Background to Danger (10 page)

The man at the desk smiled broadly, disclosing a row of long, uneven yellow teeth.

“Excellent, Mr. Kenton, excellent. I can see that Mailler is appreciating your performance, too. You and he would, I feel sure, grow to like each other very much. You must get him to tell you about some of his experiences. Captain Mailler was in the Black-and-Tans, and was also, at one time, the only professional strike-breaker in America with an English public school education. At the moment, of course, he is hoping that you will attempt to leave this room. I hope you won’t, because then we shall have to postpone the rest of our talk for an hour or two. Eh, Mailler?”

“I vote we give the beggar hell now, chief,” said the Captain.

“That’s typical of Mailler,” said the grey-haired man to Kenton. “He has very little tact. Though, to be sure, with his experience, he can usually get what he wants without it.”

Kenton studied an ink-well on the desk. He had an uncomfortable feeling that no mistake had been made and that he could guess only too well what was wanted. He looked up. The man behind the desk was lighting a cigarette; he was doing it rather awkwardly, as though his arm were very stiff at the elbow.

He blew a long, thin jet of smoke into the air, watched it dissipate, then turned to Kenton again.

“Still puzzled, Mr. Kenton?”

“Very.”

“Well, well. Sit down, Mr. Kenton. You, too, Captain. I am always in favour of doing business in comfort.” He favoured Kenton with another of his yellow smiles.

Kenton sat down.

“Business?” he said.

The skin creased suddenly round the other’s eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Kenton, business. Let us come to the point.”

“Yes, let us.”

“Why did you kill Borovansky?”

“Who?”

“Borovansky.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You may have known him as Sachs.”

“Never heard of him.”

Captain Mailler gave a short laugh. The man behind the desk sighed wearily.

“It may be,” he said with an air of great patience, “that you doubt my motives. You may think that I inquire after the fate of Borovansky out of some petty desire for revenge. That is not so. Borovansky, personally, was not of the slightest interest to me. He was, however, carrying certain property of mine. I wish you to restore that property to me. You have probably examined it. You will know, then, that the photographs are of no monetary value to you. You will also realise that anyone being so foolhardy
as to interfere in such affairs places himself in a very delicate position. Borovansky’s pocket-book with all his money in it was gone when we found him. It is, I find, in your pocket. You see, Mr. Kenton, it was hardly tactful of you to mention the police, even in fun. Austria is, I believe, one of the countries which has abolished capital punishment, but a life sentence is hardly worth risking. Now, please, what have you done with the photographs?”

“You’re talking nonsense. I did not kill Sachs.”

“Ah, then you did know him?”

Kenton stirred in his chair. It might be due to the crack on the head he had received, but he did not seem to be doing very well out of the interview. He changed his tactics.

“You can hardly expect me to treat you with a great deal of confidence. Quite apart from the fact that your professional thug here has assaulted me and that you are holding me prisoner, I have not the least idea who you are.”

“I shouldn’t get cheeky if I were you, old man,” advised the Captain.

Kenton ignored him.

“Now, now,” said the grey-haired man reprovingly. “Let us keep calm. You have asked me for my name, Mr. Kenton. I fail to see that it can be of the slightest help to you to know it. It is, however, Robinson—Colonel Robinson.”

“English?”

Colonel Robinson smiled with his cigarette between his teeth.

“No, Mr. Kenton. Why should I bother to deceive you. My accent is not, as you perfectly well know, quite perfect.”

“You are very fluent.”

“It is good of you to say so.” He leaned forward. “Now, supposing we dispense with these courtesies and
come to the point, my friend? Where are the photographs? And before you answer me please remember that you will save yourself a lot of unpleasantness if you discard the various clumsy evasions that you are turning over in your mind. I know the photographs are not on your person. Where are they and how can they be got at?”

Kenton hesitated. His first impulse was to give the man the information he wanted and get out of the place. He glanced at the two men. The ex-Black-and-Tan Captain was lounging in his chair, absently biting his nails. Across his knees lay the short, shiny black stick. “Colonel Robinson” was leaning forward in his chair, a cigarette smouldering between his lips. In their eyes, watching him intently, there was a hint of amused expectation. Then, rather to his surprise, he became conscious of a new and unfamiliar sensation. For the first time in his adult life someone was trying to coerce him with threats into making a decision, and his mind was reacting with cold, angry, obstinate refusal. He drew a deep breath. Slightly above the solar plexus there was a curiously hollow feeling, his heart was beating faster, and the blood was tingling away from his face. He realised that for the first time in years he was within a few seconds of a complete and violent loss of temper. He pulled himself together and felt the blood rushing back to his cheeks. But there was an edge to his voice when at last he answered.

“I am afraid I have no intention of telling you any such thing. Certain property was entrusted to my care. The man who entrusted it to me is now dead. He was no friend of mine. To be accurate, I met him on the train coming to Linz. But he paid me well for safeguarding his property and I accepted the responsibility. That he was subsequently stabbed to death does not seem to me to affect that responsibility in the slightest.”

“Then how, may I inquire, do you intend to relieve yourself of the responsibility?”

“The photographs,” Kenton replied cautiously, “would seem to be the property of the Russian Government. If you can show me credentials authorising you to act on their behalf, I shall be pleased to hand over the photographs when I am released.”

There was dead silence in the room for a moment or two. Then the Captain rose slowly to his feet.

“Now,” he began, “you’re going to get—”

The man at the desk waved him into silence and turned to Kenton.

“I don’t think you understand the position, Mr. Kenton.”

“No?”

“No. Borovansky, or, if you prefer it, Sachs, was working for me. It was to me that he was delivering the photographs.”

“Then why did he hand them over to me?”

“He was afraid that he would be attacked and the photographs stolen from him before I could provide him with protection.”

“And yet he was murdered.”

“Shortly after you arrived, Mr. Kenton,” said the Colonel pointedly. “When he arrived at the Hotel Josef, Borovansky telephoned to say that you were carrying the photographs. My men were on the spot in time to see you go in. They did not see you leave.”

“Sachs was already dead when I arrived. I left by the back entrance.”

“With the photographs?”

“Certainly.”

“Don’t you think you are being rather foolish, Mr. Kenton?”

“Why?”

Colonel Robinson’s yellow skin tightened suddenly.

“Because, whatever your prim notions of responsibility may be, I want those photographs and intend to have them. Furthermore,” he added slowly, “I am prepared to take any steps that may be necessary to overcome your scruples.”

“Such as?”

The Colonel’s face relaxed. Rising to his feet with a smile, he walked round the desk and laid his hand in a friendly gesture on Kenton’s shoulder.

“Come now, Mr. Kenton, don’t let us spoil this delightful morning with talk of unpleasant things. Be sensible, Mr. Kenton. The welfare of the Russian Government is, I feel sure, of no interest to you. Borovansky, poor fellow, is dead. Hand over the photographs, forget the whole affair and we might even discuss the question of a substantial honorarium in recognition of your own trouble and discomfort. What do you say?”

Kenton nearly smiled. Two bribes in twelve hours! Not bad going!

“What do you suggest?”

The Colonel became almost eager.

“Tell us where the photographs are, and the moment they are in my possession you will be released with a thousand marks in your pocket.”

So his price had gone up! What a trusting fool the man must think him!

“And the alternative?”

The Colonel reached for the cigarette-box and offered it to Kenton, who shook his head. The Colonel lit up, extinguished the match carefully and sank into his chair.

“Do you ever read Machiavelli, Mr. Kenton?”

“I have done.”

“ ‘Fa bene la fortuna questo, che ella elegge un uomo di tanto spirito e di tanta virtu che egli conosca quelle occasioni che ella gli porge.’
You probably know the passage.
Machiavelli is always so beautifully to the point, don’t you think?”

Kenton nodded. The man clearly loved the sound of his own voice.

“You see,” continued the Colonel with relish, “fortune has placed you in rather an unfortunate position. For instance, my intuition tells me that you did not kill Borovansky. That fact, however, will not prevent my handing you over to the police with the evidence of my men who saw you enter the hotel, and that of the wallet in your pocket.”

“But then,” objected Kenton evenly, “you would not get your photographs and I should almost certainly go free.”

The other affected to consider this.

“It is a possibility.” He shrugged. “I will not labour the point. The leniency of the police has always irritated me. I merely wished to suggest one of the possibilities of your present situation. There are others. For example; what paper do you work for?”

“I am a free-lance.”

“Indeed? Dear me, that makes it very easy. Do you know, Mr. Kenton, that I could, through my principals in London, make it impossible for you to carry on your profession?”

“How?”

“By having your name black-listed by the proprietors of every important group of newspapers in England.”

Kenton smiled.

“I’m afraid I can’t take that very seriously, Colonel. You see, quite apart from the fact that many editors make a point of circumventing that sort of order from a proprietor, I use at least six pseudonyms in my work, none of which is anything like Kenton. Under the circumstances, your principals might find you a little tiresome.”

The moment he had finished speaking, he knew that his flippancy had been a mistake. The man behind the desk was silent; not a muscle of his face seemed to have moved; but in some subtle fashion the mask had changed from one of watchful geniality to one of malignant fury. When at last he spoke his accent had become very pronounced.

“I can see,” he said slowly, “that you are going to be foolish. That is a pity. I had hoped for a reasonable attitude on your part, that this matter could be settled across this desk and that extreme measures would not be necessary. I see I have wasted my time.”

Out of the corner of his eye Kenton saw Captain Mailler’s hand drop to the shiny black stick.

“I’m extremely sorry,” he said, with not quite as much suavity as he had intended.

“You will be very much sorrier before long, Mr. Kenton,” was the reply. He fingered his lower lip and gazed at Kenton thoughtfully. “The art of persuasion,” he went on, “has always interested me. The days of the rack, the wheel and the thumb-screw are past. We can afford to smile a little at the narrow limits of mediaeval thought on the subject. To-day we look towards new horizons. The early nineteen-twenties brought with them a renaissance of the art which has not yet reached its absolute fulfilment. That renaissance is no decadent sham. The men who have brought it about have not needed new media, new tools with which to express themselves. With the sublime simplicity and humility of all true artists they have used the materials that were available. Castor oil, for instance, that homely stuff, has been used with amazing success as a persuasive agent. You see, when administered by the pint it produces a painful effect very much like that resulting from eating green apples, but many times magnified. It also causes internal ruptures and hæmorrhages. If, therefore, the subject dies, as he frequently does, the death may
be quite frankly reported as being ‘from natural causes.’ To Fascist Italy must go the credit of the discovery, as also must that of the
bastonatura in stile
, a process that consists of treating the lower part of the face with rubber truncheons, such as the one Captain Mailler is holding, until the jaw is shattered. Oddly enough, the subject frequently dies of lung trouble some few months later. Something to do with the congestion caused by the treatment, I believe. Pins and toothpicks under the fingernails are, of course, a little jejune; but the American police have given us, beautiful in its simplicity, the dentists’ burr drill to grind the teeth of reluctant mouths. Rubber hose, blinding arc lights, lighted cigarettes and well-placed kicks all have their advocates. For myself, I have no special likes and dislikes, but you will, I think, see what is in my mind. Do you, Mr. Kenton?”

The journalist was silent.

Colonel Robinson smiled slightly.

“I think you do. But I will make myself quite clear. I am going to place you in a room by yourself for twelve hours. If at the end of that time you have not decided to be frank with me, then I shall hand you over to Captain Mailler and his assistants for interrogation.” He nodded to the Captain. “All right, Mailler, put him in the top room.”

“Get up,” said Mailler.

Kenton got up. His face was white with fatigue, his swollen eyelids were twitching with the pain in his head; but his mouth had set in an obstinate line.

“Your name might actually be Colonel Robinson,” he said. “I doubt it. But whatever your name is, you are, in my opinion, a nit-wit. At one stage in this conversation I was not unwilling to wash my hands of the entire business and hand over the photographs to you. You made the mistake of supposing that I could be successfully intimidated. It is a mistake that quite a number of persons of your
kidney are making in Europe to-day. The Nazi concentration camps and the Italian penal islands are full of men who have refused to compromise with violence. To compare my present attitude with their amazing courage is absurd, but I find now that I have an inkling of their point of view. I used to wonder how they could suffer so much for the sake of such transitory things as political principles. I realise now that there’s more in it than that. It’s not just a struggle between Fascism and Communism, or between any other ‘-isms.’ It’s between the free human spirit and the stupid, fumbling, brutish forces of the primeval swamp—and that, Colonel, means you and your kind.”