Background to Danger (5 page)

“Yes. But why do we go to Linz?”

“You have read the dossier. It was I who identified Saridza in New York. I know his face well.”

“But our people in Vienna …?”

“They do not know him as I do. It is lucky for us. Saridza is an important enemy. It will be a great
coup
for us. Now, please, Tamara, get me Berne on the telephone.”

Waiting in the dark little outer office for the call, she heard him rummaging furiously in his desk. He was humming
Tchoubtchik
softly to himself. Once he stopped and swore, and she called to ask him if he wanted anything; but
it was only ammunition for his revolver and he had found it. Then:

“Andreas! we are going back to Moscow next month?”

“Yes, Tamara, next month.”

“For three months?”

“Perhaps.”

She was silent for a moment. With her finger she drew a long straight line in the dust on the shelf beside her. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped slightly.

“Andreas, shall we always do this work?”

“I hope so. We are good at it.”

She heard him slam and lock a drawer in the desk. The telephone pressed to her ear, she stared at the clumsy, old-fashioned typewriter on the table as she went on.

“I suppose Borovansky will be dead by the time we reach Linz?”

“Ortega has instructions not to kill, but to get the photographs at all costs; but you must not let your imagination dwell on it. Borovansky would be no great loss. There is a story of a man and a woman at Essen that is unpleasant to hear.”

She pressed the shift key on the typewriter thoughtfully.

“Do you remember his eyes, Andreas? One would not think that anyone with such soft brown eyes could be treacherous.”

“A man’s eyes, a man’s nose, his forehead, his ears—none of those things, Tamara, has anything to do with the mind behind them. Small men have large heads and great men small ones. There were never two people in the world who understood each other’s minds by looking at each other’s faces.” There was a pause and she heard him open a cupboard. “We are a long time getting through to Berne, Tamara. There is a train in twenty minutes.”

“You must take a thick scarf, Andreas. It will be cold.”

Zaleshoff came through the door behind her. He wore a
heavy grey ulster; round his neck was a wool muffler. He leant forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“Have you got your pipe, Andreas?”

“No.”

The telephone crackled suddenly.

“The Berne agent,” said Tamara.

F
OR
most of the three and a half hours it took to get from the frontier to Linz, Herr Sachs talked incessantly.

“One should learn,” he told Kenton, “to judge one’s fellow men.” He wagged a dirty finger. “Take yourself, Herr Kenton. The moment I saw you on this train I said to myself that here was a man on whom a man could rely—a man with whom one could leave one’s hard-earned savings in absolute safety.”

He paused dramatically.

It occurred to Kenton that Sachs must have judged him to be a perfect fool if he imagined that the Jewish refugee story was still believed.

“But why,” Sachs went on, “why should an honest man
not receive payment for his honesty?” The brown eyes were round with wonder. “I am satisfied to pay. It is good.”

He started picking his teeth.

Kenton fidgeted. He would, he told himself, have earned his six hundred marks. At the moment, he was not quite sure whether Herr Sachs was delivering subtle threats or seeking by flattery to restore his courier’s self-esteem. If it were the latter, he was failing. The one thing that was puzzling Kenton was why the man should be prepared to pay six hundred marks to a perfect stranger to carry the envelope to an hotel in Linz.

His curiosity on the point almost overrode his distaste for the role of hired mercenary to which he had committed himself. Sachs was very obviously afraid of something or someone—his spate of talk was like a nervous twitch—but of what or of whom? One thing, and one thing only, was clear. All this talk of securities, Jewish suspects and Nazi spies was sheer nonsense. Kenton had, in his time, interviewed some of the most agile liars in Europe. Herr Sachs was wretchedly unconvincing by comparison. But it was one thing to interpret a story correctly when you knew a little more than you should; it was quite another matter when you knew nothing at all about the story-teller or his probable motives. The whole business was very puzzling.

“The psychology,” Herr Sachs was saying, “is a strange work. I know many good psychologies.”

He nodded his head twice and wiped his nose.

“When I was in the foundries at Essen, there was a man who had such a psychology. Strange, you understand; bizarre. There are men who are small and humble and make one think they are always afraid. Hoff was like that—small and afraid. You have been in a foundry,
mein Herr
? No? It is a great thing to see. Thousands of kilogrammes of molten steel held in a great ladle swung from a gantry that moves slowly towards the moulds. Then the control operates
and the steel gushes out like blood from a pig. It is certainly to be seen.”

He closed his eyes reminiscently, then opened them suddenly, a look of horror on his face.

“But I am boring you,
mein Herr
. I am sorry, I regret it deeply.” He dissolved into contrition.

“No, no!” protested Kenton politely.

“You are too kind.” He patted Kenton on the knee. “I see you are a man after my own heart. We value the psychology. It is a great thing.”

Kenton said he thought so, too.

“The case of Hoff is very strange,” pursued Herr Sachs, “and also of great interest. Hoff it was who controlled the ladle. He was a good workman, for he obeyed perfectly the signs from those below, and kept good watch so that the casting was not spoiled. The foreman was named Bauer and he hated Hoff. There were those who said it was because of Hoff’s woman, and perhaps that was so, for she was good to look at and liked men; and Hoff, as I have said, was small and humble. Bauer always tried to make Hoff a fool. He would shout at him and speak against him to the manager; but he would never dismiss Hoff—only make his life in the foundry a bad thing. Other men would have gone away or grumbled; but Hoff only smiled in his nervous way and said that Bauer was really a good fellow. Some said that Hoff was a coward, but he only smiled and said that it did not matter. You, Herr Kenton, would perhaps have said that Hoff was a coward?”

“Such cases,” said Kenton tactfully, “are always difficult.”

Herr Sachs looked cunning.

“That is so. For myself, I have given much thought to the case of Hoff. But I will tell you the story,” he went on. “The affair was as I have said for many months. Then one day Bauer became angry and beat Hoff on the face with a steel rod. It was over a small matter; but it was the first time
that Bauer had struck Hoff. Some of the men wished to wait for Bauer and beat him, but Hoff still smiled his nervous smile and wiped the blood from his face, saying that it did not matter. The next day we were pouring some heavy castings and Hoff was controlling a ladle with over ten thousand kilos of metal. Bauer was by the moulds, waiting for the ladle to move overhead. The gantry moved slowly across and the men made ready below. Suddenly it stopped and they saw that the ladle was over Bauer’s head. It started to tilt. They shouted to Bauer, but that was too late. The next instant the metal poured. The men ran. Bauer only did not run. He cried out and fell to the floor screaming. Later that day, he died in hospital. Hoff said that the control gear was not good, and there were many who had hated Bauer to swear it was an accident. But the control gear was good.” He beamed. “So, Herr Kenton, Hoff was not a coward, you see.”

“Then what was he?” Kenton could not help asking the question.

“Hoff,” said Sachs with a chuckle, “was clever, very clever. To wait, to smile, to be afraid, to be humble to those who pry, and then to strike—that is to be clever.” He became suddenly serious. The brown eyes narrowed, his lips tightened and drew back slightly, showing his teeth. “It was good, that moment, when Bauer looked up and saw death coming to meet him—from the hand of the poor fool Hoff. In that last second before the metal got him, Bauer knew; one could see that he knew.” Herr Sachs began to laugh. “It was a good revenge and Hoff was very clever. Do you not think so, Herr Kenton?”

“Yes, very.”

“To wait, to smile, and then—to strike,” said Sachs; “that is a good psychology.”

He smiled complacently. Then, with a sudden movement, he wiped the mist off a patch of window and peered through.
“There are lights on the Danube,” he said; “soon we shall be at Linz.”

“But, Herr Sachs,” said Kenton thoughtfully, “you haven’t told me what happened to Hoff’s woman. That, I think, would be even more interesting to learn.”

For a moment he thought that the other had not heard him. Then Sachs raised his head. His eyes as they met Kenton’s held a strange light.

“Hoff’s woman, ah, yes,” he said slowly. “Soon afterwards she, too, died.” The words came slower. “There was an accident with some acid. Her face was hurt—it was merciful that she died—merciful. But sad for Hoff, for he was there at the time, and there was much prying and probing and lying.”

Kenton saw that his eyes had wandered to the corridor.

“A curious affair,” he murmured.

But Herr Sachs seemed to have lost interest in the matter and did not answer. Having licked the fingers of both hands, he started smoothing long wisps of straight black hair over a bald patch on the top of his head. Then he put on his hat, buttoned up the collar of his overcoat so that it concealed his mouth and nose, hauled his battered case from the rack and announced that he was ready.

“The Hotel Josef,” he said, “is near to the river, beyond the
Weinzinger
in the old town. You will find it. But please to delay half an hour before you come. I have business to attend to before that.”

Kenton nodded.

“Good. I trust you, Herr Kenton, as I would my own mother. You will be there and I will give you the money I have promised. I, too, am to be trusted. You shall see. Please,” he added, “to see if the corridor is empty.”

On Kenton’s assuring him that the coast was clear, he scuttled down the corridor to the exit. When, some three minutes later, the train drew into Linz, Herr Sachs was out
and away before it had come to a standstill. Kenton, from the compartment, watched him picking his way round some piles of packing-cases until the shadows hid him. Then he saw another figure move into the light for a moment and disappear after Sachs. Kenton paused for a moment as he prepared to leave and then shrugged. Nazi spy or no, the man with the small eyes and unwholesome face had to leave the station with the rest of the passengers. The fact that he was following Sachs meant nothing. He picked up his suitcase and left the train.

Few things are more dispiriting than the railway station of a strange town in the early hours of the morning. As Kenton walked along the platform, he vowed that, whether he could afford it or not, he would spend the night in a comfortable bed. The sky was starry and it was horribly cold. Somewhere behind him a man was coughing ceaselessly and the sound depressed him.

He found an open café near the station, went inside and ordered coffee.

It is said that at two o’clock in the morning man’s vitality is at its lowest ebb; that it is during those dark hours that suicides reach the nadir of desolation, where thought and action meet and triggers are pulled. It may be so. For Kenton, the minutes that passed while his coffee grew cold enough to drink were among the most dismal he had ever spent. Here was he, nearly thirty years of age, a comparatively responsible member of a dignified profession, throwing his money away like an undergraduate, and having to accept dubious commissions from unknown men with murderous “psychologies” and fire-arms in their pockets. He elaborated the theme. Supposing he had been caught at the frontier? Well, that would have served him right. It had got to stop. He would discharge his end of the bargain he had made, collect his money, go straight back to Berlin and get
down to some real work. Meanwhile, there was the envelope. He took it from his pocket and examined it.

It was made of cheap grey paper and was stuck down firmly. There was no writing on it and the usual dark paper lining of Continental envelopes fulfilled its purpose by preventing him from seeing anything by holding the envelope against the light. He felt the contents carefully. He was unfamiliar with the shape and feel of engraved scrip, but it occurred to him that the bundle of paper inside was too stiff and resilient for the purpose.

He put the envelope back in his pocket, drank his coffee and smoked a cigarette. Then, having left his suitcase with the café proprietor, he set out for the Hotel Josef.

The first part of the journey took him through wide streets plentifully scarred with examples of that brand of baroque architecture of which Austrians are so strangely proud. Then, as, after crossing a narrow steel bridge over the river, he made his way towards the landing-stages—the “port” of Linz—the streets became narrow and squalid. A solitary policeman of whom he inquired the way looked suspicious and directed him down a series of dark and deserted alleyways. He came at last to a short street of old houses. About half-way down it, a dimly lit box sign announced that rooms with two beds were to be had at the Hotel Josef for five
schillings
. He was twenty minutes late; but he had arrived.

The entrance to the Hotel Josef was not imposing. Two worn stone steps led up to a narrow door. The top half of this was of frosted glass from which the words “Hotel Josef,” in black paint, had begun to peel. A glimmer of light showed through the glass. Kenton pushed the door open and walked in.

He found himself in a narrow passage. On the left was a small counter set in a shallow alcove and labelled
“AUSKUNFT.”
On the right a letter and key rack hung on the wall. The fact that most of the keys were in their places seemed to indicate that the Hotel Josef was not doing a roaring trade.