Stamboul Train (14 page)

He kept his eyes alert as he went up the steps into the station. He must take no risks. If he was caught, he would have to face a life sentence, not a week in gaol. He must choose carefully. Several bags were almost thrust into his hands in the crowded hall, so carelessly were they guarded, but the owners looked too poor or too gad-about. The first would have only a few shillings; the others, as like as not, would keep in their bags not even small change, only a powder-puff, a lipstick, a mirror, perhaps some French letters.

At last he found what he wanted, something indeed better than he had hoped. A foreign woman, English probably, with short uncovered hair and red eyes, struggling with the door of a telephone-booth. Her bag had fallen at her feet while she put both hands to the handle. She was, he thought, a little drunk, and as she was foreign she would have plenty of money in her bag. For Josef Grünlich the whole affair was child's play.

The door came open and Mabel Warren faced the black shining instrument which for ten years now had taken her best time and her best phrases. She stooped for her bag, but it was gone. Strange, she thought, I could have sworn—did I leave it in the train? She had eaten a farewell dinner on the train with Janet Pardoe. There had been a glass of sherry, the larger part of a bottle of hock, and two liqueur brandies. Afterwards she had been a little dazed. Janet had paid for the dinner and she had given Janet a cheque and taken the change; she had more than two pounds of small Austrian change in the pocket of her tweed jacket now, but in the bag were nearly eighty marks.

She had some difficulty in making the long-distance exchange understand the number she wanted in Cologne, because her voice was a little muzzled. While she waited, balancing her top-heavy form on the small steel seat, she watched the barrier. Fewer and fewer passengers came from the platforms: there was no sign of Dr Czinner. And yet, when she looked into his compartment ten minutes from Vienna, he was wearing his hat and mackintosh and he had answered her, ‘Yes, I am getting out.' She had not trusted him, and when the train drew up, she waited until he left his compartment, watched him fumbling on the platform for his ticket, and would not then have let him out of her sight if it had not been necessary to telephone the office. For if he was lying she was determined to follow him to Belgrade and she would have no further opportunity to telephone that night. Did I leave my bag in the train? she wondered again, and then the telephone rang.

She looked at her wrist-watch: I've got ten minutes. If he doesn't come out in five, I'll go back to the train. It won't pay him to lie to me. ‘Hello. Is that the London
Clarion
? Edwards? Right. Get this down. No, my lad, this isn't the Savory story. I'll give you that in a moment. This is your bill page lead, and you've got to hold it for half an hour. If I don't ring again shoot it off. The Communist outbreak at Belgrade, which was put down with some loss of life on Wednesday night, as reported in our later editions yesterday, was planned by the notorious agitator, Dr Richard Czinner, who disappeared during the Kamnetz trial (no Kamnetz, K for Kaiser, A for Arse, M for Mule, N for Navel, no not that kind. It doesn't matter; it's the same letter. E for Erotic, T for Tart, Z for Zebra. Got it?), Kamnetz trial. Note to sub-editor. See press cuttings, August 1927. He was believed to have been murdered by Government agents, but although a warrant was out for his arrest, he escaped, and in an exclusive interview with our special correspondent described his life as a schoolmaster at Great Birchington-on-Sea. Note to news-editor: Can't get him to speak about this; get the dope from the headmaster. His name's John. The outbreak at Belgrade was untimely; it had been planned for Saturday night, by which time Dr Czinner, who left England on Wednesday evening, would have arrived in the capital and taken control. Dr Czinner learnt of the outbreak and its failure when the express by which he was travelling reached Würzburg and immediately decided to leave the train at Vienna. He was heartbroken and could only murmur over and over again to our special correspondent: “If only they had waited.” He was confident that if he had been present in Belgrade, the whole working class of the city would have supported the rising. In broken accents he gave our correspondent the amazing tale of his escape from Belgrade in 1927 and described the plans now prematurely ruined. Got that? Now listen carefully. If you don't get the rest of the dope in half an hour cancel everything after “reached Würzburg” and continue as follows: And after long and painful hesitation decided to continue his journey to Belgrade. He was heartbroken and could only murmur: “Those fine brave fellows. How can I desert them?” When he had a little recovered he explained to our special correspondent that he had decided to stand his trial with the survivors, thus living up to the quixotic reputation he gained for himself at the time of the Kamnetz trial. His popularity with the working classes is an open secret, and his action may prove a considerable embarrassment to the Government.'

Miss Warren took a long breath and looked at her watch. Only five minutes now before the train left. ‘Hello. Don't run away. Here's the bromide about Savory. You've got to be quick in getting this down. They've asked for half a column, but I haven't the time. I'll give you a few sticks. Mr Quin Savory, author of
The Great Gay Round,
is on his way to the Far East in search of material for his new novel,
Going Abroad.
Although the book will have an eastern setting, the great novelist will not have quite deserted the London he loves so well, for he will view these distant lands through the eyes of a little London tobacconist. Mr Savory, a slim bronzed figure, welcomed our correspondent on the platform at Cologne. He has a curt (don't be funny. I said curt. C.U.R.T.) manner which does not hide a warm and sympathetic heart. Asked to estimate his place in literature he said: “I take my stand with sanity as opposed to the morbid introspection of such writers as Lawrence and Joyce. Life is a fine thing for the adventurous with a healthy mind in a healthy body.” Mr Savory, who dresses quietly and without eccentricity, does not believe in the Bohemianism of some literary circles. “They give up to sex,” he said, amusingly adapting Burke's famous phrase, “what is meant for mankind.” Our correspondent pointed out the warm admiration which had been felt by countless readers for Emmy Tod, the little char in
The Great Gay Round
(which incidentally is now in its hundredth thousand). “You have a wonderful knowledge of the female heart, Mr Savory,” he said. Mr Savory, who is unmarried, climbed back into his carriage with a debonair smile. “A novelist,” he laughed, “is something of a spy,” and he waved his hand gaily as the train carried him off. It is an open secret, by the way, that the Hon. Carol Delaine, the daughter of Lord Gathaway, will play the part of Emmy Tod, the chargirl, in the British film production of
The Great Gay Round.
Got that? Of course it's a bromide. What else can one do with the little swine?'

Miss Warren clapped down the receiver. Dr Czinner had not appeared. She was angry, but satisfied. He had thought to leave her behind in Vienna station, and she pictured with pleasure his disappointment when he looked up from his paper to find her again in the doorway of his compartment. Closer than mud, she whispered to herself, that's what I'll be.

The official at the barrier stopped her: ‘
Fahrkarte, bitte.
' He was not looking at her, for he was busy collecting the tickets of passengers who had just arrived by some small local train, women with babies in arms and one man clasping a live hen. Miss Warren tried to brush her way through: ‘Journalists pass.' The ticket collector turned to her suspiciously. Where was it?

‘I've left my bag behind,' said Miss Warren.

He collected the last ticket, shuffled the pasteboards into an even pile, round which with deliberation he twisted an india-rubber ring. The lady, he explained with stubborn courtesy, had told him when she came from the platform that she had a pass; she had waved a piece of card at him and brushed by before he could examine it. Now he would like to see that piece of card.

‘Damn,' said Miss Warren. ‘Then my bag has been stolen.'

But the lady had just said that it was in the train.

Miss Warren swore again. She knew that her appearance was against her; she wore no hat, her hair was rumpled, and her breath smelt of drink. ‘I can't help it,' she said. ‘I've got to get back on that train. Send a man with me and I'll give him the money.'

The ticket-collector shook his head. He could not leave the barrier himself, he explained, and it would be out of order to send any of the porters who were in the hall on to the platform to collect money for a ticket. Why should not the lady buy a ticket and then claim reimbursement from the company? ‘Because,' said Miss Warren furiously, ‘the lady hasn't enough money on her.'

‘In that case,' the ticket-collector said gently, with a glance at the clock, ‘the lady will have to go by a later train. The Orient Express will have gone. As for the bag, you need not worry. A telephone message can be sent to the next station.'

Somebody in the booking-hall was whistling a tune. Miss Warren had heard it before with Janet, the setting of a light voluptuous song, while hand in hand they listened in darkness, and the camera panned all the length of a studio street, picking a verse from this man's mouth as he leant from a window, from this woman who sold vegetables behind a barrow, from that youth who embraced a girl in the shadow of a wall. She put one hand to her hair. Into her thoughts and fears, into the company of Janet and Q. C. Savory, Coral and Richard Czinner, a young pink face was for a moment thrust, soft eyes beamed helpfully behind horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I guess, ma'am, you're having some trouble with this man. I'd be vurra proud to interpret for you.'

Miss Warren spun round with fury. ‘Go and eat corn,' she said and strode to the telephone box. The American had turned the scale between sentiment and anger, between regret and revenge. He thinks that he's safe, she thought, that he's shaken me off, that I can't do anything to him just because he's failed. But by the time the bell rang in the box she was quite calm. Janet might flirt with Savory, Coral with her Jew; Mabel Warren for the time being did not care. When there was a choice between love of a woman and hate of a man, her mind could cherish only one emotion, for her love might be a subject for laughter, but no one had ever mocked her hatred.

II

Coral Musker stared with bewilderment at the menu. ‘Choose for me,' she said, and was glad that he ordered wine, for it will help, she thought, tonight. ‘I like your ring.' The lights of Vienna fled by them into the dark, and the waiter leant across the table and pulled down the blind. Myatt said, ‘It cost fifty pounds.' He was back in familiar territory, he was at home, no longer puzzled by the inconsistency of human behaviour. The wine list before him, the napkin folded on his plate, the shuffle of waiters passing his chair, all gave him confidence. He smiled and moved his hand, so that the stone glinted from different facets on the ceiling and on the wine glasses. ‘It's worth nearly twice that.'

‘Tell me about her,' said Mr Q. C. Savory; she's an odd type. Drinks?' ‘So devoted to me.' ‘But who wouldn't be?' He leant forward crumbling bread and asked with caution: ‘I've never been able to understand. What can a woman like that
do?
'

‘No, I won't have any more of this foreign beer. My stomach won't stand it. Ask them, haven't they got a Guinness. I'd just fancy a Guinness.'

‘Of course you are having a great sports revival in Germany,' said Mr Opie. ‘Splendid types of young men, one sees. But still it's not the same as cricket. Take Hobbs and Sutcliffe . . .'

‘Kisses. Always kisses.'

‘But I don't speak the lingo, Amy.'

‘Do you always say what a thing's worth? Do you know what I'm worth?' Her perplexity and fear broke into irritation. ‘Of course you do. Ten pounds for a ticket.'

‘I explained,' Myatt said, ‘all about that.'

‘If I was that girl there . . .' Myatt turned and saw the slender woman in her furs and was caught up and judged and set down again by her soft luminous eyes. ‘You are prettier,' he said with open insincerity, trying again to catch the woman's gaze and learn the verdict. It's not a lie, he told himself, for Coral at her best is pretty, while with the stranger one could never use the insignificant measure of prettiness. But I should be dumb before her, he thought. I could not talk to her easily as I can to Coral; I should be conscious of my hands, of my race; and with a wave of gratitude he turned to Coral, ‘You're good to me.'

He leant across the soup, the rolls, and the cruet: ‘You
will
be good to me.' ‘Yes,' she said, ‘tonight.'

‘Why only tonight? When we get to Constantinople why shouldn't you, why shouldn't we . . .' He hesitated. There was something about her which puzzled him: one small unvisited grove in all the acres of their familiarity.

‘Live with you there?'

‘Why not?' But it was not the reasons against his proposal which thronged her mind, which so coloured her thoughts that she had to focus her eyes more clearly on reality, the swaying train, men and women as far as she could see eating and drinking between the drawn blinds, the scraps of other people's talk.

‘Yes, that's all. Kisses. Just kisses.'

‘Hobbs and Zudgliffe?'

It was all the reasons in favour: instead of the chill return at dawn to a grimy lodging and a foreign landlady, who would not understand her when she asked for a hot-water bottle or a cup of tea and would offer for a tired head some alien substitute for aspirin, to go back to a smart flat with shining taps and constant hot water and a soft bed with a flowered silk coverlet, that indeed would be worth any pain, any night's discomfort. But it's too good to be true, she thought, and tonight when he finds me cold and frightened and unused to things, he won't want me any longer. ‘Wait,' she said. ‘You may not want me.'