Judgment on Deltchev (27 page)

‘Philip Deltchev will have escaped?’

‘Exactly, Mr Foster. That was why the plan seemed so good at first to Philip and Pazar and so strange to me. Until I knew that Brankovitch was deeply involved and saw that it would be quite easy for him to arrange for the police to be warned that, say, thieves disguised as soldiers would be raiding such-and-such a building during the parade and that a patrol waiting at the exits could catch them red-handed.’

‘So as there will be no Philip, there will be no assassination. Is that it?’

‘No, Mr Foster, that is not it. There were to be three on the gun – Philip, myself, and one of Aleko’s men.’

‘One of those who tried to kill me?’

‘That is so. But there is another man and Aleko himself. What, I asked myself, would they be doing while Vukashin was being assassinated?’

‘Leaving the country, I should think.’

‘Yes, I thought that. But three days ago there was a serious complication. Aleko told us that there would be a second gun on another roof and that he and the other man would man it. Philip would have the honour of firing first, but Aleko would be there in case of an emergency. What would that suggest to you, Mr Foster?’

‘That he was suspicious? That he didn’t trust Philip?’

‘Yes, I considered those possibilities. But then another thought occurred to me, a very interesting idea. Luckily I was able to check it. The following night the guns were hidden on the roofs we had selected—’

‘Which are they?’

He smiled. ‘That I think I will not tell you, Mr Foster. You will discover.’

There was something very disturbing about that smile. I suddenly became uneasy.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘The guns were wrapped in sacking and hung by wires inside the brick chimneys. Very early in the morning I returned by myself and examined them.’ He paused, smiling again.

‘And—?’

‘The gun on Philip’s roof had no firing pin. It had been taken out.’

I looked blank. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t see—’

‘Don’t you, Mr Foster?’ His eyes gleaming through the spectacles were no longer sad. ‘Power is a great thing, you know. To be able to move and control great affairs – not the characters and situations on a stage, Mr Foster, but the real – that is the greatest of all pleasures. You feel it in the stomach.’ He patted his own. ‘Here. I feel it now.’

‘Yes?’ I wondered suddenly if he were mad.

‘Consider.’ He stood up and strode over to the window. ‘A man in Aleko’s profession is always in a difficult position. He must always be sure that his master has the power to protect him. He must always be sure that the master wishes to protect him. And he must consider the future. It is dangerous for him to serve one powerful person at the expense of another who may later do him harm. Aleko is clever. He would not have survived if he had not been. He is used to weighing advantages. And so I ask myself questions. Why are there two guns? Why is there no firing pin in a gun that Aleko expects to pour bullets into Vukashin? I answer, because it is Vukashin who is Aleko’s best master and has been so perhaps from the first. What ultimate chance has Brankovitch in a struggle for power over Vukashin’s dead body? None! He would go down in the end. His own intelligence would trip him. The sort of brutal cunning that lets him dig his own grave will always win. That is Vukashin’s strength and Aleko knows it. Philip would have pressed the trigger of a gun aimed at Vukashin and nothing would have happened. Aleko would have pressed the trigger of the second gun, aimed at Brankovitch, and the gun would have fired. Philip and I and Aleko’s man would have been arrested and hanged. The gun that would be used in evidence would be the one Aleko left on the other roof. The two murderous Deltchevs would hang
together. The murderous Agrarian Socialists would be punished. Vukashin would be secure both from the opposition and from the plots and ambitions of Brankovitch. Aleko, who loves skiing, would be waiting, rich and happy, for the snow at St Moritz. A pretty picture, Mr Foster!’

‘Yes.’ There seemed nothing else to say.

‘But a picture that will not be seen.’

‘Because Philip is in Athens.’

He held up a finger. ‘And because I am here.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will see now why I wish you to understand. The one obstacle is Aleko’s man – one of those who tried to kill you – the one who was to have been with Philip and me. In one hour’s time he will go to a rendezvous to meet us. If we do not arrive he will go to Aleko to warn him, and when Aleko knows that Philip is not there he will not fire. Brankovitch’s life will be saved.’

‘I see.’

‘But if I stop this man, Aleko will fire. Brankovitch will die, and because there is no Philip to arrest, Vukashin will have to take Aleko. And when Philip has told his story to you and it is ringing round the world, Vukashin’s day will begin to end. That is, if I stop this man.’

I said nothing.

For a moment he continued to stare out of the window; then he turned to face me, his self-assurance gone, his face working grotesquely. ‘Do I stop him, Mr Foster?’ he demanded.
‘You
tell me!’

I stared at him, and he read my thoughts.

He shook his head. ‘No, Mr Foster, it is not in your hands. There is nobody here for you to tell this story to. That is if you yourself wish to live. Warn Brankovitch, and
you will be rewarded by him with a bullet. Warn Vukashin and it will be the same. You know too much for either’s safety.’

‘There’s our legation. They could warn Brankovitch.’

‘Then you would be killing me instead. I do not think you will choose that alternative. You have no moral dilemma, Mr Foster. It is my own I put to you.’

I was silent.

He sat down and gazed suddenly into space for a moment. ‘Do you know America well?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Not very well.’

‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘neither do I.’

He was silent again. I did not speak. I knew, as if he were thinking aloud, that he was submitting his problem to the judgment of Passaic, New Jersey, Oakland, California, and Hagerstown, Maryland. It was perhaps as good a way of resolving it as any other.

When at last he stood up he was as calm and businesslike as the day we had met. He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me.

‘Your ticket for the press box at the anniversary parade, Mr Foster. I should have given it to you before. Even after what has happened, I do not see that there can be any objection to your using it. Your train, I would remind you, is at five. Have you money?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

He held out his hand. ‘I will try to get to the station to look after you, but there will be the cables and so on to attend to. You will forgive me if I cannot make it?’

I shook hands with him. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you very much for all your help.’

He put up a protesting hand. ‘A pleasure, Mr Foster.’

He turned away briskly, picked up his briefcase, and walked to the door. Then he paused.

‘You’re welcome,’ he added, and went.

The parade began at two o’clock.

It was only a quarter of a mile or so from the hotel to the Square, but the crowds along the route of the parade and in the streets approaching the Square were dense. It took me a long time to get through. The day was very warm and I felt tired and ill and frightened. I had not eaten any lunch. My legs were like paper and I kept thinking that I had lost something valuable. The sensation was curiously familiar. I had felt like that once before. And then I remembered: it had been when I was walking back to a hotel in Seville after seeing my first and only bullfight.

The press box was in a wooden stand built over the cathedral steps and at right-angles to the front of the palace. The parade would pass below it, then bear left to march past the saluting base halfway up the palace steps. There a waist-high balustrade had been erected. It was draped with flags, and on the step below, flowers were banked to give an appearance of depth to the structure. Behind and above it were the crowded boxes of the lesser dignitaries. The whole Square was a mass of flags and brilliantly coloured flowers. The façades of the buildings that formed the square were mostly of a honey-coloured stone, but the paving had been spread with white sand, and in the bright hot sunshine the effect was dazzling.

It was five minutes to the hour when I got there, and
all but a few seats in the box were already filled. I could see the back of Sibley’s head near the front. Nearly everyone had sunglasses, but I had forgotten mine, and the glare from the sand was painful. Somewhere a military band was playing, and every now and then a section of the crowd would raise a cheer. Heads would turn at the sound, but the cheer would die away. I looked at the rooftops. There was a canopy over the stand I was in and I could see only a small section of them. From there to the saluting base was a little over two hundred yards. At that range even a recruit could hit a man with one burst from an automatic gun. Perhaps even now an eye was peering through sights at the palace steps.

I wiped my face and neck with my handkerchief and looked at the official programme. A duplicated translation had been slipped into it for the benefit of us foreigners. The parade would symbolize the plough and the sword in harmony together. First would come the floats carrying the tableaux of the various industries and crafts. Then the massed representatives of sport and culture. Finally the parade of military and air power. The whole parade would be led by a special tableau depicting the victory of the People’s Party. This tableau would halt before the Ministry of the Interior to summon the Party leaders to witness the parade, the visible demonstration of the triumph of their work for the Motherland.

I had seen this float lurking in a side street just off the square. It was a huge affair mounted on a platform carried by an aircraft transportation truck. Art, Science, Industry, Agriculture, and Armed Might, each with its subsidiary tableau, were grouped round a white flag-decked plinth supporting a huge Winged Victory in wood and plaster.
The subsidiary tableaux had the usual props: for Industry there was an anvil, for Science a retort on a bench, for Agriculture a plough and so on. There were brackets and ledges jutting out from the sides of the plinth obviously for the use of the girls in voluminous white robes who would presently drape themselves round the feet of the Victory.

At eight minutes past two another band entered into the Square and formed up round the statue in the centre. Then the bodyguards marched in with machine pistols at the ready and to the accompaniment of excited cheers took up their positions on the steps below the saluting base. The stage was being set. At two eleven a squadron of cavalry clattered round from the far side and halted in line beneath the stand I was in. An order was shouted. The cavalry drew their sabres, and a single note on a bugle sounded. With a crash the bands began to play the national anthem. All those who had seats rose to their feet. Then with a roar of cheering, a waving of flags and hats, and another crash of music the Winged Victory float began to move into the square.

My heart was beating so quickly and the blood was thudding so violently in my head that the din of brass bands and cheering was like a continuous rushing sound. I sat down, but it was no better. I stood up again. A man’s voice came through the loudspeakers. He was talking very quickly – giving a description of the tableaux, I suppose. The Victory, preceded by a small detachment of troops on foot, turned jerkily and passed our stand. The statue was wobbling as it moved along and the girls posing on the plinth wobbled with it; but I had no desire to laugh. I found myself staring at the tableau of Industry on one
corner of the platform. A man in a leather apron had a sledgehammer raised above the anvil as if to strike. His arms were already feeling the strain and I watched the head of the hammer gradually getting lower. Then the float began to turn again and he was out of sight. On the far side of the square, troops presented arms as the Victory came into view. It crawled on until it was nearly level with the centre statue, then swung across to the foot of the steps exactly facing the saluting base and stopped. The girls on the plinth took up a new pose so that they all faced the palace.

Suddenly there was a tremendous roll of drums, and over the entire Square the crowd fell silent. The drums ceased abruptly. Then the bands began to play the People’s Party marching song. All heads were turned toward the palace portico and the aisle of steps that ran down between the upper boxes to the saluting base. Through the loudspeakers came the sound of a choir singing the song. The crowd joined in. The air seemed to quiver with the sound. Then, as the song reached its climax – the great shout of affirmation that came on the final note – Vukashin appeared at the top of the steps and the cheering began.

He was wearing a black suit and had a cloth cap in his hand. For a moment he stood there motionless. Then he raised a hand in salute and began to walk down the steps toward the saluting base, while the cheering swelled up. When he was about two steps down, a man in the uniform of a marshal stepped from the group behind him and began to follow. The Minister of the Interior came next. And then Brankovitch started down.

He, too, was dressed in black, but very neatly, and he wore a grey Homburg. He walked down slowly and
deliberately as if he were unaware of what was going on in the square below. As he passed the upper boxes, the occupants of which were clapping, he nodded casually to someone he knew there.

Vukashin had reached the base. Now he walked forward to the balustrade and looked down. A fresh storm of cheering greeted him. The marshal and the Minister of the Interior moved to left and right of him. Brankovitch moved to the balustrade beside the Minister of the Interior and said something to him. The latter smiled and pointed to the Victory. By this time the whole length of the balustrade was occupied. There were two or three uniforms, but most wore dark suits with grey Homburgs. There was only one cloth cap – Vukashin’s. On the other side of Brankovitch was a stout man who held himself as if he had a boil on his neck. They were about a foot apart. Brankovitch turned sideways to say something to him.