He turned his horse and trotted gently back to Geneva. An ostler from the riding-stables was waiting at the hotel door and slipping out of the saddle Ashenden went into the hotel. At the desk the porter handed him a telegram. It was to the following effect:
Aunt Maggie not at all well. Staying at Hotel Lotti, Paris. If possible please go and see her. Raymond.
Raymond was one of R.’s facetious noms de guerre, and since Ashenden was not so fortunate as to possess an Aunt Maggie he concluded that this was an order to go to Paris. It had always seemed to Ashenden that R. had spent much of his spare time in reading detective fiction and especially when he was in a good humour he found a fantastic pleasure in aping the style of the shilling shocker. If R. was in a good humour it meant that he was about to bring off a coup, for when he had brought one off he was filled with depression and then vented his spleen on his subordinates.
Ashenden, leaving his telegram with deliberate carelessness on the desk, asked at what time the express left for Paris. He glanced at the clock to see whether he had time to get to the Consulate before it closed and secure his visa. When he went upstairs to fetch his passport the porter, just as the lift doors were closed, called him.
“ Monsieur has forgotten his telegram,” he said.
“How stupid of me,” said Ashenden.
Now Ashenden knew that if an Austrian baroness by any chance wondered why he had so suddenly gone to Paris she would discover that it was owing to the indisposition of a female relative. In those troublous times of war it was just as well that everything should be clear and above board. He was known at the French Consulate and so lost little time there. He had told the porter to get him a ticket and on his return to the hotel bathed and changed. He was not a little excited at the prospect of this unexpected jaunt. He liked the journey. He slept well in a sleeping-car and was not disturbed if a sudden jolt awaked him, it was pleasant to lie a while smoking a cigarette and to feel oneself in one’s little cabin so enchantingly alone; the rhythmical sound as the wheels rattled over the points was an agreeable background to the pattern of one’s reflections, and to speed through the open country and the night made one feel like a star speeding through space. And at the end of the journey was the unknown,
When Ashenden arrived in Paris it was chilly and a light rain was falling, he felt unshaved and he wanted a bath and clean linen; but lie was in excellent spirits. He telephoned from the station to R. and asked how Aunt Maggie was.
“I’m glad to see that your affection for her was great enough to allow you to waste no time in getting here,” answered R., with the ghost of a chuckle in his voice. “She’s very low, but I’m sure it’ll do her good to see you.”
Ashenden reflected that this was the mistake the amateur humorist, as opposed to the professional, so often made; when he made a joke he harped on it. The relations of the joker to his joke should be as quick and desultory as those of a bee to its flower. He should make his joke and pass on. There is of course no harm if, like the bee approaching the flower, he buzzes a little; for it is just as well to announce to a thick-headed world that a joke is intended. But Ashenden, unlike most professional humorists, had a kindly tolerance for other people’s humour and now he answered R. on his own lines.
“When would she like to see me, do you think?” he asked. “Give her my love, won’t you?”
Now R. quite distinctly chuckled. Ashenden sighed.
“She’ll want to titivate a little before you come, I expect. You know what she is, she likes to make the best of herself. Shall we say half-past ten, and then when you’ve had a talk to her we might go out and lunch together somewhere.”
“All right,” said Ashenden. “I’ll come to the Lotti at ten-thirty.”
When Ashenden, clean and refreshed, reached the hotel an orderly whom he recognized met him in the hall and took him up to R.’s apartment. He opened the door and showed Ashenden in. R. was standing with his back to a bright log fire dictating to his secretary.
“Sit down,” said R. and went on with his dictation.
It was a nicely furnished sitting-room and a bunch of roses in a bowl gave the impression of a woman’s hand. On a large table was a litter of papers. R. looked older than when last Ashenden had seen him. His thin yellow face was more lined and his hair was greyer. The work was telling on him. He did not spare himself. He was up at seven every morning and he worked late into the night. His uniform was spick and span, but he wore it shabbily.
“That’ll do,” he said. “Take all this stuff away and get on with the typing. I’ll sign before I go out to lunch.” Then he turned to the orderly. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”
The secretary, a sub-lieutenant in the thirties, obviously a civilian with a temporary commission, gathered up a mass of papers and left the room. As the orderly was following R. said: “Wait outside. If I want you I’ll call.”
“Very good, sir.”
When they were alone R. turned to Ashenden with what for him was cordiality.
“Have a nice journey up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you think of this?” he asked, looking round the room. “Not bad, is it? I never see why one shouldn’t do what one can to mitigate the hardships of war.”
While he was idly chatting R. gazed at Ashenden with a singular fixity. The stare of those pale eyes of his, too closely set together, gave you the impression that he looked at your naked brain and had a very poor opinion of what he saw there. R. in rare moments of expansion made no secret of the fact that he looked upon his fellow men as fools or knaves. That was one of the obstacles he had to contend with in his calling. On the whole he preferred them knaves; you knew then what you were up against and could take steps accordingly. He was a professional soldier and had spent his career in India and the Colonies. At the outbreak of the war he was stationed in Jamaica and someone in the War Office who had had dealings with him, remembering him, brought him over and put him in the Intelligence Department. His astuteness was so great that he very soon occupied an important post. He had an immense energy and a gift for organization, no scruples, but resource, courage and determination. He had perhaps but one weakness. Throughout his life he had never come in contact with persons, especially women, of any social consequence, the only women he had ever known were the wives of his brother officers, the wives of Government officials and of business men; and when, coming to London at the beginning of the war, his work brought him into contact with brilliant, beautiful and distinguished women he was unduly dazzled. They made him feel shy, but he cultivated their society; he became quite a lady’s man, and to Ashenden who knew more about him than R. suspected that bowl of roses told a story.
Ashenden knew that R. had not sent for him to talk about the weather and the crops, and wondered when he was coming to the point. He did not wonder long.
“You’ve been doing pretty well in Geneva,” he said.
“I’m glad you think that, sir,” replied Ashenden.
Suddenly R. looked very cold and stern. He had done with idle talk.
“I’ve got a job for you,” he said.
Ashenden made no reply, but he felt a happy little flutter somewhere about the pit of his stomach.
“Have you ever heard of Chandra Lai?”
“No, sir.”
A frown of impatience for an instant darkened the Colonel’s brow. He expected his subordinates to know everything he wished them to know.
“Where have you been living all these years?”
“At 36 Chesterfield Street, Mayfair,” returned Ashenden.
The shadow of a smile crossed R.’s yellow face. The somewhat impertinent reply was after his own sardonic heart. He went over to the big table and opened a dispatch-case that lay upon it. He took out a photograph and handed it to Ashenden.
“That’s him.”
To Ashenden, unused to Oriental faces, it looked like any one of a hundred Indians that he had seen. It might have been the photograph of one or other of
the Rajahs who come periodically to England and are portrayed in the illustrated papers. It showed a fat-faced, swarthy man, with full lips and a fleshy nose; his hair was black, thick and straight, and his very large eyes even in the photograph were liquid and cow-like. He looked ill-at-ease in European clothes.
“Here he is in native dress,” said R., giving Ashenden another photograph.
This was full-length, whereas the first had shown only the head and shoulders, and it had evidently been taken some years earlier. He was thinner and his great, serious eyes seemed to devour his face. It was done by a native photographer in Calcutta and the surroundings were naively grotesque. Chandra Lai stood against a background on which had been painted a pensive palm tree and a view of the sea. One hand rested on a heavily carved table on which was a rubber-plant in a flowerpot. But in his turban and long, pale tunic he was not without dignity.
“What d’you think of him?” asked R.
“I should have said he was a man not without personality. There is a certain force there.”
“Here’s his dossier. Read it, will you.”
R. gave Ashenden a couple of typewritten pages and Ashenden sat down. R. put on his spectacles and began to read the letters that awaited his signature. Ashenden skimmed the report and then read it a second time more attentively. It appeared that Chandra Lai was a dangerous agitator. He was a lawyer by profession, but had taken up politics and was bitterly hostile to the British rule in India. He was a partisan of armed force and had been on more than one occasion responsible for riots in which life had been lost. He was once arrested, tried and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment; but he was at liberty at the beginning of the war and seizing his opportunity began to foment active rebellion. He was at the heart of plots to embarrass the British in India and so prevent them from transferring troops to the seat of war and with the help of immense sums given to him by German agents he was able to cause a great deal of trouble. He was concerned in two or three bomb outrages which, though beyond killing a few innocent bystanders they did little harm, yet shook the nerves of the public and so damaged its morale. He evaded all attempts to arrest him, his activity was formidable, he was here and there; but the police could never lay hands on him, and they only learned that he had been in some city when, having done his work, he had left it. At last a high reward was offered for his arrest on a charge of murder, but he escaped the country, got to America, from there went to Sweden and eventually reached Berlin. Here he busied himself with schemes to create disaffection among the native troops that had been brought to Europe. All this was narrated drily, without comment or explanation, but from the very frigidity of the narrative you got a sense of mystery and adventure, of hairbreadth escapes and dangers dangerously encountered. The report ended as follows:
“C. has a wife in India and two children. He is not known to have anything to do with women. He neither drinks nor smokes. He is said to be honest. Considerable sums of money have passed through his hands and there has never been any question as to his not having made a proper (!) use of them. He has undoubted courage and is a hard worker. He is said to pride himself on keeping his word.”
Ashenden returned the document to R.
“Well?”
“A fanatic.” Ashenden thought there was about the man something rather romantic and attractive, but he knew that R. did not want any nonsense of that sort from him. “He looks like a very dangerous fellow.”
“He is the most dangerous conspirator in or out of India. He’s done more harm than all the rest of them put together. You know that there’s a gang of these Indians in Berlin; well, he’s the brains of it. If he could be got out of the way I could afford to ignore the others, lie’s the only one who has any guts. I’ve been trying to catch him for a year, I thought there wasn’t a hope; but now at last I’ve got a chance, and by God, I’m going to take it.”
“And what’ll you do then?”
R. chuckled grimly.
“Shoot him and shoot him damn quick.”
Ashenden did not answer. R. walked once or twice across the small room and then, again with his back to the fire, faced Ashenden. His thin mouth was twisted by a sarcastic smile.
“Did you notice at the end of that report I gave you, it said he wasn’t known to have anything to do with women? Well, that was true, but it isn’t any longer. The damned fool has fallen in love.”
R. stepped over to his dispatch-case and took out a bundle tied up with pale blue ribbon.
“Look, here are his love letters. You’re a novelist, it might amuse you to read them. In fact you should read them, it will help you to deal with the situation. Take them away with you.” R. flung the neat little bundle back into the dispatch-case. “One wonders how an able man like that can allow himself to get besotted over a woman. It was the last thing I ever expected of him.”
Ashenden’s eyes travelled to that bowl of beautiful roses that stood on the table, but he said nothing. R. who missed little saw the glance and his look suddenly darkened. Ashenden knew that he felt like asking him what the devil he was staring at. At that moment R. had no friendly feelings towards his subordinate, but he made no remark. He went back to the subject on hand.
“Anyhow that’s neither here nor there. Chandra has fallen madly in love with a woman called Giulia Lazzari. He’s crazy about her.”
“Do you know how he picked her up?”
“Of course I do. She’s a dancer, and she does Spanish dances, but she happens to be an Italian. For stage purposes she calls herself La Malaguena. You know the kind of thing. Popular Spanish music and a mantilla, a fan and a high comb. She’s been dancing all over Europe for the last ten years.”
“Is she any good?”
“No, rotten. She’s been in the provinces in England and she’s had a few engagements in London. She never got more than ten pounds a week. Chandra met her in Berlin in a Tingel-tangel, you know what that is, a cheap sort of music-hall. I take it that on the Continent she looked upon her dancing chiefly as a means to enhance her value as a prostitute.”
“How did she get to Berlin during the war?”
“She’d been married to a Spaniard at one time, I think she still is though they don’t live together, and she travelled on a Spanish passport. It appears Chandra made a dead set for her.” R. took up the Indian’s photograph again and looked at it thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t have thought there was anything very attractive in that greasy little nigger. God, how they run to fat! The fact remains that she fell very nearly as much in love with him as he did with her. I’ve got her letters too, only copies, of course, he’s got the originals and I daresay he keeps them tied up in pink ribbon. She’s mad about him. I’m not a literary man, but I think 1 know when a thing rings true, anyhow you’ll be reading them, and you can tell me what you think. And then people say there’s no such tiling as love at first sight.”
R. smiled with faint irony. lie was certainly in a good humour this morning.
“But how did you get hold of all these letters?”
“How did I get hold of them? How do you imagine? Owing to her Italian nationality Giulia Lazzari was eventually expelled from Germany. She was put over the Dutch frontier. Having an engagement to dance in England she was granted a visa and”—R. looked up a date among the papers,—“and on the twenty-fourth of October last sailed from Rotterdam to
Harwich. Since then she has danced in London, Birmingham, Portsmouth and other places. She was arrested a fortnight ago at Hull.”
“What for?”
“Espionage. She was transferred to London and I went to see her myself at Holloway.”
Ashenden and R. looked at one another for a moment without speaking and it may be that each was trying his hardest to read the other’s thoughts. Ashenden was wondering where the truth in all this lay and R. wondered how much of it he could advantageously tell him.
“How did you get on to her?”
“I thought it odd that the Germans should allow her to dance q
uite quietly in Berlin for weeks and then for no particular reason decide to put her out of the country. It would be a good introduction for espionage. And a dancer who was not too careful of her virtue might make opportunities of learning things that it would be worth somebody’s while in Berlin to pay a good price for. I thought it might be as well to let her come to England and see what she was up to. I kept track of her. I discovered that she was sending letters to an address in Holland two or three times a week and two or three times a week was receiving answers from Holland. Hers were written in a queer mixture of French, German and English, she speaks English a little and French quite well, but the answers were written entirely in English; it was good English, but not an Englishman’s English, flowery and rather grandiloquent; 1 wondered who was writing them. They seemed to be just ordinary love-letters, but they were by way of being rather hot stuff. It was plain enough that they were coming from Germany and the writer was neither English, French, nor German. Why did he write in English? The only foreigners who know English better than any continental language are Orientals, and not Turks or Egyptians either; they know French. A Jap would write English and so would an Indian. I came to the conclusion that Giulia’s lover was one of that gang of Indians that were making trouble for us in Berlin. I had no idea it was Chandra Lai till I found the photograph.”
The Favorite Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham Page 28
