by Eric Ambler
That was the receptionist’s excited account of the affair.
The hotel barman confirmed the facts but had a more sophisticated theory about the motives of the criminals.
How was it, he asked, that every big robbery that now took place was the work of Communists stealing for the Party funds? Did nobody else steal any more? Oh yes, no doubt there had been political robberies, but not as many as people supposed. And why should the brigands give the clenched fist salute as they left? To show that they were Communists? Absurd! They were merely seeking to give that impression in order to deceive the police by directing attention away from themselves. They could count on the police preferring to blame Communists. Everything bad was blamed on the Communists. He himself was not a Communist of course, but…
He went on at length.
George listened absently. At that moment he was more interested in the discovery that his appetite had suddenly begun to return and that he could contemplate without revulsion the prospect of dinner.
Florina lies at the entrance to a deep valley nine miles south of the Yugoslav frontier. About forty miles away across the mountains to the west is Albania. Florina is the administrative centre of the province which bears its name and is an important railhead. It has a garrison and a ruined Turkish citadel. It has more than one hotel. It is neither as picturesque as Vodena nor as ancient. It came into existence as an insignificant staging point on a Roman road from Durazzo to Constantinople, and far too late to share in the short-lived glories of the Macedonian Empire. In a land which has contained so many of the springs of Western civilization, it is a parvenu.
But if Florina has no history of much interest to the compilers of guidebooks, it has, in the Edwardian sense of the word, a Past.
In the summer of 1896, sixteen men attended a meeting in Salonika. There they founded a political organization which in later years was to become the most formidable secret terrorist society the Balkans, or for that matter Europe, has known. It was called the Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organization; IMRO, for short. Its creed was “Macedonia for the Macedonians,” its flag a red skull and crossbones on a black ground, its motto “Freedom or Death.” Its arguments were the knife, the rifle, and the bomb. Its armed forces, who lived in the hills and mountains of Macedonia enforcing IMRO laws and imposing IMRO taxes on the villagers and townspeople, were called comitadjis. Their oath of allegiance was sworn upon a Bible and a revolver, and the penalty for disloyalty was death. Among those who took this oath and served IMRO there were rich men as well as peasants, poets as well as soldiers, philosophers as well as professional murderers. In the cause of Macedonian autonomy it killed Turks and Bulgars, Serbs and Vlachs, Greeks and Albanians. It also killed Macedonians in the same cause. By the time of the First Balkan War, IMRO was a serious political force, capable of bringing considerable influence to bear upon events. The Macedonian comitadji with his cartridge belts and his rifle was becoming a legendary figure, a heroic defender of women and children against the savagery of the Turks, a knight of the mountains who preferred death to dishonour and treated his captives with courtesy and forbearance. The facts, harped upon by cynical observers, that the savageries of the Turks were generally committed by way of reprisal for atrocities committed by the comitadjis, and that the chivalrous behaviour was only in evidence when there was a chance of its impressing foreign sympathizers, seemed to have little effect on the legend. It persisted remarkably and has to some extent continued to do so. In the main square of Gorna Djoumaia, the capital of Bulgarian Macedonia, there is even a monument to “The Unknown Comitadji.” True, it was put up in 1933 by the IMRO gangsters who ran the city; but the Bulgarian central government of the time did not object to it, and it is almost certainly still there. If IMRO is no longer served by poets and idealists, it remains a political force and has from time to time sold itself with nice impartiality to both Fascists and Communists. IMRO is and always has been a very Balkan institution.
Florina was one of the “founder” strongholds of IMRO. Soon after the momentous Salonika meeting in 1896, an ex-Sergeant of the Bulgarian army named Marko began recruiting an IMRO band in Florina, which rapidly became the most powerful in the area. And the most distinguished. The Bulgarian poet Yavorov and the young writer Christo Silianov were among those who chose to join it, and (though Silianov, the writer, disgraced himself by showing an effeminate aversion to cutting his prisoners’ throats) both saw much active service with the Florina men. Marko himself was killed by Turkish soldiers, but the band remained an effective unit and played a prominent part in the rebellion of 1903. The irredentist techniques of sabotage, ambush, kidnapping, intimidation, armed robbery, and murder are part of Florina’s cultural heritage; and although it now takes invasion and a war to induce the law-abiding inhabitants of the province to turn to these old skills, there are always, even in times of peace, a few daring spirits ready to take to the mountains and remind their unfortunate neighbours that the traditions of their forefathers are still very much alive.
George and Miss Kolin arrived by train from Salonika.
The Parthenon Hotel was a three-story building near the centre of the town. There was a cafe beneath it, and a restaurant which could be entered directly from the street. It was about the size of a third-class commercial hotel in a town like Lyon. The rooms were small and the plumbing primitive. The bedstead in George’s room was of iron, but there was a wooden frame round the springs. At Miss Kolin’s suggestion, George spent his first half-hour there with an insufflator and a canister of D.D.T., spraying the crevices in the woodwork. Then he went down to the cafe. Presently Miss Kolin joined him.
The proprietor of the Parthenon was a small, grey-faced man with grey hair cut en brosse and a crumpled grey suit. When he saw Miss Kolin appear, he left a table by the bar counter, at which he had been standing talking to an army officer, and came over to them. He bowed and said something in French.
“Ask him if he’ll join us for a drink,” George said.
When the invitation had been interpreted, the little man bowed again, sat down with a word of apology, and snapped his fingers at the barman.
They all had oyzo. Politenesses were exchanged. The proprietor apologized for not speaking English and then began discreetly to pump them about their business in the town.
“We have few tourists here,” he remarked; “I have often said that it is a pity.”
“The scenery is certainly very fine.”
“If you have time while you are here you should take a drive. I shall be happy to arrange a car for you.”
“Very kind of him. Say that we heard in Salonika that there was excellent hunting to be had near the lakes to the west.”
“The gentleman is intending to go hunting?”
“Not this time, unfortunately. We are on business. But we were told that there was plenty of game up there.”
The little man smiled. “There is game of all sorts in the neighbourhood. There are also eagles in the hills,” he added slyly.
“Eagles who do a little hunting themselves, perhaps?”
“The gentleman learned that in Salonika, too, no doubt.”
“I have always understood that this is a most romantic part of the country.”
“Yes, the eagle is a bird of romance to some,” the proprietor said archly. Obviously, he was the kind of person who could not let the smallest joke go, once he had got his teeth into it.
“It’s a bird of prey, too.”
“Ah, yes indeed! When armies disintegrate, there are always a few who prefer to stay together and fight a private war against society. But here in Florina the gentleman need have no fear. The eagles are safe in the hills.”
“That’s a pity. We were hoping you might be able to help us to find one.”
“To find an eagle? The gentleman deals in fine feathers?”
But George was getting bored. “All right,” he said, “we’ll cut the double-talk. Tell him I’m a lawyer and that we want, if possible, to t
alk to someone who was in the ELAS band led by Phengaros in 1944. Explain that it’s nothing political, that we just want to check up on the grave of a German Sergeant who was killed near Vodena. Say I’m acting for the man’s relatives in America.”
He watched the little man’s face as Miss Kolin translated. For a moment or two a quite extraordinary expression came over its loose grey folds, an expression compounded of equal parts of interest, amazement, indignation, and fear. Then a curtain came down and the face went blank. Its owner picked up his drink and drained the glass.
“I regret,” he said precisely, “that that is not a matter in which I can be of any assistance to you at all.”
He rose to his feet.
“Wait a minute,” said George. “If he can’t help me, ask him if he knows of anyone here who can.”
The proprietor hesitated, then glanced across at the officer sitting at the table by the bar. “One moment,” he said curtly. He went over to the officer, and bending over the table, began talking in a rapid undertone.
After a moment or two, George saw the officer look across quickly at him, then say something sharply to the proprietor. The little man shrugged. The officer stood up and came over to them.
He was a lean, dark young man with lustrous eyes, very wide riding-breeches, and a waist like a girl’s. He wore the badges of a captain. He bowed to Miss Kolin and smiled pleasantly at George.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in English. “The patron tells me that you are here making inquiries.”
“That’s right.”
He clicked his heels. “Streftaris, Captain,” he said. “You are an American, Mr.-?”
“Carey’s my name. Yes, I’m an American.”
“And this lady?”
“Miss Kolin is French. She is my interpreter.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I can be of assistance to you, Mr. Carey.”
“That’s very kind of you, Captain. Sit down, won’t you?”
“Thank you.” The Captain spun the chair round, swung the seat between his legs, and sat down with his elbows resting on the back. There was something curiously insolent about the gesture. He smiled less pleasantly. “You have made the patron feel very uneasy, Mr. Carey.”
“I’m sorry about that. All I asked him was to put me in touch with someone who was in the Phengaros band in 1944. I told him there was nothing political about my business.”
The Captain sighed elaborately. “Mr. Carey,” he said, “if I were to come to you in America and ask you to put me in touch with a gangster wanted by the police, would you be prepared to help me?”
“Is that a true comparison?”
“Certainly. I do not think you quite understand our problems here. You are a foreigner, of course, and that excuses you, but it is very indiscreet to inquire into matters of this kind.”
“Do you mind telling me why?”
“These men are Communists-outlaws. Do you know that Phengaros himself is in prison on a criminal charge?”
“Yes. I interviewed him two days ago.”
“Pardon?”
“Colonel Chrysantos in Salonika was kind enough to arrange for me to see Phengaros in prison.”
The Captain’s smile faded. He took his elbows off the back of the chair.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Carey.”
“What for?”
“I did not understand that you were on official business.”
“Well, to be exact-”
“I do not think we have received orders from Salonika. Had we done so, of course, the Commandant would have instructed me.”
“Now, just a moment, Captain, let’s get this straight. My business is legal rather than official. I’ll explain.”
The Captain listened carefully to the explanation. When George had finished he looked relieved.
“Then it is not on the advice of Colonel Chrysantos that you are here, sir?”
“No.”
“You must know, Mr. Carey, that I am military intelligence officer for the district. It would be most unfortunate for me if Colonel Chrysantos thought-”
“Sure, I know. A very efficient man, the Colonel.”
“Ah, yes.”
“And a busy one. So, you see, I thought it might be better if I didn’t trouble the Colonel again, but just got the names of some of these people unofficially.”
The Captain looked puzzled. “Unofficially? How unofficially?”
“I could buy the names, couldn’t I?”
“But from whom?”
“Well, that was what I was hoping the patron might be able to tell me.”
“Ah!” The Captain at last permitted himself to smile again. “Mr. Carey, if the patron knew where the names that you want could be bought, he would not be so foolish as to admit the fact to a stranger.”
“But haven’t you a line on any of these people? What happened to them all?”
“Some were killed with the Markos forces, some are across the border with our neighbours. The rest”-he shrugged-“they have taken other names.”
“But they’re somewhere about here, surely.”
“Yes, but I cannot recommend you to go looking for them. There are cafes in this town where, if you asked the questions you asked the patron here tonight, there would be much unpleasantness for you.”
“I see. What would you do in my place, Captain?”
The Captain thought carefully for a moment, then he leaned forward. “Mr. Carey, I would not wish you to believe that I am not anxious to give you all the assistance I can.”
“No, of course not.”
But the Captain had not finished. “I wish to help you all I can. Please, however, explain to me one thing. You wish simply to know if this German Sergeant was killed or not killed in the ambush. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“You do not specially wish to know the name of the person who saw him die?”
George considered. “Well, let’s put it this way,” he said finally; “the probability is that the Sergeant did die. If he did and I can be reasonably certain of the fact, then that’s all I want to know. My business is finished.”
The Captain nodded. “Ah. Now let us suppose for a moment that such information could be obtained in some way. Would you be prepared to pay perhaps three hundred dollars for that information without knowing where it came from?”
“Three hundred! That’s rather a lot isn’t it?”
The Captain waved the subject away deprecatingly. “Let us say two hundred. The sum is not important.”
“Then let’s say one hundred.”
“As you will. But would you pay, Mr. Carey?”
“Under certain conditions, yes.”
“What conditions, please?”
“Well, I can tell you right now that I’m not going to pay out a hundred dollars just for the pleasure of having someone tell me that he knows somebody else who knows a man who was in that ambush and says that the German Sergeant was killed. I’d want some kind of evidence that the story was genuine.”
“I understand that, but what evidence could there be?”
“Well, for one thing, what I’d want is a reasonable explanation of the fact that the Sergeant’s body was not found by the German patrol that came along afterwards. There were dead men there, but the Sergeant wasn’t among them. A genuine witness ought to know the answer to that one.”
“Yes, that is logical.”
“But is there any chance of getting the information?”
“That is what I have been thinking about. I see a chance, perhaps, yes. I can promise nothing. Do you know anything of police methods?”
“Only the usual things.”
“Then you will know that when one is dealing with criminals, it is sometimes wise to give the less dangerous ones temporary immunity, and even encouragement, if by doing so one can know a little of what is going on among the rest.”
“You mean paid informers?”
“Not quite. The paid informer is rarely
satisfactory. One pays and pays for nothing and then, when he is about to be useful, he is found with his throat cut and the government’s money is wasted. No, the types I am discussing are the lesser criminals whose activities can be tolerated because they know and are trusted by those whom we may wish to put our hands on. Such types will not inform, you understand, but by seeming to be friendly and ready to overlook their little games one can learn much of what goes on that is interesting.”
“I understand. If there were money in it and nobody risked incriminating himself, such a person might find out what I wanted to know.”
“Exactly.”
“Have you someone in mind?”
“Yes, but I must make a discreet inquiry first to see if an approach can safely be made. I think that Colonel Chrysantos would be very annoyed with me, Mr. Carey, if I put your life in danger”-he flashed a lustrous smile at Miss Kolin-“or that of Madame.”
Miss Kolin looked down her nose.
George grinned. “No, we mustn’t annoy the Colonel. But all the same it’s very kind of you to take all this trouble, Captain.”
The Captain raised a protesting hand. “It is nothing. If you should happen to mention to the Colonel that I was of some small assistance to you, I should be well repaid.”
“Naturally I shall mention it. But who is this person you think might fix it up?”
“It is a woman. Outwardly she is the proprietress of a wineshop. In fact she deals secretly in arms. If a man wishes a rifle or a revolver, he goes to her. She gets it for him. Why do we not arrest her? Because then someone else would begin to deal, someone we might not know and could not so easily keep under surveillance. One day, perhaps, when we can be sure of stopping her sources of supply, we will take her. Until then, things are better as they are. She has a love of gossip and for your purpose is most suitable.”
