The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

  “And a good marksman?” Berkeley asked.

  “Well . . . Karlovy tried that. And hit.”

  “But he didn’t kill,” Berkeley said, “worse luck for him. No, Harry, I don’t think these people are really into long-range killing; they don’t have the skill.”

  “As I recall, they don’t have all that much skill at close-range killing either. Didn’t they need two attempts at Franz Ferdinand’s life?”

  “Indeed. They threw a bomb into his carriage, and very calmly he threw it back out again. That the car turned down a street where Princip was waiting was pure coincidence. And even so, Princip had virtually to stand next to the car and fire twice to kill the duke.”

  “And his wife,” Lockwood said sombrely.

  “The archduchess only died because she gallantly threw herself across her husband’s body, and so stopped the second shot,” Berkeley pointed out. “I would say that whoever is going to kill me with a bullet will want to get right up alongside me.”

  “Or behind you,” Lockwood suggested.

  “My back is your business, Harry.”

  “You can rely on that. What about knives?”

  “Well, on the evidence of Irene Karlovy’s effort in Sabac, they’re not too good with those, either.”

  “So what is the drill?”

  “We will dress for dinner, and go down to the restaurant.”

  “But we’ll take our guns.”

  “I think that might be a good idea.”

  Next morning they went for a stroll through the city, as ostentatiously as possible. Lockwood maintained a position some ten yards behind Berkeley. Both men carried gilt-headed canes, wore English topcoats over lounge suits, kid gloves and bowler hats. That they were English could not be doubted by anyone.

  It was now the end of February, and in the Balkan highlands, very cold. And Belgrade looked as shabby as ever, for all the building work going on. They walked to the river, and looked at the fast flowing water. Then they even walked to the school which had been a recruiting centre of the Black Hand in the old days. It was under new management, and appeared very normal. But so had the old one.

  When they returned to the hotel, Savos was waiting for them. He was a cautious man, and was accompanied by two of his policemen; all three were in plain clothes.

  “We have checked every brothel in the city,” the colonel said. “And there is no sign of Irene Karlovy. Nor do any of the madams know her. If she walks the streets, it is not known to any of the other girls.”

  “If she is still a prostitute,” Berkeley said, “and is not part of any stable, then she must have a pimp.”

  “Do you wish me to round up all the known pimps as well?”

  “If you think it will bring us any joy.”

  “I don’t think it will,” Savos said. “As I am sure you know, Berkeley, any policeman, to be successful, has to rely on a network of spies, informers, agents . . .”

  “And you are a successful policeman,” Berkeley suggested.

  “I think I may claim that,” Savos said, modestly. “The point is, through my various agents I know most of what is going on in Belgrade, and I can tell you that there has been not a sighting of this Karlovy girl since we turned her out last year. I would bet my last dinar that she is not in Belgrade.”

  “And her brother and sister?”

  “They neither. Anyway, they are too young to be taken seriously.”

  “Sixteen and fifteen,” Berkeley mused. “You could be right.”

  “However,” Savos said brightly, “what I have done is contacted my various colleagues in other parts of the country.”

  “It’s now a pretty big country.”

  “On the map. But it is still several small countries, trying to co-operate. Serbs will prefer to live in Serbia, Croats in Croatia, and so on. My bet is that this girl is still somewhere in Serbia. Therefore we will find her. You understand that I am devoting a great deal of time, and the services of my people, towards finding her for you.”

  “And I am sure you’re not doing it for love,” Berkeley agreed.

  “Well, you know . . . I am to retire in two years’ time.”

  “Are you indeed? That’ll be a pity.”

  “Oh, we will have found your woman by then. I expect to do so in another week. But, when I retire, well . . . I had thought of emigrating.”

  “Eh?”

  “Another of the problems of being a policeman, especially a successful policeman,” Savos said, “is that one makes enemies. And as you have found out, in this part of the world, once one has made an enemy, he, or she, is an enemy for life, your life or his. Now, when one is a police chief, one is in no danger; one has the weight of one’s force, one’s government, behind one, either for protection or vengeance. But once one ceases to have that immense power, one becomes an ordinary citizen, and as vulnerable as any ordinary citizen.”

  Berkeley nodded. “I take your point. You mean you wish to come to England.”

  “It would be a step in the right direction. And then, who knows, Canada or Australia.”

  “How many?”

  “Eh?”

  “How many of you are there? Is there a Mrs Savos?”

  “There is a Mrs Savos,” Savos said guardedly.

  “I see.” But you haven’t made up your mind whether or not to take her with you, Berkeley thought, and remembered the pretty dark-haired secretary. “Well, obviously I cannot guarantee anything, Colonel, but I will discuss the matter with my superior when I return to London. You said there is a year or two to go.”

  “Yes. When will you return to London?”

  “When I have found Anna,” Berkeley said. “Or her murderers.”

  “Rather makes the imagination boggle,” Lockwood commented at dinner. “That thug walking down Piccadilly.”

  “With his doxy on his arm,” Berkeley said. “Still, he’s been very useful to us over the past dozen years.”

  “Mainly because he’s always reckoned we’ve been useful to him.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes,” Berkeley reflected.

  Next morning they took the train to Sabac. The police sergeant greeted them somewhat nervously. “It is very good to see you again, General Townsend,” he said. “But . . . there will be no trouble?”

  “As long as no one tries to kill me, there will no trouble,” Berkeley promised. “I have come to visit my wife’s grave, and to look at the house. You know it is for sale?”

  “Oh, yes. The agent from Belgrade came down and put up a notice. And there have been some people down to look at it. I do not know if they have bought it. I will come with you, eh?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Berkeley said.

  “But . . . if there is trouble . . .”

  “I’ve told you there won’t be,” Berkeley reminded him.

  There would be no chance of anyone attempting to contact him if he was surrounded by policemen.

  He showed the sergeant the enlarged photograph. “Have you ever seen that little girl?”

  The sergeant peered at it. “No, sir, I don’t recollect her. What a pretty child. I would have remembered her.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Berkeley agreed. “But there is something you can tell me,” he said. “That girl, Irene Karlovy. Has she been back here?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

  “But her family used to live here.”

  “That is true, sir. But it was a long time ago. And now that her father is dead, and she is herself in trouble with the law . . .”

  “And you have no idea where she might be?”

  “Well, sir, I believe her family originally came from Nish . . .”

  Berkeley snapped his fingers. “Of course. She told me that herself.”

  “May I ask, sir, what is the reason for your pursuit of her? I should have thought you would have been glad to see the back of her.”

  “So would I,” Berkeley agreed.

  The house was as they had left it, dank and d
eserted, although the For Sale notice was prominent; presumably its value was dropping every day, with the proviso that it was a large and solid building, which with a few hundred pounds spent on renovation could again be a splendid home.

  They visited the cemetery, and Berkeley spent some time standing by the grave while Lockwood watched.

  “There’s nothing for us here, Harry,” Berkeley said, as they returned to the station. “I suppose it was a forlorn hope, that they might have brought Anna here.”

  “So . . . Nish?”

  “Unless Savos has turned anything up.”

  Savos was again waiting for them at the hotel, bubbling with enthusiasm.

  “Success,” he claimed. “Good police work, eh?” He waved the photograph.

  “Tell me,” Berkeley suggested.

  “One of my agents on the train to Sofia is sure he remembers a little girl looking just like this.”

  “After three months?”

  “Well, she is a pretty child, eh? This man has an eye for such things. One day we will have to lock him up. But there was also a disturbance.”

  “What sort of disturbance?”

  “The girl was travelling with two people, a man and a woman. The girl was travelling on her mother’s passport, as is normal. But when the train stopped at Dimitrevgrad . . . this is on the border with Bulgaria, you understand, the little girl suddenly quarrelled with her mother. My agent remembers her saying, ‘I do not wish to go into Bulgaria. My mother would never be in Bulgaria.’”

  “Her mother,” Berkeley said. “But you said she was travelling with her mother.”

  “That is what was supposed. My agent questioned this woman, while the little girl was being disciplined by her father.”

  “Disciplined?” Berkeley asked.

  “Well . . . you know how these things are. Anyway, the woman told my man that the girl was mentally disturbed.”

  “And he accepted this?”

  “Well, he had no reason not to.”

  “I see. So they were allowed into Bulgaria.”

  “Well, you see, they had Bulgarian passports. One must suppose they were Bulgarians.”

  “What were their names?”

  “Antonov. Mr and Mrs Antonov. With their daughter.”

  “Thank you, Savos. That will be very useful. And very relieving. It means Anna is still alive.” Being ‘disciplined’ by her fake father, he thought. But he would bring that chicken home to roost.

  “You intend to go into Bulgaria?”

  “I told you, I came here to find my daughter.”

  “Berkeley, I must ask you to be sensible. Bulgaria is an enemy of Serbia. Everything that sustains you here, your rank, your reputation, the fact that you are supported by the police, will count for nothing there. And if you shoot anybody, they will probably hang you.”

  “They have to catch me, first. Now, Savos, I want a bit of honesty. Are the Antonovs connected with IMRO? I know you have a file on these people.”

  “Well . . .” Savos considered. “Their names are on my file, yes. But you must understand,” he hurried on, “they have committed no crime, in Serbia. I have no reason to have held them.”

  “They brought my daughter through Serbian territory.”

  “No one at that time knew she was your daughter. She seemed to be perfectly happy, travelling with these people. Until she realised she was being taken into Bulgaria. How do you explain that? She must have known these people were not her real parents.”

  “She went with them, all the way from her school in England,” Berkeley said. “Because they told her they knew where her real mother was, and that they could take her to her.”

  “But . . .” Savos frowned. “Caterina is dead. She has been dead now for seven years. Did Anna not know this?”

  “Anna only knew what I told her,” Berkeley said. “I told her Caterina had died fighting the Austrians. I felt I could not possibly tell her the truth.”

  “And she did not believe you.”

  “She did not believe me. She knew, because her mother told her, that Caterina and I had split once before. I imagine she worked out for herself that we had split again, and that I had carried her and her brother and sister off. I had meant to tell her the truth when she was older. And then along comes this obviously very plausible couple to say they could reunite her with her mother.”

  “My dear friend,” Savos said. “I am most heartily sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I must repeat my advice. Leave the matter with me, and I will see what can be done.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, I can make representations to the Bulgarian police . . .”

  “Who you say are your enemies. And who you also say protect members of IMRO.”

  Savos sighed. “That is very true. But still, kidnapping a young girl . . .”

  “I don’t think you will get very far by legal means,” Berkeley said.

  “If you enter Bulgaria you will be walking into a trap.”

  Berkeley grinned. “A trap only works when the fact that it is a trap is known to only one side. Besides, I have one or two ideas of my own. Have you located Irene Karlovy yet?”

  Savos shook his head.

  “I was told she is in Nish.”

  “I know she made her home there, after the War,” Savos said. “And I have asked the police chief there to see what he can find. But as to whether she is there now . . .” he shrugged. “Anyway, with this latest information, what does she matter? It is not she who has possession of your daughter.”

  “It is still she who set the whole thing up.”

  “But if we know who the kidnappers are . . .”

  “She is still the central figure,” Berkeley said. “And if you do not know where she is, what about her brother and sister?”

  “I understand they are in Nish.”

  “Living under their own names?”

  “Yes. There is a Karlovy house in Nish.”

  “Thank you,” Berkeley said. “You won’t forget what you said, that I have the support of the Serbian police? I would like you to telephone the chief of police in Nish and request him to give me all possible assistance.”

  Savos frowned. “What are you meaning to do?”

  Berkeley grinned. “Irene and her friends the Antonovs are not the only people who can lay traps, Colonel.”

  The Spring

  Berkeley and Lockwood took the train to Nish, through rolling hills, travelling for a while beside the Danube. This was country they both knew very well, from their service with the Serbian cavalry before the Balkan Wars, quite apart from their sallies across the border as members of the Black Hand. Commanding as it did the valley of the Vardar, one of only two routes through the Balkan mountains practical for moving large armies, it had been fought over many times in the course of history; grim reminders of that past were provided not only by the old castle but by the infamous Tower of Skulls erected by the Turks following their recapture of the city in 1809.

  “We will need horses,” Berkeley said.

  “How many?”

  “Four. One must be a pack animal.”

  “Are we going to take a long journey?”

  “Not that far, but we will need supplies for three people for perhaps a week.”

  By now Lockwood had worked out what his friend was planning. “Which one?”

  “An eye for an eye, Harry.”

  “And if they won’t play?”

  Berkeley gave a savage grin. “As the man said, we don’t want to start crossing bridges until we reach them . . .”

  “Because they may not be there,” Lockwood finished.

  “Exactly.”

  “Where exactly were you thinking of taking the girl?”

  “You remember that little village about twenty miles to the north. There was an old abandoned castle there.”

  Lockwood frowned. “Isn’t that supposed to be haunted?”

  “Only if you believe in gho
sts.”

  “She won’t stay there by herself.”

  “No, she’ll need a gaoler.”

  Lockwood gazed at him for several seconds.

  “I don’t think it will be for very long. I got the impression that Irene was very fond of her siblings.” Berkeley winked. “You never know, she might be as good-looking as her sister.”

  “And if the police chief in Nish won’t co-operate, and turns out his entire force to get after us?”

  “Have faith in Savos,” Berkeley said. “We’re far more his lifeline than he is ours.”

  The chief of police in Nish was named Bobich. Quite unlike Savos, he was short and fat and sported a handlebar moustache. But in keeping with his appearance, he was also very good-humoured.

  “General Townsend, sir,” he said, insisting on embracing Berkeley and kissing him upon both cheeks. “This is an honour, sir, an honour. I also had the privilege of serving in the war with Turkey, although I gained nothing of your renown. And now, Colonel Savos has told me of your problem. It is an abominable business, sir, an abominable business. Tell me how I can help?”

  “The Karlovys have a house here in Nish.”

  “That is correct. But . . . they have broken no laws, you understand. That we know of, anyway.”

  Berkeley nodded. “Is Irene here now?”

  “She could be. She comes and goes. I have no reason to monitor her movements.”

  “I understand. All I require from you is some co-operation.”

  “In what way?” Bobich asked, anxiously.

  “The situation is that the IMRO are holding my daughter, and inviting me to go and fetch her. According to Savos, once I cross the border into Bulgaria, I am a dead duck.”

  Bobich nodded. “It would be very dangerous, yes.”

  “However,” Berkeley said, “this whole business is a personal matter, inspired by the fact that I found it necessary to execute Irene Karlovy’s father, back in 1914.”

  Another nod. “Yes, I heard about that.”

  “Now, it appears that, during the War, Irene became an associate of the IMRO. Do you agree?”

  “It is possible,” Bobich said, cautiously.

  “It seems pretty obvious,” Berkeley said, “as she is now able to call on them for help. They are your enemies.”