Background to Danger (19 page)

Mr. Hodgkin interrupted these reflections by nudging Kenton sharply with his elbow.

“We’re stopping at Neukirchen for
Mittagessen
. They’ll probably try and scoop us into one of these tourist restaurants and charge us the earth. You and I’ll slip off on our own, friend. We’ll get better grub, and a darn’ sight cheaper.”

Kenton thought quickly. Now was his chance to lose the man, to be rude. He surrendered the opportunity weakly.

“That’ll be fine.”

“Good. You’ve got to watch points with these tourist sharks.”

“I suppose so.”

“Rather! I often do these trips. I like a bit of scenery now and then. Though, mind you, I think Devon or the Lake District have got this licked to a frazzle.”

“In a different way, of course.”

“Any way you like. Look at it!” They were speeding through a majestic valley. “Pines, nothing but pines. There’s nothing but pines from here to Vladivostok. Dull, uninteresting, no variety.”

“You said you liked scenery.”

“And so I do. I always do this trip when I’m in Linz. But it’s not because of the drive. It’s the last bit that makes it worth it. You get up about a thousand metres—it’s nine hundred odd really—and you can see for miles on a clear day. Of course, there’s nothing much actually you can
see
, but you get a real kick out of looking all that way. Leastways, I do. I was real sorry when they talked about pulling down the Eiffel Tower.”

Five minutes later the coach stopped in Neukirchen.

As Mr. Hodgkin had predicted, the bulk of the party was shepherded into a picturesque restaurant off the square. Kenton followed his companion down a side-street to an unpretentious eating-house behind the church.

Over a meal of
Wicklkraut
and beer, Mr. Hodgkin told several old and salacious anecdotes. All were in a Rabelaisian vein and concerned the amorous adventures of commercial travellers.

“It’s a treat,” he said, “to swop yarns with a Britisher. These foreigners’ funny stories are always about politics or suchlike. You wouldn’t think so the way they go on, but it’s a fact.”

Kenton agreed a little absently and got on with his food. It might be many hours before he could safely eat again. It occurred to him, however, that there was a possibility that Mr. Hodgkin might solve one very important problem. Over the brandy, he interrupted a long account of cut-throat competition in Jugoslavia by asking if Mr. Hodgkin knew Prague.

“Like the back of my hand,” was the prompt reply. “It’s quite a nice city. The lavatories are as clean as the German, which is more than you can say for Italy, even if they do have German plumbing. Mussolini might have a go at them as well as the trains. Not that that trains-running-to-time business isn’t all my eye. It’s only the tourist trains. The last time I went from Cremona to Rome we were forty minutes
late, and packed like sardines with a lot of
caribinieri
going to have medals handed out to them.”

“I’ve always liked Prague, too,” persisted Kenton; “I wonder if you know a man named Bastaki.”

“Who?”

“Bastaki.”

Mr. Hodgkin turned down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head slowly.

“No. Name seems familiar somehow, but I can’t place it. What does he do?”

“I don’t know. A friend of mine mentioned him.”

Mr. Hodgkin screwed up his eyes, raised his right hand and snapped his fingers several times as if to summon Divine assistance.

“What nationality?” he said suddenly.

Kenton, convinced that Mr. Hodgkin could not help him, took a long shot.

“Rumanian.”

A look of amazement spread over Mr. Hodgkin’s face. Then he tapped the table lightly but triumphantly with his forefinger.

“Got it!”

“You know the man?”

“Got it! I knew I’d heard the name somewhere. Bastaki! He’s in Prague.”

Kenton’s heart sank.

“Yes, I knew he was in Prague.”

“Bastaki, that’s the man!” Mr. Hodgkin continued excitedly: “I suppose your friend isn’t Eccles, of Parker, Sons and Kelsey, of Oldham?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, that’s a pity. You’d like Eccles. I only run across him once in a month of Sundays. He’s a nice chap. Parker, Sons and Kelsey do a bit of business over here, but Eccles spends a lot of his time in Oldham. He likes Oldham, though,
of course; he’s got a nice house just outside. Married. Got two grown-up youngsters. The boy’s in the Navy.”

“He knows Bastaki?”

“Of course, that’s what I’m telling you. Bastaki’s one of his customers in the electrical trade. Eccles is in cotton, of course.”

“But you said Bastaki is in the electrical trade.”

“Yes, that’s right—cable-making. Use hundreds of miles of yarn a year for insulation. Braiding, that’s what they call it. Eccles sells him the stuff in bobbins—hundreds of miles of it. He’s got a factory outside Prague.”

“Who? Eccles?” Kenton was getting confused.

“No, Bastaki. Pots of money, of course, and as fly as they come. Eccles says Bastaki’s father owns pretty near half Rumania—industry, not land, of course. Like that bloke de Wendel in France, only not so big. His wife’s a Czech or something.”

“Bastaki’s wife?”

“That’s right. It’s a pity you don’t know Eccles. He’s a nice chap. If you run across him, give him my love and tell him he owes me a couple of francs. He’ll know what it’s for.” He leered roguishly.

Sensing that some sort of joke had been made, Kenton laughed and promised to pass on the message.

“Well,” continued Mr. Hodgkin seriously, “I suppose we ought to be getting back now. Not that they’ll be ready to start.”

Half an hour later the coach left Neukirchen and ran once more into the open country.

Mr. Hodgkin seemed, for the moment, to have nothing more to say and, after a second unsuccessful attempt to smoke his pipe, stared gloomily out of the window. Kenton, who had plenty to think about, pretended to doze.

Bastaki was a Rumanian. His father was an important Rumanian industrialist. Saridza was meeting him. In association those facts told their own story. And it was a very familiar story. What the Thyssens and Krupps did for Hitler, the Bastakis and Balterghens could do for Codreanu. For the first time since he had left Rashenko’s room he felt that he had been wise to do so. Not even the consciousness that his plans were, to say the least of it, hazy, that, in fact, he had not the remotest idea what he was going to do with his knowledge, could dispel a sense of quiet elation. He reminded himself that he was still well inside Austria, that he had a frontier to cross without showing a passport, and that he had acquired, with his information about Bastaki, the leech-like representative of Stockfield, Hatley and Sons, of Bradford. He came to the conclusion that elation was a trifle premature. He must devise some plan of action, something simple yet something ingenious and effective. But it was warm and comfortable in the coach. He had arrears of sleep to make up. He found it difficult to concentrate on the problems of the future, however immediate they might be. Unaccountably, he found himself thinking of Zaleshoff’s sister. In his note, Zaleshoff had declared caustically that her maternal instincts had been aroused. He smiled to himself. It was pleasant to think of her. Her hands were lovely. Maternal? That was what Zaleshoff
would
say, of course. A lovely mouth.

The chatter of the other passengers and the hum of the coach seemed to recede slightly. A minute later his head nodded forward on to his chest and he was asleep.

He awoke with a start, Mr. Hodgkin’s elbow at work on his ribs.

“We’re there, friend.”

“Ah yes! I must have dropped off to sleep for a moment.”

“Best part of an hour,” said Mr. Hodgkin.

Kenton looked out of the window.

The coach was grinding slowly over the crest of a steep hill. Trees grew almost to the edges of the road. A little way ahead was a small highly coloured timber inn set back from the road in a clearing. The coach stopped outside it.

“This is us, friend.”

They got out shivering. Mr. Hodgkin peered at Kenton over his misted spectacles.

“Do you want to follow the others or shall I show you a better spot? I found it two years ago.”

Kenton glanced uncertainly at the rest of the passengers being marshalled by the conductor for the walk to the heights.

“Won’t the conductor think we’re lost?”

“Fat lot he cares. They’ve had our money.”

“All right.”

Mr. Hodgkin led the way down a path beside the inn. For a hundred yards or so the way was clearly defined, then the path lost itself among the trees.

“Straight ahead,” said Mr. Hodgkin.

The inn was now completely out of sight and they were threading their way among the trunks of tall firs growing so closely together that the foliage overhead almost shut out the sunlight. It was very cold and quiet. Except for the faint stirring of the branches above, there was no sound but the crunching of fir cones under their feet. After a little the ground sloped sharply upwards and there was a gleam of light between the trees. A minute later they had left the forest and were standing in a rocky clearing a few yards across. On three sides of it the firs rose like stockades. On the fourth there was nothing but the wooded hills of Bohemia rolling away into the distance, an unbroken wave of green-black monotony.

“There!” said Mr. Hodgkin.

“It’s a splendid view.”

Mr. Hodgkin drew a deep breath and nodded.

“It’s fine,” he murmured.

He sighed and gazed out solemnly towards the grey, misty horizon.

Kenton was racking his brains for an idea. It would have been better to have gone with the rest. He might at least have been able to lose himself until they had gone. What could he do now? Run? It seemed the only way. The ground sloping away from the promontory was not very steep and the trees started again a short way down. Even if Hodgkin ran after him, he would lose him among the trees. The man would soon grow tired of searching. But he might report the occurrence to the conductor. If …

Then he saw that the little man’s shrewd eyes were watching him. He smiled.

“The air’s good,” he said.

Mr. Hodgkin looked away.

“The frontier is four miles from here,” he said slowly; “if you start now, you’ll reach it by dusk, Mr. Kenten.”

For a moment Kenton felt as if a bomb had exploded under him. He knew that there was something he should say, but his brain seemed numb. It seemed to him that he had stood there for hours before he uttered a sound. At last:

“Kent
on
, not Kent
en,”
he said. It was the best he could do.

Mr. Hodgkin turned his head. There was the suspicion of a grin on his thin lips.

“Sorry, friend, they’ve got Kent
en
in the papers.”

“A small point,” said Kenton evenly. He was beginning to recover himself. “When did you spot me?”

“As soon as you walked into that agency.” He looked grave. “I tell you, friend, you’ve had some pretty good luck to-day. You deserved to be copped. You walk into a travel agency two minutes after the police have been in making inquiries about you there, peek right and left like you were a villain on the pictures, and start glaring at a map and mumbling in English. You’ve got a bit of scrub on your upper
lip that looks about a day old and an English tweed jacket showing under an overcoat that doesn’t fit you. Then you marches up to the counter and say you’ve only got an hour or two to spare, but you’ll take a trip that lasts eight. You nearly fall over yourself you’re in such an almighty hurry to get a back seat; then you grab a Genoa sailing list as though you’re pinching the till. You see a policeman and look as if you’re going to have a heart attack, tell me you’re leaving for Vienna by a train that doesn’t run, and start asking questions about one of the best biggest twisters from here to Shanghai. You say you’ve been in a sanatorium in Bavaria, but you speak German with the best Berlin accent I’ve heard out of Berlin for a long time. And, if you’ll pardon my mentioning it, there’s a stain the size of Lake Geneva on the back of your right sleeve that looks like blood. That Froggy in the coach had his eye on you, and if we hadn’t been talking so friendly, he’d have done something about it. While you were having a snooze he told his wife about it, and if she hadn’t been having a fit of the sulks because of his nagging her and not told him he was seeing things, you’d have been for the high jump when we stopped. I saw him looking at the reward in the paper, and you know what the French think about money. Yes, friend, you’ve been pretty lucky.”

Kenton laughed rather shakily.

“It’s no laughing matter,” said Mr. Hodgkin severely, “and you aren’t clear yet. The frontier’s four miles ahead and you have to veer slightly to your right, because the road bends to the right towards the frontier. And when you’re actually crossing it, look out for alarm bells. They sometimes put them down for smugglers. If you get through—I said ‘if,’ because, mind you, I don’t think you will—if you get through, you can pick up a bus at one of the villages on the other side that’ll take you to Budweis. There you’ll be O.K. for a train. But for goodness’ sake get rid of that coat and hat. They’re poison.”

Mr. Hodgkin turned away, and began to fill his pipe. There was a pause.

“Have you gone yet?” he asked over his shoulder.

“No,” said Kenton; “I was waiting to thank you, to say good-bye and to shake hands.”

Mr. Hodgkin turned his head grimly.

“Listen, friend,” he said, “I’ve done a lot for you to-day. I don’t say it’s been a hardship, because that’d be lies. I’ve enjoyed having one of my own countrymen to talk to. But if you think I’m going to shake hands with a cold-blooded murderer, you’ve got another think coming.”

“Then,” said Kenton angrily, “do you mind explaining why, if you believe I’m the cold-blooded murderer these asinine police seem to think, you are not giving me up and collecting the reward?”

A curious expression crossed Mr. Hodgkin’s sharp pinched face.

“Why?” he echoed derisively; “I’ll tell you why, friend. Listen. If this was England I’d hand you over to the nearest copper I could see because that’d be the proper thing to do, guilty or not guilty. Why don’t I hand you over now? The answer is, friend, because I’m getting a bit of my own back. Fifteen years I’ve been trailing about this blasted Continent now, and I’ve hated every moment of it. I hate their grub, I hate their drinks, I hate their way of going on, and I hate them. They say the British are all stuck up about foreigners, that we’re all men and women just the same, that they’ve got a lot of good points that we haven’t. It’s all lies, and when you’ve been away from home as long as I have, you’ll know it, too. They’re not like us, not at all. People come over here for a fortnight’s holiday and see a lot of pretty
châlets
and
châteaux
and
Schlösser
and say what a fine place it is to live in. They don’t know what they’re talking about. They only see the top coat. They don’t see the real differences. They don’t see behind the scenes. They don’t see them when
their blood’s up. I’ve seen them all right. I was in sunny Italy when the Fascisti went for the freemasons in twenty-five. Florence it was. Night after night of it with shooting and beating and screams, till you felt like vomiting. I was in Vienna in thirty-four when they turned the guns on the municipal flats with the women and children inside them. A lot of the men they strung up afterwards had to be lifted on to the gallows because of their wounds. I saw the Paris riots with the
garde mobile
shooting down the crowd like flies and everyone howling
‘mort aux vaches’
like lunatics. I saw the Nazis in Frankfurt kick a man to death in his front garden. After the first he never made a sound. I was arrested that night because I’d seen it, but they had to let me go. In Spain, they tell me, they doused men with petrol and set light to them.