarch Dimo Street he had decided that it did not satisfactorily cover Katerina’s letter, so he had added another detail: that weak one about her recalling an important piece of evidence. It would have been better to let me see the hole and question it. He could then have replied with a knowing shake of the head that he was afraid he could not permit himself to give me that information. And that, in turn, would have prevented my asking the awkward question I did in fact ask.

‘Herr Valmo,’ I said, ‘what I don’t understand is why Fräulein Deltchev, who is under house arrest, has to get me to smuggle out a letter to the head of the secret police. Why didn’t she just give it to one of the sentries?’

He crushed the ashes of the letter onto the tray. ‘She is a girl. No doubt she was afraid I would not get it.’

‘She seemed more concerned about the censorship than anything else. She made me promise to deliver it by hand.’

‘Confinement affects some people strangely.’

‘Shall you go to see her?’

‘It may be necessary. I do not know.’ He was getting confused now. He pulled himself together a trifle impatiently. ‘Those, however, are not matters of immediate concern, Herr Foster. It is your position that we must make clear.’

‘Yes?’

‘I have given you a great deal of confidential information. It must, please, remain confidential.’ His pale eyes stared at me coldly. ‘I may add, Herr Foster, that if you were not a distinguished journalist, it would have been
considered advisable to put you in prison for a short while to make sure of your behaviour. That, however, we need not discuss. You have already assured me that you will be discreet. I require now three further undertakings from you. Firstly’ – he held up a finger – ‘that you will not return to the house in the Patriarch Dimo or tell anyone of it. Secondly, that you will not again visit the Deltchev house. Thirdly, that you will make no attempt to identify this house and that you forget its existence, and mine.’

I did not reply immediately. I knew now the kind of conversation that must have taken place between Valmo and Pashik while I was safely locked up and waiting. My one desire was to get out of the place as quickly as possible. But I had the sense to realize that if I showed my anxiety and agreed to the terms too hastily, they would not feel quite safe. They were both watching me narrowly. I frowned, then looked up and nodded.

‘All right,’ I said curtly. ‘I agree. And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like another brandy.’

Valmo stood up. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said perfunctorily. He poured a small one. He could not wait to get rid of me now. ‘Herr Pashik?’

‘Thank you, no.’

They stood looking at me impatiently while I sipped the brandy. It was the only moment of enjoyment I had had in the whole evening and it lasted about ten seconds. As I swallowed the first sip, I heard the front door of the apartment open and close and footsteps in the passage outside.

‘It is my brother,’ said Valmo quickly.

Then the door opened and a young man came into the room. He saw me and stopped.

‘Good evening, Jika,’ Valmo said. ‘We are talking a little business. I shall be with you in a minute.’

He was about twenty-five, dark and very tired-looking. He had a raincoat on and his hair was blown about as if he had been in an open car. He looked at us suspiciously. For a moment he did not move; then he turned away slowly and went to the door.

‘Don’t be too long, Aleko,’ he said. ‘I have something for you.’

I raised the brandy to my mouth again. I was not looking directly at Pashik, but I could see his face and it had gone the colour of mud. He knew that I had seen the ‘Aleko’ note in the Deltchev file and for some reason was terrified lest I had remembered it. Aleko himself was waiting for me to finish my drink. The use of his Christian name had not visibly upset him. But the situation was delicate. I had seen something I should not have seen, but Pashik did not know if I realized it. The main thing then was to get out of the apartment before he could make up his mind what to do. I drank the brandy at a gulp and held out my hand to Aleko.

‘Thank you, Herr Valmo, and goodbye.’

He smiled agreeably. ‘I hope your stay is pleasant here, Herr Foster,’ he said.

I turned to Pashik. ‘Are you going to drive me back to my hotel, Pashik?’

‘Yes, Mr Foster, yes,’ he said heavily.

We went along the passage to the front door. Aleko came out to the lift with us. He shook my hand again.

‘I have liked you, Herr Foster,’ he said, ‘and with a journalist that is a new experience for me. I have faith in you. Goodbye.’

He might have been sending a promising young dancer on a first international tour.

Pashik was already in the lift. I got in after him. We went down in silence.

It was not until we were in his car and out on the road again that I broke the silence.

‘Aleko Valmo,’ I said. ‘A curious name.’

‘In these parts it is quite common, Mr Foster,’ he said calmly.

He had made up his mind that I had forgotten the other name.

I was not feeling very friendly toward Pashik, and for a moment or two I toyed with the idea of asking him suddenly, ‘What was the case of K. Fischer, Vienna ’46, about, Pashik, and what had Aleko to do with it?’

Then I decided not to. We did not speak again until he drew up outside my hotel. As I went to get out, he put his hand on my arm, and his brown eyes sought mine.

‘Mr Foster,’ he said, ‘it has been a lousy experience for you this evening and no doubt you will wish to forget all about it. That is, if you are wise.’

I did not answer. His voice took on its cautious roundabout tone.

‘I wish only to tell you,’ he said, ‘that I understand your feelings and share them. But you have your own profession and need not trouble about what happens to dead-beats and bums far away from your home. Men are dying all over the world for the causes they believe in. You cannot fight their battles.’

‘Are you telling me that I should mind my own business?’ I asked.

‘Ah, please, Mr Foster!’ He spread his hands out. ‘You are mad at me.’

I was exasperated. ‘I’m not mad at you, Pashik. I’m merely trying to get you to say straight out what you mean without all this double talk. I don’t mind being advised to mind my own business. That’s all right. I don’t have to take the advice if I don’t want to. I’m still capable of deciding what is my own business and what isn’t. I’m not fighting any battles. I’m trying to find out what goes on here.’

‘That is what I mean, Mr Foster. It does no good to try.’

‘You mean I won’t be able to find out?’

He looked away from me and picked at the steering wheel. ‘You force me to be frank, Mr Foster.’

‘What’s the matter with frankness? Why has it to be forced?’

‘You say you fight no battles, Mr Foster,’ he said quietly, ‘but I tell you, you are wandering like a fool between the opposing forces of those who are. That is a crazy thing to do. Once, years ago in Vienna, I saw street fighting between troops and revolutionaries. The fighting went on for many days. But there was one street that was swept equally by the fire of both sides, and neither could advance. Then one afternoon something very silly happened, as so often it happens in war. Into this empty, silent street there came a man. We heard his footsteps first. Then we saw him. He staggered from a side turning right into the middle of the street and stood there swaying. He belonged to neither side. He was drunk and did not know where he was or what he was doing. He began to sing and wave and call out for a woman. At first the soldiers laughed and shouted jokes at him. But after a while their officer
noticed that the enemy was taking advantage of the distraction to run across the far end of the street in ones and twos so as to outflank the troops. He shouted a warning and they opened fire. The enemy replied with covering fire and the street was swept from end to end with machine-gun bullets. The drunk was killed immediately. You see, Mr Foster?’

‘Which side were you on?’

‘I was a soldier then. I have been many things, Mr Foster.’

‘Yes. Tell me. The reason that your friend Valmo doesn’t want me to go to the Deltchev house again is that he doesn’t want me to ask Katerina Deltchev to confirm his story, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Foster. As long as you keep faith with Mr Valmo it does not matter. One thing I have to ask of you myself, however. I thought it discreet not to mention your connection with Petlarov; it would have complicated the affair. None of these things must on any account be mentioned to Petlarov. Or Mr Sibley. That is most important.’

‘All right.’ I was tired of the whole business now. I wanted to get to bed. I opened the car door. Pashik put out his hand again.

‘You will think over what I said, Mr Foster,’ he said anxiously. ‘It is for your own good I ask.’

I got out of the car. ‘I’ll be very sober,’ I said. ‘That I promise you. Good night.’

I was about to slam the door. He leaned across and held it open. His glasses flickered in the light from the hotel entrance as he looked up at me.

‘I hope so,’ he said slowly. ‘But if you do not intend to
take my advice, Mr Foster, it might be less painful to be drunk. Good night.’

Then he shut the door and drove off.