The Alien

by Josephine Bell

  “It is licensed,’’ Boris answered. “Also it belongs to me from before the war.’’

  With which surprising statement he walked stiffly across the hall and opened the dining-room door, to be greeted with cries of astonishment and question.

  Carfax slipped out of the front door and ran briskly down the steps to his car. The constable was standing beside it.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What did you mean about that gun of yours?’’ Carfax asked, an hour later.

  Boris told him, simply and truthfully. Stephen had preserved this relic of bygone days, proudly at first and secretly, as he was under age for ownership at the time. Later he had licensed and looked after it in memory of someone he expected never to see again.

  “He has this shy, stiff, sentimental attitude, so endearing in the English,’’ Boris explained, earnestly. “Was it wrong, legally wrong, to give me back my property?’’

  “I’m not a lawyer,’’ said Carfax, equally grave. “I wouldn’t know.’’

  Boris sighed his relief. The dinner had been a protracted torment. Outwardly calm, chatting amiably with Lady Lang on his left and Ann Phillimore on his right, avoiding Louise’s eye opposite, he had felt more shaken inwardly than at any time since the fiasco of his arrival in Higlett Bay. Was he developing a guilty conscience after all these years, he wondered? Why else should he assume that the child in police uniform had come for him? Why lose his head so utterly as to draw a weapon? To shoot the poor young man, or to shoot himself? He really did not know which.

  The worst of the situation was the way in which this man, Carfax, handled it. Regardless of any kind of personal danger, more as if he were protecting an aggressive infant from the consequences of an uncontrolled impulse, he had hidden the gun with his own body. He had exposed himself to being shot in place of the police officer. This was profoundly humiliating.

  And the whole scene! A parking offence! What could be more futile, more unpolitical, more unemotional, more British? Enfin, more civilized? He had never in his life felt so strongly the force of this alien self-confident culture.

  Lady Lang found nothing amiss in his behaviour. His manners had always been perfect, she remembered. After all, he was born a gentleman, if a Pole. He had lost nothing vital in the course of his dreadful experiences, she concluded. She told him about her garden and her dogs and her difficulties with maids.

  “I’m not so lucky as Margaret,’’ she said. “There are no Ogdens in my family or in Charles’s. Ann won’t mind doing everything for herself. The young generation was born to it. It was difficult for me to begin in middle-age.’’

  “That I can believe,’’ he answered, suppressing a vision of Lady Lang, her well-arranged hair beset by steam, her long rope of pearls dangling into a saucepan as she struggled to make a simple dish for Sir Charles. At least, they did not starve, he decided, instantly attacked by visions of those who had done so before his eyes in Siberia, fading from life day by day, diminishing literally and visibly until the morning of their ultimate stillness on the sleeping board or in the snow.

  The meal of four well-cooked courses came to an end. Margaret took the women away to the drawing-room and sent Louise to fetch the coffee. The men filled their glasses and Colin said, “Carfax wants a word with you, Sudenic, if you don’t mind. I suggest we all join the ladies for coffee and I then take you two off to my study to look at maps or prints or something and leave you there for a bit. You won’t take long over it, John?’’

  “In connection with – the car-parking offence?’’ Boris asked, as casually as he could.

  Stephen laughed. The story had certainly broken the ice after that rather uncomfortable pause when Boris had arrived late in the dining-room, with a white face and frozen explanations. Until John dashed in full of apologies and a well-clowned account of his brush with the law.

  Colin looked awkward. Carfax said, quietly to Boris, “As a matter of fact, I asked Colin to arrange for me to meet you.’’

  “Don’t you know?’’ Stephen added, irrepressibly, “John is M.I.5. Ever heard of it?’’

  Boris had heard of it. He said so. He did not say that he had recognized Carfax from the beginning and that this had added to his anxiety when the policeman arrived. He saw Sir Charles looking at him with a new speculative gaze that did nothing to comfort him.

  So after some more conversation and some really excellent coffee and brandy Colin performed his part and Boris found himself alone with British security. The matter of the gun seemed to be cleared. He had not been asked to give it up. It was not the real object of this conversation. He waited.

  “There has been some sort of schemozzle,’’ Carfax said, slowly, “between two groups of our Iron Curtain friends. At least between the king-pin and a satellite. In the street, of all places.’’

  “Did the man die?’’ Boris asked.

  Carfax laughed. He was beginning to like this enigma who had caused so much argument among his superiors.

  “No. Was it you chivved him, as they say in our underworld?’’

  “Do you expect me to answer that?’’

  “Not really. But you may like to know that they were not able to cope themselves and had to get in outside help and the chap was whisked off to a private nursing-home and a surgeon called in to sew him up. Very hush-hush, but the surgeon was interested. The wounds did not fit the story offered and the patient, who thought he was going to die, expressed a wish for revenge when his political principles were loosened as he came round from the anaesthetic. He suggested that certain Poles were responsible.’’

  “Polish communists were attacked by Russian communists,’’ Boris said.

  “Surprising, but so I gathered. It’s all rather vague, but the surgeon was interested, as I said. He talked to Scotland Yard and they asked him to collect a sample of the patient’s blood. It matched some blood the constable on the beat had the presence of mind to mop up from the pavement at the scene of a scuffle he had noticed from a distance. Nothing at the spot but the blood. Suggestive, isn’t it?’’

  “Very.’’

  “You wouldn’t have sent a suit to be cleaned in the last few days, by any chance?’’

  “No.’’

  Carfax did not pursue this. Instead he said, “You wouldn’t care to tell me what you were doing with that bunch? We know you had dinner at Paul’s restaurant and four men joined you there.’’

  “I should like to tell you,’’ said Boris. “Then you can make up your mind about the truth of this matter.’’

  “Can I? Won’t I just make up my mind the way you want me to?’’

  “I think you are not so easily influenced.’’

  “Go ahead. Don’t bother about me, one way or the other. What are you doing in this country at all, for a start? Planted, weren’t you?’’

  “Oh, yes. Let me tell you my own way.’’

  Boris repeated what he had told the Polish comrades. He described again the Russian clumsiness in imagining he could get into close touch with Colin, simply because, years before, he had been engaged to his wife.

  “Could they not imagine that I would be the last man Colin would make a friend? Some men, perhaps, but not Colin. They have theories – correct theories, they call them. Do they never see that theories about people are always wrong or at least half-wrong? Because a man is too complex to become a theory?’’

  “I know what you mean. Get on with the story.’’

  “I have nothing to report,’’ Boris said, simply, “so I report nothing. They are instantly suspicious. They try to kidnap me to the Embassy, perhaps back to Russia.’’

  “I thought it was something like that. Where do those Polish comrades come into the picture?’’

  “They want me to work for them, instead.’’

  “And it isn’t quite the same thing, is it?’’

  “No.’’

  They looked at one another, each trying to judge the amount and accuracy of the other’s knowledge.

/>   “Are you going to work for the Poles?’’ Carfax asked, presently, not expecting an answer.

  “Which Poles?’’

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!’’

  “They all want me,’’ Boris said, with a grin that relieved the tension between them. “I am – popular, isn’t it?’’

  “Much sought after, yes.’’

  “Like a girl with a fortune, eh?’’

  “You couldn’t be less like. What about it, though?’’

  “If I had decided I would not tell you. But at present I work for no one.’’

  “Except the Swedes,’’ said Carfax.

  Boris stared, open-mouthed, then he laughed loudly.

  “Ericson!’’ he declared. “I have always wondered. It must be Ericson – no? Oh, then you can help me. I owe this Ericson – let me see – it would be fifty pounds in your money. What I tell you now is worth fifty pounds, I think. You will pay him for me? I have been worried that I could not pay Ericson.’’

  “The devil you have!’’

  Carfax had no ready answer to the proposed bargain. Boris was proving too much for him and he knew it. All this candour, all this truthful revelation had told him precisely nothing. The fellow wasn’t a double agent. He was a universal. Had he built it all up as a seaman in the Baltic? It was incredible.

  “What d’ you expect me to say to that?’’ he asked, feebly.

  “I expect nothing.’’ Boris was very serious. “I never expect anything. But if Ericson is your man—’’

  “I have not said so.’’

  “If you pay Ericson my debt I will even tell you what I send to Sweden and how I send it.’’

  Carfax was tempted but he took hold of himself.

  “I’m not in a position to bargain with you, here and now. But I’ll arrange an interview for you. In Whitehall. You can give out you’ve been summoned there for screening again about your permit to stay in this country.’’

  “Yes. That is possible.’’ Boris paused, then went on, reflectively, “I have thought perhaps this is not the country for me to stay. I am stateless, you understand. This makes it difficult.’’

  “I do understand.’’

  “Perhaps America would offer a greater opportunity?’’

  “The U. S., as things stand, would offer a kick in the pants. Don’t have any illusions about that. Not with your record.’’

  “You think so? I have spoken to a kind American, a very rich man. He has Czech ancestry, three generations back.’’

  He gave a name that made Carfax gasp.

  “How in the world did you get in touch with him? Even know he was over here in May.’’

  “I wrote a letter to America. I remind him that my own family moved to Poland when his moved to the States from the same district in our original homeland. He was very much moved. He wishes to help me.’’

  “Is this true?’’

  “He is a sincere man, though very rich.’’

  “I don’t mean that. Is it true about your ancestors, your ancestors and his?’’

  “I do not tell lies,’’ said Boris, stiffly. “I believe this to be true.’’

  Carfax found himself apologizing.

  “I have a letter from this friend,’’ Boris went on, after acknowledging the apology with a grave inclination of his head. “I do not have it with me tonight but I will show you if you wish.’’

  “Do that,’’ Carfax said. “As a matter of fact I think we ought to go back to the others now, don’t you? But I would like to see you again, very much. I’ll get in touch.’’

  “You know my present address?’’

  “I do.’’

  Boris looked at him thoughtfully.

  “I suppose it is not difficult. A foreigner is always – conspicuous. Everyone will know it too, I suppose?’’ He made a revealing, weary gesture. “There is no point in moving any more in this city.’’

  “Not really,’’ Carfax said. “In fact, to tell you the truth, we’d much rather you’d stay put. My boss gets the jitters if you aren’t located for a day or two. We’re doing our best to look after you. There’d be hell from the Press if anything went wrong. You’re a bit of a favourite with them. They went to town over your spectacular arrival in that snowstorm. Just the sort of thing the British public revels in.’’

  “I see. But I report to your police every day.’’

  “You haven’t reported any of your changes of address, have you? They could put you in the nick for that.’’

  “The—?’’

  “Nick. Gaol. Prison.’’

  Boris nodded.

  “There are rules here after all,’’ he said. “Like your parking of cars.’’

  “Not unlike. But more useful on the whole. I’ll give you a ring in a day or two. Mind you bring that American letter with you when you come.’’

  “Where shall I come?’’

  “I’ll tell you when I ring.’’

  Boris shook his head.

  “This is like a spy story. Melodrama. You give me the date and I come to your office in my lunch hour. After all, I am an alien applying for permanent asylum. I have not withdrawn my application yet. As you said before, there must be formalities.’’

  “A great many. Very well.’’ Carfax pulled out a diary. “Unless you hear to the contrary, make it today week.’’

  Boris worked out the date, had it confirmed by Carfax and stowed it away in his memory.

  “Don’t you want to make a note of it?’’ the latter said, offering to provide paper and pencil.

  “I make no written notes,’’ Boris answered. “I will not forget.’’

  Chapter Thirteen

  No word came from Carfax during the next few days, nor did Boris expect it. The English were not to be hurried and he was aware, too, that he was being looked after even more assiduously than before, though he was not always able to distinguish between friend and foe among these interested individuals. What he did not expect was in the nature of a bombshell, delivered by Sørensen.

  The managing director called him into his room one Friday morning and having seated him and offered him a cigarette, he said, “Sudenic, you have given me every satisfaction in your work. Your work is very good indeed. The firm has profited substantially by it.’’

  Anticipating a welcome rise in salary Boris thanked him modestly and waited.

  “It is so useful,’’ Sørensen went on, “that the heads of the firm in Stockholm, on my recommendation, propose to transfer you there very shortly. Next week if you can be ready by then.’’

  Boris sat very still. A transfer was impossible. At least, a transfer to Stockholm. Back into those enclosed waters, with the tyrant’s hand visible on the horizon, prepared to stretch out and snatch him back. The threat was real enough in England, as he now fully knew. But in Sweden, a neutral country, careful not to offend—

  Sørensen had been watching for signs of shock, confusion, even fear in the man on the other side of his desk. He saw none, but he guessed the instant rejection of his offer.

  “You don’t like this idea?’’ he asked, quietly.

  “I find it – disturbing. I am, you understand, a stateless person.’’

  “Of course you find it disturbing. You have no wish to go east again, even to a country as free as this one, as liberal, perhaps better organized. Certainly better placed to understand the – methods of our neighbours and therefore to give adequate – protection. And ultimately, of course, nationality.’’

  Boris smiled.

  “Do you think then, that I need protection?’’

  “My friend,’’ said Sørensen, leaning forward, “I know it, I know it well.’’

  “From whom?’’

  “Not from me. But from very near you. I cannot say more.’’

  “You need not,’’ Boris answered. Sørensen knew nothing of his private life, unless he also had interested persons watching, which was unlikely. Therefore the meaning of his hint was plain, should have
been clear from the day he had gone with Margrethe to the international club party in the tennis pavilion and been interrupted in his arranged contact by Scziliekowicz and the general. Why had he not seen this earlier? It explained a good deal.

  “I am grateful,’’ he began again, carefully. “I would like to take this offer, but it is impossible.’’

  “I don’t understand you.’’

  Sørensen was clearly put out.

  “What plans can you possibly have? Do you think, with your record, the English will give you permanent political asylum?’’

  “How much do you know of my record?’’ Boris asked. He was genuinely curious. “What you have read in the newspapers, or what you have been told from – other sources?’’

  Sørensen might have a list of details from a number of sources, but they proved very little about his real knowledge, Boris decided.

  “You think we would engage a man without careful investigation of his past as well as his abilities?’’ Sørensen blustered on, roused by the apparent reflection on Swedish business methods, competence and care. “That would be strange indeed.”

  Boris said nothing. After a long silence the managing director asked, in a calmer voice, “What are these plans you speak of? Are they more than an idea in your own mind?’’

  “I have English friends,’’ Boris answered. “I have also friends of my family in America. My plans include the U.S.’’

  “So.’’ There was another silence. Then in a changed voice, an urgent, anxious tone, Sørensen said, “You have spoken to no one else of this? You should not speak of it to – anyone.’’

  “Only to my friends,’’ said Boris, steadily.

  “But do you know who are your friends?’’

  “I know. But I shall not speak to all of them,’’ he added, thinking of Louise.

  “Then tell no one more. You understand?’’

  “Perfectly.’’

  “I have orders to transfer you next week. But I can give you a little longer if necessary. I am to provide for your passage, to supply you with funds for the journey.’’