Mr. Donner was fated to be a policeman; it was not a question of vocation entirely, though he fitted the part and played it with a certain relish. He was in fact well cast, for he was a mountainous figure of a man who used his fat as extra weight when it came to exchanging shoves or blows with Arabs or Jews. Tall, of a deceptively babyish blondness and blue of eye, he could, when he chose, look as shy and innocent and bashful as only a Protestant Irishman can look. He had the brogue too — that slippery dialect accent which sorts so well with a national talent for hysteria or wheedling. Donner in his uniform was one thing — but Donner undressed... for at this very moment he was lying naked on his bed, enjoying the vague doze which helped him to pass away the siesta hour and digest a heavy meal, wallowing in the suds of beer. The Palestinian sun, instead of turning him brown, had only increased his pinkness; his flesh resembled somewhat the celluloid skin of a cheap doll. His knees and elbows wore large dimples. His legs were slightly bowed so that he stood awkwardly askew, which increased his air of apparent shyness. He breathed stertorously through his mouth, his straggling blonde moustache fluttering with the breaths. Mr. Donner... Inspector Donner, was sleeping the sleep of the just, from which he would be wrenched at a quarter to four by the silvery chime of an alarm clock. His little villa in the German colony was snug and well appointed for a bachelor. His Arab cook was good and cost little, though he thieved when he could. His office was within walking distance of his house and consequently most conveniently situated. But Mr. Donner was dreaming of himself in other circumstances, and in a more resplendent uniform than a police outfit. He saw himself walking about with modest vainglory, clad in the duds of a Staff-Captain (Substantive); nor was this entirely a dream, for he had, with great skill, managed to lobby himself the promise of precisely such a post on the Syrian Mission, and had that very day received confirmation of the fact that he would eventually be able to kiss his hand to the Force as well as to the Superintendent, who was a thorn in his side. The Superintendent could kiss his arse, thought Donner vindictively, as he lay with closed eyes, hovering between sleeping and waking. A single mosquito droned. He had forgotten to tell Abdul to fill the flit-gun. There! The clock had started to chime.
Donner hurled himself out of bed as if he were about to race the hundred yards in ten seconds flat. He caught up the clock in his great paw and strangled its voice. Then he stepped into his cool shower and slowly rotated his great pink bulk to enjoy it to the maximum.
He accompanied the delicious splashing of the water with appropriate sounds of physical gusto, hissing through his teeth like a grampus. Then he dried his rosy body and slipped into his uniform. He combed and set his moustache with great care, smoothed his eyebrows, and examined the cavities in his teeth. There was no fault to be found with what he saw — or at least he had none to find. Satisfied, he took up his black leather-covered swagger-stick, tipped on his hat cautiously so as not to disturb the parting in his hair, winked at himself in the mirror, and left the house to start walking with that wide bosomy stride which conveyed a certain feeling of charitable benevolence towards the world and its creatures. In his mind’s eye it was a military man who passed down the street — not an Inspector of the Palestine Police. It did not take him long to reach the police post. He touched his cap to the sentry and then, as he mounted the long staircase, thought that he might as well get his hand in again and try a real salute — a military salute — on his chief. The Superintendent sat brooding over his files, smoking a pipe. He had a long, petty, disappointed greyhound’s face and the airs of a churchwarden. He was unprepared for the evolution that Donner performed before his desk, bringing his heels together with a profound percussion and saluting so hard that his huge hand wagged by his ear.
“What the hell’s that in aid of?” asked the astonished officer, mildly. Donner grinned. “Military salute, Sir,” he said with pride.
“Aren’t you being a bit premature? Your papers haven’t even come through yet, you know.”
“Well — they can’t come too soon for me.”
“I see your point — with things hotting up as they are,” said the Superintendent with a touch of veiled irony, which his subordinate failed to notice.
“I’ll really be glad of the change,” said Donner in a heartfelt tone.
“If you call the desert a change,” said his superior with an acid smile. Donner looked grave. “Of course it will be!” he said reproachfully.
“Anyway, there’s little enough inducement to stay. They blew up another post this morning. Macintosh is dead and a dozen or so wounded.”
The two men looked at each other and sighed. “Why the hell don’t we clamp down on them?” Donner asked the world with an aggrieved air. The Superintendent puffed his pipe and reflected. The question, so often echoed, had become a piece of threadbare rhetoric by now. Donner was heartily glad to be within sight of leaving it behind him with his uniform. He sank into a chair and mopped his brow. He noticed that the Superintendent was holding one of the green Miko files. “Government House just sent in a Miko,” he said with an air of mild pride. They gazed at the file with respect, for it was only on rare occasions that the Secret Service asked the Police for a routine check on something. The Miko files suggested high romance to ordinary policemen, as well as a beguiling mystery, for they never saw who sent them. Somewhere in the cellars of Government House there was a mysterious man or men whose habits and interests were singular and mysterious.
“Does the name Roth mean anything to you — Judith Roth?” asked the Superintendent. Donner shook his head and held out his hand for the file. “Let me see,” he said. He loved to handle these highly romance-charged documents himself; but the Superintendent ignored the outstretched hand, thus demonstrating his superiority in rank and practically insinuating by the gesture that Donner, as his junior, did not merit the confidence of a personal glance at the typewritten sheet. It was like implying that Donner might possibly be “insecure”; fully aware of the insult, the Inspector frowned and coughed behind his hand. “Roth, Roth,” he mused, choking down his resentment and forcing himself to toady. “I can’t honestly say it does. Any other data?”
The Superintendent read slowly from the file with a suburban accent: “We have reason to believe that the Nazis are alarmed by the fact that this daughter of a famous scientist may have escaped to Palestine with his papers. Among the unpublished material there are, according to rumours which have been circulating in scientific bodies for some time, plans for a new type of engine. There is no need to stress that such material would be of the greatest interest to the British and American governments and would be worth an immense sum of money to obtain or even to deny to the enemy.”
“Money,” said Donner reflectively, as if the word was new to him. “What do you know?”
“We have only one rather old picture of the lady taken from the press.” As if making a great concession, the Superintendent passed a cutting across the desk to his junior. It showed Isaac Roth receiving the Nobel Prize for Physics the year before his death. A dark-haired, rather handsome and very young girl stood by him, her hand on his arm, her unsmiling eyes gazing into the camera. Donner brooded on this. “It’s a very common type,” he said. “Must be thousands like her in the world.”
He sucked his teeth loudly, and handed the picture back. The Superintendent replaced it, closed the file, and stared at his fingernails.
“I shall tell them that we are keeping an eye out, but if she came in illegally, it’s hopeless of course.” Donner nodded sagaciously. “Hopeless,” he agreed. “Well, we’ll keep it in mind.”
The Superintendent replaced the file reverently in the safe and stretched himself before re-lighting his pipe.
“See what you can do with your contacts,” he said. Donner sat, deep in thought, for a long moment.
“Apparently the young woman is quite a well-known scientist herself.”
Donner was only paying attention with half his mind. “Well,” he said, “is that all that’s on the c
ards for this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad. I thought I’d go down to Tel Aviv and see what is doing about the Abdulla case. I think we’ve got him fair and square this time.” The Superintendent grunted. Donner rose and tugged down the jacket of his uniform, which had a tendency to ride up over his belly. “Any objections, Sir?” The Superintendent shook his head and ventured a mild pleasantry. “Always glad to see the back of you, Donner,” he said. He was smiling, but it was unfortunately true. Donner frowned heavily and coughed behind his hand. “Roth,” he said, “I’ll bear it in mind.”
He would have liked to risk another military salute, but the Superintendent’s attitude about the Miko file had nettled him. He stalked down into the courtyard and purged his annoyance by adopting a bullying tone to the transport officer as he asked for the duty transport to which his rank entitled him. A jeep was duly forthcoming and he settled his large frame in it with a portentous air and closed his eyes. The drive down to the coast was not a long one, and it made a nice change. Donner was able to spend a pleasant afternoon making his juniors dance attention on him. Yes, the Abdulla case was tied in a neat bow. Donner could not resist the temptation of telling his victim so, and he spent some time in the verminous lock-up, railing at the old one-eyed Arab who was still wearing the marks of a recent “treatment” — extensive bumps and bruises. He wailed and pleaded and Donner growled agreeably at him.
It was getting dark when he left the police post and made his way swiftly across the town towards the little villa on the outskirts which they used as their interrogation centre. It was set apart from other habitations in a grove of trees. This was useful as there were no neighbours to be bothered or made curious by the sounds of beating, or the more refined types of ill-treatment which were so often necessary in order to obtain information; and victims did sometimes scream in the course of a “treatment”. The house was deserted now and the way ill-lit. Donner loosened his pistol slightly in its leather holster under his armpit. One never knew. In the darkness the tattered garden round the house looked melancholy in the extreme. But, undeterred by aesthetic considerations, Donner mounted the steps and opened the front door, switching on the lights as he did so. They revealed a large barren room with peeling walls, and an old cupboard empty of anything save scurrying mice. Its only furniture was a pock-marked desk over which hung a dusty unshaded light-bulb. A water-tap dripped obscurely in a dirty kitchen. Donner turned it off, frowning. Someone must have left it on after the last “Water-Cure” — a refinement which consisted of pouring water from a teapot up the nostrils of clients until such time as they decided to tell the truth. Donner seated himself at the desk in a creaky swivel-chair, placed his pistol at hand on the desk, and opened a copy of the Illustrated London News which he had thoughtfully brought with him in case his wait should be a long one. He had business of his own to transact that night. The anonymous letter had arrived as usual at his house, summoning him to the rendezvous. His wrist-watch ticked on. He read with concentration, shaping the words with his lips. He had not been at it long before there was a tapping at the shutter — two long and three short. He took his pistol in hand and went to the front door, opening it to admit the little figure of the Jew. “Ah, Abraham,” he said with a kind of frowning benevolence. The old man nodded his bearded head and said “Good evening.” Donner shut the door and locked it. Then he stalked back to his desk and sat behind it with a businesslike air, rubbing his hands. The Jew came softly up to the desk. Donner allowed his pistol to lie once more before him, moving it slightly to one side in order to make room for the bundle of papers his visitor carried.
“What have we got?” said Donner briskly.
“Twelve identity cards to be signed, sixty pounds.” He began to count out money from a slab of notes. Donner suddenly exploded. “Twelve!” he exclaimed in an outraged tone. “You asked for fourteen. Seventy pounds, Abraham. That’s my price.”
“Two died on the voyage,” said the little man in a meek voice.
“I can’t help that,” said Donner with bristling moustache. “You made the bargain, not me. It’s not my affair if they die.”
“Very well,” said Abraham softly, “seventy it is.”
Donner beamed at him. “That’s better,” he said with subsiding truculence and added “Put it on the table.” He watched the counting of the notes carefully, then gathered them up and put them in his capacious wallet. “All right,” he said, and detached a fountain-pen from his breast pocket. The little man laid a bundle of identity cards on the desk and Donner began to sign them, his tongue protruding slightly from between his teeth as he concentrated on the task. He signed them in the name of a predecessor of his who had held the post years before and who, being now dead, was obviously beyond recall if there were any questions asked. The cards were all greatly antedated in order to take advantage of the residence laws.
The little Jew said: “As a matter of fact, there were two children born on the trip as well. I suppose you don’t want to charge for them?”
Either Donner was too obtuse to sense the contemptuous cutting edge of the remark, or else he did not feel disposed to regard himself as insulted. He raised his great head and took on his most innocent expression, blue eyes wide with reproach. “My dear Abraham,” he said, “you are joking. After all, I am British, you know, my boy.”
“So it would seem,” said the little man, scratching his ear. These subtleties were too much for Donner. He waved a hand and said: “I told you I was being transferred, didn’t I? I won’t be much use to you in Syria, will I?”
“You never know.”
“Anyway, I don’t know the exact dates yet — but keep in touch. There may be ways.”
“We will.”
Donner blew on his signatures, disposing the cards across the desk in order to let them dry the better. Suddenly he got a shock, for the name Judith Roth stared up at him from the piece of pasteboard. There was no mistake. He was overtaken by a sudden feeling of irresolution. Should he ask Abraham directly... it might make him feel suspicious. As he signed the card he thought furiously, comparing the photograph with the memory of the newspaper cutting. It almost seemed the same picture. His brain worked at top speed, exploring the possibilities. Was there any way he might turn his find to his personal benefit? Donner’s self-interest was a plant of long and sturdy growth: the old Irish Constabulary had planted it, the war had nourished it. After all, the sale of dispensations is one of the oldest police habits in the world. He had a sudden brainwave. With his head still lowered over his work, he asked casually: “Where are you going to send them all this time? Up north?”
“Mostly to Galilee — the women to Ras Shamir.”
Donner almost chuckled at the ease with which he had extracted this piece of information. He finished the cards and watched Abraham gather them up with a whispered “Thank you.” They shook hands and Donner saw his visitor out, carefully locking the door behind him. Then he carefully sorted out the money in his wallet, took up his pistol and turned out the lights. He shut the front door behind him and set off down the dusty path towards the lights of the town. He was in the best of possible moods. But there was some hard thinking to do. In a matter as complicated as scientific research he was somewhat out of his depth — the subject was a larger one than he was used to handling. And yet... the echo of the word “money” sounded pleasantly in his memory. After all, there would be no comeback from a mere Jew if such papers were lost; and if he, Donner, could possess himself of them... He ordered a large Arab meal at the “Saad” and ate with gluttony.
While he could not form any clear thoughts about his own intentions as regards Judith Roth, he was filled with a pleasant premonitory sense that his luck was holding firm, that things were moving his way. Of course, he would keep the information to himself until he had explored all its possibilities; if the girl had something saleable it might be possible to prise it away from her. Who knows? She might even be anxious to pay him in or
der to remain “undiscovered”. Donner called for his bill in a throaty voice, feeling the fatness of his wallet with satisfaction: apart from the money paid him for the signatures he also possessed a large sum of the office’s funds — part of the secret vote set aside for confidential work. He had of course signed the green voucher in the regulation manner, but he had stated that it would be used to pay informers and for “special investigations”, and of course no receipts were expected from these tenebrous transactions. As a matter of fact... but why labour the point? Donner turned them to his own uses and quite a lot of his money went to little Coral Snow. It was with his inamorata in mind that he took a taxi now to Jaffa and set the bead curtains of the Montgomery Club swinging with a heave of his huge shoulders. A band played sagging Levantine jazz. Coral was standing in a group of girls at the bar, engaged in the none-too-elegant act of picking her front teeth with her little fingernail. She was clad in a kimono of tawdry vivacity, a Woolworth inspiration based on vague dreams of the summer palace at Pekin. It was very suitable for little blonde Coral with her fox-terrier face and her honest little eyes. “Humphrey!” she cried out with pleasure, and moved to meet him; Donner smiled broadly and rolled towards her with an air of complacent indulgence. “I hoped you’d come this evening. I was waiting for you, Humphrey — I was going to give you till eleven.”
“And then?”
“Go home, silly. What else?”
“Alone?”
“Oh, cut it out, can’t you?”
She looked aggrieved and Donner chuckled with delight at having taken a rise out of her. Actually Coral was a faithful little creature and had given him very little cause for heart-burnings. He would miss her in Syria. He ordered champagne-cup repeatedly and allowed his natural fund of Irish sentimentality full rein. They danced a little — Donner with the capacious, disorganized enthusiasm of a seal or a very large suitcase gone mad. He swayed about and rolled his buttocks heavily. But he did not tread on her feet.
Judith Page 10
