Hostage

by Geoffrey Household

  She slept uneasily till dawn. Now that the bruises had come up she was a shocking sight, one side of her face swollen, striped by shallow scratches and with a round, blue lump. She could not move her right arm without considerable pain. She told me that a tooth had been knocked out and that she thought her collar bone was broken. I fed her with hot soup, for she could not take any solid food. We spoke with reserve, but quite amicably as if we were two strangers.

  I left her alone while I set up the two stones for Sir Frederick to see, meanwhile putting back the heavy door over the cellar entrance. She was indomitable. When I returned I found her collapsed at the foot of the steps. She had tried to lift the door and escape.

  ‘You might just as well let me go, Gil,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where the bomb is so it’s no good twisting my arm.’

  I could have told her myself that it was no use. If she did know she would never confess it whatever agony I caused her and would invent a convincing hiding place with a detailed description. Torture to my mind is a futile method of arriving at truth unless the interrogator is already in a position to know which gasping confession cannot possibly be fact; and if he knows that much he should not need torture at all. I can imagine it might occasionally be of value when the victim has no code of honour and nothing to lose but freedom from pain.

  ‘I have quite a different reason for rescuing you, Clotilde,’ I said. ‘You mustn’t believe all Rex tells you.’

  I could see she was intrigued by this. There was a chance that if I kept interrogation on an even, friendly keel I might get a clue to what limited knowledge she had. She could not guess that my real intention in kidnapping her was merely to persuade Magma to delay the explosion while they forced the Government, as they supposed, to release her.

  ‘But you knew that the police had found out my address and were on their way.’

  ‘I did’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Some of the Committee have their own informants.’

  ‘And the police have theirs,’ she retorted.

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so,’ I answered peaceably.

  ‘Then what else are you?’

  ‘Rex should not have hired Vladimir to kill me. For some of us that was the last straw.’

  ‘You cannot use me to split Magma!’

  So that was in her mind! She was half ready to accept that I might not be a police agent but an ambitious Group Commander who hoped to profit by the explosion rather than to prevent it. I had only been sparring for an opening, searching for the point where hatred of me ended and old friendship began. I decided to go along with her tentative theory which gave us something to talk about.

  ‘Do I have to be as ruthless as you and lock you up in London?’

  ‘We should arrive too late, my dear Gil.’

  That was the first useful piece of information. I had assumed that the cells had been evacuated because the police were on a hot scent at Argyll Square. It was worse than that. The chosen date was now, or nearly now.

  ‘If we do, the mass grave will come in handy.’

  She spotted that as a slice of unnecessary horror film and did not reply, asking casually:

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘The Bomblayers Arms, let us say.’

  ‘Boy Scout camp?’

  ‘You forget, Clotilde, that I am still a Group Commander.’

  ‘You are not!’

  ‘You think Mick is the only one who accepts me? I always told you that we overdid security. The committee has a problem of communication, especially now.’

  ‘Gil, you’re a fool! A dreamer like you could never lead. It isn’t in you.’

  There’s some truth in that, I admit, in the sense that I would never make a Chief of Staff. But I can lead partisans and I know it.

  ‘Not even a minor Trotsky to a Lenin?’

  ‘Where’s your Lenin?’

  ‘You don’t know the International Committee. I do. What about Mallant?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  Her tone was so contemptuous that it was certain she had never heard of him under his own name. I described for her his eyes and his beard and could tell from her silence that she had at least met him and was giving nothing away.

  ‘You will know after the explosion.’

  ‘You don’t mean to interfere then?’

  ‘Certainly not. I know where the bomb is. Rex kept me out of the move from Hoxton, but I was connected with Argyll Square.’

  ‘God! William the Builder!’ she exclaimed.

  Her surprise was genuine. It was plain that she did not know the site of the bomb, but now realised that if it was in or near Argyll Square this William the Builder had played some essential part.

  I said that he was a natural choice and asked what his real name was. She replied that only the Committee knew that, which may or may not have been true.

  So I let our talk go at that. Clotilde had not denied that I might be better informed than she was, and I did not want to spoil the impression by pressing more questions.

  I wish I knew more of Rex and could have used him as a lever to force more indiscretions out of her. The man is only a ghost who told me at great length of an inferno to come. A ghost he remains and has to remain, for I cannot waste precious time in trying to discover his true identity. I think he is head of the British Action Committee and responsible for our exaggerated security – in his own interest as well as Magma’s. If ever I can loose Special Branch on the bomb or deal with it myself, the police can deal with Rex afterwards. At least I can tell them that he works or occasionally works for the newspaper office where Alexandra Baratov disappeared after she was released from arrest.

  I shut her down again in the cellar advising her to have patience until my party was successful when I would decide what to do with her.

  ‘A woman who is prepared to execute an old friend without a qualm can be useful to us,’ I added.

  The unexpected clue of William the Builder could be vital. However, speculation got me nowhere and still does not. Our transport at Blackmoor Gate belonged or purported to belong to a builder. The name on it was Groads’ Construction Company, certainly false and easily changeable. It’s a fair bet that William was also responsible for the moves from Roke’s Tining to Hoxton and Hoxton to the final site. So why Clotilde’s surprise? Who but a builder could convincingly dig up and prepare – perhaps some months ago – the underground nest for the bomb?

  During the morning I sat behind what was left of a first floor wall where I could see the edge of the hills above the cottage and the strip of woodland, whispering with the flight of birds, along the Churn below. Nobody passed but a good woman with a basket looking for the first blackberries. She did not come up as far as the cottage though there were already black beads among the crimson clusters on the surrounding brambles. Evidently young Frederick’s ghost story had passed down the years intact.

  He turned up himself at midday with the news that the group of police and scientists had at last left Roke’s Tining. No charge had been made against him but he had been requested not to reopen his colony for the present. In case his trust in me was shaken – a week’s absence can make a big difference – I told him at once that I had written anonymously to his Assistant Commissioner Farquhar informing him with convincing details where I suspected the bomb was hidden. Police and Army had then turned streets and drains inside out with no success.

  Gammel replied that he had heard of the search from the now friendly Superintendent. His bosses had been sure that their informant was reliable and were completely beaten. They had even consulted a clairvoyant who on occasions had given them a lead, or rather – so the sceptical Superintendent had said – a chance to pack up their preconceived ideas and use some imagination. The clairvoyant produced a whole rigmarole of nonsense which fitted neither drains nor Argyll Square, but insisted on the importance of ‘flying’ or ‘fly’. If the bomb was to be dropped on London they could do little about it beyond tightening up the ai
r traffic-controls.

  With that out of the way, I put Sir Frederick in the picture, explaining that I had grabbed one of Magma’s most valuable leaders and left evidence that she had been arrested. To my mind it was certain that they would delay the explosion in order to use the threat of it to get her back. Meanwhile they had no reason to fear discovery.

  ‘The poor woman is down below?’ he asked.

  This unexpected pity had to be diverted. I gave him some account of what had happened and how she had tried to execute me.

  ‘She will be badly hurt. I must have a look at her, Julian. I am not without experience.’

  Foolishly I saw no reason why he should not. My attitude to Clotilde was coldly utilitarian. I had not yet decided how or where I intended to return her, if at all; but she could be no use to me desperately ill or dead.

  I took him down to the well cellar, replaced the hatch and lit a lamp. As well as the scarred and swollen face, Clotilde’s hair and clothes were matted with blood. Sir Frederick took off into the nineteenth century.

  ‘Will you allow me to examine you, dear lady? I am, I assure you, a Clerk in Holy Orders, though for the moment not habited as such.’

  He formally sent me upstairs. I was not unsympathetic, but Clotilde was Clotilde. I quietly showed her that her .32 was in my pocket.

  Gammel came up very worried, telling me that the collar bone was broken, that she had lost a molar and that he suspected a fracture of the jaw.

  ‘She cannot remain here in the cold,’ he said.

  ‘She has to.’

  ‘Julian, I will not permit you to treat a woman in that way whatever she has done.’

  ‘Sex discrimination, Sir Frederick?’

  ‘Very well, sir! You find chivalry outdated. But Christianity remains. If I can help the suffering, I must do so.’

  I saw that I was up against the romantic ideals of both the baronet and the priest – a powerful combination. But I flatly refused to let her go.

  ‘I am not demanding that you let her go. I require that she be put in my care, be warmed, fed and healed so far as is in my power. From the little you have said I gather that you vaguely perceive a duty towards God, but you are too self-centred to be aware of duty to the neighbour.’

  I asked him angrily what the hell else I was doing.

  ‘Yes, you are prepared to sacrifice yourself, but now as formerly you have little pity for the individual. Whether you wish it or not, I shall take this unfortunate girl into my house.’

  I was dependent on him and could see no way out. Roke’s Tining was empty. The policewomen who had attended to domestic chores had gone, and neither colonists nor staff had returned. I protested that even a Good Samaritan might draw the line at a wounded lioness.

  ‘There is no such line, Julian, and lions on the road to Jericho are improbable. I think you mean Androcles. But I agree that you should provide a guard since we cannot count on grateful paws in the arena.’

  He had still not realised how alone I was, presuming that I could lay my hands on some devoted remnant of partisans. I had only Mick. Not much for the fantastic Trotsky figure which had given Clotilde something to think about! And Mick I could not spare. Elise then? Her former medical studies must be quite enough to deal with bruises and minor fractures.

  I told Sir Frederick that he could have Clotilde at Roke’s Tining provided I could arrange the guard. He was to prepare a secure room and come back at dusk. We could only dare to shift Clotilde after dark.

  Mick when he arrived in the afternoon was of course overjoyed at the prospect of getting Elise out of London. To keep her on in her hotel room must have been a severe test of his loyalty – to me or to conscience or to what? He believed that she would not question my orders and that it was unnecessary to tell her all the truth till we were very sure that she would not consider the corpses of London a just revenge for the corpses of Africa. Meanwhile explanation was easy; we had only to swop the facts around. Clotilde was suspected of disloyalty. I had been ordered to detain her. She knew of Clotilde’s secret negotiations with Shallope. She knew of Shallope’s assassination. We had merely to say that Clotilde had no right to take a line of her own.

  I determined to return to London myself, leaving Mick in charge of Clotilde and – perhaps the harder task – of Sir Frederick. The risk of showing myself in Argyll Square was considerable but had to be taken. William the Builder was haunting me and could not be ignored. On the spot I might discover or learn through casual questions how and where he had delivered his load.

  So here I am back at my Ealing boarding house. The transfer of Clotilde from cellar to house was without incident and all should be well until I can return with Elise and release Mick. He and Sir Frederick were soon on easy terms, each recognising the essential simplicity of the other. What nonsense! To my way of thinking, both of them are highly complicated characters. Yet I shouldn’t wonder if that impulsive bit of insight is right.

  September 9th

  It has worked. The Action Committee has ordered the Government to release Clotilde immediately. They have come out of the shadows and used the name of Magma, never publicised till now, without any attempt to divert attention to Irish, Palestinians or Trotskyists. A copy of the ultimatum has apparently gone to all the principal morning papers with a demand that the Government’s reply also be transmitted through the press. What arrogance and authority!

  NOTICE TO THE GOVERNMENT

  Miss Alexandra Baratov, now again in police custody, will be immediately released. If you refuse, the campaign of destruction of which you have already been warned will be carried out. You will reply by public announcement in the press that you accept. We will then instruct you privately how and when to release her.

  The ultimatum still does not state the nature of the destruction. Evidently Magma is reluctant as yet to provoke the terror and the mass exodus. The Committee has, I think, still another objective: to ensure that the prevarications of the Cabinet and all the lies of mistaken identity at the time of Clotilde’s real arrest five weeks ago will be remembered, thus inflaming the hatred and contempt of those citizens left alive.

  It’s a bold and ingenious idea to publicise the threat and so avoid any clue to the organisation and leaders of Magma. Since we insist on a public reply, the demand must also be printed, though I doubt if it would be if Editors-in-Chief were not in the secret of the bomb and in hourly touch with the authorities.

  I wonder what on earth the Cabinet will reply. My guess has always been that they will crawl and whine and swear quite truthfully that they have not got Clotilde. Neither Magma nor the public will believe it, but for three or more days of negotiation London is reprieved. I, I alone, have done this. Triumph is overwhelmed by the futility of it. How am I to profit by my gain of days? I am like a man who has put off his execution and wonders why he bothered.

  But let me use the gain, such as it is, and continue with my routine of recording events in case a chink of light shows through the prison wall. William the Builder?

  This morning I cautiously made my way to Elise’s hotel after the hour when I knew Mallant – or Rex standing in for him – would have passed. It was pretty certain that Magma would have followed our usual practice – I still cannot help this ‘our’ – of not putting out observers who are as likely to attract the attention of police as to give warning against them. To post partisans in and around Argyll Square would be particularly dangerous. All the same, I did my best not to conform to the probable description of me. I dressed in Herbert Johnson’s most imposing suit, carried a brief case and wore a hat, which normally I never do.

  Elise, following her orders exactly, was in her room. She had had some trouble in explaining why she never left it except for meals, letting it be known that she was writing an urgent report on the Saharan disasters. She had backed her story by leaving sheets of manuscript around together with a collection of books on malnutrition and tropical diseases. Dutifully she did not press me for any explanation, as
suming that Magma was planning some stroke of sabotage more daring than usual and needed to know all movements on the ground.

  She had nothing to report except the continual activity of plain-clothes detectives. The identities of everyone in the hotel and presumably in all other hotels had been checked. Two of the kitchen staff had been taken away for questioning – one a Portuguese believed to be a communist, the other a Chinaman without an immigration permit. Some of the more nervous guests had left after the formidable search of the drains. The less imaginative were of opinion that if there had ever been a bomb the police and army would have discovered it, so they were safer where they were than anywhere else. She had cultivated the proprietress of the hotel, a talkative lady, as well informed about the doings of the neighbourhood as any village postmistress, in fact the perfect minor agent. All the questions asked by the police of landladies and householders and all scares and suspicions which had sent them rushing to the telephones had been passed on to Elise. There had been near panic when some dear old lady – or Magma? – had flooded the district with a rumour that any pulling of plugs or running of water might set off a bomb.

  It was pointless to ask her if she had noticed any stationary builders’ trucks, for she had arrived after the bomb was in position and there was no reason why Groads’ Construction Company should have returned. When I asked her to find out if any private houses or hotels had recently been converted or rebuilt, she replied that the police had not overlooked that point and had checked all recent repairs, paying particular attention to porticos, basements and even chimney stacks as well as drains.

  Her response to the threat in the morning papers was one of pride and triumph, making it impossible for me to carry out the plan, which Mick and I had agreed, of persuading her that Clotilde was a traitor. Not at all! We had been ordered to rescue her, had done so and were keeping her safe in the country.

  Elise was dewy-eyed – the pretty thing – over Clotilde, the glorious martyr, and her gallant Group Commander. G.G.C. was in no mood to respond and told her what a wonderful chap Mick was, lonely, loving and of superb courage. Quite apart from seeing that Mick got his deserts, I felt that the closer they were the more I could trust them to work in harmony.