Authors: Eric Ambler
Carruthers listened intently while I told him of Andrassin’s hints and forebodings. When I had finished he in his turn sprang up and began pacing the room.
“You ought to have told me this before,” he said at last; “the affair becomes clear.”
“Does it?” I was in no mood for riddles.
“Why, yes, the reason for Andrassin’s murder. What Andrassin knew was what we know. Andrassin was the first person they thought of after the attempt of last night. Groom is supposed to be pursuing a shadow. They wouldn’t reckon with him. Andrassin was the danger. He knew and he wasn’t going to hold his tongue. He had to be disposed of quickly. Notice the time. Robbery at one-thirty or thereabouts; two hours later Andrassin is murdered and, from what my man told me, by the same men that got Rovzidski—the Red Gauntlet. The whole thing’s obvious. It sounds, too, from what you’ve told me, as though Andrassin was planning to put a spoke in the
Kassen wheel.” He stopped suddenly. “Casey,” he said, “we’ve
got
to get in touch with this man Toumachin. It’s our big chance.”
“How are we going to get in touch with him? I don’t know where Andrassin lived and even if I did it wouldn’t be much good; I don’t suppose you’ll find a Young Peasant within a mile of the place by now.”
“Well, we’ll have to find them somehow. Things are getting serious. I didn’t see Groom this morning, they told me he had gone out early. If Nikolai gets a look at me or if Groom identifies me by his description, it’s open warfare in that quarter. What’s more, I’ve got a double guard now. Two of them followed me here this morning.” He thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. The waiter, Andrassin’s man, the one you say he put to keep an eye on you. He’ll know what we’re after. What’s his name?”
“Petar.”
“Let’s have him up.”
I rang the bell. Carruthers went to the window and stood with his back to the room. I dropped into the armchair and lit a cigarette.
There was a discreet knock and Petar came in.
By nature he possessed the pallid complexion common to waiters, but this morning he was livid. His eyes were swollen and looked as if he had been weeping. I told him to come inside and shut the door.
“Petar,” I said gently, “we were friends of Andrassin.”
He looked from me to Carruthers’ back, but did not speak.
“We want to know,” I said, “where we can find Toumachin.”
His lips tightened, his face became blank.
“I do not understand, Monsieur. I know nothing of these men of whom you speak.”
“You are of the Young Peasants’ Party, Petar?” I asked.
“No, Monsieur.”
“Come, Petar, we are friends and we know that you are a member.”
He shook his head vigorously. I could see the sweat on his forehead.
“Look here, Petar,” I said soothingly, “yesterday morning when I left here, I went to a café. There I met my friend Andrassin, who told me that you were a friend of his, and Monsieur Toumachin. We wish to avenge Andrassin’s foul murder. But we must talk with Toumachin first.”
He looked at us again, this time in hesitation.
“My friend here is English,” I added quickly, “and I am an American citizen. I met Andrassin in New York. We were close friends.”
The waiter still hesitated. Then he seemed to make up his mind.
“Sa’ Maria prospek eleven,” he said quickly, “and may the Holy Mother bless the steel of your daggers.” There was a sudden gust of passion in his voice. Then he recovered himself, bowed slightly and went out.
I looked at Carruthers.
He nodded. “Now,” he said.
I dressed hurriedly. Ten minutes later we descended the steps of the Bucharesti. A thought struck me.
“What about your bodyguard?”
“I hadn’t forgotten them,” said Carruthers; “we shall have to try another game this time.”
He was looking up and down the street. His face became suddenly grim. “Let’s walk,” he said.
We walked for about a quarter of a mile. Then Carruthers stopped.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered.
“What?”
“They’re not following us and I can’t see them.”
“Nothing much wrong with that. They’ve probably decided that it’s a hell of a job and slid into a café for a drink.”
He shook his head. We walked on a bit. Then we stopped again. The only thing in sight was a cruising taxi. Carruthers shrugged his shoulders.
“You may be right,” he said doubtfully.
We hailed the taxi. It drew up alongside and we got in. Carruthers had found by reference to his map that the Sa’ Maria prospek was near the Opera and told the man to put us down there. The door was slammed on us and we started off.
We had been going for about three minutes when Carruthers suddenly shouted that we were going the wrong way. The windows of the taxi were shut tight and I felt unaccountably drowsy. A blanket of cottonwool seemed to be enveloping my brain. I saw him as if in a distorting mirror groping for the window and struggling vainly to open it. His arm went back to break the glass when I felt him fall back on the seat beside me. Then I lost consciousness.
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a bust of the late Czar of Russia. I opened my eyes farther and saw an Ixanian army officer’s uniform. The wearer was a tall young man with an enormous moustache and eyes unpleasantly pink, like those of a bull terrier. He was leaning against a table with his legs crossed and a long thin cigar drooping from the centre of his mouth. He looked at me without speaking. My eyes repassed the Romanoff and I examined the room.
I was lying on a sofa. On the floor beside me lay Carruthers. His eyes were open and he was gazing at the painted ceiling. The room was beautifully furnished. About three inches from my right eye was a lovely old brocade. It was the window, however, that gave me the clue to our whereabouts. The shape of it was unmistakable. We were in the house of the Countess Schverzinski.
Carruthers levered himself up on to one elbow and turned
his head in the officer’s direction. The latter exhaled a cloud of smoke and, cigar in mouth, lunged over to the door. He opened it and exchanged a few words in Ixanian with someone outside it, then returned to his post by the table.
I nodded to Carruthers and my head throbbed with pain. He sat up.
“The Countess?” I said.
“Yes. Demand the American Consul.”
“
Taisez-vous
,” said the officer sharply. He had a thick and atrocious accent. I guessed that his French was limited. The fact was soon confirmed for someone opened the door, said a few words and he snapped an order at us in Ixanian. We remained uncomprehendingly prone. He shouted “
Venez
” in a parade-ground voice and we crawled to our feet and followed him out of the room under the suspicious eye of another officer who stood at the door, revolver in hand.
We were led across a large wood-floored hall towards a small door at the far end. We were about halfway across when a huge pair of double doors on the right swung open and a tall, thin, imperious-looking man of about fifty appeared. He rapped out an order and our party came to a standstill. The pink-eyed officer stepped a pace towards the man at the door and saluted. A short dialogue ensued. The pink-eyed officer was evidently accounting for us, for I heard our names given as
Barstof
and
Carsej
. The man at the door nodded curtly, scowled fiercely at us and withdrew, slamming the double doors with a crash behind him.
I glanced at Carruthers.
“Prince Ladislaus,” he whispered.
The pink-eyed officer said “
Taisez-vous
” again and we moved on to the small door. This was opened carefully and we were ushered into a room which I recognised instantly as the scene of our adventure of the night before. But I had not time for more than brief recognition. Seated at the desk facing
us was the Countess. She gave a curt instruction and the door closed behind us.
She gazed at us for a moment or two in silence. I had not seen her at close quarters before. At a distance she had been a handsome woman, but now I saw that she was beautiful. My mind was busy, but I found great difficulty in associating the murder of Andrassin with this exquisite creature. Even today I am still inclined to attribute the revolting ferocity of the band of cut-throats that called itself the Society of the Red Gauntlet to the late Colonel Marassin rather than to the Countess. Toumachin once endeavoured to sum her up by saying that while detachment of mind in a man is an excellent quality, it becomes in a woman a cosmic catastrophe. But Europe has a weakness for that sort of superficial man-woman generalisation. The Countess was beyond such ready-made psychological simplicities. And so, for that matter, are most other people.
But there was no time for psychological assessments, simple or otherwise, as we faced the Countess across her desk that morning. Carruthers attacked.
“What is the meaning of this—this assault, Madame?” he asked.
Her red lips moved ever so slightly into a smile. “You are making progress with your hobby, Professor?” she asked.
“Apart from the fact that one of my best cameras was, for some inexplicable reason, taken from me at the frontier, I am. May I ask,” he went on, his voice trembling with indignation, “who you are and what this intolerable outrage means? I remember you, Madame, we met on the train to Bucharest. You seemed sane enough then.”
I remembered my part and got to work.
“I don’t know who the hell you are, lady,” I blustered, “but this’ll take a helluva lot of explaining away to the United States Consul, and I guess the same thing goes for the Professor here.”
I went on to speak of my newspaper connections (how
Nash would have blushed), a mythical relative at Washington and the inviolability of the American citizen abroad.
She listened in silence, twiddling a fountain-pen impatiently until I had finished. She contemplated it thoughtfully as she answered me.
“Any complaint to your consul, Mr. Casey, will be met with the counter-complaint, supported by witnesses, that you forced your way in here uninvited. Our
chargé d’affaires
in Washington will request your Government to inform your employers that if they must be represented in Zovgorod they must make other arrangements. You will, furthermore, be conducted to the frontier and deported as an undesirable alien.”
I drew a deep breath and was about to reply, but she silenced me with a contemptuous flick of the hand and turned to Carruthers. I held my peace. I had plenty to think about.
“And you, Professor Barstow?” she queried coldly. “What do you propose to do?”
“I shall certainly complain,” declared Carruthers; “you cannot pervert international justice in this high-handed manner.”
She regarded him interestedly. “I wonder if you are quite the ingenuous fool you seem to wish to appear,” she said; “but let me set your mind at rest, Professor, I have no desire to exchange tiresome correspondence either with your Government or with that of Mr. Casey. I merely wished to make it clear that I could have both of you outside Ixania within twenty-four hours if I wished to. In your case, Professor, even less ceremony would be necessary than in the case of Mr. Casey who belongs to the press. There must be no question of complaints.”
“I am at a loss, Madame—” began Carruthers again.
She held up her hand. “Spare me your indignation, Professor. I had you brought here for a purpose. Mr. Casey will explain who I am, unnecessary though it doubtless may be.”
“The Countess Schverzinski,” I said coldly.
She looked amused. “A revelation, no doubt, Professor?”
“A revelation indeed, Madame,” announced Carruthers brazenly. “Your behaviour is all the more inexcusable.”
A frown gathered on her forehead.
“This play-acting has ceased to be entertaining. I will explain why I have had you brought here.”
We waited, for all the world like a pair of schoolboys before their master. Then she picked up what had been a fork from her desk. My heart sank. It must have fallen from Carruthers’ pocket during the struggle.
“As you are probably aware,” she said, “there was an attempted burglary in this house last night.”
“Obviously I cannot be aware of it,” interrupted Carruthers promptly. “I cannot read the Ixanian newspapers.”
She smiled again. “Still play-acting, Professor?”
Carruthers said “Pah!” disgustedly and she continued.
“This fork was found on the scene of the burglary. It is from the Hotel Europa. You, Professor, are stopping at the Europa. You, Mr. Casey, visited the Professor there yesterday afternoon. The burglars arrived here at about half-past one this morning. I interrupted them at their work. Neither of you was in his hotel until about half-past two. Where were you when the burglary took place?”
We were silent.
She did not seem to expect an answer to her question, but examined the fork thoughtfully. A single sapphire glowed on her right hand. She looked up and went on.
“These are troublous times and at such times men may disappear without anyone being the wiser. I wished you to have no illusions on that point; that is why I had you brought here. Also I wished to warn you. You, Professor, are suspect. You are, I am sure, a worthy man. I hear that you are a clever one. But you are playing a dangerous game. The laboratory is the place for the exercise of your talents. It is a pity that you left it to
meddle in affairs that do not concern you. I suggest that you part company with Mr. Groom and return to England forthwith. Moreover, I give you twenty-four hours in which to do so. After that you will be a marked man and I shall not be responsible for the consequences. As for you, Mr. Casey, you may stay in Zovgorod on one condition. That is, that you confine your activities strictly to the conduct of your profession. You may come and go as you please. I shall, in fact, welcome the opportunity of presenting to you myself the Ixanian Government’s views on the new Eastern pact of non-aggression. One indiscretion on your part, however, will mean your immediate deportation.”
She pressed a button. The door was flung open. We made as if to go, but she motioned us to wait. An officer stood in the doorway.