by Desmond Cory
“He did all the talking. He’s the one who speaks Spanish the best, of course.”
“I can’t say I like the situation.”
“At least, up to a point, we retain command of it. He made it clear that he wanted to trade information, and that shows that as yet he doesn’t know enough to make any kind of a move.”
“What’s that?”
“Bait.”
“Yes. But now you’ve told him we’re not interested in that kind of a deal, he’s almost bound to make some kind of a move anyway. We don’t want that. He’s got one thing, at least, that we haven’t.”
“Bait?”
“Yes. He’s got the one bait that Moreno can scent a mile off— the one thing that’ll bring him running. He mustn’t be allowed to use it, that’s all.”
Valera frowned. “I don’t quite know what bait you mean.”
“Himself.”
“Ahhhh! Ya comprendo,” said Valera.
“Those two are about the top of the tree at their business—but on opposite sides. They hate each other’s guts by the purest instinct. You saw that much for yourself. You know the English saying about the cats of Kilkenny?”
“No.”
“They fight whenever and wherever they meet. That’s all.” Valera considered for a moment. “There’s only one way to stop him using that bait, of course.”
“Precisely. That’s why I approve the steps you were going to suggest.”
“Both of them?”
“Of course.” Acuña took the cigarette-stub from his mouth and tossed it out the window. “Treat them with every consideration, mind you. If they decide to co-operate, it’ll make our task that much easier.”
Valera nodded. “And the Polarlys?”
“What about the Polarlys?”
“I think our guess about that may have been a good one. I mentioned it just before I left, to see if there was any reaction.”
“And was there?”
“No. You wouldn’t expect it, would you?—from someone of Fedora’s class. All the same, I’m prepared to back my instinct.”
“How far?”
“All the way.”
“You think Moreno’s on board?”
“I’m almost sure of it.”
“And Feramontov?”
“Probably.”
“Moreno and Feramontov. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. It’d be a wonderful haul.” Acuña sighed windily. “But we can’t do it. We have to play for safety. It’s fatal to change objectives halfway through an operation. You know that as well as I do.”
“What do you advise, then?”
“I agree that we ought to make some move. But not towards Moreno. Not towards Feramontov, either. Strike at the weakest link, that’s the golden rule.”
“Yes, sir.” Valera lit a cigarette, waited patiently.
“I’ve been checking with the harbour authorities. They have a woman aboard; rather an attractive woman, too, if her photograph’s anything to go by. She’s the one you want. Take her in. Women are a weakness in any organisation; the Reds know that perfectly well, yet they will go on using them—I suppose in support of their political theories. It’s odd.”
“They’re not particularly weak when it comes to talking. I’d say they were tougher than men, taken by and large.”
“Yes, yes. No doubt. Well, you’ll naturally put her on the grid as a matter of course, and if she does talk, so much the better. But that’s not the main idea. The main idea is simply to get them rattled. You’d be surprised if you knew how much dissension a woman can cause, and if we can get them thinking in two different ways . . . well, they’ll be a whole lot more likely to make a mistake. Even Feramontov won’t find it easy to handle a paranoid like Moreno, where there’s a woman in the case. So that’s what we’ll do. Hold up their clearance papers for a few hours on some technicality or other, just to get them worried. Then weigh in and grab the girl. We’ll see what happens.”
“Any special grounds?”
Acuña’s expression became distant, his eyes faintly glazed. Valera knew that he had no more to say on the subject. “All right, sir,” he said, opening the car door. “I’ll rope the Englishmen in right away, just to be on the safe side. And then I’ll get moving.”
Acuña was now listening, his head cocked a little to one side and a half-smile on his face. “He plays the piano damned well,” he said. “He almost deserves to get away with it.”
Valera stopped, one foot on the gravel. “To get away with what?”
“I’ve only just realised,” said Acuña. “Go on, Captain. You’ll soon see with what.”
Valera marched up to the front door once more, pressed his finger on the doorbell. Inside, the swelling succession of chords slowed down infinitesimally, then ceased; and there was silence. Valera waited some thirty seconds, then tried again. Still nothing happened. He took the pistol from his shoulder holster, walked quickly round to the french window. Fedora stood there, just inside the room, smoking a cigarette.
“So there you are,” he said. “Come on in.”
FERAMONTOV came quickly into Elsa’s cabin, closing the door behind him. Elsa was sitting cross-legged on the table, putting fresh varnish on her fingernails. . . . “What,” he asked, “have you been up to?”
“Nothing,” said Elsa. She shrugged. “Other than what I was told. I’ve been here all morning.”
“There’s two Civil Guards just come aboard. They want to speak to you.”
“What about?”
“Don’t be irritating. How should I know what about?”
“Perhaps the best thing would be for me to see them. That way, we can find out.”
“Don’t be facetious, either. I repeat, what have you been up to? Meuvret’s just found out that our clearance certificate is being delayed for some reason. And I don’t believe in coincidences, as I’ve said before.” He took her chin in his hand, twisted it round until she was facing him. “You haven’t done anything really stupid, have you Elsa?”
“You seemed to think so, this morning.”
“That business was stupid enough, of course. But it wasn’t what I meant. And you know it.”
Elsa said, “Have you any reason not to trust me?”
“No,” said Feramontov. “Not as yet But I haven’t any special reason for trusting you, either.”
Elsa closed her eyes. “I apologise. Such an obscene expression, isn’t it?”
“Obscene, no. But meaningless, unless carefully used. I should like to think that you were a careful person, Elsa, and that you intend to be particularly careful now.”
“You know that I’m careful.”
“Eve always believed so,” said Feramontov.
He increased the pressure of his thumb against the edge of her chin, tilting her head upwards; her eyes came suddenly open, her lips apart. She made no attempt to move away as he brought his mouth slowly down on hers, but bit instead deep into his lower lip; he gasped, jerked himself away. “A vi, a vi,” he said between his teeth. “Poslushayte, Elsa—”
“Let me alone. That’s all.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared down bemusedly at the blood on his knuckles. He looked idee Raskolnikov, thought Elsa, after the murder; and she was instantly almost alarmed by the inconsequence of this idea. His having spoken for once in Russian, that might have been the cause . . . but even so. . . . She twisted herself away from the table, balancing herself on the balls of her feet. For a moment she and Feramontov looked at one another, and she knew that this time she was genuinely frightened of him. And as she knew very little of fear, she found the sensation doubly unpleasant.
Even so, it was Feramontov who looked away; to take a handkerchief from his pocket and apply it to his puffed-up lip. “Very well,” he said. “Very well. You had better go and see the gentlemen of the Civil Guard. Unless you wish to . . . compose yourself first.”
“Thank you,” said Elsa. “I’m quite composed.”
She
drew the sash of the bathrobe tighter round her waist and moved towards the door. Feramontov’s yellowish feline eyes watched her all the way. “You’re going like that?”
“Like what?”
“Wearing a bathrobe?”
“And nothing else. Exactly.”
“I thought I’d made it clear—”
“Oh, shut up,” said Elsa, and went out.
She was probably in the wrong, though, and she knew it. It would hardly create a favourable impression. The truth j was that she wasn’t quite composed, not yet; otherwise she would certainly have stopped to change. Now it was too late; the gesture had been made and a silly one it had been, but , there it was. Feramontov’s fault. . . .
She felt a moment of despairing hatred, as she walked , down the narrow corridor, for Feramontov and for all men; j trouble, always trouble. There had been a certain pleasure, of course, in inflicting upon him that painful and summary defeat; even perhaps a certain pleasure in that brief contact J of their mouths; her lips still felt bruised from that first fierce pressure, tingled with a dry heat. A fruitless, meaningless pleasure, though. It made no sense.
Like the pleasure one gets from the knowledge that one’s a body is beautiful, that its beauty confers a certain dangerous : power. Elsa had used her body in that way often enough not to underestimate its value as a practical asset to the Party is and more directly to herself . . . and perhaps too often, since now she felt as much scorn for those who succumbed B to the power of her body as for those who sought to profit by it. What made Feramontov intolerable was simply the fact that he should try to do both.
Well, and what was the use of a lovely body if it brought ^ no other pleasures than those? Power by itself could not be enough; it left no resort but to misuse it, as perhaps she had done with Moreno. Beauty is a blade with two edges. That, maybe, was why Feramontov couldn’t trust her. She had brains as well, of course. But that only made it worse.
She hesitated for a moment outside the white-painted door of the dining-room, then went on through. The Civil Guards were standing by the table, their shiny black hats in their hands, uniforms smartly creased. They turned as she came in, and looked towards her. They were men. She hated them, too.
“WELL, we’ve arrested her,” said the District Judge. “And you’ve got half the local police force at your disposal, should you feel like arresting anyone else. Just let me know. That’s all.”
He sounded rather bitter, thought Valera. Probably the girl had put up a fuss; it was surprising, in a way, how Spanish officials hated the very sound of the word Consulate. “That’s fine,” he said. “I’m very much obliged to you. You know where to send her?”
“She’s on the way now. Under escort.”
“That’s fine,” said Valera again. He put down the telephone. The first part of the programme, then, had gone off without a hitch. Or almost without a hitch. He stared sourly at Fedora, who was sitting with one leg slung casually over the arm of a chair reading the morning’s newspaper; then walked over to the window, gazed out for a while on a particularly bleak and inhospitable stretch of the sierra, dotted with jagged boulders. He knew that this house was called the Finca de los Tresillistas and he could see that it had once formed part of some not very prosperous farm; and this was the sum extent of his knowledge. Not that he was worried by this; he was thoroughly accustomed to operating from improvised headquarters, ramshackle buildings he had never seen before and heartily hoped never to see again; this one had at least the advantages of silence and privacy. The surroundings were so quiet that he could hear the rattle of a typewriter coming from the next room but one; his secretary was knocking out a draft report. Valera hated reports. They were necessary, but necessary evils. Frowning slightly, he walked back to the chair by the telephone and, gracefully hitching up his trousers, sat down.
“Comfortable, Sr. Fedora?”
Johnny lowered the newspaper a fraction, looked at him over the top of it. “Well, no. Not really.”
“It’s rather a change from El Anteojo, I’ll admit. Temporary headquarters are hardly ever palatial.” He took a black cigar from his breast pocket, bit the end off reflectively. “However, we propose to treat you with every consideration. You’ll realise that in the ordinary way we’d lean backwards to avoid arresting you. Unfortunately, the present situation calls for extraordinary measures.”
Johnny smiled. “I don’t like extraordinary measures. They’re so much easier to predict than the other kind.”
“Touche. But what precisely is your prediction, Sr. Fedora? What course, in the present situation, would you adopt?”
“I don’t know what the present situation is. But from what I know of the Secret Police—in Spain, and generally —I think I could risk a prediction in any case.”
“. . . Go on.”
“Just follow the golden rule,” said Johnny. “When in doubt, hurt someone.”
Valera’s grey eyes swivelled briefly in Johnny’s direction; he struck a match on the wall to his right, lit the cigar. “Commendably accurate,” he said. “But hurt who? You, for instance?”
“Oh no. I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“You’re still hoping that, if you play things right, I’ll work along with you. And you’re pretty sure that what I know isn’t worth the trouble it’d take to get it out of me. You’re right, incidentally. I’ve been known to be obstinate.” Valera nodded. “Yes. I’ve seen your file. And we don’t pretend to be more efficient in these matters than the Gestapo used to be. All the same, our methods aren’t to be despised. And as you’re something of an expert, I wouldn’t mind having your opinion of them.”
He blew out smoke, fanned it away with the flat of his hand. Fedora looked down at the newspaper, folded it, laid it down on the table. “. . . Who?” he said, suddenly.
“The girl from the yacht.”
“I see,” said Johnny. He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I wouldn’t be over-confident.”
“You think she, too, will be obstinate?”
“Very obstinate.”
“You, of course, have met the lady. I haven’t, as yet. But I understand that physically she’s attractive.”
“That doesn’t always help.”
“It didn’t always help the Gestapo. But this girl isn’t one of your admirable Resistance fighters, Sr. Fedora. She’s a German, working for the Russians. They don’t trust the pretty ones, you know. And the girls know it. Nothing weakens the morale so much as the lack of mutual trust. It may take some time, of course, but I fancy that in the end shell talk.” Valera looked pensively at the glowing end of his cigar, fingered away the loose ash. “In any case, when they’re pretty . . . it makes the work a little more pleasant.”
“So it is the Russians,” said Johnny. “I wondered.”
“Ah, come now,” said Valera. “That much at least you must have known.”
Fedora pushed out his lower lip, sank his chin down on to his chest. Extraordinary measures, he thought; yes, but how very unextraordinary they always are, they’re the oldest measures of all. In Russia, in Spain, in China, in America; always the same old game. When in doubt. . . . And this time it was going to be Elsa. Valera’s voice, flat, unemotional; I understand that physically shefs attractive. Yes, she’s attractive all right. She’s attractive now. But for how much longer? A woman’s body is made of flesh; flesh can be creased, can be burnt, can be twisted and scarred. . . .
He lifted his head, stared—as Valera had done—out of the window towards the high sierra. Grey rocks, the grey hillside, a deep blue sky. But what he saw was the palely-shining floor of the pool, twelve, fifteen feet under water, and the long dark shape, like a fish and yet not like a fish, that nosed at the walls at the bottom. Then the sound of bare feet on a gravel path, of a girl humming quietly to herself; then the splash, the sputter of white foam, the clean arc traced by her limbs in the water. And the shape beneath her turning suddenly yet smoothly, like a hunting shark, rising w
ith ominous speed to meet her; two figures merging in an unexpected and violent embrace; then the limp body and the wide circles of blood on the pool’s dimpled surface, the (lark masked shape vanishing again into the depths. The oldest measures of all; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; the rough tribal justice that civilised men still recognised and found appropriate. Elsa and Carmen would at last be joined together in the final democracy of pain. . . .
He saw the girl coming up the pathway that ran through the rocks, walking between two Civil Guards, her head black and gleaming in the noonday sunlight, as black as their shiny black hats. She wore a bathrobe of dark blue towelling, under which her legs were bare and brown; her hands were pushed deep into her pockets. He took out a handkerchief, carefully wiped the perspiration from his neck and forehead. It was a very hot day.
“. . . For being indecently dressed?” said Feramontov. “I don’t believe it. Look, I’m damned if I’ll believe it.”
“They said there’d been complaints about that bathing dress of hers,” said Meuvret. “Don’t ask me why. It could be true. Then, of course, she showed up wearing that bathrobe of hers which doesn’t even cover her knees and what’s more, it didn’t look as though she was wearing—”
“I don’t believe it. Who do they think I am? Who does she think I am? She’s bloody well defected, that’s what.” Feramontov’s fingers caressed his swollen lower lip, adorned now by a strip of sticking-plaster. “That’s why they’re holding up the clearance certificate. That by itself needn’t have meant anything—that could have just been the usual blasted Spanish lazy-mindedness—but taken in with the other, it can’t be accident. I just don’t believe it.”
“I wouldn’t have thought she’d defect. Not a girl with Elsa’s record.”
“I’m not so sure. She’s been behaving damned oddly lately.” Aware of Meuvret’s gaze, Feramontov took his hand away from his lip a little too abruptly. “Anyway, I’m not taking any chances—not now. It’s too late for that. If we’re not cleared by five o’clock, we’ll leave anyway. And be damned to them.”
