The Lives and Times of Bernardo Brown

by Geoffrey Household

  ‘He wants me to travel with him. He says he can fix it,’ Nadva went on. ‘I wouldn’t do what I think he wants. But I should be out of Romania and we could find each other somehow.’

  Bernard lectured her. Didn’t she know how many of her dreaded frontiers she would have to cross to reach Brussels? And how could she ever find him when he was on the run? He had never heard such blazing, artless lunacy. She must promise him never to speak to the man again.

  ‘I must, David. You forget I am a waitress,’ she answered meekly. ‘But I promise I will never go with him if you will promise me something too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Swear you will see me again before you escape and tell me where you will try to go. Come at once to the restaurant or wherever I am!’

  ‘I promise.’

  He had no doubt what had happened. In talking with Scheeper that simpering ass Holgar had emphasized his gallant sense of responsibility for Despina and had spoken of her lamentable attachment to a degenerate Romanian—shepherdess in his evil grip, as she had put it! Scheeper, finding this threw a new and more promising light on the cool beauty he had interviewed, encouraged details, and out came the shocking Sunday Paper revelations. Mitrani had been a ponce in the most disgusting quarter of the city. Mitrani was a mercenary louse on the face of the earth. Mitrani kept another girl upstairs with four breasts.

  Bernardo was sure this had something to do with the enquiries about his past, though there seemed no obvious connection. Giurgiu, perhaps? But not a soul had known of his visit; he had got clean away with his rescue of Nadya. What was it Eva had said? Such intelligence as she had was confined to rat-like scufflings through garbage, but there she was a reliable guide. She had asked if he had taken a girl who belonged to some big man.

  Got it! That precious pair! Holgar had also whispered the secret of Mitrani’s bestial enjoyments to his dear friend, the consul, who had licked his lips in lecherous horror. And then Holgar had pressed him to act. Surely a consul could protest to the police and get the fellow removed as a public disgrace?

  The police of course would not give a damn whether the floor manager of the Alhambra was ten times more infamous in his pleasures than Pozharski. But since it was a consul—Eva’s big man—who complained that Mitrani was keeping monsters and possibly procuring minors, they had at least made some routine enquiries about his background. And then some knowledgeable cop, unshaven for two days and at the blissful stage when tsuica inspired imagination just before imbecility, had wondered how a Spanish-speaking Jew could have been born in the ghetto of Roman.

  So they had duly established that Mitrani had indeed been a ponce in the Crucea de Piatra and was no doubt as revolt ing a character as the consul described. But that was no crime. They were not after Bernardo Brown at all. Far more likely than arrest was a blackmailing approach inviting him to report on any likely artiste who might wish—or be persuaded to accept—the protection of a Captain of Police during her engagement in Bucarest.

  Bernardo was satisfied. The future, after all, was still worth dreaming about. He could look forward to a further step in his profession as manager of the proposed new establishment in Ploesti, where he might well make so much money that Despina could retire and their delightful affair need not be interrupted. He had thought that it would be their last night together and intended to implant in his memory every downy, delicious half inch of her. That could equally well be done as a thanksgiving service. The only definite action that he was determined to take was to arrange an accident for Holgar, not fatal but ensuring a longish stay in hospital. It might be profitable to ask which of them had the highest record for septicaemia.

  It was not surprising that he was a bit drowsy the following night at the Alhambra, paying no attention to audience or artistes. Shortly after Despina’s turn he had business with the maître d’hotel and walked round behind the band to the service door. From that angle the discreet box on the dais, where Pozharski had sat with Magda, was in full view. There were two Romanians in it. One was the tailor, Mircea Niculescu; the other was grey-faced and baggy-eyed with the plumply satisfied air of a politician or a colonel.

  They were looking away from him, perhaps deliberately, but they must have seen his face again and again under the lights at the artistes’ entrance. David Mitrani had been identified as the man on the train in riding breeches. It was no good making a bolt for the street until he saw what the set-up was, so he continued on his way to the maître d’hotel, spoke to him and casually returned as if he had noticed nothing. He looked out of the back door. Across the street were two brown-uniformed policemen who had never been there before.

  The front door was bound to be guarded, but one might as well see. This time he passed round the other side of the hall directly below the dais. As he approached the box Niculescu pretended to be hunting for something under the table. The other man looked through him with a complete absence of expression.

  Stelian was in his office. Nothing was to be lost by trying to guess whether the police had warned him or not. Bernardo asked him who the two fellows in the box were. They saw few middle-class Romanians unless a foreigner was paying the bill. Stelian answered that one was a Major Vlaicu of Military Security and the other his tailor.

  ‘How long have they been here?’

  ‘Since about half past eleven. Yes, that’s it. Mircea Niculescu didn’t look at all happy. I reckon he wanted his bill paid instead of being softened up with champagne.’

  At first sight the front door did not appear to be guarded. Bernardo was tempted to jump straight into a trasura which had just delivered late arrivals, but the doorman simultaneously engaged it for a customer who emerged from the cloakroom slightly unsteady on his feet. Fifty yards up the street the cab was stopped by a municipal policeman accompanied by an apparent civilian, and the passenger was asked for his identity card. The other end of the street was blocked as well. Now that Bernardo knew what to look for, he could distinguish two figures in the shadow of a doorway. It was plain that these outside operators did not know his face, though they were bound to have a detailed description. Major Vlaicu had not ordered his men to come inside so that he could point out the suspect.

  So much caution was alarming and could not be just for the sake of avoiding a scandal. Straight police arrests had been carried out before in the Alhambra, usually of some young fool who was spending someone else’s money in the place; he was asked if he would take a drink in Stelian’s office and he went and nobody was any the wiser. No, Bernardo Brown, the international agent and assassin, was such an important catch that nothing was to be allowed which could put him on his guard.

  The game was up, but it was impossible for Bernardo to guess how the end would come. He might be grabbed when the cabaret emptied or, if that was too long to wait, whenever Vlaicu thought fit to send a waiter quietly out to the doorman with a message to his operatives. Perhaps Vlaicu was wondering if Niculescu could possibly be wrong, since the suspect must have noticed him and had not shown a sign of agitation. It was lucky that Bernardo had been dreaming on his feet. If he had been more alert, he would have been out of there as soon as the tailor walked in and run straight into the net.

  He returned to the artistes’ entrance. Despina had changed and was just floating out in a new dove-grey evening creation, filmy as a wisp of cloud and calling for a pair of fat cupids to play tag on top of it. He managed to whisper for the last time that she was the flower of all women and then she was immediately invited to Vlaicu’s table where there was now a third man. Poor Despina! But she could come to no harm. She knew nothing, and it would not take them long to be convinced of her proud honesty. Bernardo drew back into the shadows to watch.

  She played her usual hard-to-get trick of standing by the table as if charmingly uncertain in what company she found herself. She must have genuinely disliked Vlaicu or else she was saying that she would fetch another girl to join the party. At any rate she turned to go and then suddenly colla
psed into a chair. Vlaicu had grabbed her wrist and pulled her down.

  Her face was set hard in indignation. The third man said something, possibly identifying himself as a police officer. Police or no police, Despina was not standing such treatment. She shook her head disdainfully and looked round for help, but everyone was watching the last turn: a splendid Georgian leaping about and throwing knives from his mouth. Again she tried to get up, and Vlaicu’s assistant held her down with a hard hand on her thigh. Nobody noticed except Bernardo and the ever officious Holgar.

  He advanced upon the table—the Galahad of the near eastern circuit in his shining armour of white tie and tails. The hand was very high up on that thigh in its tempting mist of dove-grey, and Holgar evidently misunderstood the situation. He remonstrated with those coarse-looking Romanians. The highly improbable had happened at last; this was the chance he had been waiting for to show himself a man, cleansed of the disgrace of Mitranis and four-breasted ladies and the mercenary trade. He was told quietly to go away and shut up. Despina managed to rise to her feet and also appealed to him, perhaps telling him not to be a fool, perhaps trying to create a diversion as if she had guessed or been told that it was David Mitrani who was in danger. And then Holgar produced an almost professional left and right developed in some innocent Oslo gymnasium. The right hooked the third man over the table which broke under him. The left landed on Vlaicu’s straining fourth waistcoat button. Everyone turned round at the crash. The Georgian dropped a knife and loosed a blast of thunderous Russian as it quivered point downwards in his boot. Mircea Niculescu had vanished. Vlaicu was vomiting champagne.

  Bernardo saw a wild outside chance and took it. He dashed to the back door. All depended on what orders the two uniformed cops had received—with luck the simplest for simple men: just to prevent anyone leaving by that door.

  ‘Help! Help!’ he yelled. ‘Major Vlaicu is attacked. Quick! Draw your guns!’

  They didn’t hesitate. They dashed into the Alhambra fumbling with their holsters. Bernardo grabbed a hat from the pegs and ran.

  The street at the back of the Alhambra was long and narrow, with the first cross road over a hundred yards ahead. When he reached it the pursuit was momentarily hesitating at the back door and about to race after him. Vlaicu might be out of action, but his Number Two was efficient. As Bernardo turned left, sprinting for the Calea Victoriei, he saw that a second lot was on his track led by the two fellows who had stopped the cab near the front of the Alhambra. If they had known of his escape half a minute earlier than they did, he would have been intercepted at the cross-roads.

  It was after one and the Calea Victoriei was nearly empty, offering no chance of mingling with passers-by. He crossed the street at a fast walk since there were three policemen on normal duties in sight, and then ran down the first available side-street regardless of the stares of a few pedestrians. He had sacrificed his lead and was stranded in a blank quarter of public buildings without any alleys or courtyards. Having put two corners between himself and the pursuit, he saw ahead of him a pool of white light outside the back of a newspaper office where the last of the bundles were being heaved into waiting carts. If he dared to slow down and approach at a walk he might be able to bluff his way in and disappear.

  But there was not enough time and he knew it. Another desperate chance offered. At the back of the Military Club were a couple of garbage cans with wheels and shafts which the municipal collectors pushed from house to house. He jumped into one and crouched down. It had no lid but it was the only hope. A moment later a rush of feet went past succeeded by other, heavier, more conversational followers like a blown field pounding along behind a pack of silent hounds. They ignored the garbage cans hypnotised, as he had been, by all the activity around the pool of light. It was so obvious a place for a fugitive to mix with other human beings and be lost.

  What to do now? Just down the road was the Cismigiu Park. He believed it was not open at night, but a desperate man could surely find somewhere to climb in. Before he could make up his mind, he heard enough whistles and shouts from that direction to make it certain that the police, the military, the secret service, the Hapsburgs led by a side-saddled Zita and any other enthusiastic members of the hunt had had the same idea. They had gone for the Cismigiu.

  Bernardo decided to remain where he was, though it was agonisingly risky. There must be a party still searching among printing machines and delivery shutes; when they came out they might take a look in the garbage cans. Alternatively a kitchen boy could appear from the Military Club, where a ball or reception was in progress, and heave a load of sturgeon bones and mayonnaise on him. It was bad enough as it was. He seemed to be squatting on the remains of tea-time pastries.

  He waited nearly an hour until the door of the newspaper building clanged down. Valses at the Military Club were still in full swing, but the street was deserted and it was safe to move if there were anywhere to go. On two sides were the Cismigiu and the wide Boulevard Elisabeta, both of which must be avoided. Just to the north was the Royal Palace. Solitary and suspicious night-walkers, whether wanted by the police or not, had better keep clear of that. The only hope was to the east, and that meant crossing the Calea Victoriei again.

  It had to be done, though he would land in the smart diplomatic quarter with well-lit streets and a sprinkling of police about. They could probably be bluffed, for he looked respectable apart from whatever was sticking to his trousers. Patrolling only their routine beats, they need not necessarily have been alerted. The main cordon would be between the Cismigiu and the Crucea de Piatra—a very likely spot for the ex-ponce to go to ground.

  Bernardo scraped his trousers with half a broken plate and then took a very cautious look at the Boulevard Elisabeta. Not a ghost of a chance there, as he had thought. The police had gone all modern. There was an open car stuffed with them down by the railings of the Cismigiu and another close to the intersection with the Calea Victoriei. He tried the opposite direction, passing round the north side of the Military Club. This was more hopeful. At the end of the street he could see a few guests leaving the club on foot. A bunch of them must some time cross the vital main avenue and he could join them. Or could he? All the bastards who were civilians had overcoats over full evening dress. He would be more conspicuous accompanying them than crossing alone.

  He waited, feeling exposed and unconvincing. The tendency of Romanians to stand and chat before doing anything saved him. Half a dozen Post Office clerks drifted out of the Telephone Building on the other side of the street and stood talking on the pavement. He joined them as soon as they started to move, crossed the Calea Victoriei alongside four of them and dived into the opposite side-street. There were now more people about, going home from whatever late entertainment they fancied, and he felt less noticeable. He was on the route by which he had escaped, and away to his right was the gaily lit front door of the Alhambra—the last place, he thought, where anyone would be looking for him.

  Wrong again! A cop some way off shouted: Asculta, domnule! Listen, sir! implying that he must wait and be questioned. He ran again. It was the end of safety and any possible bluff in that respectable district. The only thing to do was to break out across the Boulevard Carol which was a continuation of the Elisabeta but possibly not yet patrolled. It soon would be when that cop reported a running man.

  He crossed the wide, empty boulevard, forcing himself to walk steadily like any good citizen with nothing on his conscience. On the other side were older, darker, less fashionable streets. He felt that the pressure on him had lost immediacy. There was no particular reason why he should be in this quarter more than any other. The cordon round the Crucea de Piatra, if there was one, would be further south.

  After exploring several small parallel roads for possible cover and escape routes he came to a dark space with a church in it. Though paved and open, it seemed a good place in which to wait for morning. From the shadows of dense black thrown by a bright half moon anyone approaching could be
seen in plenty of time to take evading action. If he could hang on there or thereabouts till full daylight he might join the crowds going to work in the financial district and somehow get clear of the city.

  Meanwhile all was silent except for two cats melodiously mating over low roofs and in and out of the square. An older Bucarest, ignoring the vulgarities of police, cars, cabarets and the agitated military, slept in peace by the protecting dome of its almost village church. On the cobbles, outside the entrance, was a poor, single-horse trasura, driver and horse exhausted, one asleep in the passenger seat, the other on its feet. All was rest. Rest at last.

  ‘Idyllic!’ Mr. Brown remembered. ‘Idyllic, I say. They maintain—or used to—that the fox enjoys being hunted. Nonsense! But there may be a moment, when hounds have lost his line, of triumph, of peace exaggerated by what has gone before.’

  The snores of the cab-driver were audible but gentle. Bernardo envied his peasant tranquillity and then realised that, as so often, his troubles had been lulled away by alcohol. Poor devil, working late, swilling tsuica—it was not worthwhile driving miles down the Boulevard Carol to some miserable hovel on the outskirts of the city. He could sleep it off where he was and perhaps pick up a fare, someone who had missed his tram, in the early morning. The Boulevard Carol ... the last time Bernardo had been down it was his furious march on Pozharski’s love-nest.

  By God, that was an idea! No place could be safer than the discreet and shuttered house. He could stay there unsuspected till the hunt died down. But he dared not break in during daylight. It had to be done at night, at once, taking the chance that no one would pay particular attention to the crash as he broke the side window and the shutter.