Kindling (13 page)

They walked up to the hospital. At the gates she turned towards him as they said good-bye.

“Mr. Warren,” she said. “You’re serious about this? You’re really trying to start something here again—after all these years?”

He met her eyes. “I’m serious enough,” he said. “If I could get this yard cracking again I’d be a very happy man. But whether I can do it—that’s another matter.”

“It’s good to hear that much,” she said quietly. “The
only thing that I can do is wish you all the luck in the world.”

He changed his plans, and went back to London on a sleeper train. Next day was Sunday; he spent it going through the papers relating to the Laevatian Oil Development that Morgan had prepared for him. At the end of five hours’ work he had developed and increased his first suspicion that the thing was basically unsound.

It was, however, the one thing he had in sight that held out any prospect of orders for ships.

A
MONTH
later Warren arrived in Visgrad from Berlin by air, and went to the Hotel des Nations. The hall porter, with encyclopaedic memory, greeted him as an old friend.

He had met the Laevatian Commission in London in conference, not once, but four times. He had stated his terms courteously, but firmly, from the first. Three oil tankers, of ten thousand tons each, were to be built in England by a concern that he would nominate at a later stage. On that basis he would proceed to use his best endeavours to promote their issue on the London market.

They were grieved, and went away. They came back in a few days, and went away again; Warren sat quiet, and watched them go from house to house with their proposal. In that time of depression he had little fear that anyone would entertain it for a moment, without some powerful outside motive.

After the third meeting he lunched again with Colonel Mavrogadato. “I think it is very difficult, this business,” said the colonel. “It is M. Theopoulos. They are all afraid of what M. Theopoulos may say. M. Theopoulos will say that the ships must be built in Germany.”

He paused. “M. Theopoulos has had great kindness
from many German firms, on many occasions,” he said confidentially. “He was a poor man, as I am myself, when first he came to office. Now he is very wealthy, but—you understand—he does not make a display of his wealth. It is natural that he would not wish to disappoint his friends in Germany.”

Warren nodded slowly. He knew the Balkans. “M. Theopoulos will not be disappointed with our business,” he said. “You understand—one would not wish to talk of money with a man so highly placed. Has he no friend on the Commission with whom we could discuss the matter, and who could put it to him in the proper light?”

There was generally an agent in the background somewhere, to negotiate the bribe.

The colonel slammed his hands down on the table. “It is three times—no, four times—unfortunate,” he exclaimed. “M. Hassanein, it was arranged, should be of the Commission. He is married to the divorced wife of the brother of the wife to Mr. Theopoulos. But he fell ill, and was unable to accompany the Commission.”

“That is indeed unfortunate,” said Warren gravely.

Three days later he met the Commission again.

“It appears to me,” he said, “that a matter of such importance to your country can hardly be negotiated except in Visgrad, where it will be possible for you to consult with your Government at every stage. If the proposals of my group are such as to justify your further consideration, I would suggest that you invite me to wait upon you in Visgrad, to take the matter farther.”

They glanced at each other.

Mr. Potiscu, the chairman, said, “That we had intended to suggest. It will, perhaps, be better that you should meet with M. Theopoulos, and with M. Deleben, the Prime Minister. In that event, the Commission would return to Visgrad, via Paris, on Friday of the week after next.”

“I would not ask the Commission to wait so long on my account,” said Warren, a little tactlessly. “I am completely at your disposal.”

Mr. Potiscu looked a little pained. “There is a race of horses,” he explained. “Your Grand National …”

Warren smiled. “I should have thought of that,” he said. “It would give me infinite pleasure if the Commission would regard themselves as my guests for that day.”

He was forced to submit to the delay. He was able, however, to ensure that they did not tarry in Paris on the way home by presenting them with through tickets to Visgrad at fifty per cent discount, sending each member home happy with a few pounds extra gleaned from the expense account.

A few days later he followed them to Visgrad.

He knew the city well. It lay in a bowl of the hills, snow-capped to the south; the river ran beside it. It sprawled in Eastern fashion, indeterminately; a litter of mud-houses set upon bare earth, whitewashed and dazzling in the sun, flat-roofed. Olives clothed the surrounding hills with a grey sheen; in the city itself palm trees and oleanders lined the principal roads.

All this could be seen before you landed at the aerodrome. You stepped from the machine, and the
interminable formalities of entrance to Laevatia began. Dirty, unshaven soldiery in buttonless uniforms laid loaded rifles on the table with alarming insouciance, while they pawed your passport in a pretence at reading. Illiterate clerks asked interminable questions about the religion and habits of your grandparents; it was better to provide an answer, right or wrong. Fingerprints were taken, for the greater security of Laevatia against its enemies. And finally, a grudging permit was given to depart on the dusty seven-mile drive into the city.

The road wound from the aerodrome through olive woods, and an occasional village. Ox-carts impeded the way, yoked picturesquely to low, high-wheeled carts, in the villages the veiled women and the mosques added to the Eastern atmosphere; usually a very new church stood unused on the outskirts. In the country districts Laevatia was principally Mohammedan.

On the morning following his arrival, Warren visited the British Embassy. He left cards on the Minister and had a short talk with the Counsellor. Then he found himself in the office of the Commercial Secretary, a high, sunny room, with a window wide open on a garden full of lilac in bloom. Mr. Pennington received him cordially, and gave him a cigarette.

“We’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Warren,” he said. “From the Foreign Office, of course—but also here. Yes. When the Commission came back last week and old Potiscu reported, they had something like a free fight in the Cabinet over your visit. The Prime Minister was non-committal; he really prefers to do business with us. But Theopoulos went straight up in the air, of course. He made a speech in the Assembly about
you—I’ll let you have a copy, translated, this afternoon. The gist of it was that your proposals were an insult to a friendly nation—meaning Germany, of course.”

He paused. “Two representatives of the Hamburger Metallgeschellschaft arrived here the day before yesterday—Herren Braum and Linersoppe. They’re staying at your hotel.”

Warren asked, “What sort of a following has Theopoulos in the Assembly?”

“Not so strong—perhaps twenty per cent. But if things got too difficult it might create a split: in that case Theopoulos would leave the present Government—the People’s Party—and go to the Social Reform Party. They’ll very likely be the next Government.”

“When will that be?”

Mr. Pennington shrugged his shoulders. “We haven’t had a change of Government for some time. Perhaps next month—perhaps not for three years.” He considered for a moment. “Of course, your business might cause enough stir to change the Government, in itself.”

“It seems to me,” said Warren, “that first of all I’ve got to make a contact with Theopoulos. Unless I can get him sweet, I don’t think it looks so good.”

“I should say you’re right,” said the Commercial Secretary gravely. “But I’m afraid you’ve taken on something. The Germans have got him in their pocket, properly.”

“How would you set about it, if you were me?”

Mr. Pennington considered for a minute. “I’d get hold of the Prime Minister first,” he said, “old Deleben, and make him sweet. We might be able to help you
there a bit; the Minister’s pretty thick with the old boy. If you could get him on your side, at any rate you’d have a good representation in the Cabinet.”

He took Warren across the road, made him a member of the English Club, introduced him to the Military and Air Attachés, and gave him a pink gin.

Warren went back to his hotel, lunched thoughtfully, and spent a quiet hour in meditation afterwards. Then he wrote a short letter to the Prime Minister, asking for an interview.

He spent the remainder of the day in taking stock of his surroundings. Little seemed to have changed about the town since his last visit, three years previously. In the squares people sat in front of cafés with queer drinks of alcoholic aniseed. All serious business negotiation was still done in the long bar of his hotel, between the hours of seven and nine. He met the Military Attaché there and had a drink with him, dined alone, and went early to his bed.

Next morning he waited on the Prime Minister in the House of Assembly. He had not previously met M. Deleben, and found him amiable enough, a rotund, black-visaged little man. When out of office he was a lawyer in a small country town.

They talked in French for some time. Warren was told that the Commission, headed by M. Potiscu, would continue to function and to deal with the Oil Development. They were, of course, primarily answerable to M. Theopoulos, who would bring their decisions to the Cabinet.

“I had the honour of meeting Mr. Potiscu several times in London,” said Warren, who thought nothing
of him. “I feel that a more able man for the position could hardly have been chosen. M. Theopoulos I have not yet met.”

“That we must arrange,” said the Prime Minister.

“It will be indeed a pleasure,” said Warren. He thought for a moment. “It has occurred to me,” he continued, “that a matter of such importance to your country will naturally take a little time to negotiate. Such matters can hardly be hurried.”

“That is very true,” said the Prime Minister.

“It may be necessary that I should travel to England, or to Paris, before the matter is finally concluded—possibly more than once, in order to assist the business from our side. Such absences on my part may be very inconvenient to you, and that I wish to avoid. It is in my mind to employ an agent here in Visgrad, a confidential agent—you understand, a man of complete discretion, in whom you would have confidence.”

The little beady eyes were watching him intently. “Such agents are not very easy to find, Mr. Warren.”

Warren smiled. “If this were an easy matter,” he said smoothly, “I should not have troubled the Prime Minister of this country with it. On my side, I should be prepared to pay the highest fee for the services of the right man, on the assumption that the business should develop to our satisfaction. I realise that to employ the wrong man would be a disaster. It is because of this, and because of the importance of this matter to the State of Laevatia, that I have come to you.”

He met the little black eyes fixed on him in all innocence.

“Could you recommend to me the services of a good agent for this very delicate purpose?”

There was a silence in the room. At last the Laevatian arose, and Warren got up with him. “Such a matter would take much consideration, Mr. Warren,” he said. “Something may perhaps be arranged. I will think about it, and communicate with you at your hotel.”

“I shall be infinitely obliged,” said Warren.

He left the Assembly, and went over to the English Club. The Air Attaché introduced him to the Consul. The Consul stood him a drink. “I’ve read about you in the local papers,” he remarked. “Will you be here for long?”

“Six months,” said the Air Attaché. “It’ll take him that long to appreciate the—er—atmosphere they do business in out here.”

Warren raised his glass. “You forget,” he said gravely, “that I know a little bit about the atmosphere. I’ve been out here before.”

The Air Attaché grinned. “I’ll come to you for a course of lectures. If you can tell me how to get our aircraft in.… Though why we want to get our aircraft into a dud place like this beats me.”

“Member of the League,” said the Consul gravely. “Horse, foot, guns,
and
aeroplanes all march to our assistance when we get attacked.”

“Like hell they will,” said the Attaché.

Warren returned to his hotel for lunch. In the middle of the afternoon the porter brought a note to him in the lounge.

“For m’sieur,” he said. “Delivered by a messenger.”

“Thank you,” said Warren, and dismissed the man. He went up to his bedroom, sat down on his bed, and opened it. Inside there was a single sentence written in precise, clerkly characters upon a single sheet of blank paper, unsigned. It read:

He sat for a time waving it to and fro between his fingers, deep in thought. Then he copied the name and address into his diary, put a match to the paper and destroyed it.

He rang up the Commercial Secretary from his bedroom. “Can I come round and have a cup o’ tea?” he inquired.

“Never touch it,” said Mr. Pennington. “It doesn’t taste right out here. But come round, by all means.”

In the lilac-scented office Warren asked:

“Who is Mr. Petre Vislan, who lives at Amontadeo 4?”

“Search me,” said Mr. Pennington. “But I’ll find out for you.”

“How long would that take?”

The Secretary looked at his watch. “Couple of hours, perhaps. Let you know all we can find out about him by then.” He hesitated. “I could ring up the Chief of the Civic Guard, of course, and probably tell you at once. But perhaps you’d rather not do that?”

“It might be better not to worry them,” said Warren considerately.

“All right. Is he an official?”

“I know literally nothing about him.”

Mr. Pennington nodded. “I’ll do what I can. You’re in the Hotel des Nations? I’ll look in there at cocktail-time—about seven, and tell you what I can.”