The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  Inchcape regarded him with distaste. ‘An accidental knock or two. They came in merely to sabotage the work of the place. The attack was all over in a matter of minutes.’ He turned pointedly to Guy and in a changed tone said, smiling: ‘I rang your flat first. When I couldn’t get you, I rang Dobson. He’s on his way.’

  Galpin gave his attention to the condition of the office. ‘They’ve done a proper job.’ He looked at his companions and said: ‘My stringer here says there were these hooligans knocking the old boy about, smashing the windows, destroying things – all in broad daylight, in a crowded street. And not a soul lifted a finger. They just scurried past. Just look at them now.’ He flicked a hand at the audience across the road. ‘Piss-scared.’ He turned on Inchcape again and as though speaking to someone of limited intelligence he explained: ‘We’ll want a statement. Tell us in your own words: when it happened, how it happened and who you imagine the assailants were.’

  Inchcape turned his head slowly and stared directly at Galpin. ‘I am waiting for Mr Dobson,’ he explained in a style that echoed Galpin’s own. ‘Any statement I have to make will be made when he arrives.’

  Disconcerted, Galpin took a step backwards, bumping into Screwby who was moving forward to say, in fulsome tones: ‘I must say, sir, I admire your pluck.’

  Inchcape’s only acknowledgement of this tribute was a twist of the lips that caused him to wince. Blood welled out again.

  Galpin, piqued, muttered to the others: ‘Well, I only hope someone’s sent for a doctor. Things could be worse than they look.’

  ‘No doctor has been sent for, nor do I want one,’ Inchcape said and, glancing aside at Harriet, he added: ‘Heaven keep me out of the hands of Rumanian doctors.’

  Dobson arrived. Looking about him, he said: ‘Oh dear!’ Flustered and at a loss, he stood pulling off his gloves, then suddenly became businesslike. ‘The fellows who did this,’ he asked, ‘were they in uniform?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, an unofficial attack. When we protest, no one will know anything. If we persist, we may get an apology, but that will be the end of it. The authorities are powerless, of course.’

  Galpin said: ‘We’re all powerless.’ He was showing signs of impatience. ‘What about that statement?’ he asked.

  Everyone waited. Inchcape, the centre of attention, was wiping his mouth again. After some moments, he smiled his old ironical smile and began: ‘I was in my office upstairs, innocently reading Miss Austen, when I heard a fracas down here. Half a dozen young men had burst in and started smashing the place up. I heard my secretary screaming. When I got down, she’d made a bolt for it – no doubt wisely: she had, in any case, begun to doubt the justice of the Allied cause.’

  Inchcape paused to smile to himself, apparently recalling the whole occurrence with philosophical amusement. ‘When I appeared,’ he went on, ‘one fellow slammed the door closed and locked it. There were seven or eight of them. Two or three gave their attention to me, the rest were absorbed in their destructive frenzy. I was hit on the head by a framed portrait of our respected Prime Minister …’

  ‘Deliberately?’ Galpin demanded.

  ‘I don’t know. The blow knocked me backwards into this chair. When I tried to rise, someone gripped my shoulders and held me down. One of them – the leader, I suppose – then saw fit to question me.’

  ‘What questions were you asked?’ said Dobson.

  ‘Oh, the usual. They wanted to know who was head of the British Secret Service here. I said: “Sir Montagu.” That flummoxed them.’ Inchcape laughed at the recollection, but Dobson, frowning like an unhappy baby, burst out: ‘Really, there was no need to bring H.E. into it.’

  ‘You know they can’t touch him. And if they tried, he’s well protected.’

  Dobson seemed about to speak, then shut his mouth, silenced by the change that was coming over Inchcape’s appearance. Bruises like leaden shadows were beginning to show on his brow and cheeks. His handkerchief was dark with blood. Guy offered him another, but he shook his head. ‘I’m all right,’ he said.

  Galpin interrupted accusingly: ‘They must have knocked you about?’

  Inchcape, clearly under greater strain than he would admit, caught his breath and answered with sardonic brevity: ‘A little perhaps.’

  Though he could not admit he had suffered the indignity of attack, the journalists were not deceived. One said: ‘I can’t imagine a few accidental taps got you into this condition.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I am lying?’ Inchcape sharply asked.

  ‘All right.’ Galpin snapped a band round his notebook and put it away. Buttoning his jacket, he looked round at his fellows with the air of one who has got all he wants here and has other calls on his time. ‘We’d better get back,’ he said.

  They began moving off. Guy, saying he would take Inchcape home, went out to the street to find a cab. Galpin, on the pavement outside, was saying: ‘It’s my opinion he’s brought this on himself.’

  ‘In what way?’ Guy asked.

  He jerked a thumb at the Bureau. ‘He insisted, against advice, on keeping open. But there was more to it than that. I bet the lads who did this job knew him. Knew him too well, I mean. That’s why he’s keeping his mouth shut. He’s always been a mean old bastard. If you ask me, the lads had something on him.’

  ‘What rubbish!’ Guy said in disgust. ‘It was obviously a Guardist outrage.’

  Galpin snorted. He got into his car and as a parting shot, called out: ‘One has to pay for one’s pleasures, you know.’

  Inchcape made his way to the cab with an unconvincing show of vigour. Getting into it, he stumbled and Guy had to hold him up.

  At the sight of his master, Pauli gave a cry of distress and waved his arms in the air. Inchcape pushed him away with affectionate impatience, saying: ‘Go and make a good strong pot of tea for all of us.’

  While they drank it, Inchcape talked gleefully about his quick-wittedness in naming Sir Montagu as head of the Secret Service. ‘You should have seen their faces. They knew the old charmer was out of their reach. And having got their answer, they couldn’t think of anything else to ask me.’

  Before the Pringles left, Inchcape said to them: ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t breathe a word of this to Pinkrose. He’d get into a panic. So promise me, not one word.’

  The Pringles promised.

  25

  Next morning, Pauli telephoned Guy to say he was worried about his master’s condition. The previous evening, Inchcape, though insisting that he was perfectly well, had been unable to sleep until he had taken veronal. That morning he looked much worse and all life had gone from him. He was, in Pauli’s opinion, very sick; and he was asking for Guy.

  When this call came, Harriet was in the bathroom. Guy shouted to her that he would be back for luncheon and left the flat before she could ask where he was going. When she went out to the balcony, she could see him making his way rapidly across the square.

  He was, in fact, unusually disturbed, and not only by his fears for Inchcape. The previous evening, in need of a drink, he had gone to the English Bar where Galpin had claimed to have ‘inside information’ to the effect that the military mission was soon to be followed by the Gestapo. The Germans had already installed a Gauleiter, who was becoming the talk of the town. He was said to be paralysed from the waist down. Though he lay in bed all day, seeing no one but his agents, he knew everything about everybody. Galpin said: ‘The whole German colony’s piss-scared of this bastard. Even Fabricius. The Rumanians, too. They say that a deputation of Rumanian statesmen called on Fabricius last night to beg the Führer to send in an army of occupation. He said that Germany doesn’t plan to occupy Rumania just yet. That’s all my eye. Everything points to the fact that it’s any day now.’

  Harriet, who had been playing a paper game with Sasha, had not accompanied Guy to the bar. When he returned, he did not tell her what he had heard there.

  Unnerved by her outburst at Predeal, he had, fo
r the first time, begun to fear for her. He had always thought of her as a pattern of courage, someone tougher than himself about whom he need not worry. Now he was beginning to realise that she had audacity without stamina. His means of living with a situation was to put its dangers behind him. Her method was to keep them in view so they might not come on her unawares. She lived in a state of preparedness that brought undue stress. He told himself he must protect her against her own temperament. He would save her from shock, even the perhaps not very great shock of seeing Inchcape in a state of collapse.

  But there was more behind Guy’s discomposure than that. He was suffering from shock himself. Both Inchcape and he had been named on the German radio. Both were the natural prey not only of the Iron Guard but of the Gestapo, rumoured to be on its way here.

  Convinced that a testing-time was at hand, he tried to tell himself that he now knew exactly what would happen. He would be attacked without warning and struck about the face and head by thugs. He realised that in thus attempting to steady an inner nerve with certainty, he was simply imitating Harriet. And where did it bring one? To the verge of a break-down. He could only hope that when his time came, pride would prop him up as it had propped up Inchcape. The trouble was, he had a peculiar horror of physical violence and could not foresee what his reaction would be. Even Harriet, half his size, could frighten him when she lost her temper. He flinched or cried out in the instant of being hurt. Afterwards, he would pull himself together, but that first instant stayed with him, a self-betrayal.

  Whatever happened, he must save himself from Harriet’s observing eye.

  Pauli, opening the door for him, lifted a hand in mute dismay at what he would find. He said nothing but hurried into Inchcape’s bedroom. He had feared Inchcape would be prostrate and was relieved to see him sitting up in bed, but the relief was gone as soon as Inchcape turned his head.

  Noting Guy’s change of expression, he said: ‘They haven’t improved my beauty, have they?’

  ‘It could be worse.’

  ‘How much worse?’ Inchcape winced as he attempted an appearance of jocularity. Both his eyes were blackened, one of them hidden by the swollen lids. A purple bruise, spreading from under his hair, covered one side of his face. His lips protruded, and his other features, naturally pallid and fine, were so distorted that he looked, against the whiteness of the bed-linen, like a grotesque native mask.

  Guy had carried for years in his mind the memory of Simon’s bleeding, stupefied face – but Simon had been the victim of amateurs. Brutality had progressed since then.

  Guy said: ‘Apart from the bruises, are you hurt at all?’

  ‘Back aches a bit. Have a drink.’ Inchcape reached out towards a bottle of brandy on the table beside him, then, as though some prop had been withdrawn, he fell back among the pillows and gave a groan. He looked at Guy, gasped and said: ‘Don’t stand there, staring. Sit down, for God’s sake.’ He attempted his old impatience, but it was a shadow of itself.

  ‘Let me get you a drink.’ Guy poured out the brandy before he sat down.

  The bedroom was small, lit by a single small window that was overhung by plane leaves. On the walls were ikons so dark that to Guy they represented nothing. He wondered if it were the pervading gloom that made Inchcape look so ill.

  Inchcape sipped his brandy and after a moment started to talk: ‘I rang H.E. this morning. I told him I was not to be coerced by these louts. I was determined to reopen the Bureau, but apparently the Bureau’s been officially closed by the Rumanian authorities. Still, I’m not standing for it. I shall fight.’ He dug his elbows into the pillows and made another irritable effort to sit up but failed again.

  Inchcape was an elderly man but one who had maintained vitality and youthfulness: now some inner power had gone from him. His neck, rising from his pyjama jacket, looked wretchedly scraggy. His whole physique seemed to have aged and weakened overnight. He said: ‘Dobson rang a while ago, was very pleasant, as usual. He advised me to take myself off to Turkey. I said I wouldn’t dream of it. They’re not going to scare me so easily.’

  Guy nodded his understanding. Yet with the English Department and the Bureau closed, would it not be better for Inchcape to go? He had imagined that the presence of the Legation guaranteed their safety. Well, he could no longer have any illusions about that. His work had come to nothing. He had been abused. Nothing remained but his determination to stay as long as Sir Montagu stayed.

  ‘Still,’ said Guy, ‘there’s no reason why you should not take a few weeks’ leave after this.’

  Inchcape’s one visible eye glinted at him and Guy’s spirits gave a jerk. So defiance was now a sham! Inchcape wanted only to be persuaded – though, unpersuaded, his pride would probably keep him here. Suddenly Guy saw that Harriet and he might get away together unharmed; for if Inchcape went he could scarcely demand that they must stay.

  ‘After all,’ said Guy, ‘Dobson is off to Sofia.’

  ‘That’s true. Though I can’t say that I approve it. And I’m told, the old charmer himself recently chartered a plane and flew to Corfu. Spent a week there. A nice thing, I must say, at a time like this.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Guy, in fear of rousing Inchcape’s obstinate opposition, found himself lapsing into clichés: ‘Quite a good thing to get away from a situation – enables you to get it into focus.’

  Latching on to Guy’s extenuating tone, Inchcape permitted himself a measure of agreement. ‘Of course, there’s more to these trips than meets the eye. There’s no knowing whom Sir M. met when down there, or what was discussed. I’ve often thought myself I could pay a call on our agent in Beirut, I could put him wise about a few things. He’s still in direct telephonic communication with London office, you know. And they should be made to realise how things are changing here. The rise in the cost of living, for instance! We can’t go on indefinitely on pre-war salaries.’

  Guy had not heard before of this agent, but was prepared to believe in him. The organisation supplied men to the American University in Beirut. He said: ‘There’s probably an air-service between Istanbul and Beirut.’

  Inchcape opened his mouth, but did not speak. There was a pause, then he nodded. It seemed to Guy that the trip was practically agreed upon. He was about to suggest that while Inchcape went to Beirut, he and Harriet could visit Athens, when he noticed Inchcape’s hand trembling on the white satin counterpane. He felt stricken. Telling himself that he was harrying this aged and lonely man out of the one place in the world where he had importance, he put his hand on Inchcape’s and pressed it.

  At this touch, Inchcape’s lips shook: a tear trickled out between his swollen lids. ‘We can’t give in, Guy,’ he said. ‘We can’t run away. We must be represented.’

  ‘We aren’t running away,’ Guy assured him. ‘You are merely taking the leave that is due to you. I shall be here to represent you.’

  ‘That’s true.’ As though he knew he had committed himself to defeat, Inchcape let his head fall back and sobbed without restraint.

  Awed by this collapse of a man who had until now appeared to be inflexible, Guy realised he had always taken Inchcape at his face value, accepting him as his chief, to be obeyed and honoured. He had never doubted that much of Inchcape’s temerity was based on self-deception but it appalled him to see this temerity collapse at the moment reality broke through. But perhaps it was the indignity that had destroyed Inchcape. The whole place must seem to him contaminated by this assault on him. No wonder he wanted to get away.

  For a while Guy sat silent, at a loss before Inchcape’s weeping, then, realising that initiative had now passed to him, he said: ‘And another thing: London office must be told that we face a final break-up here. It’s only a matter of time. We should be instructed where we’re to go, what we’re to do when we get there. We don’t want to become refugees without employment.’

  Inchcape nodded again. Finding a handkerchief, he dabbed gently at his eyes and nostrils. ‘You’re quite right,’
he said. ‘It’s not only advisable I should go, it’s imperative. And there’s no time to waste.’

  ‘None. You should go as soon as you feel equal to the journey.’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right.’ Inchcape gave something between a laugh and a gulp. He made another effort and this time managed to sit upright. ‘I’m not crippled. The sooner I get away, the sooner I’ll be back. I won’t take much: change of underwear, a few books, just a grip and a brief-case. I like to travel light. If there’s no plane to Beirut, there should be a train of some sort. An execrable journey, I imagine, but interesting. If nothing important crops up, I might get the Orient Express on Sunday night.’

  ‘Do you think you will be well enough?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with me. Just a few bruises.’ And now that matters were settled, Inchcape did seem much recovered. He threw back the coverlet, put his legs out of bed and began, in a feeble way, to feel for his slippers. Not finding them, he gave up and lowered himself back to the pillows, but he shot Guy a keen look. ‘You’ve not said a word to Pinkrose?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him since it happened.’

  ‘Good. He’s not likely to hear in the ordinary way. He takes a pride in keeping himself to himself. When he rang up last night, Pauli told him I was in bed with a temperature. That’ll keep the old cheeser at bay. He won’t risk catching anything.’

  ‘Don’t you think we should let him know you’re going?’

  ‘No, definitely not. He’d get into a proper tizzy. He’d have a heart attack. Or worse, he’d insist on coming with me. I couldn’t stand it.’ Inchcape fixed Guy, his expression piteous: ‘I’m not fit for it.’

  Guy wondered what they were to do with Pinkrose after Inchcape’s departure, but, afraid to raise any problem that might impede it, he said: ‘Very well.’