Antony nodded. “I’ve walked my legs off, and I’m hungry.”
And this was true enough. Even the substitute coffee smelt like a beautiful dream.
Anna Brandt took up a cup and set it upon its saucer. Her glance travelled over him with disfavour from the unshaved chin, past the dirty hands, to the muddy boots. There was a large patch on one of them—a piece of corroborative detail which he could have done without. If it hadn’t already rubbed a blister, it was going to the next time he had to walk a mile. She said in angry voice,
“No one eats food in my house with hands like that! And half the mud of the road on your feet! Get in and wash! You know the way.”
He was scrubbing his hands at the sink when she came through to him.
“Are you mad, Mijnheer?”
He looked up, grinning.
“Piet, Tante Anna, and don’t forget it.”
She made an impatient gesture.
“There’s no one here. The girl has gone to the market, and I can tell you she doesn’t hurry herself to get back. Why have you come? You are quite mad. When you did it before—well, it would pass as a joke. We hadn’t these German pigs in the country then, and the worst that could happen would be a bit of gossip among the neighbours, and some of them thinking it’s easy enough to say Aunt, but it doesn’t make every young scallywag who says it your proper lawful nephew. But now, Mijnheer, it’s not just a bit of gossip we’re risking—and God knows the neighbours will always find something to talk about unless one’s as ugly as sin. No, it’s our lives. And you mayn’t value yours, but I’ve got a use for mine.”
Antony went on washing his hands.
“If you go on calling me Mijnheer, Anna dear, I’m afraid it isn’t going to be much use to you. Piet Maartens is my name, and I’m the son of your sister Marthe, the one you used to tell us about who was weak in the head and ran away with a no-account fellow from Friesland.”
Anna threw up her hands.
“If it stopped at being weak in the head! Mad—that’s what you are, coming along here like this! What do you want?”
“I want to see Cornelius.”
“Dragging him into it too, are you? Well, they say shooting’s an easy death. But mind, you and him’ll get that. They’ll put me in one of their filthy concentration camps, I shouldn’t wonder—and by all accounts it’s better to have a bullet in you and be done with it.”
Antony took no notice. He was drying his hands.
“Can you get word to him?”
She tossed her head.
“I can, but that’s not to say I will.”
“Dear Anna!”
“Don’t you ‘dear Anna’ me! How long do you aim at staying?”
“I don’t know till I’ve seen Cornelius. Look here, if he comes along at the rush hour he can slip out to the back, and who’s going to be any the wiser?”
She stood there frowning.
“I don’t know. The girl would be here. It’s more than four hands can do as it is—I can’t send her out. There’s my own parlour—if you were there and he came in the back way, you could let him in by the window.”
“Is that the best way?” said Antony, and she jumped down his throat. He might still have been eight years old.
“There isn’t any best way, I tell you! There isn’t any good way at all. We’ll all end up in our graves more likely than not. He’ll scratch on the window, and you can let him in. But mind you latch the window after him and see there aren’t any creaks. And see that you keep your voices down, and be as quick over the whole business as you can. There’s no sense in asking for trouble.”
He laughed. “What an efficient woman you are, Anna! Lead me to the coffee substitute.…”
As soon as he heard the sound that he was waiting for, Antony turned out the light. It was the least possible tapping upon the curtained window of Anna Brandt’s parlour. The light died, the darkness swallowed up the red carpet, the brightly polished tiles, the round table with its red plush cover trimmed with crochet edging. They vanished together with the family Bible, the Delft jars, and the photographs of the late Josef Brandt and of Antony’s parents.
Antony crossed to the window and opened it, holding back the curtain. He said, “Come in, Con,” and Cornelius came in over the sill. The latch clicked to, the curtain dropped, and the light came on again. There was Anna’s room, with every bit of furniture shinning with polish, and there was Cornelius, looking as impassive as if he had come in by the front door and he and Antony had been meeting every day. He walked to the chair which had been Josef’s and sat down.
“Well?” he said. “Anna said you wanted to see me. What is it all about? I notice she hasn’t provided any refreshment.”
Antony laughed. “She’s a thrifty soul. I fancy she would say you had come here to see me, not to drink at her expense.
Cornelius nodded. “Yes—Anna is like that. But she can be trusted, and that’s more than you can say about everyone.”
Antony wondered whether it was more than could be said for Cornelius himself. He began to talk about the business that had brought him over—this and that information in the reports Cornelius had furnished—how he got them, where had he got them, and did anyone know that he had got them, and so forth.
Cornelius took out a cigar and lit it. He let Antony talk and said nothing. When Antony had finished, he let go a mouthful of smoke and enquired, “Am I to understand that I am not giving satisfaction?”
“I don’t know why you should say that. If your stuff’s correct it’s valuable—you must know that. What I’m here for is to check it over with you. There is a little vagueness about your sources of information, and they’d like it cleared up.”
Cornelius produced a slow smile.
“I saw the big little man in Berlin the other day, and allowing for the difference in phraseology, that is what he said too. I seem to be an object of suspicion to both sides.”
Antony cocked an eyebrow. “If they really suspect you in Berlin, Con, why aren’t you dead?”
“I may have been able to disarm his suspicions.” He paused, and added, “Why does Garrett suspect me?”
“I didn’t say he suspected you. I said he wanted this stuff checked up. It’s too important to take any chances over. Come along, Con, tell me how you got it!”
Cornelius said placidly, “I think I’d better tell him myself. The fact is I’m clearing out, and the sooner I clear the better for me. I suppose you didn’t get a parcel from me before you left?”
“No, I didn’t. What kind of a parcel?”
Cornelius still watched his cigar.
“Oh, a very important parcel indeed—a parcel which is practically my life, in a nice strong box done up in brown paper and addressed to ‘Antony Rossiter, Esq. By Hand.’”
Antony leaned forward. “Con—what are you talking about?”
“My parcel,” said Cornelius. “I would like you to go back to England again as quickly as you can, because as long as you stay over here on this stupid inquisitive business which Colonel Garrett has sent you to pry into you are risking my life in a very dangerous way. You see, the little man knows what is inside the parcel, and he would guess that I should not be so stupid as to keep it in any place where he can get his hands on it. He does not kill me or put me in a concentration camp, because I have told him that if he does so, my parcel will begin to make things very unpleasant for him, and though he has a very unbelieving nature, I was able to convince him that this would be the case.”
Antony looked at him quizzically. “I suppose you know what you’re talking about, Con. I don’t.”
“It is not necessary,” said Cornelius in his grandest manner. He was once more the lordly elder brother giving his orders to the little boy who had adored him. “You will get back to England as quickly as you can. Some arrangement has been made, I suppose, for getting you back. Mr. Merridew will have the parcel, and it is marked to be given to you by hand, but I am very uneasy as long as you are over
here. As I said before, I am being followed wherever I go. I think I got rid of him tonight. But it is no great matter—they will think I have an assignation with Anna—she is quite a handsome creature still. I hope I got rid of him the night I handed my parcel over in a waterside tavern. I took every precaution, but one can never be quite sure. If he has found out that it has gone to England—and I am afraid I cannot regard that as impossible—then he will stick at nothing to get it back.”
“What’s inside?” Antony’s tone displayed a lively curiosity.
Cornelius drew at his cigar and let out the smoke.
“High explosive,” he said without any expression at all in his voice—“the sort that can blow a reputation to bits, and blow a man out of his job and land him in one of his own concentration camps. As long as that’s loose in the world, he can’t touch me without touching it off. You get home—and make sure you’re not followed when you fetch my parcel away.”
“Good lord, Con—what do you want me to fetch it away for? Much better leave it in the guardian’s safe.”
Cornelius shook his head. “At this time—when bombs fall every night in London? I don’t think so. If you could be quite sure that you were not followed, I should say take it out of London and find a safe place for it.”
“I could put it in a country branch of my bank.”
Cornelius shook his head again. “No building is safe from a bomb. I do not agree to any bank—it is these big important buildings that are hit everywhere. You must hide it, and you must be very careful. He has his agents still. You must not trust anyone at all, and if—” He dropped his voice to the lowest murmur. “Listen, Antony—”
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About the Author
Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1940 by Patricia Wentworth
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3326-8
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Who Pays the Piper? Page 27
