“How did you get that?”
“She carried it about with her. It was a pretty good bit of work, that. She kept it locked up in her trunk, with a lot of theatrical photographs, of comic singers and clowns and acrobats, it might easily have passed for the picture of some music-hall artiste in his stage dress. In fact, later, when she was arrested and asked who the photograph represented she said she didn’t know, it was an Indian conjuror who had given it her and she had no idea what his name was. Anyhow I put a very smart lad on the job and he thought it queer that it should be the only photograph in the lot that came from Calcutta. He noticed that there was a number on the back, and he took it, the number, I mean; of course the photograph was replaced in the box.”
“By the way, just as a matter of interest how did your very smart lad get at the photograph at all?”
R.’s eyes twinkled.
“That’s none of your business. But I don’t mind telling you that he was a good-looking boy. Anyhow it’s of no consequence. When we got the number of the photograph we cabled to Calcutta and in a little while I received the grateful news that the object of Giulia’s affections was no less a person than the incorruptible Chandra Lai. Then I thought it my duty to have Giulia watched a little more carefully. She seemed to have a sneaking fondness for naval officers. I couldn’t exactly blame her for that, they are attractive, but it is unwise for ladies of easy virtue and doubtful nationality to cultivate their society in war-time. Presently I got a very pretty little body of evidence against her.”
“How was she getting her stuff through?”
“She wasn’t getting it through. She wasn’t trying to. The Germans had turned her out quite genuinely, she wasn’t working for them, she was working for Chandra. After her engagement was through in England she was planning to go to Holland again and meet him. She wasn’t very clever at the work, she was nervous, but it looked easy, no one seemed to bother about her, it grew rather exciting, she was getting all sorts of interesting information without any risk. In one of her letters she said: * I have so much to tell you, mon petit chou darling, and what you will be extrémemeiit intéressé to know,’ and she underlined the French words.”
R. paused and rubbed his hands together. His tired face bore a look of devilish enjoyment of his own cunning.
“It was espionage made easy. Of course I didn’t care a damn about her, it was him I was after. Well, as soon as I’d got the goods on her I arrested her. I had enough evidence to convict a regiment of spies.”
R. put his hands in his pockets and his pale lips twisted to a smile that was almost a grimace.
“Holloway’s not a very cheerful place, you know.”
“I imagine no prison is,” remarked Ashenden.
“I left her to stew in her own juice for a week before I went to see her. She was in a very pretty state of nerves by then. The wardress told me she’d been in violent hysterics most of the time. I must say she looked like the devil.”
“Is she handsome?”
“You’ll see for yourself. She’s not my type. I daresay she’s better when she’s made up and that kind of thing. 1 talked to her like a Dutch uncle. I put the fear of God into her. I told her she’d get ten years. I think I scared her, I know I tried to. Of course she denied everything, but the proofs were there, I assured her she hadn’t got a chance. I spent three hours with her. She went all to pieces and at last she confessed everything. Then I told her that I’d let her go scot free if she’d get Chandra to come to France. She absolutely refused, she said she’d rather
die, she was very hysterical and tiresome, but I let her rave. I told her to think it over and said I’d see her in a day or two and we’d have another talk about it. In point of fact I left her for a week. She’d evidently had time to reflect, because when I came again she asked me quite calmly what it was exactly that I proposed. She’d been in jail a fortnight then and I expect she’d had about enough of it. I put it to her as plainly as I could and she accepted.”
“I don’t think I quite understand,” said Ashenden.
“Don’t you? I should have thought it was clear to the meanest intelligence. If she can get Chandra to cross the Swiss frontier and come into France she’s to go free, either to Spain or to South America, with her passage paid.”
“And how the devil is she to get Chandra to do that?” “He’s madly in love with her. He’s longing to see her. His letters are almost crazy. She’s written to him to say that she can’t get a visa to Holland (I told you she was to join him there when her tour was over), but she can get one for Switzerland. That’s a neutral country and he’s safe there. He jumped at the chance. They’ve arranged to meet at Lausanne.”
“Yes.” “When he reaches Lausanne he’ll get a letter from her to say that the French authorities won't let her cross the frontier and that she's going to Thonon, which is just on the other side of the lake from Lausanne, in France, and she’s going to ask him to come there.”
“What makes you think he will?”
R. paused for an instant. He looked at Ashenden with a pleasant expression.
“She must, make him if she doesn’t want to go to penal servitude for ten years.”
“I see.”
“She’s arriving from England this evening in custody and I should like you to take her down to Thonon by the night train.” “Me?” said Ashenden.
“Yes, I thought it the sort of job you could manage very well. Presumably you know more about human nature than most people. It’ll be a pleasant change for you to spend a week or two at Thonon. I believe it’s a pretty little place, fashionable too—in peace-time. You might take the baths there.”
“And what do you expect me to do when I get the lady down to Thonon?”
“I leave you a free hand. I’ve made a few notes that may be useful to you. I’ll read them to you, shall I?”
Ashenden listened attentively. R.’s plan was simple and explicit. Ashenden could not but feel unwilling admiration for the brain that had so neatly devised it.
Presently R. suggested that they should have luncheon and he asked Ashenden to take him to some place where they could see smart people. It amused Ashenden to see R. so sharp, sure of himself and alert in his office, seized as he walked into the restaurant with shyness. He talked a little too loud in order to show that he was at his ease and made himself somewhat unnecessarily at home. You saw in his manner the shabby and commonplace life he had led till the hazards of war raised him to a position of consequence. He was glad to be in that fashionable restaurant cheek by jowl with persons who bore great or distinguished names, but he felt like a school-boy in his first top-hat, and he quailed before the steely eye of the maître d'hôtel. His quick glance darted here and there and his sallow face beamed with a self-satisfaction of which he was slightly ashamed. Ashenden drew his attention to an ugly woman in black, with a lovely figure, wearing a long row of pearls.
“That is Madame de Brides. She is the mistress of the Grand Duke Theodore. She’s probably one of the most influential women in Europe, she’s certainly one of the cleverest.”
R.’s clever eyes rested on her and he flushed a little.
“By George, this is life,” he said.
Ashenden watched him curiously. Luxury is dangerous to people who have never known it and to whom its temptations are held out too suddenly. R., that shrewd, cynical man, was captivated by the vulgar glamour and the shoddy brilliance of the scene before him. Just as the advantage of culture is that it enables you to talk nonsense with distinction so the habit of luxury allows you to regard its frills and furbelows with a proper contumely.
But when they had eaten their luncheon and were drinking their coffee Ashenden, seeing that R. was mellowed by the good meal and his surroundings, went back to the subject that was in his thoughts.
“That Indian fellow must be a rather remarkable chap,” he said.
“He’s got brains of course.”
“One can’t help being impressed by a man who
had the courage to take on almost single-handed the whole British power in India.”
“I wouldn’t get sentimental about him if I were you. He’s nothing but a dangerous criminal.”
“I don’t suppose he’d use bombs if he could command a few batteries and half a dozen battalions. He uses what weapons he can. You can hardly blame him for that. After all, he’s aiming at nothing for himself, is he? He’s aiming at freedom for his country. On the face of it it looks as though he were justified in his actions.”
But R. had no notion of what Ashenden was talking.
“That’s very far-fetched and morbid,” he said. “We can’t go into all that. Our job is to get him and when we’ve got him to shoot him.”
“Of course. He’s declared war and he must take his chance. I shall carry out your instructions, that’s what I’m here for. but I see no harm in realizing that there’s something to be admired and respected in him.”
R. was once more the cool and astute judge of his fellows.
“I’ve not yet made up my mind whether the best men for this kind of job are those who do it with passion or those who keep their heads. Some of them are filled with hatred for the people we’re up against and when we down them it gives them a sort of satisfaction like satisfying a personal grudge. Of course they’re very keen on their work. You’re different, aren’t you? You look at it like a game of chess and you don’t seem to have any feeling one way or the other. I can’t quite make it out. Of course for some sort of jobs it’s just what one wants.”
Ashenden did not answer. He called for the bill and walked back with R. to the hotel.
The train started at eight. When he had disposed of his bag Ashenden walked along the platform. He found the carriage in which Giulia Lazzari was, but she sat in a corner, looking away from the light, so that he could not see her face. She was in charge of two detectives who had taken her over from English police at Boulogne. One of them worked with Ashenden on the French side of the Lake Geneva and as Ashenden came up he nodded to him.
‘‘I’ve asked the lady if she will dine in the restaurant-car, but she prefers to have dinner in the carriage, so I’ve ordered a basket. Is that quite correct?”
“Quite,” said Ashenden.
“My companion and I will go into the diner in turn so that she will not remain alone.”
“That is very considerate of you. I will come along when we’ve started and have a chat with her.”
“She’s not disposed to be very talkative,” said the detective.
“One could hardly expect it,” replied Ashenden.
He walked on to get his ticket for the second service and then returned to his own carriage. Giulia Lazzari was just finishing her meal when he went back to her. From a glance at the basket he judged that she had not eaten with too poor an appetite. The detective who was guarding her opened the door when Ashenden appeared and at Ashenden’s suggestion left them alone.
Giulia Lazzari gave him a sullen look.
“I hope you’ve had what you wanted for dinner,” he said as he sat down in front of her.
She bowed slightly, but did not speak. He took out his case.
“Will you have a cigarette?”
She gave him a glance, seemed to hesitate, and then, still without a word, took one. He struck a match and, lighting it, looked at her. He was surprised. For some reason he had expected her to be fair, perhaps from some notion that an Oriental would be more likely to fall for a blonde; but she was almost swarthy. Her hair was hidden by a close-fitting hat, but her eyes were coal-black. She was far from young, she might have been thirty-five, and her skin was lined and sallow. She had at the moment no makeup on and she looked haggard. There was nothing beautiful about her but her magnificent eyes. She was big, and Ashenden thought she must be too big to dance gracefully; it might be that in Spanish costume she was a bold and flaunting figure, but there in the train, shabbily dressed, there was nothing to explain the Indian’s infatuation. She gave Ashenden a long, appraising stare. She wondered evidently what sort of man he was. She blew a cloud of smoke through her nostrils and gave it a glance, then looked back at Ashenden. He could see that her sullenness was only a mask, she was nervous and frightened. She spoke in French with an Italian accent.
“Who are you?”
“My name would mean nothing to you, madame. I am going to Thonon. I have taken a room for you at the Hotel de la Place. It is the only one open now. I think you will find it quite comfortable.”
“Ah, it is you the Colonel spoke to me of. You are my jailer.” “Only as a matter of form. I shall not intrude upon you.” “All the same you are my jailer.”
“I hope not for very long. I have in my pocket your passport with all the formalities completed to permit you to go to Spain.” She threw herself back into the corner of the carriage. White, with those great black eyes, in the poor light, her face was suddenly a mask of despair.
“It’s infamous. Oh, I think I could die happy if I could only kill that old Colonel. He has no heart. I’m so unhappy.”
“I am afraid you have got yourself into a very unfortunate situation. Did you not know that espionage was a dangerous game?”
“I never sold any of the secrets. I did no harm.”
“Surely only because you had no opportunity. I understand that you signed a full confession.”
Ashenden spoke to her as amiably as he could, a little as though he were talking to a sick person, and there was no harshness in his voice.
“Oh, yes, I made a fool of myself. I wrote the letter the
Colonel said I was to write. Why isn’t that enough? What is to happen to me if he does not answer? I cannot force him to come if he does not want to.”
“He has answered,” said Ashenden. “I have the answer with
She gave a gasp and her voice broke.
“Oh, show it to me, I beseech you to let me see it.”
“I have no objection to doing that. But you must return it to me.”
He took Chandra’s letter from his pocket and gave it to her. She snatched it from his hand. She devoured it with her eyes, there were eight pages of it, and as she read the tears streamed down her cheeks. Between her sobs she gave little exclamations of love, calling the writer by pet names French and Italian. This was the letter that Chandra had written in reply to hers telling him, on R.’s instructions, that she would meet him in Switzerland. He was mad with joy at the prospect. He told her in passionate phrases how long the time had seemed to him since they were parted, and how he had yearned for her, and now that he was to see her again so soon he did not know how he was going to bear his impatience. She finished it and let it drop to the floor.
“You can see he loves me, can’t you? There’s no doubt about that. I know something about it, believe me.”
“Do you really love him?” asked Ashenden.
“He’s the only man who’s ever been kind to me. It’s not very gay the life one leads in these music halls, all over Europe, never resting, and men—they are not much the men who haunt those places. At first I thought he was just like the rest of them.”
Ashenden picked up the letter and replaced it in his pocket-book.
“A telegram was sent in your name to the address in Holland to say that you would be at the Hotel Gibbons at Lausanne on the 14th.”
“That is to-morrow.”
“Yes.”
She threw up her head and her eyes flashed.
“Oh, it is an infamous thing that you are forcing me to do. It is shameful.”
“You are not obliged to do it,” said Ashenden.
“And if I don’t?” “I’m afraid you must take the consequences.”
“I can’t go to prison,” she cried out suddenly, “I can’t, I can’t; 1 have such a short time before me; he said ten years. Is it possible 1 could be sentenced to ten years?”
“If the Colonel told you so it is very possible.”
“Oh, I know him. That cruel face. He would have no mercy. And
what should I be in ten years? Oh, no, no.”
At that moment the train stopped at a station and the detective waiting in the corridor tapped on the window. Ashenden opened the door and the man gave him a picture-postcard. It was a dull little view of Pontarlier, the frontier station between France and Switzerland, and showed a dusty place with a statue in the middle and a few plane trees. Ashenden handed her a pencil.
“Will you write this postcard to your lover. It will be posted at Pontarlier. Address it to the hotel at Lausanne.”
She gave him a glance, but without answering took it and wrote as he directed.
“Now on the other side write: ‘delayed at frontier but everything all right. Wait at Lausanne.’ Then add whatever you like, tendresses if you like.”
He took the postcard from her, read it to see that she had done as he directed and then reached for his hat.
“Well, I shall leave you now, I hope you will have a sleep. I will fetch you in the morning when we arrive at Thonon.” The second detective had now returned from his dinner and as Ashenden came out of the carriage the two men went in. Giulia Lazzari huddled back into her corner. Ashenden gave the postcard to an agent who was waiting to take it to Pontarlier and then made his way along the crowded train to his sleeping-car.
It was bright and sunny, though cold, next morning when they reached their destination. Ashenden, having given his bags to a porter, walked along the platform to where Giulia Lazzari and the two detectives were standing. Ashenden nodded to them.
The Favorite Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham Page 29
