Prince Cecil: XVIII.

Chapter XVIII.

The Heir’s Return

Csilla replaced the receiver and turned around. That was when she saw that the door of the room was open and that Zköllmann stood in it.
For several agonising minutes neither spoke. It is said that in a battle of looks the weaker party will blink first. In a battle of silence the weaker party speaks first. When she could no longer stand the suspense, Csilla broke the silence.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in a dry, choked voice.
Zköllmann made no reply.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Csilla again in a voice that had a sob in it. She swallowed and said, ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m looking for the prince,’ he said, glancing at the table that stood to one side.
‘He isn’t here.’
No, I know he isn’t because I just heard you talking to him on the telephone.’
She had a momentary idea of denying it, but knew that it would have been useless to do so.
‘So he was at the shop after all,’ said Zköllmann. ‘They should have searched it, the lazy fools!’
A desperate plan began to form in Csilla’s mind. If only she could keep him here for twenty minutes—even ten—until Cecil had time to get into the palace. Ten minutes might do it.
‘Did you think you would find him here?’ she asked. ‘Or did you think I would tell you where he was?’
‘It doesn’t matter now; I know what I want to know.’
‘I wonder how you found out about Karotski and the others,’ she said.
‘Of course you do. You’d like to keep me here so the prince will have time to escape. That’s quite unecessary however—I don’t intend to go yet. He won’t be at the palace for several more minutes at least and it would be too difficult trying to find him until he gets there, so I’m quite at your disposal for the next ten minutes. Ten sounds about right, doesn’t it?’
Csilla could not speak.
‘You wanted to know how I found out about Karotski. Leiber didn’t talk, if that’s what you mean. I could have arrested them all beforehand but I wanted them to play their cards first.’
‘But you didn’t arrest the prince,’ said Csilla.
Zköllmann did not seem bothered. He was as unruffled as he always was but there seemed a touch of triumph beneath his serenity.
‘No, I didn’t arrest the prince,’ he said. ‘I was saving him for the last.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ he said abruptly. ‘I told you I had time to talk.’
She took a chair.
‘He was rather good, dodging us all that while,’ Zköllmann went on. ‘If he’d been a few years older, he might have had us beaten. As it was, I was afraid we’d lost him and that he’d got out of the country, but he was foolish enough to think he could get rid of Wakjavotski on his own. I knew I’d find out where he was if I came here.’
Despair settled over Csilla, mixed with helplessness. If only there was a way she could stop him!
‘As for the others,’ said Zköllmann; ‘You won’t have to give the codeword to the other agents—the whole underground has been cleaned up. I knew enough to arrest them all several days ago. I only waited to make sure I got all of them.’
‘You’re saying I instead of we like you usually do,’ said Csilla. ‘Did you really discover all this single-handed?’
‘I discovered it single-minded, which is better.’
‘All you have is a mind!’ she burst out. ‘You have no heart—no feelings! I used to think it was impossible to be completely heartless, but I know better now.’
For a moment he said nothing. He had taken a chair across from her and as she looked up at him she saw in his immoveable gaze an expression so full of antipathy that it chilled her blood, though at the same time it stirred within her a reckless defiance.
‘I don’t care what you do!’ she cried.
‘Why do you say I have no feelings?’ he asked.
‘Because it’s true.’
‘Say for the sake of argument it is. What made you think so?’
‘You can’t do the things you do if you had a conscience.’
‘That’s conscience. That’s different from feelings.’
‘No, it isn’t. Without conscience you can’t have any true feelings. You can’t love. You’re no more than an animal.’
‘If so, then a very intelligent animal,’ he said.
‘But what good is that?’ she asked impatiently. ‘What is the good of shutting yourself off from everybody? Supposing you got everything you ever wanted—what would you do then?’
She paused.
‘Go on,’ said Zköllmann.
‘Answer me.’
‘You want to know why I pursue success instead of things most people think are important, such as personal relationships?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied firmly.
‘Have you never striven for one thing at the expense of everything else?’
He knew she had! Wasn’t she willing to sacrifice her own brother for the sake of—well, what was it? Loyalty? Honour? She was like him in that her goal was simply a blank. Yet his success seemed somehow even bleaker than hers.
‘What you’re fighting for isn’t worth it,’ she said quietly.
‘Who says so?’
‘You know it’s true.’
‘If I have no conscience,’ he said; ‘how do I know what’s true and what isn’t? How do I know that anything is true?’
‘Everyone knows what’s true. We are without excuse if we disregard it. That’s why it’s your fault if you haven’t got a conscience.’
‘My fault?’ he said.
‘Yes. You killed it. –Long ago, I suppose.’
There was a silence then, because neither of them had anything left to say.
Zköllmann glanced suddenly at his watch.
‘It’s time,’ he said, rising.
Csilla leaped up and dashed past him to the door. She turned as she reached it and put her hands behind her, her palms against the wood. Her eyes were frantic as Zköllmann stepped towards her.
‘Don’t try to stop me,’ he said. ‘I’d shoot you down, so it wouldn’t do any good.’
‘No; I won’t,’ said Csilla with a gasp. ‘I can’t stop you, I know, but I want to say something first. I know it will do no good. I don’t know why I’m doing it, but I must say it, I must. He’s only a boy. It isn’t fair. He’s only one against so many; he can’t possibly win. He’s so young. He doesn’t understand life yet. He thinks it’s all fairy tales and brave heroes and good triumphing over evil. He hasn’t had time to find out what it’s really like yet. He’s like I was once. He believes in what is good. He is all that Pyromania really means. If you kill him, you’ll kill the hearts of the people.’
‘Stand aside,’ said Zköllmann.
‘I will in a minute. Let me speak first. I must speak. I don’t know what will move you. Perhaps nothing will. But I must speak still. You don’t believe in God; you don’t believe in anything, unless it’s yourself and maybe you don’t even believe in that. But if you ever did believe in God, if you ever had a mother who taught you to pray, by anything that is sacred to you I adjure you, spare your king!
‘Zköllmann!’ she cried, as he came a step nearer, ‘Don’t! One day you’ll be old and there will be very little left to you—only memories, and regrets. You’ll lie awake at night thinking about things you’d like to forget. And the nights are long when you’re old: it’s always winter when you’re old. Don’t do it! You’ll be sorry one day—you know you will be!’
‘Get away from the door,’ said Zköllmann.
‘Not yet—not yet! I will, but not yet. Zköllmann! I’m a woman. I appeal to you as something weak and helpless of something strong. I am unarmed. I can’t stop you. You can do whatever you want to. But I ask you to spare him—for my sake. Oh, spare him! He’s all alone. Someday you’ll be weak, too—helpless, even. Maybe you’ll beg someone else for help someday. You’re strong now. You don’t have to do this. Don’t do it—don’t!’
She stopped with a gasp.
‘Get out of the way or I’ll shoot you,’ said Zköllmann.
His voice was quiet and steady, without any trace of emotion, but it was low in a deadly way.
But Csilla did not move. The two stood frozen, staring at each other over a dead silence. She gazed at him in a wild manner and as she gazed, the fear in her seemed to drain away and a new look came into her eyes.
This time Zköllmann was forced to speak first.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Your eyes are brown,’ she said.
Her hands had stopped trembling. She was suddenly calm and felt nothing except a slight touch of surprise.
‘What does it matter what colour they are?’
‘I never noticed them before, that’s all. I never looked into your eyes before. I was always afraid to. I’m not afraid of you anymore.’
She had a strange feeling of relief and freedom as she said it.
‘Perhaps you are human and not just a machine,’ she said. ‘You must have a soul behind those eyes. Were you ever in love?’
‘Stop changing the subject,’ said Zköllmann.
‘I saved your life once, you know,’ said Csilla. ‘I don’t know why I did—I didn’t have to.’
He stared at her as if with all his knowledge of human psychology he could not quite see through her.
‘…No,’ she went on softly. ‘I do know why, after all: I did it because I didn’t want you to die.’
There was silence for nearly half a minute.
‘Get out of my way,’ said Zköllmann.
Csilla stepped away from the door and he strode past her. His boots stamped over the floorboards as though made of iron. Her eyes followed him until he was gone, then she sank down into a chair without bothering to close the door and put her face in her hands. He had not listened, nor cared. He was a machine after all for no human being with a heart could have disregarded such an appeal as she had made.

* * * * *

Wakjavotski was having his air-conditioning system repaired. He always felt too hot. The royal palace had had many modern improvements made to it since Wakjavotski had become an inmate. These included the intercommunication system, the extensive telephone lines with the palace’s own switchboard, an elaborate alarm system, a private cinema, a recording room, a photography studio, and the hot and cold air-conditioning system, to name only a few and without even going into the swimming pool and the tennis court.
A repair man had been called in to see what was the matter with the air-conditioning and why it wasn’t working well enough. Wakjavotski did not allow him to bring in an assistant. This secured Wakjavotski against any attempt on his life that the repair man might make, but it did not secure the repair man against a sudden and unexpected assault from a grubby boy concealed in the cellar.
‘Put your hands up immediately,’ said Cecil.
‘What the--!’ exclaimed the repair man. ‘What are you doing down here? Don’t you know they don’t allow anyone down here without written permission? And what are you doing with that water-gun?’
‘It’s real,’ said Cecil. ‘Do as I say and be quick about it. Or else, as they say in the motion pictures, you’ll be sorry.’
‘What do you mean? I haven’t got any money,’ said the unfortunate man, growing alarmed.
‘I don’t want your money; I want you to keep quiet. No one is to know that I’m here.’
‘What then? I’ll keep quiet. On my life, I swear it.’
‘I believe you,’ said Cecil. ‘You look a decent sort of fellow. But I’m very sorry, I shall have to tie you up and gag you. Don’t worry, after I’m king I’ll see that you’re compensated.’
‘Ma—’ began the man in amazement, but Cecil tied his handkerchief firmly over his mouth before he had a chance to finish saying ‘mad.’
Cecil next tied his hands behind his back with his shoe laces and his feet up with some wire in the repair box. Lastly, he dragged the man behind the water heater and put a piece of ventilator pipe in front to cover up his feet. This done, he took the repair man’s cap, jacket, and tool bag and made his way up the cellar steps.
At the top of the steps was a door, and here Cecil paused, for there were voices on the other side of it. All he could make out at first was a confused murmur, but as he listened they grew more distinct.
‘…he said the Bourbon. Don’t ask me about it. He said he was going to celebrate, though what he can have to celebrate I don’t know. Better get a move on, you know how patient he is.’
‘I don’t know where it is.’
‘To your right as you go in the wine cellar door.’
The voices were approaching the cellar steps and only the door separated the speakers from Cecil. He glanced round but there was not time to go back down the stairs.
‘Where’s the key?’ asked the second voice and Cecil heard a hand grasp the doorknob.
The question gave him a sudden inspiration. He took hold of the knob on his side and gripped it firmly.
‘It’s not locked. I never lock it anymore.’
‘Well, this door’s locked,’ said the second speaker, giving the knob a shake.
‘What? Impossible! I don’t even know where the key to that door is. Who could have locked it?’
The first speaker tried the handle as well, as was apparent from the rattling of the doorknob, but Cecil clung grimly to his side of the door and the other gave up the effort.
‘Well, I’ll have to go through the key ring, I suppose. Of all the silly things for someone to do!’
Their steps retreated and Cecil, after waiting for a moment, cautiously opened the door. He was in the servants’ wing of the palace and the two speakers had evidently been butlers. The room he entered was a hall that opened through a heavy oak door into the carriage yard between the palace and the coach houses. Of course, these last were not used anymore, because Wakjavotski was not fond of animals of any kind and had an automobile (although he never used it anymore because he never went out).
The hall was dimly lighted by a lamp on a side table. On one side of the door stood a hat tree on which hung several coats and hats belonging to the servants, and on the other side of the door stood a collection of boots and shoes. On the side table, next to the lamp, stood a telephone. Cecil at once went up to it and picked up the receiver, but before he could give the number he heard the two servants returning.
Again, there was nowhere to hide. Cecil took a deep breath and risked all on the clumsy disguise he had taken from the repair man. As the servants came in, still conversing, he knelt down on the floor and began to unscrew a vent cover, rattling the screw driver and whistling.
The servants glanced at him, but in the dim light and crouched as he was, they could not discern him from the true repair man. They tried the cellar door, found that it opened without trouble, and exclaimed in exasperation over their wasted effort.
‘Well, go on down, then,’ said the one. ‘I’ll wait here for you with the glasses.’
He put his tray on the side table and then leaned up against the wall as he waited, much to Cecil’s discomfort for he was sure he would soon be recognised. He glanced over his shoulder at the butler, who was playing unconsciously with the telephone cord and looking the other way. Cautiously Cecil got to his feet and edged his way to the nearest door.
This door led from the servants’ wing into the rest of the palace. He had just laid his hand on the knob when the butler happened to casually glance in his direction. He stared at Cecil in surprise, but Cecil did not wait to see his reaction. He darted through the door and dashed down a corridor that ended in two glass-paned doors. Through these Cecil could see a great and shadowy ballroom, deserted and unlit. He paused for a moment but there was no sign of pursuit so, putting a trembling hand on the handle, he opened one of the doors and went in.
He had the feeling as he entered of a huge space opening out around him. The ceiling soared up into darkness above his head and on either side the walls slipped back into shadows. A wide marble floor ran away in front of him and spread out on either hand like a vast frozen lake. In a far wall of the room was a row of windows that reached from the floor nearly to the ceiling, throwing the pale beams of an early moon across the white marble floor.
Cecil forgot his fear and his hurry. A feeling of awe struck through him as he stepped slowly across the great dance floor. Ghosts of other days seemed to flit by between the moonlight and shadow: figures of men with broad ribbons across their chests and gold braid hanging from their shoulders; forms of ladies in silks and diamonds. Once the old ballroom had been full of them. It seemed to hold onto them like an old man holds to his memories.
Never in all his life before had Cecil felt at home in any place. He had always been a wayfarer, in all the many places he had been, never finding that sense of belonging to any one of them. Here, in the moonlight, in the shadowy stillness of the great ballroom, he felt at last that he had come home.
He was surprised to find his nose running and, as he put his hand to his face, was shocked to find his cheeks wet with tears. He hadn’t cried since he was small, and even now it was not because he was upset at all. It was some other feeling—a feeling as if familiar arms he had thought far away had come softly through the dark and encircled him. He had never felt so near to his father and mother since they had died.

He stepped softly through the silent room, across the bars of moonlight on the marble floor, to the far end and to a great doorway. He came out of the ballroom through this archway into a lofty hall, on either side of which two semi-circular staircases climbed up to a balcony above. Straight before him stood the two-leaved door of the grand entrance of the palace and high above his head hung a chandelier which would have sparkled like a thousand diamonds had it been lit, but now only gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Cecil turned, passed through a doorway to the left, and entered a long, carpeted corridor lined with portraits, suits of armour, and the doors of offices.
This wing of the palace seemed singularly deserted that evening. The guards that usually patrolled the building were nowhere to be seen and the lamps in the corridor were unlit. Ahead Cecil could see the door of an office ajar, shedding a bright ray of yellow lamplight across the blood red carpet. He approached cautiously and put his eye to the crack.

* * * * *

Csilla had been sitting there, it seemed, for hours. The house and the street outside were singularly silent and the horrible stillness stretched her nerves to the breaking point. She wondered what was happening to Cecil at that moment, and tried to think of a hundred ways he might possibly escape from Zköllmann. But beneath it all she knew that escape was impossible—she knew this from her own experience. A wild desire kept rising up inside her to do something to help Cecil, and yet she couldn’t. She couldn’t even warn him.
The underground no longer existed. She was the only one left of all the little revolutionary band—she…and the Silver Heels. This last thought flashed into her mind like a sword. Zköllmann had not said anything to her about the Silver Heels—perhaps he did not know about them. Could it be that they were still out there somewhere in the city, waiting for the signal?
The thoughts clicked together in her mind one after another. Cecil was in the palace, but he could be saved—if the whole country were to rise up to his aid. If the Silver Heels could take the radio tower, and if the Pyromanian people could be alerted of the danger of the prince, they might rise up and throw off the tyranny that was strangling them. The coup might work after all. She must find the Silver Heels!
She got somehow to her feet and went to the telephone. She had taken down the receiver and heard the buzz of the wires in her ear before she realised that Cecil had not given her any number with which to reach them.
A horrible panic seized her by the throat. She must find them, she must! There was so little time! She sank into a chair with the receiver in her hand and settled her mind to think. The Silver Heels were concealed—in the city or outside it? Probably in it, so as to be ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Where in the city could a force of a hundred and fifty men be hidden?
She was very familiar with the city and she knew of only one place where so many men could wait unnoticed. She put the telephone to her ear again and gave the operator the number for the national cathedral.
The ring of the other line sounded as small and faint as if it were worlds away. One ring…two….No answer. Her pulse beat so loudly in her ear that she scarcely could hear the faint ringing above it. Suddenly a voice broke over the line and Csilla caught her breath while her blood seemed to rush up to her cheeks like a flood.
It was the voice that had sung over the wireless, the evening before, that strange, strange song.
‘Sevastopol,’ she said, and her voice was surprisingly calm and even.
The receiver caught a shallow click from the other end and the line went dead.
She stood still for a moment with the receiver in her hand. She was alone again and that far off human voice, now that it was gone, made her feel twice as alone as before. Outside her window a pale moon glimmered through onto the carpet. From where she stood she could see a bit of the railing of the park through the window and a low black tree branch which hung above it.
With a sudden movement, she caught up her cloak and threw it round her shoulders. Her dress was dark and as she put out the lamp and slipped through her front door, she melted into the night like a shadow.
The city seemed deserted. There were no policemen to be seen, no government vehicles. The great bustling hive of several millions was as silent and dead as if only one soul were left in it. Csilla flitted down the avenues, caught occasionally by the gleam of the street lamps as she passed beneath them. At the junction of three streets she stopped and waited beneath the shadow of a doorway.
The radio building stood across the road, also seemingly deserted but for a light in a second storey window. Above it the radio tower shot up towards the stars like a silver needle balanced on its eye. It seemed so frail and delicate amid the vast immensity of space around it, looking like the razor edge of truth against a universe of muddy ambiguity. It was strange to think that on that slender shaft rested all their hopes for the future of Pyromania.
There seemed to be something going on at the far end of Grimes Boulevard. She could distinguish nothing but dark shapes in the shadows, but there seemed to be a lot of them and they were rushing about purposefully, yet not a sound was heard.
Then, as from far away, came a noise like the rushing of the tide on a windy day. It grew to a thunder and then a roar—an avalanche of iron on stone which echoed against the enclosing buildings and redounded in a wave down the three streets simultaneously.
Csilla looked and could scarcely believe her eyes. In the weak light of the street lamps she saw horsemen, hundreds it seemed. They came down the cobblestoned thoroughfares like a host from a dream, the manes of the animals flying and the shadowy warriors astride like ancient knights as the moonlight glinted off of their heels like silver. They rushed together upon the radio building and took it by storm, some dismounting at the doors and making their way in, others galloping round and round the building, never uttering a cry.
Several shots were heard from within but these were quickly silenced and a voice in the doorway called to the others. These who had remained outside took their stations before the doors, still mounted. In the confusion of grouping themselves, nobody noticed a dark figure slip through the back door of the radio building.
Csilla hurried to the staircase and ran lightly up to the second floor. The radio control-room, usually in a state of mayhem from announcers’ voices, classical music, and clicking typewriters, was now suddenly quiet and occupied by a body of men in blue and grey uniforms. They were at the moment engaged in tying up the broadcasting crew. They had already tied up the guards.
One of the soldiers, a rather handsome fellow who appeared to be the leader, was giving orders.
‘You needn’t gag them,’ he was saying. ‘Put them in the coat closet downstairs and make sure you lock the door.’
‘And what do we do with the broadcasting in the meantime?’ asked one of the soldiers.
‘That’s Karotski’s business. I haven’t heard anything from him—I hope nothing’s happened. But at any rate, I can’t attend to that now. They’ll be all about our ears in a few more minutes.’
‘Unless we keep some sort of program running, the whole country will get the alarm.’
‘Our job is to defend this place. Someone will show up soon. They can’t all be jugged because someone gave me the codeword.’
‘I did,’ said Csilla.
The man who giving orders turned around sharply and saw her.
‘How did you get in?’ he asked in surprise, and she recognised the voice on the telephone.
‘I’ve come to help,’ she replied. ‘It was I who gave the codeword.’
‘I thought it was a woman’s voice! You’re the Hungarian singer, aren’t you? Then it’s all right,’ he said, turning to the others.
‘Yes,’ she said; ‘but I’ve got to tell you—the others have been caught—all of them.’
‘Not the prince?’
‘I think not as yet, but I’m afraid he can’t remain free much longer. That’s why I called you here. The only chance of saving him lies in our getting a message to the Pyromanian people and in their rising against the government.’
The men stared at her blankly. Mikhailov (who, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, was the leader of the party) looked at her with a grim understanding gathering in his eyes.
‘The only chance?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I’ve called you to a hopeless mission—like the one you performed eleven years ago. Perhaps I've murdered all of you; but I’ve come to fight with you.’

‘I told him we’d hold this place to the death and we shall,’ said Mikhailov with his usual mixture of melodrama and practicality. ‘That’s what we signed up for. But I’m sure I don’t know what to do about the broadcast, and that’s the whole point, after all. Isn’t there anything recorded?’
‘I can manage it,’ said Csilla, wondering, as she said it, just what she would say.
‘Can you work the equipment?’ asked Mikhailov in surprise.
‘If I can’t figure out how to, my spy training was not very thorough,’ she replied.
‘Something’s up outside, chief,’ said one of the men sharply.
By this time the police had taken the alarm and had come to see what was causing the disturbance at the radio building. They had no sooner made out the threatening shapes then they hurried away to bring the army. They had not been very well-organised themselves since Bubol had been arrested—in fact, no arrests at all had been made by the civil police for the last twenty-four hours.
The alarm was sent from the police station to von der Grosse’s headquarters and an infantry detachment was sent out to reconoitre. They advanced cautiously from the end of each of the three separate streets, their rifles at the ready.
There was a sudden commotion among the shadowy group surrounding the radio building. Suddenly, a wave of living creatures came rushing down the boulevards, neighing and pawing like centaurs. The soldiers broke and scattered as this body of riderless cavalry descended upon them. These were the mounts of the marauding forces, and an odd medley they were—cart horses and draught horses gleaned from the surrounding countryside, with a few milk wagon jades thrown in. The infantry melted back before this onslaught but, when it had passed, once again advanced cautiously toward the radio building.

Prince Cecil: XVII

Chapter XVII.

The Foundations Shaken

It was nearly Krassok’s usual time to begin his secretarial work for the Superior. He was just a bit early this morning, and he whistled cheerfully as he walked down the palace corridor towards the double doors of the audience chamber, pleased with the thought that the Superior would think him a very useful secretary indeed.
He paused as he reached the doors, hearing a familiar voice speaking in loud and irate tones and vociferating more fiercely than was usual even for the Superior. He stood indecisively for a moment, then thought that he had better come back later.
Wakjavotski was talking on the telephone. Baden had called him up that morning with some startling news.
‘THEY DID!’ rang the dictator’s amazed stentorian tones into the receiver. ‘Do you expect me to believe that? –That the SO would actually dare to arrest one of my top ministers? By all the futile Freudian fallacies! What is Zköllmann thinking? Yes, I was angry when he jugged Bubol, of course, but Bubol was getting rather useless anyway and he never had any imagination—but Limbrugher? He can’t just arrest Limbrugher like that—he’s my minister.’
‘Perhaps Zköllmann would benefit by a reminder of that fact,’ came Baden’s voice sarcastictically over the wire. ‘I warned you, you know.’
‘I’ll show you and everybody else that Zköllmann can’t just walk over me like that,’ shouted Wakjavotski. ‘He will be here in fifteen minutes and he will explain everything or lose his position.’
‘He’ll explain, certainly,’ said Baden. ‘He’ll explain everything too satisfactorily. He’d easily talk you round. Don’t give him the chance—arrest him at once. Use the tank brigade if you’re afraid the SO will support him.’
‘I won’t use the tanks for paltry manouvres. They’re to remain in the fort where they’re safe. Besides, I’m not afraid the SO will support Zköllmann. They’re loyal to me first.’
‘I’d be wary all the same. You never know what he’s got up his sleeve. Don’t let him explain anything, at all costs, just put him quietly out of the way. You can always find another secret police chief. I told you he was too ambitious. What do you want—do you want him to be arresting you next? Take strong measures.’
‘I shall take Herculean measures! Dempsey and Lewis won’t even be in the running with me! I’ll clear this calumny up! Zköllmann, your fun is over! Yes, by the Fasces, sickle, and Swastika combined!’
‘Good,’ said Baden, and hung up.
Wakjavotski slammed his receiver down, breaking his telephone.
‘Krassok! Grosse! Anyone! Who’s in here?’ he shouted.
Two guards entered.
‘Hoch Wakjavotski!’ they cried.
‘Ah!’ said Wakjavotski. ‘Send for Grosse immediately. I want him to… oh, never mind—just send him in here.’
The guards saluted and hurried out and Krassok hurried in.
‘Did Your Excellency call me?’ he asked.
‘I don’t want you anymore. You are always late! Goodbye!’
Krassok left.
It took some time for the guards to find Grosse and some more time for him to finish his breakfast (he did not dine particularly late but his meals lasted for quite awhile). He did not appear in the audience chamber until half an hour later.
‘Finally!’ said Wakjavotski who had been stamping up and down the room impatiently the while. ‘Go take some of your men and bring Zköllmann here.’
‘Why couldn’t you have just called him, instead of making me come?’ asked Grosse, who did not like having his breakfast rushed.
‘Don’t question me! Insubordination! Go at once!’
Grosse obeyed rapidly.
He was gone for some time. In the meantime the telephone was repaired. As soon as it was fixed it began to ring.
‘What?!’ asked Wakjavotski, answering it.
‘Zköllmann isn’t home,’ said Grosse’s voice.
‘Find him!’
Wakjavotski hung up.
‘Who are you looking for?’ asked a voice behind him.
He turned around and saw Zköllmann standing just inside the door.
‘You!’ he thundered irately.
‘Here I am.’
‘—And here you’ll stay until I’m through with you. What do you mean by arresting one of my ministers? You will release him immediately.’
‘Which one?’
‘What do you mean, which one? Limbrugher, of course. And what did you arrest him for, anyway?’
‘Conspiracy.’
‘Against whom? Against me? You’re mad! I won’t believe it of him. He not only does not have the guts to do that sort of thing, he does not even have the brains.’
‘He was only an agent in the plot.’
‘I said release him at once!…What plot?’
‘He has already been released,’ went on Zköllmann evenly. ‘We asked him a few questions, and he confessed everything. As you said, he hasn’t much courage or intelligence. He has been taught a lesson and will not try anything of the sort again.’
‘But what plot? What plot? I want to know!’
‘A plot against you. Baden has been maturing it for some time.’
‘Baden! Ha! Of course you’d pick Baden. The two of you aren’t too good friends, are you? Well, it was rather stupid of you to choose Baden to style as the originator of your fictional intrigue. He may be bad, but I know him too well to believe he’s in a plot against me. He said the same thing about you, you know.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes, and I almost believe it now, after this premature arrest of Limbrugher. Baden informs me that you’ve made it your business to know all about our private affairs. That kind of curiosity is not healthy. –Because of course if we decided we didn’t want you to have that knowledge, we’d have no other alternative but to dispose of you. You’ve been getting too restless, lately, I think. I am going to call Baden in and get to the bottom of this arrest and supposed “plot.” You still haven’t explained the particulars to me, you know.’
Wakjavotski picked up the telephone and dialed Baden’s number.
‘You won’t find him at home,’ remarked Zköllmann, watching him.
‘Where is he, then?’
‘Just now he’s at the SO headquarters.’
Wakjavotski laid down the receiver.
‘What’s he doing there?’ he asked.
‘He was arrested fifteen minutes ago by the SO.’
Wakjavotski stared at Zköllmann while the blood mounted in his face.
‘By the…’ he began and cut himself short with, ‘WHAT ON EARTH DID YOU DO THAT FOR?!!’
‘He was in a plot against you,’ Zköllmann repeated patiently.
‘So you really expect me to believe that—that lie?’ asked Wakjavotski with determined incredulity.
‘He confessed to it himself.’
‘Under coercion, no doubt. You probably got that out of him with your interrogation.’
‘Not at all. He confessed freely the moment we confronted him with the documents found in his house. There was no use in his denying it.’
‘What documents? Give me physical proof!’
Zköllmann laid a folder stuffed with papers on Wakjavotski’s desk.
‘This is the evidence we’ve found so far,’ he said.
‘Forged probably—the lot of it! You’ll release Baden immediately.’
‘If you think it best.’
‘And you’ll concern yourself only with what I tell you to from now on. Do you imagine I have time to keep my ministers from killing each other? I have more important things to do—such as the war, for instance. I’m having you dismissed, Zköllmann.’
Wakjavotski flipped open the folder and began to look over the papers inside.
‘Are you going to have the tanks sent back to the fort as well?’ asked Zköllmann, immoveably.
‘Who ordered the tanks away from the fort?’ asked Wakjavotski. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Baden did.’
Wakjavotski laid down the papers, straightened up, and gaped at Zköllmann for a few seconds, then rushed to the telephone and gave the necessary orders. When he hung up again, he sat down in a chair and gave his secret police chief a long scrutiny, as if trying to plumb the depths of that impenetrable mind. Zköllmann returned his gaze serenely.
‘Was Grosse in the plot as well?’ Wakjavotski asked at last.
‘They had not yet let him into the secret, although of course they planned to, in order to have the support of the army.’
‘I never trusted Baden,’ said Wakjavotski. ‘—But I don’t trust you, either. That’s why I made you both ministers—two scoundrels whom I couldn’t trust—so that you’d watch each other and balance out each other. If one of you started to get too strong, I knew the other would keep him in check. You knew that, too—didn’t you?—and that’s why you’ve arrested Baden.’
‘Do you still want me to release him?’ asked Zköllmann.
‘No, he’s convinced me. –Something you couldn’t do. Well, now that he’s out of the way, you think you can do what you like. But you’ve forgotten one thing—you’ve still got me to deal with.’
Zköllmann stood silently regarding him.
‘You think I’m just a charismatic politician, don’t you?–One who has the people’s imaginations captivated, but who has to rely on his ministers for the real work?’ asked Wakjavotski. ‘Not at all! I’m in control completely. Try to get rid of me! You think the SO will support you, but I know better. They’re loyal to me and I’ve seen to it that they’ve stayed that way. If they had to choose between you and I, you wouldn’t stand a chance—not even from your own special force. Sad, isn’t it? Do you want to pit your wits against mine? Go ahead! I’m not afraid of you!’
Wakjavotski paused in his harangue to give Zköllmann a long look.
‘You just stand there as silent as a great black grave,’ he went on after a moment. ‘But you can’t frighten me! I can read minds, too—maybe even better than you can with all your psychoanalysis, you loony doctor!’
‘Some kinds of psychology make mad men sane; some kinds make sane men mad,’ replied Zköllmann.
‘Enough of your oraculations! I’m not interested! Don’t mistake me—I’m letting you return to your work, but don’t make the slightest move without my say-so. I have the tank brigade; I have the army; I have a secret weapon that is powerful enough to liquidate our allies as well as our enemies, however much you may scoff at it; and I have my own incomparable self—that’s something you can’t get the better of.’
‘Was that all you wanted me for?’ asked Zköllmann.
‘Go!’ cried Wakjavotski.

* * * * *

‘A quarter of an hour yet to go,’ said Mikhailov.
The four conspirators sat together in Leiber’s upstairs room. The sun had set and darkness was beginning to creep into the city. All was in readiness for the operation that night—the agents had been apprised of their parts and the Silver Heels had been given their injunctions. There was nothing to do now but to wait.
It was a quiet party in the little room. There wasn’t much left to talk about and no one felt much like talking. Leiber studied some shorthand notes, Cecil swung his legs, and Mikhailov sat and cleaned a tommy gun—one of the few of the underground’s weapons. Karotski stood leaning against the wall and staring at nothing. No one else wanted to bother him, so nobody had broken the silence until Mikhailov made the above remark. When he had made it, Karotski jerked his head up to look at the grandfather clock.
‘It’s nearly dark enough,’ was all he said, with a glance at the window.
‘I’ve just time to wind my watches, I think,’ said Leiber, getting up.
He went through the door and they heard his footsteps going steadily down the stairs until they reached the bottom; then Cecil suddenly jumped up and hurried after him.
Leiber sat on the counter in the watch shop with a lamp above his head, the light from which streamed over his shoulder. He held one of the watches up to the light as he wound it. He was always very careful with his watches.
‘They’re almost like living things,’ he remarked, seeing Cecil come in. ‘I don’t like to think of what will happen to them if I don’t come back. I hate for a watch to run down.’
Cecil came up to the counter and watched Leiber’s painstaking fingers as they turned a tiny gold key in the side of the watch.
‘I thought of asking you to take the job of winding them for me every night, Tzaddi,’ said Leiber, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘—I mean, if anything happened to me. But I suppose you’ll be far too busy once you’ve got your kingdom back.’
‘I won’t be too busy,’ said Cecil quickly.
Leiber replaced the watch beneath the counter and took out another.
‘This watch was given to me several years ago by a friend who is dead now,’ he said thoughtfully, opening up the back and examining the little wheels inside. ‘I’ve always kept it. Watches are curious things. You’ve got to treat them just right—not drop them or get them wet or anything like that. If you keep one long enough, it gets to be an old friend.’
He put a key into the watch and began to wind it.
‘What will you do after Pyromania is free again?’ asked Cecil.
‘I don’t know,’ said Leiber. ‘I suppose I’ll keep the watch shop like I do now. I haven’t thought much about it.’
‘Don’t you want to be rich, or in government, or anything like that?’
‘Not much. Most of the fellows in the underground just want to settle down quietly and begin life for real. I suppose that’s what I want, too. I don’t know what I want, exactly.’
‘Then what is it you’re fighting for?’ asked Cecil.
‘Why, to make Pyromania free. That’s what we’re all fighting for. You didn’t come back just to be king, did you?’
‘No,’ said Cecil; ‘but I thought you’d want something at the end of it all for yourself.’
‘All I want is for all this to be over.’
‘I wish I were going in there instead of you.’
‘You wouldn’t look very convincing in the disguise,’ said Leiber.
‘But it seems a rotten shame,’ said Cecil; ‘—that I’m the one who will get to be king and you’re the one who’s got the bad job.’
‘It isn’t a bad job,’ said Leiber. ‘It’s a good job.’
‘Doesn’t it bother you that you’re going to murder him?’
‘It was a hard decision to make in the beginning. Murder is wrong, but so is standing by while Wakjavotski hurts innocent people. All I knew when I decided was that I had to make a choice one way or the other, and I’ve made it. Pretty soon I shall know whether I was right or wrong.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’ asked Cecil.
‘I have to go through with it whether I’m wrong or not,’ said Leiber. ‘If I am wrong, I shall suffer for it, but I hope a lot of other people will be made happy.’
The clocks and watches began to chime the hour in their silvery voices and Leiber got up and put on the white laboratory jacket and spectacles that were his disguise. Karotski and Mikhailov entered the shop from the stairway.
‘Don’t forget your parts,’ said Karotksi. ‘Leiber, hire a taxi. You’ll look more official. Mikhailov, see that the Silver Heels don’t get arrested after the curfew hour strikes.’
‘We won’t be,’ said Mikhailov. ‘We can handle any policemen we meet.’
‘Good. The prince will come with me. Remember, don’t do anything until you’ve gotten the codeword. We can’t afford any premature manouvres.’
‘Right.’
‘Leiber,’ said Karotksi, turning to him and lowering his voice; ‘if you run into trouble forget everything and get out. You’re more important than the success of this plan.’
Leiber picked up the gun case and said nothing.
‘Well, I’m off,’ said Mikhailov. ‘Good luck, Leiber.’
He disappeared through the door and they heard him whistling as he ran up the street. Karotski and Cecil went out next and Leiber followed last, locking the shop door behind him.
Karotski and Cecil started off toward the radio building and Leiber went down the street in the opposite direction. They glanced back at him once and saw him stop to hail a passing taxicab. Then they went on together without looking back. Not a word was spoken between them until they reached the safe house across from the radio tower.
Cecil and Karotski entered the empty building and climbed the stairs to a room on the second storey. Karotski went quietly to the window and looked out at the street. Nothing stirred. It was approaching the curfew hour. They had had to time the operations carefully so that Leiber would not arrive at the palace at a suspiciously late hour, but so that the Silver Heels would have the cover of darkness in which to surprise the radio station.
Karotski ensconced himself beside the telephone. If Leiber was successful, Vau would soon know by the panic-stricken telephone calls that would come pouring out of the palace. After tying up the telephone lines, Vau would pass the message on to Karotski who would give the code word to the Silver Heels and to the other agents.
They sat in the twilit room, waiting anxiously for the ring of the telephone to break the stillness. In the meanwhile Karotski went mentally over the plans, muttering them aloud in an effort to keep them straight in his mind. Cecil sat and mused nervously.
The telephone call came much more quickly than they had expected. It was Vau’s voice, certainly, but there was something wrong in its tones.
‘Hello, hello, are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘The game’s up, Aleph.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘They’ve got Gimel.’
‘Who?’
‘The SO. He didn’t have a chance to do anything. They got him as soon as he got inside the palace. They were expecting him. Better clear out while there’s time.’
‘But—’
‘Listen,’ came Vau’s voice sharply; ‘I can’t tell you any more. Two SO officers just came into the switchroom. They’ve come for me, I think. I’ve got to hang up…’
The line went dead.
Karotski slowly hung up the receiver. Cecil had stood near enough to catch most of this and a deadly weight settled on their hopes.
‘They’ve got him?’ Cecil asked, meaning Leiber.
Karotski nodded. ‘The butchers!’ he muttered.
Cecil leaned his head against the dark wall.
‘Well, we’ve failed,’ he said dully.
‘Yes, failed,’ repeated Karotski. ‘Failed!’ he cried, suddenly. ‘It’s all over. That was our last chance and it’s gone. It wasn’t Leiber’s fault, though. I shouldn’t have let him go. Oh, why did I let him go?’
‘They’ll be after us next,’ said Cecil.
‘Yes, they’re probably on to all of us. But what does it matter? They’ve got Leiber. What could we have done without him?’
‘Look here,’ said Cecil, straightening up with a determined look on his face. ‘We aren’t giving up. They haven’t caught us yet and there’s still time. Leiber won’t talk.’
‘No, Leiber won’t talk,’ said Karotski, beginning to pace up and down. ‘Leiber won’t talk, no matter what they do. Not Leiber! He’s true: true as gold. They’ll torture him—again—the brutes! Fiends! Villains! But he’ll never betray us. No! Not him. Oh, Leiber! Why did it have to be you?’ and he put his head into his hands.
‘We’ve got to make a plan,’ said Cecil. ‘We haven’t much time.’
‘Yes!’ said Karotski, straightening up again. ‘All’s not lost. We’ll save him yet. Leiber! I’ll save you, or die in the attempt.’
‘How are we to do it?’ asked Cecil practically.
‘Storm the SO headquarters,’ said Karotski wildly. ‘We can use the Silver Heels.’
‘I don’t think there are enough of them for that,’ said Cecil. ‘But—wait a minute!—the plans and maps and things—aren’t they still at Leiber’s shop? …They’ll search it, you know, now that they’ve arrested him.’
Karotski stared at him.
‘We’ve time!’ said Cecil, darting past him to the door. ‘They can’t have got there yet. We can beat them if we run.’
He dashed out and down the stairs to the street. Only once he looked back and saw Karotski pounding after him. They reached the deserted street where the clock shop stood and Karotski unlocked the door.
All was order within. The ticking of the fifty or so clocks and watches sounded like fifty hearts beating in their sleep.
‘They haven’t been here yet,’ said Cecil, as he hurried up the dark staircase. He opened the secret compartment in the grandfather clock with the key Leiber had entrusted to him.
‘They will be, though,’ said Karotski, who was just behind him. ‘They’ll smash everything up.’
‘There’s nothing we can do. Here’s the papers. Have you a match?’
‘Don’t burn them yet. I want to look over them.’
Karotski pulled out the map of the SO headquarters and studied it, spread out on the table. He attempted several different modes of attack with a pencil, but each time he couldn’t work it out with only one hundred and fifty Silver Heels.
‘There’s only one thing to do,’ he said, straightening up. ‘We’ll just have to try our luck.’
‘Do you think we have a chance?’ asked Cecil.
‘No, but we’ve got to do it. I won’t leave Leiber to the mercy of those devils.’
‘But what can we do against them?’
‘We’ll see!’ cried Karotski.
He strode to the door and opened it. Outside on the landing stood a bevy of figures in black uniforms.
And here, Karotski, with all his preoccupation, was gripped with that fabulous presence of mind that always came to him in the most desperate of situations. He closed the door.
He closed it and threw himself against it as a human barricade. At the same time, he glanced over his shoulder at Cecil.
‘The clock!’ he whispered.
Cecil understood him and knew that it was the only thing to do. As quick as thought, he put one leg down into the cavernous space that was the pendulum cabinet of the old clock. He ducked his head under the upper part of the opening and pulled in his other leg, making himself as small and thin as possible. Then he shut the door and, because he still had the key, locked it.
All this time, which was in sum about three seconds, Karotski had held the door shut against the men outside. They weren’t interested in battering the door down and quickly resorted to firing several bullets through the door panels. One of these grazed Karotski’s hand. He stepped back from the door and allowed them to open it and enter.
‘Comrade Karotski, also known as Aleph; under arrest!’ said the head officer.
Karotski made no demure as they buckled the handcuffs on his bleeding hands. He seemed to have burnt the last of his energy in that one frantic outburst and now he had nothing left.
‘Here’s the papers,’ said one of the officers, taking them from the table. ‘That’s what we want; we can go over the place later.’
‘Very well. You two stay and guard this place. Arrest anyone who comes here,’ said the head officer.
Then they went away, leaving the two guards to keep a watch outside the door. When he was quite sure that they had gone, Cecil crawled out of the clock. For a few minutes he stood in the quiet room uncertainly. He was on his own now. There was only one way left to save Pyromania and Cecil had felt all along that it was what he would have to do in the end anyway.
He went to the telephone on the wall, took down the receiver, and gave the number for Miss Kaparthy’s house. It was her voice that answered it and he could tell from her unsuspecting tones that she had not heard anything yet.
‘Miss Kaparthy,’ he said; ‘—it’s I—Cecil.’
‘Cecil!’ she exclaimed, forgetting to call him ‘Your Highness.’ ‘Oh, Cecil, you shouldn’t call here, I’ve told you before. They might catch you.’
‘I had to. They’ve got Leiber.’
There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment.
‘Who did?’ asked Csilla.
‘The SO. They’ve got Karotski too.’
‘Not Karotski! What are we going to do?’
‘I’m going to save them.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve got to get into the palace and get rid of Wakjavotski myself.’
‘But you can’t!’
‘I have to, that’s why I called you.’
‘…You want me to tell you the secret way in?’ she said.
‘You must—there’s no other way.’
‘No, I know. Listen carefully, Cecil. The vaults under the church are very extensive and they connect to a passage into the palace. You can get into them through the door in the alley you went through that first night. If you go through the archway on the north side it will take you down a long passage. It ends in a wall with an inscription in it, but it isn’t a real wall. If you push on it, it slides in like a door. Follow the passage behind it. It goes on for a long ways. At one place it is nearly choked up with rubble from where the roof collapsed once. I think you can get through—I did once—but a man couldn’t. At the end of the passage you’ll come to a wooden panel. It is part of the wall of the palace wine cellar. Can you find your way from there to the upper levels?’
‘I can do it,’ said Cecil. ‘I’ve almost memorized the floorplans. Is that all?’
‘Yes, that’s all. Are you sure you can do it by yourself?’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘Cecil, I’m coming with you!’
‘You can’t. There’s something else you’ve got to do. If I succeed in getting Wakjavotski I’ll ring you up on the telephone and give you the codeword. You’ve got to let the Silver Heels and any of our men they haven’t nabbed yet know and get them off on their work. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, I can!’
‘The code word is Savastopol.’
‘Savastopol,’ she repeated.
‘Good bye, then.’
‘Good bye—be careful.’
Cecil hung up and went to the window. He had slid down enough drainspouts in his life to effect an escape from the upper window without difficulty and neither of the two guards saw him as he slipped away up the street.