Chapter IX.
Three Interviews
Three Interviews
Cecil had not only been well-trained by the British Secret Intelligence Service, he also possessed quite a lot of brains on his own account. He saw the man outside the door before the SO chief saw him and in a split second Cecil had slipped swiftly and noiselessly behind one of the heavy drapes that hung against the wall. The toes of his shoes stuck out underneath but, being in a dark corner, he hoped they wouldn’t be noticed.
The singer stood in the doorway, one hand on the door and the other on the door frame, for the moment frozen with shock. Her eyes were fixed resistlessly on those of the SO officer and as he slowly advanced into the room she retreated before him, never taking her eyes from his. Once inside the room, he broke off the locked stare and glanced casually around him. The woman looked around it too and the dread in her eyes seemed to lessen when she found Cecil was not in sight.
‘I hope our officers didn’t give you any trouble,’ said Zköllmann. ‘They’re insolent fellows.’
She made no reply to him.
‘Sit down. Don’t let me keep you standing.’
Dropping her eyes, she took the chair she had left only a moment earlier. Zköllmann took another—fortunately it was not Cecil’s or the wet cushion would have given him away. The singer’s eyes wandered about the room and rested on the toes of Cecil’s shoes where they showed underneath the curtain.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I take off my coat,’ said Zköllmann, throwing it over the arm of his chair and setting his hat on top of it. ‘It got rather wet from the rain.’
His back was towards Cecil and Cecil, watching through a moth hole in the curtain, could only see a quarter of his face and a bit of his profile when he happened to turn his head. He could see enough of him, though, to get a good appraisal of the man.
The chief of the Surreptitious Operations organisation was of middle height and possessed of unremarkable features. Yet behind those quick eyes was the keenest brain in Pyromania and if there was a heart in him as well it never gave evidence of its existence. To plead for mercy from Wakjavotski’s personal private eye was as mad as putting one’s hand in a nest of adders and as futile as beseeching a tidal wave to alter its course. Zköllmann was feared by all who had heard rumours about him, but he was feared more by those who had experienced the truth of the rumours and most of all by his most intimate associates.
He leaned back in his chair and looked around the room again.
‘What made you choose this room to wait in?’ he asked the woman. ‘The lighting is poor.’
‘An officer told me I wouldn’t be bothered here,’ the woman replied.
Her voice sounded slightly accusatory but Zköllmann took no notice of it.
‘Why was it you come here to-night?’ he asked, looking directly at her.
‘I come here all the time.’
‘—To practice; yes, we know that. But why did you come here to-night?’
‘For the same reason,’ she said, looking away. ‘And your men have already questioned me, so you needn’t take the trouble.’
‘What did they ask you?’
‘A lot of nonsense—I don’t remember half of it. What do you suspect me of?’
‘Some very dangerous things, unfortunately. You, a once-active spy, happen to be in the proximity of the palace at the very time a coup was staged—you must admit that makes you look suspicious.’
‘I didn’t know anything about it. I come here nearly every night of the week—you know that.’
‘We also know that you’re very observant.’
‘But I haven’t seen anything—that’s the truth.’
‘Or anybody?’
She drew herself together with an effort and seemed trying to control her trembling hands by drawing her cloak tighter around her.
‘What makes you think anyone’s hiding here?’ she asked, evasively. ‘I thought you said you killed them all. What makes you think they got away?’
‘Because as yet we have not found them—not even their bodies.’
Cecil, listening, felt hope come rushing back.
‘We traced one of them as far as this block,’ Zköllmann went on. ‘If he came here the first thing he would do would be to throw himself on your mercy. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t know anything about the coup. You should know that. You know everything else about me. I haven’t been in contact with anyone for two years—not since you found me out.’
‘Not until to-night.’
She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together but the utmost concentration could not stop the shudder that ran over her.
‘Do you want to try to deny it?’ he asked.
Cecil watched all this through the moth hole. The other SO men had made him mad, the way they had behaved themselves to a lady, but this was entirely different—this cold calculation and direct inquisition. She was defenceless before this man. Something strange inside Cecil stirred and he wanted to rush out and knock the awful Zköllmann down.
‘That’s not what we want from you,’ said Zköllmann. ‘We can find the insurgent without your help; there is something else you are going to tell us. You know what it is we need: the code names of your contacts in the Hundred Circles Ring. You’ve pandered about long enough; we can’t brook any more delay. Five names will suffice.’
‘Five?’ she asked, and it seemed to cost her an effort to say it.
‘Five is the barest minimum.’
‘And you think I’ll give you even one?’
‘Yes, we do.’
She stared at him uncertainly.
‘Why?’ she asked.
He made no reply and returned her gaze calmly.
‘You think I’ll give in over time,’ she said.
‘You will.’
She had been pale before but now she trembled.
‘Why continue to resist?’ asked Zköllmann. ‘I know what you are thinking. You think things are about to change in Pyromania. New ideas are spreading--a new order is coming, perhaps?’
‘Your hold on Pyromania is shaking,’ she said.
‘We’re not afraid of him. No matter what he may have told you to-night, he is unsupported and poses no threat.’
She pressed her lips close together and stared at him in terror.
‘Who?’ he asked suavely, interpreting the question in her eyes. ‘The prince.’
She bent her head forward and covered her face with both hands.
‘Am I so easy to see through?’ she whispered.
‘For one who knows how to do it. You may have managed to fool the counter-intelligence for seven years, but you're not so opaque as you'd like to believe. You see yourself it is useless to oppose us. We will get those names from you.’
‘Not from me,’ she said with her hands still over her face. ‘I won’t tell you.’
‘You know yourself you’ll give in eventually. You were careless as a spy—that was your fault. You’ll be careless again. You can’t hold out for ever.’
‘I must!’ she said, but she was saying it to herself. She pressed her hands more tightly over her face and leaned forward until her hair tumbled over her forehead.
‘When will it ever be over?’ she said through her fingers. ‘I paid a horrible price for what I did. I always knew what could happen to me if I was caught and I wasn’t afraid then. But I never thought it could go on for ever. I never thought anything so dreadful could go on for ever.’
She fell silent and seemed to have nothing further to say. Zköllmann got to his feet and took several papers from his breast pocket.
‘It will be over for you,’ he said; ‘when you have performed this last service for us. That is all we need.’
She made no reply and remained with her face covered with her hands.
‘We will get what we want sooner or later,’ he went on; ‘but it will be better for you if you cooperate. I need not elaborate—you know too well what I mean.’
She looked up suddenly and her eyes locked in his again for a moment. Then she shivered and looked away.
‘I have passes for you and your accompanist so that you can leave when you wish,’ he said, handing the papers to her. ‘Will you require a ride?’
‘No,’ she said, looking at the passes with empty eyes. ‘I’d rather walk.’
‘Very well, but it’s raining. I’ll see you to the street.’
He opened the door for her and offered his arm. She stepped forward to take it but suddenly drew back and her eyes met his.
‘I can’t!’ she gasped.
Without a word, he turned and went out. Cecil heard his steps going down the hall, measured like a machine. He waited until the sound died away and then slipped out from behind the curtain. The singer caught sight of him.
‘Don’t!’ she said, springing to the door and looking out. ‘He might come back!’
‘If he does, he’s had his chips!’ said Cecil, drawing his automatic.
‘That won’t do you much good,’ she observed. ‘It will only draw the whole lot of them down on us.’
‘Do you feel all right?’ asked Cecil for she looked terribly pale.
‘I’m all right,’ she said, leaning up against the wall. ‘I’m used to them by now. But you can’t stay here. I don’t care what he says, they’d catch you if they could. Come with me, I’ll show you the passage.’
She looked out into the corridor, listening hard.
‘Don’t you think he might be suspicious and be waiting around the corner?’ asked Cecil.
‘I should have gone with him,’ she muttered. ‘—Only I couldn’t bear it. I should have sooner touched a spider.’ And she shuddered again.
‘I'll go down the corridor a little way and make sure there is no one about,’ she said.
She left noiselessly and returned in a few moments.
‘All clear,’ she said. ‘Come on!’
He followed her out of the room and down the hall to the same staircase he had come up. Cecil, as he followed her down into the darkness, wondered how she found her way so well. He could only follow by the soft sound her dress made, swishing over the steps.
‘Have you got a torch?’ he heard her voice ask when they had reached the bottom.
‘Yes; there,’ he said, turning it on.
It illuminated a dusty room filled with rubbish of all sorts. Mixed up in the rubbish were several old stone tombs with recumbant statues reposing on their tops.
‘Here it is,’ said the lady, pausing beside one of these and putting her hand against the inscription on the side.
It swung gently inwards, revealing a black cavernous space that, when Cecil shone his torch into, proved to be a well with steel rungs of a ladder leading down into it.
‘It goes down about seven feet,’ she said. ‘When you get to the bottom there’s a passage. Go to the right and follow it straight on until you come to a T. You’ll go left and come to a door. It’s easy to open if you just push on it. Hurry up and get in, someone may come any minute!’
Cecil got down into the opening and paused.
‘Are you sure the SO doesn’t know about this exit?’ he asked.
‘It hasn’t been used for years,’ she said.
‘Where will I come out?’ asked Cecil.
‘In the cellar of Sir Andrew Fletcher’s house.’
* * * * *
Wakjavotski, almost entirely recovered from his exciting afternoon, was sitting in his study, trying to examine some papers from the German ambassador and being plagued by a fly that was flying about over his head, dive-bombing the little bald spot on the top of it every now and then under the impression that it was a melon. Von der Grosse stood nearby, waiting for him to finish and fiddling nervously with his hat.
‘Ugh, get away!’ said Wakjavotski, waving at the fly. ‘All right, all right, all right!’ he said, pushing the papers impatiently aside. ‘If you have anything to tell me, Grosse, get it out and be quick about it.’
‘You—um—’ said Grosse; ‘I think you sent for me.’
‘Yes, that’s right, I did—I remember now. I’d like to know how many divisions we have available for an assault on Russia.’
‘An assault on what?’ asked Grosse, hardly believing his ears.
‘Oh, not right away—and it would only have to be a token force, anyway. If it seems that Russia is coming out on top, we can send another force against Germany, but I doubt Russia will hold out.’
‘I don’t understand—Hitler is attacking the Soviets? I thought they had everything all worked out.’
‘It was inevitable. I saw it coming all along. But what does it matter to us, anyway? We only have to make sure that we stay enough out of it to miss most of the blood-letting while still getting something out of it in the end. That’s what I’m trying to figure out just now.’
‘Perhaps it would be wiser not to get involved at all,’ suggested von der Grosse.
‘You have to take risks sometimes, Grosse, if you—ugh, get off! Go away! –Not you, Grosse—that fly. Where was I? Oh yes, let them fight if they want to, I say, and while they do what’s to hinder us from getting a piece of the pie?’
‘But Germany can’t fight the whole world at once!’
‘Oh, it’s not imminent—they’ll take care of France and England first. The ambassador sounded me on what our policy would be towards Russia in the event of a misunderstanding between Germany and the Soviets, but I knew he simply wanted to know how many divisions we could spare for the Eastern Front.’
‘It seems rather strange that they’re planning on war with Russia—after all the treaties and agreements over Poland and everything…’ said von der Grosse, scratching his chin.
‘What’s a treaty but something to get you what you want? It isn’t meant to be stood by,’ said Wakjavotski. ‘How many divisions can we spare, then?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said von der Grosse. ‘I’d have to look.’
‘Do so and let me know as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, my Superior.’
‘Well? Why are you still standing there?’ asked Wakjavotski, glancing up and seeing that he was still standing there.
‘I—ahem—wanted to tell you something.’
‘Then tell me!’
‘I only wanted to apprise you of—er—a slight mishap.’
‘A mishap? Those scoundrels have got away, I hear—what could be worse?’
‘We’re still looking for them.’
‘Of course you are—that’s how I know they got away, you mannequin! Well, what mishap?’
‘I’ve just heard of it. It’s nothing serious, really, but cause for concern, I’m afraid. Ahem—they think someone got into the bunker.’
‘What bunker?’
‘The one the tanks were in.’
‘The what? The TANKS? Not the Tanks—that’s not what you said, was it?’
Von der Grosse looked nervous. He had been afraid of an explosive reaction from the Superior.
‘It’s really nothing to worry over. The guard thought he heard someone sneeze, that’s all. It was probably nothing. And if someone was in there, it can’t make any difference.’
‘Probably nothing, eh? Is Nothing in the habit of sneezing? Maybe Nothing sabotages Tanks as well! Those Tanks are absolutely crucial to the whole case. How can you talk like that?’
‘The tanks are perfectly safe.’
‘How can you be sure of that? Evidently someone was able to get in. And if—curse you, get away, pathological prototype!’ cried Wakjavotski, pausing in his harangue to wave his arms wildly about his head in an effort to drive off the troublesome fly.
‘Noisome pest! Foul spawn of a dirty dumpster! Return to the shades—Oh! got him.’
'Hem—and at any rate,’ he went on, addressing Grosse; ‘now that those rebels know about the Tanks, they will be set on destroying or capturing them. I can’t believe you’ve allowed this to happen, Grosse!’
‘We’ve taken every precaution, believe me.’
‘I don’t trust you. Don’t you realise how important this is?’
‘Well, we got along without the tanks before they came—why should they be so important now?’
‘We’re at war now, that’s what’s the difference. We have little enough to fight with as it is.’
‘What about your secret weapon?’
‘That isn’t finished yet. Anyway, those Tanks are mine. I won’t have them hurt in any way. I want them moved immediately and with the utmost secrecy.’
‘Where to?’
‘To the fort.’
‘But the fort is nine miles outside the city. If there were an insurrection, they’d be useless.’
‘My orders are to be obeyed. Whose fault is it if there’s an insurrection? Yours—for not capturing those insurgents. But they’ve played their hand and I think things will be quiet for a little while now.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said von der Grosse.
‘Of course I am. Now obey my orders immediately. Who knows what may be happening to them while we speak? Remember, if anything happens I shall hold you personally responsible.’
As von der Grosse went out, Wakjavotski put away the papers in his safe and locked it. Then he strode up and down his office to burn off his excitement. It usually only took a few turns up and down the room to cool him. After a few minutes his angry mutters subsided and the red began to leave his face until it didn’t look so much like a Bolshevik flag.
He strolled over to his bookshelves humming a tune and walked up and down in front of them with his hands behind his back, admiring his collection. A large part of it was books he had written himself on socialism and Javotskism in particular. A few of these he took down to examine more closely, open to the flyleaf which he had autographed, and turn over to read the reviews on the back. This was one of his favourite pastimes—when he had the time for it.
‘A man wonders sometimes as to the nature of true success,’ he soliloquised. ‘Will he be remembered in years to come, or forgotten as soon as he is dead or sooner? A book—a published book—is a medium by which a man may be conveyed to future generations. A book is the embodiment of his life, his soul. All his ambitions, passions, moments of highest feeling, are preserved between the pages of a book. Whether he is remembered for good or ill, at least he will never be misunderstood.
‘But what does it matter, after all, whether or not he is understood if people hate his memory? They may burn his books. It’s not impossible for every last one of his writings to be destroyed and then where is he? And even supposing his book survives the general odium—it simply stands as a monument to his ignominy.
‘But why strive for the approbation of posterity, anyway? No matter what you do, posterity will think what it likes of you. Your ideals may not make sense in another era, that’s all. It appears that the only person whose good opinion is worth having is your own, then.
‘But the only people who ever measure up to their own standards are those who have low ones—who have no ambitions or high ideals—who never strive for anything and are never remembered for anything. However satisfied they may be at their deaths, it is an empty satisfaction.
‘So what, after all, constitutes true success? It’s quite a problem—I shall have to write a book about it.’
* * * * *
‘Good heavens, boy!’ exclaimed Sir Andrew.
‘Is the coast clear?’ asked Cecil, who had come upon Sir Andrew as he sat reading in his study.
‘That depends on what you mean by the coast,’ said Sir Andrew, laying aside his book. ‘They’ve searched my house already, but the streets are still crawling with soldiers. Where did you spring from?’
‘I came up from your cellar. There’s a secret passage leading into it, you know.’
‘Yes, I knew that, but I wasn’t aware that you knew of it. How did you find out about it? And what’s happened to you, anyway?’
‘Never mind about me—what’s happened to the others?’
‘Don’t worry about them; they’re safe enough.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Cecil.
‘I know because Karotski’s been calling me recklessly for the past hour to find out if I had heard anything of you. They think they’ve lost you—I did too, until you popped out of the cellar. So what happened, then?’
Cecil told him in condensed form. Sir Andrew listened while deep in thought.
‘What was the lady’s name?’ he asked at the end of the recital.
‘I don’t remember what they called her—something with a K.’
‘Kaparthy?’
‘Yes, that was it.’
‘I thought so. You were lucky to meet with her—she’s on our side. We mustn’t press our luck, though. The first thing is to get you back to the others.’
‘How will we get through the cordon?’
‘We won’t get through it—we’ll go under it. The passage you came down connects with a hundred others—the whole of the old section of the city is catacombed with them. There’s one that opens out under Leiber’s watch shop.’
He led the way to the cellar door while Cecil followed.
‘You’ll be coming with me, then?’ asked Cecil.
‘Of course,’ said Sir Andrew.
He stopped and looked back at Cecil.
‘Afraid of the dark, are you?’ he asked.
‘Not of the dark,’ said Cecil; ‘but I’d rather not go by myself anyway. It wasn’t very nice coming through there just now.’
‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t,’ said Sir Andrew. ‘Those passages aren’t used much except by rats and spiders. You’re no coward to have come down that way alone and I don’t blame you for not wanting to repeat the trip. I’ll be along this time, don’t worry. Come along.’
The passage they took branched off of the one Cecil had come down a few minutes previously. It was a nasty sort of tunnel—very low and narrow and sloping downwards sometimes. The sewers had not bothered Cecil so much because they were, as a general rule, airier and did not give one the impression of being inside a coffin that had been buried for twenty years. If you can imagine the dirtiest, creepiest cellar you’ve ever seen, and then think how you’d feel going into it after having just read Frankenstein or The Bodysnatchers, you’ll have an idea of what the tunnel was like.
Talking always helped to take one’s mind off of his problems when one had any unpleasant business at hand and so Cecil did his best to strike up conversation.
‘If this leads to Leiber’s shop, why didn’t the singer tell me about it?’ he asked. ‘It would have saved time.’
‘She didn’t know about it,’ Sir Andrew replied. ‘Oh, I don’t mean she didn’t know about the passage—she knows every one there is; even one that leads into the palace, so I’ve heard. I mean that she didn’t know about Leiber and the watch shop. She’s had no contact with the underground at all—it would have been too dangerous with the SO after her all the time. You could see that just from what you saw this evening.’
‘Do you know a lot about her?’ asked Cecil.
‘We’ve seen each other some,’ replied Sir Andrew. ‘I’ve helped her to smuggle British spies out of the country and—on a few occasions—into it. Her name is Csilla Kaparthy—she’s of Hungarian parentage but she was born in Pyromania. She’s young, unmarried, and excessively talented. It’s really a pity that she was a spy and had all this trouble befall her, but before she was caught she did good work for us and our allies. She was a member of an international spy ring with thousands of contacts all over the world. It’s known as “The Hundred Circles”.’
‘If she was a spy,’ asked Cecil; ‘then why didn’t they kill her when they caught her? I thought that’s what they do to spies. Was it because she’s a woman?’
‘That wouldn’t have stopped them,’ he replied. ‘No, it was because she is a public figure. All Europe would have protested if they’d done anything, and the Javotskis needed her for their own purposes. She’s invaluable to national morale: she keeps heart in the people.’
‘She’s a good singer,’ said Cecil.
‘She’s a world class operatic singer. Some say that she’s the best soprano voice in the world. I’ve certainly never heard her equal.’
They were silent then, occupied with their own thoughts. Cecil was so deep in reflection that he walked straight into Sir Andrew before he realised the consul had stopped before a door in the wall.
‘Here’s the cellar under the watch shop,’ said Sir Andrew. ‘I’m not coming in with you; I should be getting back to my house in case they decide to search it again.’
‘Does Karotski know about these passages?’ asked Cecil, the question suddenly occurring to him.
‘Yes, to some extent, but I’ve forbidden him to use them except in cases of extreme emergency. We don’t want all of Pyromania knowing about them, after all. Good bye, your Highness, and good luck.’
Cecil found the catch on the door and, opening it, stepped into Leiber’s cellar. When the door in the wall was shut, it was so well-disguised that Cecil could scarcely tell that it was there. His mind was still spinning with all that had happened to him, but one thought came uppermost in his mind: what had happened at the palace?
‘At last!’ exclaimed Karotski, as Cecil, pale, damp, and excessively grubby, entered the little upstairs room where the two underground agents paced anxiously.
‘Tzaddi!’ cried Leiber, ‘You made it!’
‘I was afraid you’d all gotten your cards,’ said Cecil. ‘How did you get out?’
‘That was no trouble,’ said Karotski. ‘We managed to keep the boats afloat until we reached the grating at the harbour. Where have you been all this time? We’ve been searching the sewers all evening as best we could with soldiers and secret police everywhere. We thought you’d been drowned for sure.’
‘We were terribly worried,’ said Leiber.
‘I’m all right; I’ll tell you everything,’ said Cecil. ‘But first, what about the explosion? Did we pull it off?’
‘No,’ said Karotski; ‘Wakjavotski survived—don’t ask me how.’
‘There wasn’t enough dynamite I think,’ said Leiber.
The singer stood in the doorway, one hand on the door and the other on the door frame, for the moment frozen with shock. Her eyes were fixed resistlessly on those of the SO officer and as he slowly advanced into the room she retreated before him, never taking her eyes from his. Once inside the room, he broke off the locked stare and glanced casually around him. The woman looked around it too and the dread in her eyes seemed to lessen when she found Cecil was not in sight.
‘I hope our officers didn’t give you any trouble,’ said Zköllmann. ‘They’re insolent fellows.’
She made no reply to him.
‘Sit down. Don’t let me keep you standing.’
Dropping her eyes, she took the chair she had left only a moment earlier. Zköllmann took another—fortunately it was not Cecil’s or the wet cushion would have given him away. The singer’s eyes wandered about the room and rested on the toes of Cecil’s shoes where they showed underneath the curtain.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I take off my coat,’ said Zköllmann, throwing it over the arm of his chair and setting his hat on top of it. ‘It got rather wet from the rain.’
His back was towards Cecil and Cecil, watching through a moth hole in the curtain, could only see a quarter of his face and a bit of his profile when he happened to turn his head. He could see enough of him, though, to get a good appraisal of the man.
The chief of the Surreptitious Operations organisation was of middle height and possessed of unremarkable features. Yet behind those quick eyes was the keenest brain in Pyromania and if there was a heart in him as well it never gave evidence of its existence. To plead for mercy from Wakjavotski’s personal private eye was as mad as putting one’s hand in a nest of adders and as futile as beseeching a tidal wave to alter its course. Zköllmann was feared by all who had heard rumours about him, but he was feared more by those who had experienced the truth of the rumours and most of all by his most intimate associates.
He leaned back in his chair and looked around the room again.
‘What made you choose this room to wait in?’ he asked the woman. ‘The lighting is poor.’
‘An officer told me I wouldn’t be bothered here,’ the woman replied.
Her voice sounded slightly accusatory but Zköllmann took no notice of it.
‘Why was it you come here to-night?’ he asked, looking directly at her.
‘I come here all the time.’
‘—To practice; yes, we know that. But why did you come here to-night?’
‘For the same reason,’ she said, looking away. ‘And your men have already questioned me, so you needn’t take the trouble.’
‘What did they ask you?’
‘A lot of nonsense—I don’t remember half of it. What do you suspect me of?’
‘Some very dangerous things, unfortunately. You, a once-active spy, happen to be in the proximity of the palace at the very time a coup was staged—you must admit that makes you look suspicious.’
‘I didn’t know anything about it. I come here nearly every night of the week—you know that.’
‘We also know that you’re very observant.’
‘But I haven’t seen anything—that’s the truth.’
‘Or anybody?’
She drew herself together with an effort and seemed trying to control her trembling hands by drawing her cloak tighter around her.
‘What makes you think anyone’s hiding here?’ she asked, evasively. ‘I thought you said you killed them all. What makes you think they got away?’
‘Because as yet we have not found them—not even their bodies.’
Cecil, listening, felt hope come rushing back.
‘We traced one of them as far as this block,’ Zköllmann went on. ‘If he came here the first thing he would do would be to throw himself on your mercy. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t know anything about the coup. You should know that. You know everything else about me. I haven’t been in contact with anyone for two years—not since you found me out.’
‘Not until to-night.’
She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together but the utmost concentration could not stop the shudder that ran over her.
‘Do you want to try to deny it?’ he asked.
Cecil watched all this through the moth hole. The other SO men had made him mad, the way they had behaved themselves to a lady, but this was entirely different—this cold calculation and direct inquisition. She was defenceless before this man. Something strange inside Cecil stirred and he wanted to rush out and knock the awful Zköllmann down.
‘That’s not what we want from you,’ said Zköllmann. ‘We can find the insurgent without your help; there is something else you are going to tell us. You know what it is we need: the code names of your contacts in the Hundred Circles Ring. You’ve pandered about long enough; we can’t brook any more delay. Five names will suffice.’
‘Five?’ she asked, and it seemed to cost her an effort to say it.
‘Five is the barest minimum.’
‘And you think I’ll give you even one?’
‘Yes, we do.’
She stared at him uncertainly.
‘Why?’ she asked.
He made no reply and returned her gaze calmly.
‘You think I’ll give in over time,’ she said.
‘You will.’
She had been pale before but now she trembled.
‘Why continue to resist?’ asked Zköllmann. ‘I know what you are thinking. You think things are about to change in Pyromania. New ideas are spreading--a new order is coming, perhaps?’
‘Your hold on Pyromania is shaking,’ she said.
‘We’re not afraid of him. No matter what he may have told you to-night, he is unsupported and poses no threat.’
She pressed her lips close together and stared at him in terror.
‘Who?’ he asked suavely, interpreting the question in her eyes. ‘The prince.’
She bent her head forward and covered her face with both hands.
‘Am I so easy to see through?’ she whispered.
‘For one who knows how to do it. You may have managed to fool the counter-intelligence for seven years, but you're not so opaque as you'd like to believe. You see yourself it is useless to oppose us. We will get those names from you.’
‘Not from me,’ she said with her hands still over her face. ‘I won’t tell you.’
‘You know yourself you’ll give in eventually. You were careless as a spy—that was your fault. You’ll be careless again. You can’t hold out for ever.’
‘I must!’ she said, but she was saying it to herself. She pressed her hands more tightly over her face and leaned forward until her hair tumbled over her forehead.
‘When will it ever be over?’ she said through her fingers. ‘I paid a horrible price for what I did. I always knew what could happen to me if I was caught and I wasn’t afraid then. But I never thought it could go on for ever. I never thought anything so dreadful could go on for ever.’
She fell silent and seemed to have nothing further to say. Zköllmann got to his feet and took several papers from his breast pocket.
‘It will be over for you,’ he said; ‘when you have performed this last service for us. That is all we need.’
She made no reply and remained with her face covered with her hands.
‘We will get what we want sooner or later,’ he went on; ‘but it will be better for you if you cooperate. I need not elaborate—you know too well what I mean.’
She looked up suddenly and her eyes locked in his again for a moment. Then she shivered and looked away.
‘I have passes for you and your accompanist so that you can leave when you wish,’ he said, handing the papers to her. ‘Will you require a ride?’
‘No,’ she said, looking at the passes with empty eyes. ‘I’d rather walk.’
‘Very well, but it’s raining. I’ll see you to the street.’
He opened the door for her and offered his arm. She stepped forward to take it but suddenly drew back and her eyes met his.
‘I can’t!’ she gasped.
Without a word, he turned and went out. Cecil heard his steps going down the hall, measured like a machine. He waited until the sound died away and then slipped out from behind the curtain. The singer caught sight of him.
‘Don’t!’ she said, springing to the door and looking out. ‘He might come back!’
‘If he does, he’s had his chips!’ said Cecil, drawing his automatic.
‘That won’t do you much good,’ she observed. ‘It will only draw the whole lot of them down on us.’
‘Do you feel all right?’ asked Cecil for she looked terribly pale.
‘I’m all right,’ she said, leaning up against the wall. ‘I’m used to them by now. But you can’t stay here. I don’t care what he says, they’d catch you if they could. Come with me, I’ll show you the passage.’
She looked out into the corridor, listening hard.
‘Don’t you think he might be suspicious and be waiting around the corner?’ asked Cecil.
‘I should have gone with him,’ she muttered. ‘—Only I couldn’t bear it. I should have sooner touched a spider.’ And she shuddered again.
‘I'll go down the corridor a little way and make sure there is no one about,’ she said.
She left noiselessly and returned in a few moments.
‘All clear,’ she said. ‘Come on!’
He followed her out of the room and down the hall to the same staircase he had come up. Cecil, as he followed her down into the darkness, wondered how she found her way so well. He could only follow by the soft sound her dress made, swishing over the steps.
‘Have you got a torch?’ he heard her voice ask when they had reached the bottom.
‘Yes; there,’ he said, turning it on.
It illuminated a dusty room filled with rubbish of all sorts. Mixed up in the rubbish were several old stone tombs with recumbant statues reposing on their tops.
‘Here it is,’ said the lady, pausing beside one of these and putting her hand against the inscription on the side.
It swung gently inwards, revealing a black cavernous space that, when Cecil shone his torch into, proved to be a well with steel rungs of a ladder leading down into it.
‘It goes down about seven feet,’ she said. ‘When you get to the bottom there’s a passage. Go to the right and follow it straight on until you come to a T. You’ll go left and come to a door. It’s easy to open if you just push on it. Hurry up and get in, someone may come any minute!’
Cecil got down into the opening and paused.
‘Are you sure the SO doesn’t know about this exit?’ he asked.
‘It hasn’t been used for years,’ she said.
‘Where will I come out?’ asked Cecil.
‘In the cellar of Sir Andrew Fletcher’s house.’
* * * * *
Wakjavotski, almost entirely recovered from his exciting afternoon, was sitting in his study, trying to examine some papers from the German ambassador and being plagued by a fly that was flying about over his head, dive-bombing the little bald spot on the top of it every now and then under the impression that it was a melon. Von der Grosse stood nearby, waiting for him to finish and fiddling nervously with his hat.
‘Ugh, get away!’ said Wakjavotski, waving at the fly. ‘All right, all right, all right!’ he said, pushing the papers impatiently aside. ‘If you have anything to tell me, Grosse, get it out and be quick about it.’
‘You—um—’ said Grosse; ‘I think you sent for me.’
‘Yes, that’s right, I did—I remember now. I’d like to know how many divisions we have available for an assault on Russia.’
‘An assault on what?’ asked Grosse, hardly believing his ears.
‘Oh, not right away—and it would only have to be a token force, anyway. If it seems that Russia is coming out on top, we can send another force against Germany, but I doubt Russia will hold out.’
‘I don’t understand—Hitler is attacking the Soviets? I thought they had everything all worked out.’
‘It was inevitable. I saw it coming all along. But what does it matter to us, anyway? We only have to make sure that we stay enough out of it to miss most of the blood-letting while still getting something out of it in the end. That’s what I’m trying to figure out just now.’
‘Perhaps it would be wiser not to get involved at all,’ suggested von der Grosse.
‘You have to take risks sometimes, Grosse, if you—ugh, get off! Go away! –Not you, Grosse—that fly. Where was I? Oh yes, let them fight if they want to, I say, and while they do what’s to hinder us from getting a piece of the pie?’
‘But Germany can’t fight the whole world at once!’
‘Oh, it’s not imminent—they’ll take care of France and England first. The ambassador sounded me on what our policy would be towards Russia in the event of a misunderstanding between Germany and the Soviets, but I knew he simply wanted to know how many divisions we could spare for the Eastern Front.’
‘It seems rather strange that they’re planning on war with Russia—after all the treaties and agreements over Poland and everything…’ said von der Grosse, scratching his chin.
‘What’s a treaty but something to get you what you want? It isn’t meant to be stood by,’ said Wakjavotski. ‘How many divisions can we spare, then?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said von der Grosse. ‘I’d have to look.’
‘Do so and let me know as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, my Superior.’
‘Well? Why are you still standing there?’ asked Wakjavotski, glancing up and seeing that he was still standing there.
‘I—ahem—wanted to tell you something.’
‘Then tell me!’
‘I only wanted to apprise you of—er—a slight mishap.’
‘A mishap? Those scoundrels have got away, I hear—what could be worse?’
‘We’re still looking for them.’
‘Of course you are—that’s how I know they got away, you mannequin! Well, what mishap?’
‘I’ve just heard of it. It’s nothing serious, really, but cause for concern, I’m afraid. Ahem—they think someone got into the bunker.’
‘What bunker?’
‘The one the tanks were in.’
‘The what? The TANKS? Not the Tanks—that’s not what you said, was it?’
Von der Grosse looked nervous. He had been afraid of an explosive reaction from the Superior.
‘It’s really nothing to worry over. The guard thought he heard someone sneeze, that’s all. It was probably nothing. And if someone was in there, it can’t make any difference.’
‘Probably nothing, eh? Is Nothing in the habit of sneezing? Maybe Nothing sabotages Tanks as well! Those Tanks are absolutely crucial to the whole case. How can you talk like that?’
‘The tanks are perfectly safe.’
‘How can you be sure of that? Evidently someone was able to get in. And if—curse you, get away, pathological prototype!’ cried Wakjavotski, pausing in his harangue to wave his arms wildly about his head in an effort to drive off the troublesome fly.
‘Noisome pest! Foul spawn of a dirty dumpster! Return to the shades—Oh! got him.’
'Hem—and at any rate,’ he went on, addressing Grosse; ‘now that those rebels know about the Tanks, they will be set on destroying or capturing them. I can’t believe you’ve allowed this to happen, Grosse!’
‘We’ve taken every precaution, believe me.’
‘I don’t trust you. Don’t you realise how important this is?’
‘Well, we got along without the tanks before they came—why should they be so important now?’
‘We’re at war now, that’s what’s the difference. We have little enough to fight with as it is.’
‘What about your secret weapon?’
‘That isn’t finished yet. Anyway, those Tanks are mine. I won’t have them hurt in any way. I want them moved immediately and with the utmost secrecy.’
‘Where to?’
‘To the fort.’
‘But the fort is nine miles outside the city. If there were an insurrection, they’d be useless.’
‘My orders are to be obeyed. Whose fault is it if there’s an insurrection? Yours—for not capturing those insurgents. But they’ve played their hand and I think things will be quiet for a little while now.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said von der Grosse.
‘Of course I am. Now obey my orders immediately. Who knows what may be happening to them while we speak? Remember, if anything happens I shall hold you personally responsible.’
As von der Grosse went out, Wakjavotski put away the papers in his safe and locked it. Then he strode up and down his office to burn off his excitement. It usually only took a few turns up and down the room to cool him. After a few minutes his angry mutters subsided and the red began to leave his face until it didn’t look so much like a Bolshevik flag.
He strolled over to his bookshelves humming a tune and walked up and down in front of them with his hands behind his back, admiring his collection. A large part of it was books he had written himself on socialism and Javotskism in particular. A few of these he took down to examine more closely, open to the flyleaf which he had autographed, and turn over to read the reviews on the back. This was one of his favourite pastimes—when he had the time for it.
‘A man wonders sometimes as to the nature of true success,’ he soliloquised. ‘Will he be remembered in years to come, or forgotten as soon as he is dead or sooner? A book—a published book—is a medium by which a man may be conveyed to future generations. A book is the embodiment of his life, his soul. All his ambitions, passions, moments of highest feeling, are preserved between the pages of a book. Whether he is remembered for good or ill, at least he will never be misunderstood.
‘But what does it matter, after all, whether or not he is understood if people hate his memory? They may burn his books. It’s not impossible for every last one of his writings to be destroyed and then where is he? And even supposing his book survives the general odium—it simply stands as a monument to his ignominy.
‘But why strive for the approbation of posterity, anyway? No matter what you do, posterity will think what it likes of you. Your ideals may not make sense in another era, that’s all. It appears that the only person whose good opinion is worth having is your own, then.
‘But the only people who ever measure up to their own standards are those who have low ones—who have no ambitions or high ideals—who never strive for anything and are never remembered for anything. However satisfied they may be at their deaths, it is an empty satisfaction.
‘So what, after all, constitutes true success? It’s quite a problem—I shall have to write a book about it.’
* * * * *
‘Good heavens, boy!’ exclaimed Sir Andrew.
‘Is the coast clear?’ asked Cecil, who had come upon Sir Andrew as he sat reading in his study.
‘That depends on what you mean by the coast,’ said Sir Andrew, laying aside his book. ‘They’ve searched my house already, but the streets are still crawling with soldiers. Where did you spring from?’
‘I came up from your cellar. There’s a secret passage leading into it, you know.’
‘Yes, I knew that, but I wasn’t aware that you knew of it. How did you find out about it? And what’s happened to you, anyway?’
‘Never mind about me—what’s happened to the others?’
‘Don’t worry about them; they’re safe enough.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Cecil.
‘I know because Karotski’s been calling me recklessly for the past hour to find out if I had heard anything of you. They think they’ve lost you—I did too, until you popped out of the cellar. So what happened, then?’
Cecil told him in condensed form. Sir Andrew listened while deep in thought.
‘What was the lady’s name?’ he asked at the end of the recital.
‘I don’t remember what they called her—something with a K.’
‘Kaparthy?’
‘Yes, that was it.’
‘I thought so. You were lucky to meet with her—she’s on our side. We mustn’t press our luck, though. The first thing is to get you back to the others.’
‘How will we get through the cordon?’
‘We won’t get through it—we’ll go under it. The passage you came down connects with a hundred others—the whole of the old section of the city is catacombed with them. There’s one that opens out under Leiber’s watch shop.’
He led the way to the cellar door while Cecil followed.
‘You’ll be coming with me, then?’ asked Cecil.
‘Of course,’ said Sir Andrew.
He stopped and looked back at Cecil.
‘Afraid of the dark, are you?’ he asked.
‘Not of the dark,’ said Cecil; ‘but I’d rather not go by myself anyway. It wasn’t very nice coming through there just now.’
‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t,’ said Sir Andrew. ‘Those passages aren’t used much except by rats and spiders. You’re no coward to have come down that way alone and I don’t blame you for not wanting to repeat the trip. I’ll be along this time, don’t worry. Come along.’
The passage they took branched off of the one Cecil had come down a few minutes previously. It was a nasty sort of tunnel—very low and narrow and sloping downwards sometimes. The sewers had not bothered Cecil so much because they were, as a general rule, airier and did not give one the impression of being inside a coffin that had been buried for twenty years. If you can imagine the dirtiest, creepiest cellar you’ve ever seen, and then think how you’d feel going into it after having just read Frankenstein or The Bodysnatchers, you’ll have an idea of what the tunnel was like.
Talking always helped to take one’s mind off of his problems when one had any unpleasant business at hand and so Cecil did his best to strike up conversation.
‘If this leads to Leiber’s shop, why didn’t the singer tell me about it?’ he asked. ‘It would have saved time.’
‘She didn’t know about it,’ Sir Andrew replied. ‘Oh, I don’t mean she didn’t know about the passage—she knows every one there is; even one that leads into the palace, so I’ve heard. I mean that she didn’t know about Leiber and the watch shop. She’s had no contact with the underground at all—it would have been too dangerous with the SO after her all the time. You could see that just from what you saw this evening.’
‘Do you know a lot about her?’ asked Cecil.
‘We’ve seen each other some,’ replied Sir Andrew. ‘I’ve helped her to smuggle British spies out of the country and—on a few occasions—into it. Her name is Csilla Kaparthy—she’s of Hungarian parentage but she was born in Pyromania. She’s young, unmarried, and excessively talented. It’s really a pity that she was a spy and had all this trouble befall her, but before she was caught she did good work for us and our allies. She was a member of an international spy ring with thousands of contacts all over the world. It’s known as “The Hundred Circles”.’
‘If she was a spy,’ asked Cecil; ‘then why didn’t they kill her when they caught her? I thought that’s what they do to spies. Was it because she’s a woman?’
‘That wouldn’t have stopped them,’ he replied. ‘No, it was because she is a public figure. All Europe would have protested if they’d done anything, and the Javotskis needed her for their own purposes. She’s invaluable to national morale: she keeps heart in the people.’
‘She’s a good singer,’ said Cecil.
‘She’s a world class operatic singer. Some say that she’s the best soprano voice in the world. I’ve certainly never heard her equal.’
They were silent then, occupied with their own thoughts. Cecil was so deep in reflection that he walked straight into Sir Andrew before he realised the consul had stopped before a door in the wall.
‘Here’s the cellar under the watch shop,’ said Sir Andrew. ‘I’m not coming in with you; I should be getting back to my house in case they decide to search it again.’
‘Does Karotski know about these passages?’ asked Cecil, the question suddenly occurring to him.
‘Yes, to some extent, but I’ve forbidden him to use them except in cases of extreme emergency. We don’t want all of Pyromania knowing about them, after all. Good bye, your Highness, and good luck.’
Cecil found the catch on the door and, opening it, stepped into Leiber’s cellar. When the door in the wall was shut, it was so well-disguised that Cecil could scarcely tell that it was there. His mind was still spinning with all that had happened to him, but one thought came uppermost in his mind: what had happened at the palace?
‘At last!’ exclaimed Karotski, as Cecil, pale, damp, and excessively grubby, entered the little upstairs room where the two underground agents paced anxiously.
‘Tzaddi!’ cried Leiber, ‘You made it!’
‘I was afraid you’d all gotten your cards,’ said Cecil. ‘How did you get out?’
‘That was no trouble,’ said Karotski. ‘We managed to keep the boats afloat until we reached the grating at the harbour. Where have you been all this time? We’ve been searching the sewers all evening as best we could with soldiers and secret police everywhere. We thought you’d been drowned for sure.’
‘We were terribly worried,’ said Leiber.
‘I’m all right; I’ll tell you everything,’ said Cecil. ‘But first, what about the explosion? Did we pull it off?’
‘No,’ said Karotski; ‘Wakjavotski survived—don’t ask me how.’
‘There wasn’t enough dynamite I think,’ said Leiber.
‘So we’re back to where we started,’ said Karotski; ‘and I’ve absolutely no idea—what’s the matter with the kid? Hey! He’s passed out! Leiber, get some water! Quick!’
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