The Smiler With the Knife

by Nicholas Blake

  Peter slapped his knee in an access of enthusiasm. “By Jove, you’ve got it!” he exclaimed, and took her hands, and danced her round the room.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE EPISODE OF THE PLAYFUL SCIENTIST

  THE NEXT DAY hung heavily on Georgia’s hands. She was filled with a sense of anti-climax and doubt. Peter would be passing on to Sir John the information about those who had been present in the gambling-room last night. Their antecedents would be investigated, their movements watched perhaps. But surely the whole thing must be a mare’s-nest? She perceived how flimsy were the arguments she had built upon that interrupted game of roulette. It was incredible to suppose that men like Mr. Leeming and Professor Steele, men of international reputation, should be involved in a melodramatic, hole-and-corner, entirely hypothetical conspiracy. Well, perhaps not hypothetical. Sir John was not given to alarmism. Peter and Alison must have had some evidence that the Thameford County Club was not exactly what it seemed, and her own instinct certainly told against Señor Alvarez. Alison, too, had informed them last night that Herr Schwartz was foreign correspondent of a Nazi newspaper, and it was well known that these Nazi journalists in England had more irons than one in the fire. Yet Georgia herself was no further advanced on her own mission. Indeed, if those respectable-seeming gamblers had been members of the E.B., it would be more difficult than ever for her to get a footing in the movement. It was difficult now to imagine that Peter’s act could have hoodwinked them entirely.

  Walking in Hyde Park, the mild April day blossoming all round her with tulips and tender, budding branches and the cries of children who somersaulted on railings or streaked erratically over the grass, Georgia felt the very despair of loneliness. Her knowledge seemed to cut her off from all this innocence and gaiety. She was like a prophet who sees doom imminent but is bound to silence, the weight of his knowledge suffocating his heart. Georgia’s reverie was interrupted by a barking and gambolling at her heels—a Kerry Blue which had become fascinated by a stick she had absent-mindedly picked up from the grass and was dangling from her hand. She was about to throw the stick when the dog’s owner, walking with a long, country stride, caught her up. It was Miss Mayfield—and looking very much more at home here, in her low-heeled shoes, tweed skirt and periwinkle-blue jersey, than she had looked at the Thameford Club.

  “How clever of Gyp to find you,” she said.

  “Oh, were you looking for me?”

  “No, not particularly. It’s quite a coincidence, though, isn’t it?” The girl blushed ingenuously, a little angry with herself perhaps for having nothing better than platitudes to offer a celebrity like Georgia Strangeways.

  “You don’t live in London, do you?” Georgia asked.

  “How did you know? Well, I don’t, as a matter of fact. Not much, I mean. My father has a place in Berkshire. He’s a trainer.” She rushed it all out, not quite apologetically, not quite defiantly. Georgia said it must be fun—horses to ride, the downs wide open before you.

  “Oh, it’s all right, I suppose. I get bored, though I’m sick of men who do nothing but chew straws. I suppose you’re wondering what I was doing in that lousy joint last night?”

  “Playing roulette, I imagine,” said Georgia dryly.

  “It’s all very well for you,” Miss Mayfield exclaimed, pulling Georgia down on to a seat. “I mean, you can go exploring, you’ve done things, you’re free as the air. You must understand what it is to crave for adventure—for any sort of excitement. And the world’s such a drab, dreary place just now, isn’t it?” She stretched her arms, looking in her ardour quite magnificent, a Nordic goddess. “I want to do things too. But Daddy—well, you know what fathers are like. He’s a darling, but ghastly old-fashioned. He’d really like me to ride side-saddle, and sit at home in the evenings with a good book.”

  “He wouldn’t approve of roulette, I take it.”

  “Oh, glory no! He’d go up in smoke. That’s really what I meant to—— Look here, you’re not going to tell any one about that, are you? If it got round to him, there’d be hell to pay.”

  “My dear, why should I tell any one? I was playing myself. It does seem to me, though,” Georgia picked her words with delicately veiled contempt, “a pretty—well—decadent form of excitement. I should have thought you could do better than that. D’you play much?”

  As she had hoped, her words stung. The girl tossed her flaxen hair in an abrupt, ungracious gesture. “It’s excitement,” she said sullenly.

  “Excitement? With a lot of rich dagoes in that hot-house? Watching a fatuous little ball twiddling round? Heaven help us!”

  “Maybe there’s more adventure in it than you think.” The girl bit her lip and added quickly, “I mean, when you haven’t much money, you get a real thrill out of winning—or losing. Anyway, they’re not dagoes, not all of them.”

  Georgia raised her eyebrows, and the conversation lapsed for a while. Maybe there’s more adventure in it than you think. Was Miss Mayfield being a thought too ingenuous? Or was she indeed the fanatic that she looked? Georgia could understand how the E.B. conspiracy would appeal to a girl like this. It would seem not so much a conspiracy as a crusade. Fanatics were necessary—and dangerous—to any revolutionary movement. Here might be another weak link.

  Skilfully Georgia turned the conversation towards Nazi Germany, speaking with feigned admiration of the things she had seen there. She was rewarded by a gleam in the girl’s eyes, a quickened breathing.

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s wonderful. I’ve never been there, but I can imagine it all—the spirit of youth and confidence and hero-worship. Sometimes I wish we could have something like that in England—not Fascism, of course, but something adapted to our national character. Get rid of all these doddering old politicians and the greasy Jews and the agitators.”

  “I quite agree. We’ve given democracy a fair trial, and it’s let us all down. It’s a great ideal, I dare say, but in the modern world we have to be realists. Let the best people rule—even Plato said that—and the rest will be far happier for it in the long run.”

  Georgia had got so used to throwing out this kind of bait in vain that it almost unbalanced her when Miss Mayfield took it.

  “I say, you’re not a member of the English Banner, are you?”

  “English Banner? No. What’s that?”

  Miss Mayfield told her. She talked, of course, about the harmless organisation which Sir John had already described to Georgia; talked with such naïve enthusiasm that Georgia found it difficult to believe she knew the sinister uses to which this organisation was being put. However, when Miss Mayfield invited her to stay with them in Berkshire and attend a meeting of the Banner, Georgia readily accepted. There was more in this shy, abrupt, ardent girl than met the eye. . . .

  The conversation under the April trees faded from Georgia’s mind next day, for events took a sudden, dramatic turn. While she was sitting at breakfast the telephone bell rang. It was Peter Braithwaite, asking her to come over to his lodgings at once. Georgia gulped down her coffee and took a taxi to St. John’s Wood. Peter was waiting for her in the hall of the apartment house: his tanned, good-humoured face showed anxiety.

  “Madame Alvarez has turned up. I’m in a proper jam,” he whispered. “I’ve quietened her down a bit—she was almost hysterical; but I’m supposed to be at Lords, coaching some boys, at ten o’clock. Can you carry on for a bit? I couldn’t get hold of Alison.”

  They went upstairs to Peter’s rooms. He had certainly not exaggerated. The woman was in a state of collapse. Her regal bearing was gone. Without makeup, her face looked muddy-grey and sagging; she had the frowstiness of a woman who has been travelling all night in a crowded railway carriage. Her eyes were sunken and glittering in what seemed a fever of fear.

  “I’m so sorry, Madame Alvarez. Are you feeling ill? Would you like us to get a doctor?”

  “I’m not going back there,” she muttered. “I’m not going back. Don’t let them take me back.”
/>   “Why, of course not,” said Georgia soothingly. “You’re quite safe here.”

  “You don’t know them,” the dead, sleep-walking voice went on. “He locked me in my room yesterday. . . . I daren’t go to sleep. I had to in the end. . . . When I woke up I felt ill. I tied the sheets together and climbed out of the window. You don’t understand. . . . He frightens me.”

  The woman’s head rolled from side to side and her eyes winced, as though the daylight hurt them. She was a pitiable sight, slumped in the chair like a broken-limbed doll; but pity was an emotion that Georgia could not squander now. She made Madame Alverez finish the brandy which Peter had poured out. She knelt beside the woman, chafing her hands.

  “Come now, my dear. Just tell us everything. We can’t help you unless we know——”

  “Rosa says her husband was very angry because she let us in to the roulette game.” Peter glanced significantly at Georgia. “It wasn’t her fault, of course. I’ve told her I’ll go and explain to Señor Alvarez.”

  “I won’t go back. I won’t go back,” the woman repeated dully. Georgia gripped her hands urgently. Something of Georgia’s vitality communicated itself to Rosa Alvarez. She straightened her back with an effort, crying, “I mustn’t stay here! He’ll guess I’ve come here. Is that his car outside?”

  “There’s no car outside,” said Georgia. “Take it easy, my dear. Your husband can’t hurt you. Surely he’d never hurt you just because you were a little indiscreet over the roulette? Are you sure he’s not jealous about—well, about you and Peter?”

  “No. Not that. He always let me go my own way. He’s an old man.”

  “Well, it must be something else then.” Georgia gazed fixedly into the woman’s distraught eyes. It was as bad as the Inquisition, but it had to be done. “Wasn’t it something more than the roulette? Something else that happens in that room? Wasn’t it, dear? Why should he make such a fuss about a game?”

  “Something else? I don’t understand. . . . He told me no one must go into that room while they were playing. I told you not to, Peter. Why did you? I tried to stop Peter going in, didn’t I?”

  Madame Alvarez was shivering at intervals, like a fly-teased horse. Standing by the window, Peter had his hands clenched in his coat pockets. He knew Georgia must be ruthless, but he could not endure attending the operation as a spectator.

  “I’ve got to be off now,” he said. “Back at lunch. Georgia will look after you till then. You’ll be all right, Rosa.”

  Georgia expected a scene, but the woman seemed sunk in apathy. With a gesture that Georgia was never to forget, Peter Braithwaite walked over to Madame Alvarez and tenderly kissed her forehead. A lover could not have done less. A Judas could not have done more. And Peter was neither, though he had to appear both.

  After his departure, Georgia renewed her efforts to make Rosa Alvarez betray her associates. She used, with nervous shrinking and cruel tact, every feminine weapon of insinuation, sweet guile, sympathy, delicate bluff. At the end she had got no further. She was compelled to believe that Madame Alvarez knew nothing of what had really gone on behind the scene at the Thameford County Club. Either that, or she was too ill or frightened to speak.

  Georgia decided to launch a last attack. “Why did you say you were afraid to go to sleep?”

  But, before Madame Alvarez could answer, there was a sound of altercation below, feet walking up the staircase. The landlady put her flustered head inside. “I’m sorry, m’m. I told them as Mr. Braithwaite was out.” She was pushed aside by two men who entered—Señor Alvarez, and the croupier of the roulette table, in chauffeur’s uniform to-day.

  Rosa Alvarez shrank back from them with a small, animal cry. The old man paid no attention to Georgia, but leaned solicitously over his wife, stroking her hair. She shut her eyes tight, as though the caress was a prelude to torture.

  “My love, you gave me such a fright,” he said in his old, paper-thin voice. “We didn’t know where you’d gone. Luckily, I found Mr. Braithwaite’s address in your book. Now you must come home and go to bed. You’re not well. We’ll send for the doctor.”

  Georgia had once seen a cat playing with a shrew-mouse. The mouse ran into an angle of the wall. The cat fetched it out with one flick of its paw. Again and again the mouse had run for refuge to the same spot, flattening itself into the angle of the wall, screeching like a slate-pencil, and again and again the cat had flicked it out. Madame Alvarez huddled back in her chair. It seemed as if she, too, was trying to make herself small, to sham dead. To her husband’s patient entreaties she returned no sound—except, when he touched her, that jarring, desperate little cry. Georgia could stand it no longer.

  “Just a minute, Señor Alvarez. Your wife came here in a hysterical condition, which I’m afraid your presence is exacerbating. She said she had been locked in her room all yesterday. She said you were very angry with her over that roulette business. I don’t want to interfere, but she’s evidently ill and I think we ought to get a doctor at once. If you leave her here, I assure you she’ll be in good hands.”

  “I am sure of it, madam. But I could not think of putting you and Mr. Braithwaite to such trouble. If I may just have a word with you in private.” The old man led her outside the door. His long, extinguished face broke into a melancholy smile. “You will understand, when I tell you that my wife suffers from recurrent delusions, a form of persecution-mania. Unfortunately—I shall never forgive myself for it—I did speak too severely to her about that little indiscretion, and it brought on one of her attacks. At such times she has to be—confined. And expert medical attention is needed. If it would set your mind at rest to accompany her home with us and speak to her doctor, pray do so. I realise how distressing this must be for you.”

  Georgia had had many difficult decisions to make in her life, but never a harder one than this. She distrusted Señor Alvarez’ exquisite courtesy. Her instinct was to keep Rosa out of his hands. Yet, if she resisted him now, she would inevitably incur suspicion herself. On the one hand, a problematic danger to this woman (and she could not be sure that Señor Alvarez’ explanation was not the true one). On the other hand, her own chances of getting at the heart of the conspiracy ruined. In an instant Georgia had weighed them up, and was saying:

  “Why, of course, Señor Alvarez. She must go home with you. I’ll come too, if I may. It’s not a question of setting my mind at rest, but I think it might be a little comfort to her.”

  The drive back to Thameford was something she would have given much to be able to forget, even when she found out later that Rosa Alvarez was already beyond all help before she arrived at Peter’s rooms that morning. She saw the woman, now comatose, to bed: had a word with Dr. Wilson, her medical attendant: returned to London and, from a public call-box, rang up Sir John Strangeways. Dr. Wilson’s credentials would be investigated. Sir John’s trusted men would keep an eye on the Thameford County Club. That was all she could do. . . .

  A week or two afterwards, Peter Braithwaite came round to see her. He told her that Madame Alvarez was dead. “It’s a dirty game, this,” he said, walking restlessly about the room. “I don’t like it. I was afraid they’d do it, but I couldn’t raise a finger to help her.”

  “Do you mean they killed her? But surely——”

  “Of course they did. Oh, Dr. Wilson gave a certificate all right, no doubt. They do things in style. No expense spared. He’ll be one of them.”

  “What did she die of?”

  “Some obscure disease. Alison inquired of the inconsolable widower. Poor Rosa—well, she did set my teeth on edge, but I’d like to lay my hands on that old fiend, Alvarez.”

  “But if it was a disease—surely you’re not suggesting——?”

  “Oh, it was all above board. Very neat. They even called in a specialist. They frighten me a bit at times, these chaps we’re up against—the way they have everything at their fingertips. No old-fashioned business of blunt instruments. Just a neat little dose of microbes.”
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br />   “Peter, you’re letting your imagination run away with you.”

  “No imagination about it. They’re merely taking a leaf out of the Hooded-Men book. When the Cagoulard Conspiracy was exposed, the French police discovered a laboratory swarming with cultures of disease-bacteria. One of the Cagoulards confessed that these were prepared to be used against traitors within the movement. Laugh that off if you can. No wonder poor Rosa was afraid to go to sleep that night. She was afraid of having a shot of filthy microbes injected into her blood-stream. Her ‘delusions of persecution’ would explain away any charges she might make. I tell you, you’ve got to watch your step in the E.B.”

  Georgia reflected, well, if that is really true, Madame Alvarez must have been inside the movement after all. They’d surely not kill her just for having given away the secret of the roulette, and in that case they may suspect her of telling Peter or me something about the movement. It looks as if we should have to watch our step, too. As the weeks passed, however, Peter’s suggestion seemed to her more and more fantastic. It was not till two months later, when Georgia had at last succeeded in finding her way into the councils of the E.B., that she realised how near the mark Peter had been. That scene, so innocent on the surface, so abominable beneath, bit itself deep into her memory.