Codeword Golden Fleece (40 page)

‘Why not come back with me and get some sleep yourself? There’ll be time for you to see about a taxi in the morning.’

‘No. I may have to steal one, and that will be easier during the night. I don’t feel like sleep, anyhow.’

‘Then let me come with you. I can keep cave while you pinch the chariot.’

‘I’d rather you got some rest, Simon. You need much more sleep than I do. I shall manage quite well on my own.’

‘Well, just as you like. It’s been a pretty tiring day, and I’ll be glad to get a shut-eye. You sure, though, that there’s no other way of getting this thing to Sir Reginald? Couldn’t we post it, or send it by special messenger?’

‘No. Sir Reginald warned me himself that the postal clearing centres are full of Iron Guard people whose job it is to tap all letters to the Foreign Legations that look as though they might be interesting. As for a special messenger, this thing is so darned important that I wouldn’t care to trust its delivery to anyone except one of ourselves.’

‘Couldn’t we telephone Sir Reginald? Ask him to come out and meet us somewhere?’

‘If the mail is tapped you can be pretty certain that his telephone is too. We don’t want to draw him into some hornets’ nest where he may get shot as we hand the Golden Fleece over to him.’

‘Then let’s send him a message by hand, asking him to meet us.’

De Richleau shook his head stubbornly. ‘We daren’t, Simon. It’s not as though we had only a few German agents to be wary about. We are up against an organisation thousands strong, this time, and we now have the police on our track into the bargain. Some of them may recognise and pick us up any time after daylight tomorrow. Apart from that, if Sir Reginald goes out they will almost certainly tail him in the hope that he will lead them to us. In either case, a lot of people that we have never even seen may start shooting at us without a moment’s warning. We must not risk bringing Sir Reginald into such great danger. Many of these Iron Guards are real pro-Nazi hot-heads. They are quite capable of jumping at the chance to shoot him and pretending that it was a mistake afterwards.’

‘Looks as if there’s nothing else for it, then.’ Simon shrugged. ‘Well, I’ll get along. See you at the west door of the Cathedral at eleven-thirty. For goodness’ sake take care of yourself. We’d be lost without you.’

‘It was I who was very nearly lost without you, tonight,’ laughed the Duke. ‘I really am beginning to lose my grip. By Jove, though! That was a true word spoken in jest, if ever there was one. I haven’t given a thought yet to our line of retreat, and there will be no time to discuss that tomorrow morning.’

‘Should have thought of it myself,’ murmured Simon. ‘We could drive the taxi out into the country, abandon it as soon as
its description as a stolen car is likely to be given out, then go native for a bit in some small town.’

The Duke considered for a moment, then he said: ‘We don’t want to be stuck in Rumania for longer than we can help; and wherever we abandon the taxi the local search will get pretty hot for us. I think we would do better to try to get over the frontier into Bulgaria right away.’

‘Well, there’s only road and rail; and it’s certain that they’ll watch the stations for us.’

‘Wait! I think your saying there’s “only road and rail” has given me an inspiration. There is also the river.’

‘Then they’ll watch the Port, too.’

‘I doubt it. Small steamers ply down the Arieshu to the Danube, but no foreigner would ordinarily travel by such a route; and as the boats call at all the little river villages no criminal would normally choose such a slow method of getting away from the capital. While you are buying your nun’s outfit tomorrow morning Rex can make enquiries. Ask him to find out the times of the sailings and take three tickets for us on the first boat that leaves after one o’clock tomorrow. If we succeed in our job at the Legation we will go straight back to the Peppercorn and pick him up there.’

Having settled these details, they wished each other luck again and, on reaching the next corner, separated.

After walking for five minutes, Simon picked up another
droshky
and drove in it down to the Dambovita. When he entered the hotel, its proprietor was still up, having only just put out the lights of the little bar that opened into the small square hallway. He was a fat, dyspeptic-looking man with a crop of close, dark, greasy curls.

With an unfriendly, suspicious look he pointed at the cuff of Simon’s shirt, and said something in Rumanian.

Glancing down, Simon saw that his cuff was heavily stained with von Geisenheim’s blood.

Without waiting for a reply, the landlord tapped his own left arm, held it up as though it were in a sling, then pointed at the ceiling. Obviously he was referring to Rex, whom he must have seen come into the hotel half an hour or so earlier.

Simon did some quick thinking, then raised his elbow and his right hand, half-open, as though he had a glass in it, thus making a pantomime of drinking. Next, he started to sway about, then struck out with his first at the empty air.

The landlord relaxed a little, taking it, as he was intended to do, that they had been mixed up in a drunken brawl. Such episodes were common enough down in the dock area, but he was still not altogether satisfied, as he now pointed at Simon’s hat.

Simon had forgotten for the moment that he was wearing the black hat trimmed with red fox fur traditional among the Jews of the Bukovina. All his outer clothes, and Rex’s, were different and of a considerably lower social level from those they had been wearing when they had arrived at the hotel the previous evening.

He tried to think of a suitable excuse for this change, which had clearly raised the landlord’s suspicions; but with no common language between them it would have been difficult to put over a plausible story, even if he could have thought of one. His imagination failing him, he resorted to that universal language which has so often averted unwelcome suspicions. Taking out his pocket-book, he laid a Rumanian bank-note high enough in value to pay for a week’s keep on the ink-stained desk, put his finger to his lips, his hand on his heart and smiled confidingly.

The Rumanian pocketed the note without the least hesitation, but he did not smile in reply. Merely shrugging his broad shoulders, he jerked his thumb towards the stairs and turned away, apparently placated.

They had managed to get two rooms adjoining, a single one for the Duke and a double which the other two were sharing. Rex had washed his wound and roughly rebandaged it before going to bed; he was still awake.

While Simon adjusted the bandage properly he told him of his brush with the surly landlord and outlined the Duke’s plans for the next day. Then he undressed, got into bed and put out the light. Within a few minutes they were both asleep.

Next morning they went out soon after nine on their respective assignments and met again in their bedroom at the Peppercorn an hour later.

Rex had ascertained that the little river steamers left their jetty twice daily, at nine o’clock in the morning and three in the afternoon. Tickets were not necessary, as they were not unduly crowded, and fares were collected on board. Simon had emptied their suitcase to take with him, and it now contained the robe and coif of a nun of one of the Greek Church Orders.

Had it been any male form of disguise he would have changed into it in a public lavatory, but he could not possibly go into one
for men and come out of it dressed as a nun, so he could think of no alternative but to bring it back to the hotel and change there.

‘Hope to goodness that nosy landlord doesn’t see me going out,’ he said nervously, as he struggled into the unaccustomed garments.

‘I’ll beetle down before you,’ Rex volunteered. ‘You wait on the bend of the stairs, and when I cough you’ll know it’s all okey-doke. Sit tight till I do, then beat it across that hall for all you’re worth.’

A few minutes later he wished Simon luck and walked heavily downstairs. The landlord was not about, so, having had a good look round, Rex coughed loudly.

Simon came down the stairs at a run, forgot to hold up his skirt, tripped on it and took a header into the hallway.

At the noise of his fall the door leading to the kitchen was pulled sharply open, and the landlord stood there gasping with amazement, while Simon scrambled awkwardly to his feet.

Looking at Rex and pointing at Simon, the landlord burst into a torrent of Rumanian which, from its tone, was clearly protest mingled with abuse.

Simon did not stay to listen but, red in the face with rage and mortification, picked up his skirts and ran out into the street.

Rex could only pretend that he thought the whole matter a terrific joke. Roaring with laughter, he clapped the landlord on the shoulder, and pointing after Simon gave way to positive shouts of faked hilarity.

The landlord did not appear to see the joke. First he scowled darkly, then he shot a series of staccato questions at Rex, but as Rex could not understand a word he said he threw up his hands in disgust and made to turn away. But Rex caught him by the shoulder and pronounced the only Rumanian word he knew: ‘
Tuică
—two,
deux, zwei grosser
.’

This the fat man understood, and going to the bar he fetched out the bottle and two glasses. It was fiery stuff, but Rex drank it down without batting an eyelid. The landlord drank his with the unconcern of a professional but he became no more genial and after a few minutes reached for the telephone.

Rex refilled the glasses, and they drank again, then he paid for the drinks with a useful note and waved aside the change. But his sop to soothe the landlord’s ruffled feelings came too late.
He could not know it, but the man had already telephoned for the police.

Simon, meanwhile, had got himself a
droshky
, and was driving in it to the Cathedral. When he arrived there, he found that there was still twenty minutes to go before the time of his appointment. The only thing to do seemed to be to enter the building, although he was extremely troubled about doing so as he had no idea at all what sort of procedure an Orthodox nun would follow in it.

Walking as sedately as he could, he took a chair behind one of the pillars and knelt down there. The trappings of the building were magnificent in the extreme and far outdid the average Roman Catholic Cathedral in their splendour. He wished that he could walk round and examine some of the old Byzantine paintings at his leisure, but he did not dare to do so from fear of coming face to face with some of the priests.

Kneeling there he had ample opportunity to consider the fact that in less than an hour’s time he might well be dead. It was pretty certain that by this time somebody would have come across von Geisenheim and the Attaché. The German Legation would give the Rumanian authorities no peace until they received satisfaction for this brutal assault on one of their leading Generals, so all the best brains in the Bucharest police would now be exerting themselves to trace and catch his attackers. But, far worse, the whole Iron Guard organisation would have received urgent orders to hunt for them. And if they were caught it would be no mere matter of being deported this time. The men who had shot Calinesco yesterday would not hesitate to shoot them today. And it was probably that very bunch of assassins who had been posted outside the British Legation, as the most likely place at which von Geisenheim’s assailants might appear. And he, Simon, was just about to go there. If he were recognised, or even if they questioned him—and they were probably questioning everybody who attempted to get into the place—that would be the end. Simon’s mouth was so dry that he found he could not swallow, and he choked loudly into his outspread hands.

The wait seemed interminable, but at last he felt that sufficient time must have elapsed for the Duke now to be at his post; so he got to his feet, tripped over his robe again, just managed to smother a curse of fright, dipped awkwardly before the altar, said a swift, agonised prayer, and made his way as calmly as he could to the west door.

Outside there was a solitary, yellow-painted taxi. Its driver, a peaked cap pulled well down over his eyes, lounged at the wheel. His heart pounding under his ribs, Simon approached. The driver did not even appear to see him until he was within two paces of the cab; then, raising himself a little, he swung open the door and murmured quietly:

‘Good morning, Simon. In you get.’

The sound of de Richleau’s well-loved voice restored Simon’s nerve a little. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he breathed, as he got in. ‘Did you get this without any trouble?’

The Duke swung the door to without looking behind him, as casually as if he were a taximan born and bred, then started up the engine, and his voice came back through the half-open glass partition:

‘Yes. I had no trouble at all. I bought the clothes first, then simply went to a rank and drove this taxi off while its owner was in a little eating-place having his breakfast.

‘Look on the seat beside you,’ he went on, after a moment. ‘There’s a small fat packet there. That’s the Golden Fleece. For goodness’ sake don’t drop it. Better put it in your pocket.’

Simon had already seen the packet. Picking it up with a trembling hand, he secreted it safely under his robe. Then he leant forward as though to give directions to his driver.

‘Rex’s wound doesn’t seem too bad, but he’s going to see a doctor and have it properly dressed while we’re doing our stuff. I’m a bit worried about the landlord at the hotel, though. Surly sort of chap. He saw that I had blood on my clothes last night, and I’m afraid he spotted that it was me going out dressed up as a nun this morning.’

‘Plenty of time to think of “crossing the Vistula …”,’quoted the Duke cheerfully. He seemed in a high good humour this morning and Simon felt with no little envy that he had never had greater reason to admire his courage.

‘Got your gun handy?’ sang out de Richleau a few minutes later. ‘We’re coming up to the Rhine. Just walk forward looking at the pavement. Don’t take any notice if anyone speaks to you. Remember you are a nun. Just side-step politely and walk on. If they question me and I am recognised, that may start the shooting. Just look round once as though you were scared, then run like hell for the Legation gate, as if you were dashing for cover. If the worst happens and they tackle you, try to throw the packet into the Legation garden. If you have to use your gun
shoot to kill, but don’t fire unless it is at somebody barring your way to the Legation gate. If you have to run for it before you can get near enough to throw the packet over the wall your job is to try to get away with it. Don’t try to help me, whatever sort of mess I may be in. Pull up your skirts and run as though all the devils in Hell were after you. Here we go.
Bonne chance
, Simon!’