The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels (Mammoth Books)

by Greenberg

  “It is dreadful and I am ashamed, notwithstanding this horrible and unjust war I can feel in my heart at the moment nothing but happiness and gratitude.”

  Caypor took her hand and pressed it and, an unusual thing with him, addressing her in German, called her little pet names. It was absurd, but touching. Ashenden, leaving them to their emotions, strolled through the garden and sat down on a bench that had been prepared for the comfort of the tourist. The view was, of course, spectacular, but it captured you; it was like a piece of music that was obvious and meretricious, but for the moment shattered your self-control.

  And as Ashenden lingered idly in that spot he pondered over the mystery of Grantley Caypor’s treachery. If he liked strange people he had found in him one who was strange beyond belief. It would be foolish to deny that he had amiable traits. His joviality was not assumed, he was without pretense a hearty fellow, and he had real good nature. He was always ready to do a kindness. Ashenden had often watched him with the old Irish Colonel and his wife, who were the only other residents of the hotel; he would listen good-humoredly to the old man’s tedious stories of the Egyptian war, and he was charming with her. Now that Ashenden had arrived at terms of some familiarity with Caypor he found that he regarded him less with repulsion than with curiosity. He did not think that he had become a spy merely for the money; he was a man of modest tastes and what he had earned in a shipping office must have sufficed to so good a manager as Mrs. Caypor; and after war was declared there was no lack of remunerative work for men over the military age. It might be that he was one of those men who prefer devious ways to straight for some intricate pleasure they get in fooling their fellows; and that he had turned spy, not from hatred of the country that had imprisoned him, not even from love of his wife, but from a desire to score off the big-wigs who never even knew of his existence. It might be that it was vanity that impelled him, a feeling that his talents had not received the recognition they merited, or just a puckish, impish desire to do mischief. He was a crook. It is true that only two cases of dishonesty had been brought home to him, but if he had been caught twice it might be surmised that he had often been dishonest without being caught. What did Mrs. Caypor think of this? They were so united that she must be aware of it. Did it make her ashamed, for her own uprightness surely none could doubt, or did she accept it as an inevitable kink in the man she loved? Did she do all she could to prevent it or did she close her eyes to something she could not help?

  How much easier life would be if people were all black or all white and how much simpler it would be to act in regard to them! Was Caypor a good man who loved evil or a bad man who loved good? And how could such unreconcilable elements exist side by side and in harmony within the same heart? For one thing was clear, Caypor was disturbed by no gnawing of conscience; he did his mean and despicable work with gusto. He was a traitor who enjoyed his treachery. Though Ashenden had been studying human nature more or less consciously all his life, it seemed to him that he knew as little about it now in middie age as he had done when he was a child. Of course R. would have said to him: why the devil do you waste your time with such nonsense? The man’s a dangerous spy and our business is to lay him by the heels.

  That was true enough. Ashenden had decided that it would be useless to attempt to make any arrangement with Caypor. Though doubtless he would have no feeling about betraying his employers he could certainly not be trusted. His wife’s influence was too strong. Besides, notwithstanding what he had from time to time told Ashenden, he was in his heart convinced that the Central Powers must win the war, and he meant to be on the winning side. Well, then Caypor must be laid by the heels, but how he was to effect that, Ashenden had no notion. Suddenly he heard a voice.

  “There you are. We’ve been wondering where you had hidden yourself.”

  He looked round and saw the Caypors strolling toward him. They were walking hand in hand.

  “So this is what has kept you so quiet,” said Caypor as his eyes fell on the view. “What a spot!”

  Mrs. Caypor clasped her hands.

  “Ach Gott, wie schön!” she cried. “Wie schön. When I look at that blue lake and those snowy mountains I feel inclined like Goëthe’s Faust, to cry to the passing moment: tarry.”

  “This is better than being in England with the excursions and alarms of war, isn’t it?” said Caypor.

  “Much,” said Ashenden.

  “By the way, did you have any difficulty in getting out?”

  “No, not in the smallest.”

  “I’m told they make rather a nuisance of themselves at the frontier nowadays.”

  “I came through without the smallest difficulty. I don’t fancy they bother much about the English. I thought the examination of passports was quite perfunctory.”

  A fleeting glance passed between Caypor and his wife. Ashenden wondered what it meant. It would be strange if Caypor’s thoughts were occupied with the chances of a journey to England at the very moment when he was himself reflecting on its possibility. In a little while Mrs. Caypor suggested that they had better be starting back and they wandered together in the shade of trees down the mountain paths.

  Ashenden was watchful. He could do nothing (and his inactivity irked him) but wait with his eyes open to seize the opportunity that might present itself. A couple of days later an incident occurred that made him certain something was in the wind. In the course of his morning lesson Mrs. Caypor remarked:

  “My husband has gone to Geneva today. He had some business to do there.”

  “Oh,” said Ashenden, “will he be gone long?”

  “No, only two days.”

  It is not everyone who can tell a lie and Ashenden had the feeling, he hardly knew why, that Mrs. Caypor was telling one then. Her manner perhaps was not quite as indifferent as you would have expected when she was mentioning a fact that could be of no interest to Ashenden. It flashed across his mind that Caypor had been summoned to Berne to see the redoubtable head of the German secret service. When he had the chance he said casually to the waitress:

  “A little less work for you to do, fräulein. I hear that Herr Caypor has gone to Berne.”

  “Yes. But he’ll be back tomorrow.”

  That proved nothing, but it was something to go upon. Ashenden knew in Lucerne a Swiss who was willing on emergency to do odd jobs and, looking him up, asked him to take a letter to Berne. It might be possible to pick up Caypor and trace his movements. Next day Caypor appeared once more with his wife at the dinner table, but merely nodded to Ashenden and afterwards both went straight upstairs. They looked troubled. Caypor, as a rule so animated, walked with bowed shoulders and looked neither to the right nor to the left. Next morning Ashenden received a reply to his letter: Caypor had seen Major von P. It was possible to guess what the Major had said to him. Ashenden well knew how rough he could be: he was a hard man and brutal, clever and unscrupulous and he was not accustomed to mince his words. They were tired of paying Caypor a salary to sit still in Lucerne and do nothing; the time had come for him to go to England. Guess work? Of course it was guess work, but in that trade it mostly was: you had to deduce the animal from its jaw bone. Ashenden knew from Gustav that the Germans wanted to send someone to England. He drew a long breath; if Caypor went he would have to get busy.

  When Mrs. Caypor came in to give him his lesson she was dull and listless. She looked tired and her mouth was set obstinately. It occurred to Ashenden that the Caypors had spent most of the night talking. He wished he knew what they had said. Did she urge him to go or did she try to dissuade him? Ashenden watched them again at luncheon. Something was the matter, for they hardly spoke to one another and as a rule they found plenty to talk about. They left the room early, but when Ashenden went out he saw Caypor sitting in the hall by himself.

  “Hulloa,” he cried jovially, but surely the effort was patent, “how are you getting on? I’ve been to Geneva.”

  “So I heard,” said Ashenden.

  “Come and ha
ve your coffee with me. My poor wife’s got a headache. I told her she’d better go and lie down.” In his shifty green eyes was an expression that Ashenden could not read. “The fact is, she’s rather worried, poor dear; I’m thinking of going to England.”

  Ashenden’s heart gave a sudden leap against his ribs, but his face remained impassive.

  “Oh, are you going for long? We shall miss you.”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m fed up with doing nothing. The war looks as though it were going on for years and I can’t sit here indefinitely. Besides, I can’t afford it, I’ve got to earn my living. I may have a German wife, but I am an Englishman, hang it all, and I want to do my bit. I could never face my friends again if I just stayed here in ease and comfort till the end of the war and never attempted to do a thing to help the country. My wife takes her German point of view and I don’t mind telling you she’s a bit upset. You know what women are.”

  Now Ashenden knew what it was that he saw in Caypor’s eyes. Fear. It gave him a nasty turn. Caypor didn’t want to go to England, he wanted to stay safely in Switzerland; Ashenden knew now what the major had said to him when he went to seem him in Berne. He had got to go or lose his salary. What was it that his wife had said when he told her what had happened? He had wanted her to press him to stay, but, it was plain, she hadn’t done that; perhaps he had not dared tell her how frightened he was; to her he had always been gay, bold, adventurous and devil-may-care; and now, the prisoner of his own lies, he had not found it in him to confess himself the mean and sneaking coward he was.

  “Are you going to take your wife with you?” asked Ashenden.

  “No, she’ll stay here.”

  It had been arranged very neatly. Mrs. Caypor would receive his letters and forward the information they contained to Berne.

  “I’ve been out of England so long that I don’t quite know how to set about getting war work. What would you do in my place?”

  “I don’t know; what sort of work are you thinking of?”

  “Well, you know, I imagine I could do the same thing as you did. I wonder if there’s anyone in the Censorship Department that you could give me a letter of introduction to.”

  It was only by a miracle that Ashenden saved himself from showing by a smothered cry or by a broken gesture how startled he was; but not by Caypor’s request, by what had just dawned upon him. What an idiot he had been! He had been disturbed by the thought that he was wasting his time at Lucerne, he was doing nothing, and though in fact, as it turned out, Caypor was going to England it was due to no cleverness of his. He could take to himself no credit for the result. And now he saw that he had been put in Lucerne, told how to describe himself and given the proper information, so that what actually had occurred should occur. It would be a wonderful thing for the German secret service to get an agent into the Censorship Department; and by a happy accident there was Grantley Caypor, the very man for the job, on friendly terms with someone who had worked there. What a bit of luck! Major von P. was a man of culture and, rubbing his hands, he must surely have murmured: stultum facit fortuna quem vult perdere. It was a trap of that devilish R., and the grim major at Berne had fallen into it. Ashenden had done his work just by sitting still and doing nothing. He almost laughed as he thought what a fool R. had made of him.

  “I was on very good terms with the chief of my department, I could give you a note to him if you liked.”

  “That would be just the thing.”

  “But of course I must give the facts. I must say I’ve met you here and only known you a fortnight.”

  “Of course. But you’ll say what else you can for me, won’t you?”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “I don’t know yet if I can get a visa. I’m told they’re rather fussy.”

  “I don’t see why. I shall be very sick if they refuse me one when I want to go back.”

  “I’ll go and see how my wife is getting on,” said Caypor suddenly, getting up. “When will you let me have that letter?”

  “Whenever you like. Are you going at once?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Caypor left him. Ashenden waited in the hall for a quarter of an hour so that there should appear in him no sign of hurry. Then he went upstairs and prepared various communicatons. In one he informed R. that Caypor was going to England; in another he made arrangements through Berne that wherever Caypor applied for a visa it should be granted to him without question; and these he despatched forthwith. When he went down to dinner he handed Caypor a cordial letter of introduction.

  Next day but one Caypor left Lucerne.

  Ashenden waited. He continued to have his hour’s lesson with Mrs. Caypor and under her conscientious tuition began now to speak German with ease. They talked of Goëthe and Winckelmann, of art and life and travel. Fritzi sat quietly by her chair.

  “He misses his master,” she said, pulling his ears. “He only really cares for him, he suffers me only as belonging to him.”

  After his lesson Ashenden went every morning to Cook’s to ask for his letters. It was here that all communications were addressed to him. He could not move till he received instructions, but R. could be trusted not to leave him idle long; and meanwhile there was nothing for him to do but have patience. Presently he received a letter from the consul in Geneva to say that Caypor had there applied for his visa and had set out for France. Having read this Ashenden went on for a little stroll by the lake and on his way back happened to see Mrs. Caypor coming out of Cook’s office. He guessed that she was having her letters addressed there too. He went up to her.

  “Have you had news of Herr Caypor?” he asked her.

  “No,” she said. “I suppose I could hardly expect to yet.”

  He walked along by her side. She was disappointed, but not yet anxious; she knew how irregular at that time was the post. But next day during the lesson he could not but see that she was impatient to have done with it. The post was delivered at noon and at five minutes to she looked at her watch and him. Though Ashenden knew very well that no letter would ever come for her he had not the heart to keep her on tenterhooks.

  “Don’t you think that’s enough for the day? I’m sure you want to go down to Cook’s,” he said.

  “Thank you. That is very amiable of you.”

  Later he went there himself and found her standing in the middle of the office. Her face was distraught. She addressed him wildly.

  “My husband promised to write from Paris. I am sure there is a letter for me, but these stupid people say there’s nothing. They’re so careless, it’s a scandal.”

  Ashenden did not know what to say. While the clerk was looking through the bundle to see if there was anything for him she came up to the desk, again.

  “When does the next post come in from France?” she asked.

  “Sometimes there are letters about five.”

  “I’ll come then.”

  She turned and walked rapidly away. Fritz followed her with his tail between his legs. There was no doubt of it, already the fear had seized her that something was wrong. Next morning she looked dreadful; she could not have closed her eyes all night; and in the middle of the lesson she started up from her chair.

  “You must excuse me, Herr Somerville, I cannot give you a lesson today. I am not feeling well.”

  Before Ashenden could say anything she had flung nervously from the room, and in the evening he got a note from her to say that she regretted that she must discontinue giving him conversation lessons. She gave no reason. Then Ashenden saw no more of her; she ceased coming in to meals; except to go morning and afternoon to Cook’s she spent apparently the whole day in her room. Ashenden thought of her sitting there hour after hour with that hideous fear gnawing at her heart. Who could help feeling sorry for her? The time hung heavy on his hands too. He read a good deal and wrote a little, he hired a canoe and went for long leisurely paddles on the lake; and at last one morning the clerk at Cook’s handed him a letter. It was from R. I
t had all the appearance of a business communication, but between the lines he read a good deal.

  Dear Sir, it began, The goods, with accompanying letter, despatched by you from Lucerne have been duly delivered. We are obliged to you for executing our instructions with such promptness.

  It went on in this strain. R. was exultant. Ashenden guessed that Caypor had been arrested and by now had paid the penalty of his crime. He shuddered. He remembered a dreadful scene. Dawn. A cold, gray dawn, with a drizzling rain falling. A man, blindfolded, standing against a wall, an officer very pale giving an order, a volley, and then a young soldier, one of the firing party, turning round and holding on to his gun for support, vomiting. The officer turned paler still, and he, Ashenden, feeling dreadfully faint. How terrified Caypor must have been! It was awful when the tears ran down their faces. Ashenden shook himself. He went to the ticket-office and obedient to his orders bought himself a ticket for Geneva.

  As he was waiting for his change Mrs. Caypor came in. He was shocked by the sight of her. She was blowsy and disheveled and there were heavy rings around her eyes. She was deathly pale. She staggered up to the desk and asked for a letter. The clerk shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, madam, there’s nothing yet.”

  “But look, look. Are you sure? Please look again.”

  The misery in her voice was heart-rending. The clerk with a shrug of the shoulders took out the letters from a pigeon hole and sorted them once more.