A Menace
‘Baden, I wish you would realise that my time is valuable,’ said Wakjavotski to his minister of information and propaganda the afternoon following the extraordinarily eventful day. ‘Why couldn’t you tell me whatever it was you wanted to tell me earlier—why did you have to wait until Zköllmann left?’
‘What I have to say is for your ears only,’ replied Baden.
‘Well, what is it?’
They were, as usual, in Wakjavotski’s audience chamber. Wakjavotski had just been preparing to have his photograph taken in his private studio and had donned a trench coat, hat, and gloves to give the impression that the photograph was taken outside.
‘I’d prefer to talk in your study,’ said Baden, moving towards the study door.
‘Why? I’m busy—I’ll talk to you later. Come, Baden, it can’t be that important.’
‘You’re always busy. Now is as good a time as any. Come along.’
‘You needn’t be so peremptory with me,’ said Wakjavotski haughtily, following him into the study all the same.
‘Well, what do you want? Speak out!’
‘Are you sure we can’t be overheard here?’ asked Baden, closing the door behind them and glancing around at the walls and ceiling as if searching for hidden microphones.
‘Yes, yes, of course. And why all this secrecy, anyway? Don’t worry—Zköllmann has had this room thoroughly de-bugged.’
‘You trust Zköllmann too much,’ remarked Baden.
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Wakjavotski without seeming much disturbed.
‘You leave everything to him—and you tell him everything.’
‘So what if I do? He gets things done, unlike you and that bungler, Grosse.’
‘Yes, Zköllmann gets results, but he may just know how to get results that are only good for himself. Do you follow me? What’s to stop him from grabbing at more power than you want him to have?’
‘What’s to stop him?’ asked Wakjavotski. ‘Ha! He wouldn’t try anything like that—he wouldn’t have a chance.’
‘He might if the SO keeps getting stronger. They’ve already practically taken over the work of the civil police—all the policemen do now is arrest loiterers and distribute parking tickets—and they’re using their semi-military status as an excuse to get military secrets. They know everything there is to know—all about our alliances and our allies and the war at large. They probably know more about our allies than we do ourselves. That’s not safe knowledge for a specially-trained force with its own chief and agenda and with complete and unrestrained authority.’
‘It’s not entirely unrestrained,’ said Wakjavotski. ‘I’m still in charge of it.’
‘How do you know that your authority isn’t just a formality? I’m surprised that you—who are so suspicious—don’t see the threat Zköllmann is to you. If he is merely your bodyguard, he has the opportunity to assassinate you, but no motive; as your minister he has motive but no opportunity. He has both positions—and he has ambition too.’
‘Are you so concerned for my safety?’ asked Wakjavotski, looking incredulous.
‘If I were, do you think I’d try so hard?’ said Baden. ‘It’s simple self-preservation—if you go down, I do too. You know as well as I do that loyalty is just a word to fool the masses. We fought our way to the top together and we have to fight together to stay here.’
‘And you think Zköllmann is capable of toppling all of us?’ said Wakjavotski. ‘We’re three to his one, aren’t we?—not counting Limbrugher who is just a satellite.’
‘Grosse doesn’t count either. He has no imagination. You don’t have anyone to depend on but me.’
‘And you think that I should depend on you, no doubt—simply because we, as you so frankly expressed it, “fought our way to the top together?” Yes, we were friends, we shared the same dreams of freedom and the same hardships, we watched the wealthy go by with their arms full of bread while we starved in the gutter, we hated the bourgeois with the same amount of hatred…Therefore we should be sentimental, call each other “comrade” like the idiot Slavs who stab each other as they embrace, or call each other “brother” like the French in their million revolutions. We should forget that we are made of iron and steel and show each other our weaknesses. That’s it, eh?’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Baden. ‘Of course I meant nothing of the kind, but if you mean to have a Night of the Long Knives, just take care that Zköllmann doesn’t get carried away like Hitler’s minions did.’
‘Pooh!’ said Wakjavotski with a raucous laugh. ‘What if Zköllmann is a knave? We’re all knaves, aren’t we? You’re a scoundrel yourself and everyone knows it.’
‘At least you know how I think and why I do what I do,’ said Baden. ‘You don’t know Zköllmann—nobody does. It’s idiocy to trust him as far as you do.’
‘Remember this, Baden,’ said Wakjavotski suavely; ‘I do not trust anyone—not even you.’
* * * * *
At four o’clock Cecil set out for the Szkolzor Theatre. Karotski and Leiber had done the best they could in the way of a disguise for him. Leiber had gone out that morning and bought him a grey jacket, plus fours, and cap and Cecil had left his sword behind in the flat and only carried his pistol in his pocket.
The weather was so fine and Cecil was in such good spirits that he almost felt as if he were out on a holiday instead of a dangerous mission. At least he was not in school studying decimals, he thought, and the thought was so pleasant that he stopped and on a whim bought a nosegay of red geraniums from a flower seller. He wondered at once why he had done it and, feeling rather embarrassed to be seen carrying flowers through the street, he put them carefully into his pocket.
The Szkolzor Theatre was the finest in Pyromania. Its sumptuously furnished interior sported crystal chandeliers, red velvet draperies with golden tassels, gilded private boxes, and ornate French-rococo mouldings, but one would not have guessed this from the austere appearance of the blank brick wall which formed the back of the building and where the stage door was. This door was reached by going down a long narrow alley between the theatre and the buildings behind it and all that could be seen down its ascetic extent were a few packing cases and alley cats.
Cecil entered at one end and saw, as he made his way towards the stage door, the rays of the setting sun slanting down the bare alley through the gap in the opposite end, for the alley ran due west. It seemed to be a sort of promise and he felt that here he would find an important ingredient for his plan, though what it was he didn’t know. He had some difficulty convincing the doorkeeper that Miss Kaparthy really did know him and it took some minutes before he was finally led to her dressing room.
It was a tiny room crowded with things—a small round cosmetic table with a large mirror almost as large as itself hung above it, a collapsible canvas wardrobe, a leather folio full of sheet music, and a folding chair. The walls were crowded with posters, programmes, photographs, and notes of all kinds, making a dizzying collection. In the centre of it all Miss Kaparthy sat in the chair in front of the table, looking somehow small and simplified in her complicated surroundings. She wore a black dress instead of a red one and was looking over a programme.
She was startled to see Cecil.
‘Your High—!’ she began and then stopped.
‘Hello,’ said Cecil, feeling embarrassed again.
‘What did you come here for?’ she asked, glancing anxiously at the door. ‘Don’t you realise how dangerous it is? They’re looking everywhere for you.’
‘I have to talk to you about something,’ said Cecil.
‘But you shouldn’t have come here. Couldn’t you have sent a message?’
‘A message might get lost,’ said Cecil; ‘and this is terribly important.’
She got up and went to the door, listening at it and then opening it to look out in the strained manner people use when they think they are being spied on.
‘You’d better tell me as quickly as possible and then go away,’ she said to Cecil in a low voice. ‘I should have warned you. I thought you would understand from what you saw last night. The SO watch me always. They’ll find out that you have been here—I wish you hadn’t come!’
‘It’s too late now,’ said Cecil. ‘Anyway, someone had to come.’
‘Why didn’t they send someone older?’ asked Miss Kaparthy. ‘You’re only a little boy.’
‘I’m not that little,’ protested Cecil.
‘Young, then,’ she said. ‘You could get hurt.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ said Cecil.
‘I am,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m afraid for you.’
‘I came too because I wanted to hear you sing,’ said Cecil, undisturbed by her anxiety.
‘Hear me?’ she said in surprise. ‘Well, if that was all, you can hear me on the wireless later this evening. They’re going to record the performance and broadcast it.’
‘They are?’ asked Cecil interestedly. ‘How are they going to do it?’
‘I don’t know—all I do is the singing. They have some men who work the recording equipment during the performance and afterwards, when everyone has left the theatre, a man comes and takes the recording to the radio station.’
‘I’ve seen them make recordings before in England,’ said Cecil. ‘I should like to try it sometime.’
‘Was there something you were going to tell me?’ asked Miss Kaparthy, almost laughing at how unruffled he was. She herself could scarcely keep her tense nerves under control.
‘Yes,’ said Cecil. ‘That’s the real reason why I had to come—I don’t think you’ll say yes to anyone else.’
‘What is it?’
Cecil deliberated. He wasn’t quite sure where to begin.
‘You see,’ he said; ‘our try at freeing Pyromania yesterday didn’t work.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I heard something about it but it was all hushed up as much as possible. What happened?’
‘We tried to blow up Wakjavotski with a lot of dynamite,’ said Cecil. ‘But there wasn’t enough and it only blew up the palace floor. Then the SO came after us and flooded the sewers while we were trying to escape. We all got away but it was rather touch-and-go for a while.’
‘Oh I am glad,’ she said, looking relieved. ‘I thought for sure they must have caught some of you. They had every soldier in the capitol looking for you.’
‘Yes,’ said Cecil. ‘But now we’ve got to try again and we haven’t got enough men.’
‘Then you have another plan?’ she asked.
‘Not exactly,’ said Cecil and hesitated. ‘We’ve got an idea. That’s all.’
She wrinkled her brow.
‘And you need my help for it?’
‘Yes,’ said Cecil. ‘We need you to tell us something.’
‘I’ll help you in any way I can,’ she said; ‘but there is so little I can do.’
‘It isn’t anything very hard,’ said Cecil. ‘We need help from the spies in the Hundred Circles ring. Can you tell us the names of any of them?’
She did not answer him at once, but a strange look flashed suddenly into her eyes. It was a look like that of a hunted animal when it can run no longer.
She looked away.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ asked Cecil, confused by the look and her manner. ‘Don’t you know any?’
‘No,’ she said simply. ‘All the spies go by code names. They’re not allowed to tell their real ones.’
‘But couldn’t you tell us where to find them?’
‘I can’t do that either,’ she said. ‘I promised when I first became a spy that I’d never give information about any of the others.’
‘But we’re not the enemy!’ exclaimed Cecil.
‘That doesn’t make any difference!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you see? This is bigger than just Pyromania! These are international agents—our enemies would do anything to discover who they are. If I so much as breathed a word about them their lives would be in great danger—and far more than their lives, too. A great deal depends on them; the world is at stake.’
‘But couldn’t you contact them and ask them to help us?’ asked Cecil desperately.
‘I wish I could!’ she said. ‘I want to help you, but I can’t. They’d find out—they watch me all the time, I told you so! They know everything about me. I can’t do anything without them finding out about it. I am no more free than if I were in prison.’
‘Then you won’t help us at all?’ asked Cecil.
‘I can’t!’
She dropped her forehead onto her hand and shut her eyes.
‘I wish I could,’ she said hopelessly.
Cecil stared at her and for a moment she reminded him of Karotski.
‘There’s another thing I wanted to ask you,’ said Cecil slowly.
She raised her head and looked at him expectantly but her face was very pale.
‘Is it really true that you know a secret way into the palace?’ asked Cecil.
‘Who told you?’ she asked quickly.
‘Sir Andrew did.’
She looked away and said quietly, ‘Yes. I do.’
‘Will you tell me how to get in?’
‘You want to kill Wakjavotski,’ she said.
I did not sound like a question but Cecil answered it anyway.
‘Yes—we’ve got to.’
‘How would you do it?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Cecil, realising the difficulty. ‘We have to get inside the palace somehow because he never leaves it. It would have to be one of us by himself, I think.’
‘Yes, I know.’
Again she was silent.
‘Why can’t you tell me?’ Cecil asked.
‘You see,’ she explained; ‘the secret entrance is very small. A grown-up couldn’t get in that way.’
‘Oh,’ said Cecil. ‘You don’t want me to do it.’
‘I don’t want you to have to do it. I know you would want to.’
‘But someone has to do it.’
‘You couldn’t kill him all by yourself anyhow,’ she said.
‘You’re trying to look after me,’ said Cecil; ‘—because I’m only a boy.’
Although she was so pale she smiled slightly.
‘I suppose I am,’ she said.
‘But you’re the woman, so I ought to look after you,’ said Cecil.
‘Look after me?’ she said, looking up at him in surprise. ‘You!’
‘You don’t have anyone else to look after you,’ said Cecil.
‘No,’ she replied.
They were both silent for several moments.
‘Good bye,’ said Cecil, going to the door.
She looked after him and opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again as the door shut behind him.
The corridor to the stage door had no lights in it and Cecil found himself tripping over wires in the dark. He found the door at last and let himself out without meeting anyone.
The sidewalk in front of the theatre was beginning to grow crowded as people queued up for the performance. Cecil joined the line and bought a ticket for a private box.
She saw him there, even over the glare of the footlights. A moment before, her eyes had had the empty look of concentration common to performers. Suddenly a flash of alarm darted into them and she nearly betrayed her surprise in her voice. But nobody saw the momentary flicker in the muscles of her face as she composed her disordered nerves and set her mind on this new problem.
He’d come after all! He was not angry, then. But why had he risked so much just to hear her sing? How was she to keep him from being discovered?
She struggled with a sudden wild desire to laugh. It was immediately quelled, but she could not hide the mirth in her eyes. Cecil was so unpredictable. He worried her, but she could not help seeing the funny side of things.
The Javotskis were searching everywhere for the prince while he sat in the national theatre, serenely listening to an operatic performance. He almost seemed as if he couldn’t be caught—like a cloud or a ray of light. He almost made her feel that he could succeed in his endeavour…
She had not hoped for so long that it felt strange to hope now, like going down a road she had not been down for a long time. Hope turns the world upside down and makes you see things wrong way up from the way you saw them before. –Not that they are any different—you are the one that is different.
Perhaps that was the only reason her eyes shone and the music seemed suddenly to mean something new as she sang it that evening. Perhaps there was another reason and perhaps that reason was that a prince was listening. However that may be, the applause at the end of the performance was prolonged and enthusiastic—more so even than usual. She scarcely heard it as she bowed and left the stage. She had heard it so often before that it seemed to have no more to do with her than the static on a wireless set. Her mind was working furiously and she was scarcely aware of anything around her until she reached her dressing room again and had shut the door. It was only then that she saw Zköllmann seated in the folding chair.
He got up quickly and offered it to her, but she stepped back and put her hand on the doorknob, for a brief moment intending to run away.
‘Don’t go,’ he said authoritatively. ‘I’ve something to tell you.'
All she could think of was Cecil. Did Zköllmann know he was here? Had they perhaps arrested him already? She could not conceal her trembling and she sat down in the folding chair in hopes of putting a stop to it.
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