by Eric Ambler
‘Why should you think that, Mr Foster?’
‘You knew that that man’s body was there before you came in. That is, unless you’re quite used to finding corpses with shotgun wounds lying about. You paid no attention to this one.’
He had been driving toward the centre of the city. Now we lurched into a quiet boulevard with trees along it.
‘Another thing,’ I said, ‘if you’d followed me and expected to find me there, you wouldn’t have shown your gun. As you came up the stairs you heard me move about. If you’d known it was me you’d have called my name. You didn’t follow me. You went there on your own account and for your own reasons. What were they?’
‘You are making things very difficult, Mr Foster,’ he said gloomily.
‘Yes. Who was the dead man? Valmo? Who killed him? You?’
He did not answer. Behind the trees that lined the road there were houses with portes-cocheres. He slowed down, then turned suddenly into a space between the trees and drove through into one of the courtyards. He stopped and immediately turned off the lights. We were in pitch-darkness.
‘Mr Foster,’ he said, ‘you are arrogant and very dumb. If I were truly a murderer you would be already dead. I have been very patient with you. Now we will see my friend.’
He switched on the flashlight and I saw that he had his revolver again. He put it in his dispatch case and we both got out. I looked up. The bulk of quite a large house was visible against the sky.
‘Where is this?’ I asked.
‘My friend has an apartment here. This way.’
I could see very little. We went through a side door down some tiled steps to a small hydraulic lift with a rope control. The cage bounced as we got into it. Pashik hauled on the rope and we shot upwards with a faint hissing sound.
At the top floor the lift stopped automatically and we got out on a bare stone landing with a small doorway in it and a steel ladder up to a skylight. Pashik knocked on the door.
After a moment or two a woman in an apron opened the door. She had grey hair scragged back into a bun, and a bitter mouth. She obviously knew Pashik. He made some explanation to her. She nodded and looked at me curiously as we went in; then she led the way along a narrow passage and showed us into a drawing room. There was nobody there. She switched on the lights and left us, shutting the door behind us. If there had been a faint smell of disinfectant in the air, it would have seemed like an appointment with a dentist. The room we were in, indeed, had very much the look of a waiting room. The chairs stood round the walls and there was a large table in the middle with one small ashtray on it. All that was wanting was a selection of magazines.
‘What’s your friend’s name?’ I asked.
Pashik sat on the edge of one of the chairs. ‘I will introduce you to him, Mr Foster.’
‘What did you go to that house for?’
‘You do not believe me when I answer your questions, Mr Foster.’ His brown eyes looked at me mournfully. He took off his glasses and began polishing them.
‘You never do answer them. Why didn’t you tell me that Sibley was working for the Propaganda Ministry? You must have known.’
‘How do you know that, Mr Foster?’
‘Petlarov warned me to expect an approach from someone pretending to have a way round the censorship. It came from Sibley. If you knew, why didn’t you warn me?’
‘Would you have believed me if I had, Mr Foster? No. You would have thought that I was trying to stop you sending news out.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. I’m sorry.’
‘It is unimportant, Mr Foster. It is simply that you do not like me.’ He put his glasses on and stared at me. ‘I am used to being disliked.’ He added, ‘I no longer mind.’
But I was spared the deathly embarrassment of replying to this. The grey woman appeared at the door, nodded to Pashik, and said something. He got up and turned to me.
‘My friend wishes to see me privately for a moment, Mr Foster,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you will wait.’
He picked up his dispatch case and went out of the room.
I sat down.
Until that moment I had been feeling all right. Now, suddenly, the smell of the dead man was in my nostrils again. I felt sick and giddy. I put my head between my knees and tried to think of other things. I suppose that if Pashik had not arrived on the scene I should have hurried back to my hotel, had several large brandies and a sleeping pill, and gone to bed. Instead I was sitting in a strange room in a strange house with a desperate feeling of having lost all contact with reality. At that moment I would have given anything to be back in London, quietly doing in my own way the work I understood. I had realized that the delayed reaction to the horror of finding a decomposing corpse in a dark room was only the surface of my discomfort. Beneath, there were fears of another kind. I had thought to write about the trial and condemnation of an innocent man. Now, in spite of the obvious injustice of the trial itself, I was having to accept the disagreeable possibility that really the man might not be innocent, that the rubbish Prochaska was talking might have a basis in fact, that the trembling hands of the diabetic Deltchev might have clasped in brotherhood those of the murderers of the Shatev family; and the foolish trouble was that if those things were true, I feared to know about them. Petlarov’s grocer, I reflected bitterly, was not alone in his ill-informed uneasiness; Mr Valiant-for-Truth, the great journalist, had also caught a whiff of the odour of corruption and was wishing his delicate nose elsewhere. It was curious how preoccupied I had become with smells; they seemed easier to deal with at that time than other ideas; the smell of the dead man, the smell of Pashik, the smell of furniture polish in Deltchev’s house; those three things were related. And if I looked for reassurance to the other senses, I could recall the taste of the plum brandy I had had with Sibley, the feeling of the sentry’s rifle on my shoulder, the image of Petlarov’s white false teeth, and the sound of his voice saying, ‘Some of the evidence may not discredit itself. Some of it may be true.’
I got up and began to wander round the room. I knew now that the train of thought I had been avoiding could be avoided no longer.
If you accepted the seemingly incredible proposition that Deltchev was, and for years had been, a member of the Officer Corps Brotherhood, it was possible to explain some things about him that had hitherto defied explanation. To begin with, you could explain the inexplicable election affair; Deltchev had done what he did, not because he had thought it right or necessary, or because he was a saint, or because he had been bought; he had done it in obedience to the orders of the Brotherhood. And having said that, you could also explain why he had been able to give no explanation himself for his action. You could explain, though with difficulty, how a prosaic, undistinguished Minister of Posts and Telegraphs had been able to become the leader of a secret nationalistic revolutionary movement and ultimately seize power. You could explain the ‘football match’ incident in that context; the fanatically nationalistic Brotherhood, having, through fear of the growing People’s Party, misjudged the election timing, had commanded their puppet Deltchev to retrieve the position. Napoleon the Third had done more for the Carbonari. Besides, had not Petlarov himself admitted that power was a bribe that might be used with Deltchev? In a fantastic way it all fitted. It might be objected that, as a lawyer, Deltchev would not have qualified for membership in the early days of the Brotherhood; but the class distinction between professional men and army officers was not great. His membership was not impossible. It was certainly not improbable. Idealistic young men very often joined societies supposedly dedicated to the human struggles for freedom and justice; and very often, too, they later regretted having done so. When, I wondered, had Deltchev begun to regret the association? Then another objection occurred to me. Why, if the Brotherhood had supported Deltchev, had it also collaborated with the German occupation forces? But this I disposed of easily. What better cover could there have been for the subversive activities of the Brotherhood than h
alf-hearted collaboration with the German Army? Not with the sharp and sceptical Gestapo, mark you, but with the army. It would be interesting to know about the men who had made the Brotherhood’s policy. Perhaps the trial would reveal them.
But meanwhile Deltchev’s daughter had sent a letter to a cheap lodging where there was a murdered man. I thought about that. Who was Valmo? Katerina’s middle-aged lover? I doubted it. This rather too knowing young woman had offered me a drink because she had thought that the engaging way with an irritable reporter; she had said that the letter was to ‘a young man’ because she had thought, perhaps less incorrectly, that that was the engaging way with a reluctant letter-smuggler. If I had had the presence of mind to do so, I might have looked more closely at the room for signs of a relationship with Katerina; her photograph perhaps, or a letter in her handwriting. A letter. And that brought me back to Pashik.
I had made a mistake about Pashik. I had thought of him as one of those hapless, over-anxious persons who cannot help entangling themselves in systems of small, unnecessary lies. It had not occurred to me that he might have anything of more than private importance to conceal. Now I had to reckon with the news that not only could he be concerned quite calmly with the body of a murdered man but also that his tiresome preoccupation with ‘discretion’ had its origins in something very unlike the old-maidish timidity to which I had attributed it.
At that moment, with a jolt, I came out of the haze of cowlike rumination in which I had been lost and began to think clearly. If Pashik had known that the body was there before he came to the house, why was it necessary to consult his ‘friend in the special police’ so urgently? Answer: because I had been there, because I had seen the body, because I had seen Pashik, because I had drawn certain conclusions, because I might be indiscreet.
I had been pacing up and down the room. I stopped, then went to the door. From another part of the apartment there came very faintly a murmur of voices. I glanced at my watch. Pashik had been gone five minutes. I was suddenly convinced that it would be wise to leave without waiting to be introduced to Pashik’s friend — to leave now, quietly. I hesitated momentarily, then I made up my mind. I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it gently. Then I began to pull. But the door did not move. I had been locked in.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For a moment or two I stood there looking stupidly at the door as if I expected it to open itself. To find oneself locked in a room and know that the locking cannot be accidental or a practical joke is an extraordinary sensation. My feelings were confused and are not easily described; I was angry and frightened and depressed all at once. Then I broke out into a sweat. I tried the door again, then turned away from it. The room suddenly looked different, very large and empty, and I could see every detail in it. There was something familiar and yet not quite right about it.
When I had been walking about I had noticed an inch or two of string looped round one corner of the carpet. Now I saw it again; I was standing on the hardwood surround just by it. At that moment I was wondering if I should hammer on the door and demand to be let out, or sit there quietly and pretend not to have noticed that I had been locked in. Absently I reached down to pick up the string. I wanted something to fidget with. I got the string, but the corner of the carpet came up with it. The string was threaded through the edge of the carpet and tied to a label. The label had some figures written on it and a printed name, obviously that of the dealer who had sold it. It was an expensive carpet, a Sparta, yet the owner had not troubled to remove the price tag. It had simply been tucked away out of sight. I was puzzled. I let the carpet fall back into place and walked round the room again. At one end by the windows there was a buhl cabinet. I opened one of the drawers. There was a small brass screw in it and some dust. I tried the other drawers. All were empty except one, which contained a price tag from the same dealer who had supplied the carpet. I went round quickly looking at the wood of the chairs. They had been used a lot and yet there was a certain un used look about them. And then I knew what was familiar about the room: it was like a stage set when all the furniture has just been brought in and placed in position.
At that moment I heard voices and footsteps in the passage outside. I sat down. They came to the door and there was a slight pause. I knew why. The person who was about to open the door was preparing to turn the knob and the key simultaneously so that the sound of the latch would conceal that of the unlocking. If I did not know that I had been locked in, they did not want to tell me of the fact. My heart beat faster.
The door opened and after a momentary pause Pashik came in. He was followed slowly by a small man in a loose tussore-silk suit and a black tie. I stood up.
Pashik put his hand on my shoulder and enveloped me in a broad smile. ‘Herr Foster,’ he said in German, ‘let me introduce you to Herr Valmo.’
I had no time to digest this surprise. The other man came forward with a polite smile and held his hand out tentatively.
‘So pleased, Herr Foster,’ he said.
He was about fifty, short and very slight, with wispy and receding grey hair brushed back from a sunburnt forehead. It was a thin, pointed face with large, pale blue eyes and an expression that might have been cruel or amused or both. He looked like a retired ballet dancer who has taken successfully to management. In his hand was Katerina Deltchev’s letter. It had been opened.
‘Herr Valmo?’ I said.
He smiled. ‘I am afraid a little explanation is due to you, mein Herr.’ He had a quiet, monotonous voice.
‘It was not possible for me to explain, Herr Foster,’ said Pashik. ‘I could not break a confidence.’
‘Please sit down, Herr Foster, and you, my dear Pashik. A cigarette? Ah, you are already smoking. As our friend Pashik explained to you, I am, you might say, some sort of a policeman, a very’ — he made a belittling gesture with his hand — ‘a very confidential sort of policeman.’ The woman appeared at the door with a tray and he glanced round. ‘Yes, come in, Mentcha. Put it down.’ He turned again, pulled round a chair, and sat facing me. ‘Coffee and a little brandy, Herr Foster. You have had a very upsetting experience, our friend tells me. Thank you, Mentcha. Shut the door. And now,’ he went on as she went out, ‘we must set your mind at rest. In the coffee, the brandy?’
‘Thank you.’
Pashik was sitting deferentially by as if at a conference between his superiors. The hand holding his cigarette was trembling slightly.
Valmo handed me a cup and went on talking as he filled the other two. ‘There is one thing,’ he said, ‘that I must ask of you, Herr Foster. That is that you respect the confidence of what I am about to tell you.’ He held a cup out to Pashik but he looked at me. ‘Pashik tells me that you are not friendly to the regime here. I understand. But I am not a politician. I am a civil servant. Our country is a centre for many conspiracies against the law and it is my task to destroy them. Can I be certain that you will respect my confidence, Herr Foster?’
‘Yes.’ I tasted the coffee.
‘Very well.’ He put his cup behind him on the table and then leaned forward toward me with his elbows on his knees and his hands together. ‘In my role of policeman, Herr Foster, it was my duty to seek out the perpetrators of the bomb outrage against Herr Deltchev which took place shortly before his arrest. I made certain secret enquiries and investigations. It was believed that the criminals had had the Deltchev family under surveillance, and members of the family co-operated with me in identifying them. I have said that my function is not political. Herr Deltchev’s trial does not relieve me of the responsibility of tracing these criminals. You understand?’
I nodded.
‘For reasons with which I will not trouble you,’ he continued, ‘it became necessary for me to install an agent in the Patriarch Dimo. For convenience and identification, the agent employed my name. Very well. Three days ago my agent reported to me that he had news of the men we were after. That night he was killed.’ He paused impressively.
; ‘Who found him dead?’ I asked.
He stared at me for a moment. Then he turned round and picked up his coffee cup again. ‘I did, Herr Foster,’ he said blandly. ‘However, let me continue. The agent had collected certain documentary evidence against the conspirators, which he kept hidden in the room. I discovered that this had not been stolen. Therefore, I argued, they did not know of its existence. Therefore, if they were made aware of its existence they would return for it. Therefore I replaced the true documents with some false ones that I prepared and sat down to wait for results.’
‘You mean you put a secret watch on the house to catch the murderer when he returned?’
He smiled gently and shook his head. ‘I am afraid you do not know the street of the Patriarch Dimo, Herr Foster,’ he said. ‘That sort of secret could not be kept there. No. I set a different kind of trap. All I wanted was to get the false documents into the conspirators’ hands. I had reason to believe that in fact that had happened. Tonight I asked Herr Pashik, who is a friend of mine and also sometimes a helper, to go to the house and make sure.’ He spread his hands out like a conjuror. ‘He finds you there.’
‘With a letter addressed to you.’
‘Exactly. Katerina Deltchev had recalled an important piece of evidence. She wrote to tell me of it.’
‘Through your agent.’
‘Naturally. This address is most confidential, Herr Foster. So you see how it has happened and the need for your discretion.’ He sat back with a smile, clicked his lighter, and held the letter in the flame of it. As it caught fire, he smiled at me again. ‘I’m sure you do,’ he added.
I thought quickly. It was just not quite good enough. The man who called himself Valmo and said that he was of the secret police had had a certain initial advantage; he did not look like the conventional secret policemen of fiction. If he had been vaguer and more mysterious about his story, it might even have been convincing. There would have been nothing unlikely about a secret policeman who was secretive. But this man had seen the holes in his story as he was telling it and instead of leaving them had tried to cover them up. For instance, having indicated an official connection between the Deltchev household and Patriarch Dimo Street he had decided that it did not satisfactorily cover Katerina’s letter, so he had added another detail: that weak one about her recalling an important piece of evidence. It would have been better to let me see the hole and question it. He could then have replied with a knowing shake of the head that he was afraid he could not permit himself to give me that information. And that, in turn, would have prevented my asking the awkward question I did in fact ask.
