A Dead Man In Trieste

by Michael Pearce

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘After the Irishman had gone?’

  ‘After everyone had gone.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Everyone. Including the staff. We hang on for them especially. The bastards! They ought to be out with us.’

  ‘So who was he seeing, then?’

  ‘Oh, well. Who’s left when everyone else has gone home?’

  It was, although he did not know it at the time, yet another Trieste saying. It had been offered offhandedly, as something that hardly needed saying, obvious to anybody. It wasn’t obvious to Seymour, however. Spotting that, they seized on it, glad of the opportunity to put the superior outsider at a disadvantage. They had been uneasy about him, unsure whether he was on the side of authority or not. Perhaps they had told him too much. Here, now, was a chance to put that right. They refused to say any more. He had asked for help and they had given it him. Now he had to make of it what he could That was fair, wasn’t it?

  He walked up from the docks thinking about it. On his way he passed through the Piazza Grande. The man who had joined them the other day, the friendly one, Ettore, was sitting alone in the Cafe of Mirrors. He looked up at Seymour and smiled.

  ‘I know!’ he said. ‘I’m early. I ought not to be here till later. In fact, I am not here. It is an illusion created by the cafe’s mirrors. Really I am at work. However, the meeting finished early and on my way back to the office, smelling the coffee . . .’

  He was smoking, as, going by the other day, he seemed to do all the time. Seymour sat down to windward of him. Ettore noticed and waved a hand apologetically.

  ‘It is bad,’ he said, ‘I know. I am trying to stop. I have spoken to my analyst about it - did you know, I go to a psychoanalyst regularly? I said: “How can you claim to put the big things right when you cannot put the small things right?” “Who says they are the small things?” he replied.’

  Seymour laughed.

  ‘For me, it is coffee,’ he said. ‘We all have our vices.’

  ‘For everyone it is coffee,’ said Ettore. ‘But in my case that is, too.’

  Seymour asked him how he had come to know Lomax. Through James, Ettore said. One day after their English lesson he had brought Ettore to the table in the Cafe of Mirrors and Lomax had been there. They had not met through business. His father-in-law normally handled the foreign side. Seymour rather gathered the impression that in anything to do with work Ettore was dominated by his father-in-law. He suspected that part of the attraction for Ettore of opening a branch in England was the prospect of getting away from him.

  They talked a little about life in England. It was the first time Seymour had had much of a talk with Ettore and he found him not just sympathetic but also vaguely comforting. It was a relief to find someone fairly normal at the artists’ table. Then he remembered that Ettore was himself an artist; at any rate, he wrote novels. He asked Ettore about that. Ettore said that his early novels had had such a hammering from critics, mostly on the grounds that, coming from Trieste, he couldn’t write proper Italian, that he had virtually given up.

  Seymour had an idea.

  ‘Ettore, as a Triestian, could you give me some advice? It is about the meaning of what I gather is an old Trieste saying. Who is left behind when everyone else has gone home?’

  ‘Are you getting at me?’

  ‘No,’ said Seymour, surprised.

  ‘It is what my father-in-law is always saying to me. Pointedly. When I leave work at what I think is a reasonable time.’

  ‘Why? Who is left?’

  ‘The boss. It is a Trieste saying, I think a foolish one. However, it is very popular with small businessmen.’

  If he remembered rightly, the boss at the Edison, from what James had said, was a man named Machnich. Who also happened to be the person James had had dealings with over the venture of starting up cinemas in Ireland, if that had actually happened. And also the person, if James’s rambling account could be trusted, to whom Lomax had given business advice. Seymour thought it was time he looked at those dealings a little more closely.

  When Seymour got back to the Consulate, he asked Koskash if there was any record of the occasions on which Lomax had offered help to James Juice and also, possibly, to some Trieste businessmen, over setting up a cinema in Ireland.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Koskash, ‘there’s a big file.’

  He brought it in and gave it to Seymour.

  Seymour began to work through it. Lomax’s contributions appeared to be almost entirely technical and legal. He advised on Irish Customs regulations and on necessary licences and permits. On how to secure local banking facilities, on things to be borne in mind when renting premises, on employment law in Ireland. He seemed to know a lot about it; not just the theoretical requirements but how they were translated into practice on the ground. Reading it, Seymour was impressed. So far he had been inclined to dismiss Lomax as just an advanced nut. Going through what Lomax had written, however, he found a sharp, practical mind at work. It was a new side of Lomax that he was seeing. What was it that Koskash had said? That they had all said. That he was actually very good at his job.

  And his role appeared to have been confined to giving advice. There was no hint that he had been involved in any other way, no hint of any personal financial involvement, for example, as Seymour had half suspected there might be. The actual financial side of it wasn’t, in fact, at all clear. But so far as James personally was concerned the financial arrangements were clear. They were contained in some separate pencilled notes. It looked as if as well as providing general advice to the group of Trieste businessmen behind the enterprise, Lomax had been giving James some private advice on the side. There was nothing underhand, just a few practical points, offered as a friend, that James should bear in mind. Advice probably much needed, thought Seymour.

  It was beginning to fall into place now; a man with actually a good business idea - surprisingly - approaching a group of businessmen for backing. And then, gradually, the more astute backers taking over and the original visionary somehow getting lost to view. James, as he had said, had had the imagination; but not, Seymour suspected, any practical business or political sense at all.

  Lomax had eventually had both of these and, reading between the lines, Seymour thought he could see him offering advice fairly to the Trieste businessmen but at the same time trying gently to see that James didn’t get taken for too much of a ride.

  The principal backer appeared to be, as James had said, Machnich.

  ‘The owner of the Edison?’

  ‘That is right, yes,’ said Koskash. ‘And much else in Trieste besides. His principal business is a large carpet shop.’

  ‘What sort of man is he?’

  ‘What sort of man?’ Koskash grimaced. ‘A businessman of the Trieste variety. That is to say, at heart, small. His business is big now but he likes to run everything as if he was still running a small shop. He has to know everything, almost do everything, for himself. As soon as he can’t, he begins to get nervous. That, I think, may be why the Dublin venture never came to anything. He has a big idea and then the bigness of the idea frightens him.’

  Even so, thought Seymour, the sort of man who would eat James alive. And Lomax too? Not if Schneider were to be believed and not on the evidence of the notes in this file. On this evidence, Lomax was a sharp customer.

  When he had finished going through the file Seymour closed it and put it away in the out-tray and sat thinking. He thought for quite a while and then made up his mind. There was something he had to do and he might as well do it now.

  He went into the front office where Koskash was at his desk working and then pulled up a chair and sat down exactly in front of him.

  ‘Koskash,’ he said, ‘it is time we had a talk.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Koskash, putting down his pen.

  ‘Koskash,’ said Seymour, ‘you have not been entirely honest with me.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’ said Koskash, sur
prised. ‘I am sorry you should think that.’

  That man the other night, the one I gave the papers to: he wasn’t a seaman, was he?’

  ‘Wasn’t he?’

  ‘He wasn’t British, was he? This is the British Consulate and you would only have power to issue papers to British nationals.’

  ‘Not necessarily. If they are crewing on British ships -’

  ‘I looked at your copy, Koskash. It was made out as for a British national. Why was that, Koskash?’

  ‘I - I do not know.’

  ‘You lied to me, Koskash. You knew he wasn’t a seaman.’

  Koskash looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Who was he, Koskash?’

  Koskash shook his head.

  ‘I am afraid I cannot say,’ he said.

  ‘This won’t do, Koskash. I’m afraid you have to say. This is the British Consulate and the man wasn’t British. You were issuing British papers to a man who wasn’t British. And not even a seaman. Why was that, Koskash? Why did you do it? Was it for money?’

  Koskash jumped as if he had been stung.

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘No. Not that, never! I would never do a thing like that for money!’

  ‘Then why, Koskash?’

  Koskash just shook his head.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am very sorry.’

  ‘I am afraid, Koskash, that I need to know.’

  He waited.

  ‘Shall I help you? What I think you were doing was helping someone to leave the country, someone who couldn’t leave the country in the ordinary way. I wonder why that was? I can only think, Koskash, that it was because the authorities were looking for him. Was that what it was, Koskash?’

  He waited, but Koskash did not reply. He just shook his head faintly from side to side.

  ‘They could leave the country only under a false identity, and that you were willing to provide for them. You could give them false papers, papers which would enable them to get on a ship. Why, Koskash, why were you doing that?’

  Koskash found his tongue.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am truly very sorry. But I cannot tell you that.’

  ‘But you must, Koskash. Otherwise I may have to go to the authorities. Mr Kornbluth, say, or, more probably, to Mr Schneider.’

  Koskash closed his eyes as if in pain but shook his head again dumbly.

  ‘I do not want to do that, Koskash, but I am afraid I may have to. If you won’t tell me anything. You have been abusing the trust Mr Lomax placed in you.’

  ‘No!’ said Koskash.

  ‘But yes! This is the British Consulate. The British. And you have been issuing false papers under its name. You have been taking advantage of your position here for purposes of your own.’

  ‘No,’ said Koskash. ‘I would not do that. I would never do that. It would not be honourable,’ he said earnestly.

  ‘But, Koskash, that is exactly what you have been doing. You have been making out papers secretly - ’

  ‘No!’ said Koskash hoarsely.

  Seymour stopped.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you saying,’ said Seymour slowly, ‘that you were not doing this secretly?’

  ‘That is right, yes. I was not doing it secretly.’

  ‘What are you saying, Koskash? That Mr Lomax knew what you were doing?’

  ‘That is so, yes.’

  For a moment Seymour couldn’t think what to say.

  ‘You surprise me, Koskash.’

  ‘I know. It is surprising,’ said Koskash simply. ‘But it is true.’

  ‘He knew what you were doing? And didn’t stop it?’

  Koskash nodded.

  ‘How far was Mr Lomax involved in this? In what you were doing? This . . . arrangement? He knew what you were doing. Was there more to it than that?’

  Koskash shook his head.

  ‘He knew what I was doing,’ he said hoarsely. ‘That is all.’

  ‘He knew, but condoned it. Is that what you are saying?’

  ‘That is what I am saying,’ said Koskash quietly.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Sand.’

  ‘ - or,’ said Seymour.

  The man at the Club’s reception desk raised his head.

  ‘Or what, sir?’

  ‘Sandor. That’s the name. S-a-n-d-o-r. Sandor. It’s a Hungarian name. Comes from my mother.’

  ‘Right, sir. Thank you, sir. Well, Mr Sandor, if you’ll just - ’

  ‘That’s just my first name. You said you wanted my full name.’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. If you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Pelczynski.’

  ‘Pel . . .?’

  Resignedly Seymour spelt it out.

  ‘It’s a Polish name. Comes from my grandfather.’

  Why did he have to go on like that? He knew why. Ever since he had started going to school he had been self- conscious about his name. Most of the teachers in the East End were used to the assortment of immigrant names but it so happened that his first teacher had not been; and floundered.

  ‘Pel . . .’ Mumble, mumble. ‘Well, thank you, sir, I’ll - ’

  ‘Seymour.’

  And even that had problems. ‘Listen,’ his grandfather had said when he got to England. ‘No Englishman is ever going to get his jaw round a name like Pelczynski!’ And he had changed it to Seymour, retaining, however, Pelczynski as a second Christian name in the family to the chagrin of his descendants ever since.

  ‘Sandor Pelczynski Seymour,’ said Seymour firmly.

  ‘Right, sir. Thank you, sir. If you’ll just take a seat, I’ll tell Mr Barton that you’re here.’

  So Seymour sat down on the horsehair-stuffed, leather-upholstered sofa in the foyer of the English Club and waited. Seymour wasn’t used to clubs. Ordinary policemen from the East End weren’t. But he had been in one once, taken in by a superior when he was one of the team working on the Ripper case in Whitechapel not long before. Seymour’s job had been to check out some of the royal suspects. Well, that had been a waste of time. He had run straightaway into the same wall of superiority and superciliousness, call it class distinction if you liked, that he had encountered when he had gone to the Foreign Office. The English Club in Trieste wasn’t quite like that but it had something of the same air as the club he had been taken to in the West End. ‘Neutral ground,’ his superior had said. Well, it wasn’t neutral ground as far as Seymour was concerned.

  There were the same comfortable chairs, the same discreet, deferential servants. From a room in the back he could hear the click of billiard balls. English newspapers were strewn on the tables and there was a rack of illustrated periodicals hanging from the wall. While he was watching, a man came in and took one. He went into an inner room, where Seymour caught a glimpse of yet more comfortable chairs. ‘Surrey, 231 for one,’ the man said to someone already sitting there.

  On the wall were pictures of hunting scenes, together with a portrait of the monarch: not, actually, the present King but the old Queen, Victoria. The English Club in Trieste, like most clubs, in Seymour’s view, was a bit behind the times.

  Barton came bustling in.

  ‘Seymour! Good to see you. Good of you to come.’

  ‘It was kind of you to invite me.’

  ‘I thought, just while you’re here - I know it probably won’t be for long, but even so, I thought you’d be glad of the chance to get back to a piece of England occasionally.’

  ‘I would indeed,’ said Seymour untruthfully.

  Barton led him into the inner room, the reading room perhaps, and took him over to a corner, away from the only two other inhabitants.

  ‘Tea? Or something stronger?’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee it is.’ Barton went off to place the order, then came back and sat down opposite him.

  ‘Well, how are you finding things? And how are you getting on with sorting things out over poor old Lomax?’

&
nbsp; ‘Oh, reasonably well. People are very helpful’

  ‘Well, of course, they are. In Trieste. Usually.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, though, there’s one area where I could do with a bit of help. The business side. I thought you might be able to help me.’

  ‘Well, of course. Only too glad to.’

  ‘It’s really to do with the cinema.’

  ‘Cinema!’

  ‘Don’t you know about it? I thought you might have heard.’

  ‘Did hear something about it. Jog my memory.’

  ‘There’s an Irishman who wanted to start up some cinemas in Dublin and persuaded some Trieste businessmen to join him. Lomax gave them some advice. You know, help on Customs, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Irishman? That man, Juice?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’d steer clear of him if I were you. He’s a bit of a nutcase.’

  ‘I know, I know. Perhaps that’s the reason why Lomax was helping him. Hold his hand, you know. See he didn’t get into too deep water.’

  ‘That man would be out of his depth in a bloody puddle,’

  ‘And he was in it, you see, with some quite sharp people. Do you know a fellow named Machnich?’

  The carpet shop?’

  ‘And cinemas, apparently.’

  ‘Has trouble with his people. Hasn’t he got a strike on?’

  ‘Yes. What is it about?’

  ‘The usual. Wages. Hours. Bringing in people who work for less.’

  ‘Bringing in? Immigrants?’

  ‘We don’t call them that. There’s so much coming and going of people in the Empire, and certainly in Trieste. But yes. People he brought in from outside. His own kind usually.’

  ‘A tough customer, is he?’

  ‘Too tough for Juice, definitely. But I don’t know how tough he’d be if it really came to it. They say he’s going to settle.’

  ‘And what about Lomax? Is he up to mixing it with someone like Machnich?’

  ‘I don’t know that a consul usually needs to mix it,’ said Barton doubtfully. ‘It’s usually just a case of giving advice. Actually, from what I heard, they got on surprisingly well.’