The Man from St. Petersburg (30 page)

“Good!” said Walden.

Thomson sat down. “You’ll remember that I put a man in his old basement room in Cork Street, just in case he should go back there.”

“I remember,” Walden said.

“He did go back there. When he left, my man followed him.”

“Where did he go?”

“To Liverpool Street station.” Thomson paused. “And he bought a ticket to Waldenhall Halt.”

THIRTEEN

W
alden went cold.

His first thought was for Charlotte. She was vulnerable there: the bodyguards were concentrating on Aleks, and she had nobody to protect her but the servants. How could I have been so stupid? he thought.

He was nearly as worried for Aleks. The boy was almost like a son to Walden. He thought he was safe in Walden’s home—and now Feliks was on his way there, with a gun or a bomb, to kill him, and perhaps Charlotte too, and sabotage the treaty—

Walden burst out: “Why the devil haven’t you stopped him?”

Thomson said mildly: “I don’t think it’s a good idea for one man alone to go up against our friend Feliks, do you? We’ve seen what he can do against several men. He seems not to care about his own life. My chappie has instructions to follow him and report.”

“It’s not enough—”

“I
know
, my lord,” Thomson interrupted.

Churchill said: “Let us be calm, gentlemen. At least we know where the fellow is. With all the resources of His Majesty’s Government at our disposal we shall catch him. What do you propose, Thomson?”

“As a matter of fact I’ve already done it, sir. I spoke by telephone with the chief constable of the county. He will have a large detachment of men waiting at Waldenhall Halt to arrest Feliks as he gets off the train. Meanwhile, in case anything should go wrong, my chappie will stick to him like glue.”

“That won’t do,” Walden said. “Stop the train and arrest him before he gets anywhere near my home.”

“I did consider that,” Thomson said. “The dangers outweigh the advantages. Much better to let him go on thinking he’s safe, then catch him unawares.”

Churchill said: “I agree.”

“It’s not your home!” Walden said.

“You’re going to have to leave this to the professionals,” Churchill said.

Walden realized he could not overrule them. He stood up. “I shall motor to Walden Hall immediately. Will you come, Thomson?”

“Not tonight. I’m going to arrest the Callahan woman. Once we’ve caught Feliks, we have to mount a prosecution, and she may be our chief witness. I’ll come down tomorrow to interrogate Feliks.”

“I don’t know how you can be so confident,” Walden said angrily.

“We’ll catch him this time,” Thomson said.

“I hope to God you’re right.”

The train steamed into the falling evening. Feliks watched the sun setting over the English wheatfields. He was not young enough to take mechanical transport for granted: he still found traveling by train almost magical. The boy who had walked in clogs across the muddy Russian meadows could not have dreamed this.

He was alone in the carriage but for a young man, who seemed intent on reading every line of this evening’s
Pall Mall Gazette.
Feliks’s mood was almost gay. Tomorrow morning he would see Charlotte. How fine she would look on a horse, with the wind streaming through her hair. They would be working together. She would tell him where Orlov’s room was, where he was to be found at different times of the day. She would help him get hold of a weapon.

It was her letter that had made him so cheerful, he realized. She was on
his
side now, come what may. Except—

Except that he had told her he was going to kidnap Orlov. Each time he recalled this he wanted to squirm in his seat. He tried to put it out of his mind, but the thought was like an itch that could not be ignored and had to be scratched. Well, he thought, what is to be done? I must begin to prepare her for the news, at least. Perhaps I should tell her that I am her father. What a shock it will be.

For a moment he was tempted by the idea of going away, vanishing and never seeing her again, leaving her in peace. No, he thought; that is not her destiny, nor is it mine.

I wonder what my destiny
is,
after the killing of Orlov. Shall I die? He shook his head, as if he could get rid of the thought like shaking off a fly. This was no time for gloom. He had plans to make.

How will I kill Orlov? There will be guns to steal in an earl’s country house: Charlotte can tell me where they are, or bring me one. Failing that there will be knives in the kitchen. And I have my bare hands.

He flexed his fingers.

Will I have to go into the house, or will Orlov come out? Shall I do it by day or by night? Shall I kill Walden, too? Politically the death of Walden would make no difference, but I should like to kill him anyway. So it’s personal—so what?

He thought again of Walden catching the bottle. Don’t underestimate that man, he told himself.

I must be careful that Charlotte has an alibi—no one must ever know she helped me.

The train slowed down and entered a little country station. Feliks tried to recall the map he had looked at in Liverpool Street station. He seemed to remember that Waldenhall Halt was the fourth station after this one.

His traveling companion at last finished the
Pall Mall Gazette
and put it down on the seat beside him. Feliks decided that he could not plan the assassination until he had seen the lay of the land, so he said: “May I read your newspaper?”

The man seemed startled. Englishmen did not speak to strangers on trains, Feliks recalled. “By all means,” the man said.

Feliks had learned that this phrase meant yes. He picked up the paper. “Thank you.”

He glanced at the headlines. His companion stared out of the window, as if embarrassed. He had the kind of facial hair that had been fashionable when Feliks was a boy. Feliks tried to remember the English word … “side-whiskers,” that was it.

Side-whiskers.

Did you want your room back? I’ve let it to another fellow, but I’ll chuck him out—he’s got side-whiskers, and I never could abide side-whiskers.

And now Feliks recalled that this man had been behind him in the queue at the ticket office.

He felt a stab of fear.

He held the newspaper in front of his face in case his thoughts should show in his expression. He made himself think calmly and clearly. Something Bridget had said had made the police suspicious enough to place a watch on her house. They had done that by the simple means of having a detective live in the room Feliks had vacated. The detective had seen Feliks call, had recognized him and had followed him to the station. Standing behind Feliks in the queue, he had heard him ask for Waldenhall Halt and bought himself a ticket to the same destination. Then he had boarded the train along with Feliks.

No, not quite. Feliks had sat in the train for ten minutes or so before it pulled out. The man with the side-whiskers had jumped aboard at the last minute. What had he been doing in those few missing minutes?

He had probably made a phone call.

Feliks imagined the conversation as the detective sat in the stationmaster’s office speaking into a telephone:

“The anarchist returned to the house in Cork Street, sir. I’m following him now.”

“Where are you?”

“At Liverpool Street station. He bought a ticket to Waldenhall Halt. He’s on the train now.”

“Has it left?”

“Not for another … seven minutes.”

“Are there any police in the station?”

“Just a couple of bobbies.”

“It’s not enough … This man is dangerous.”

“I can have the train delayed while you get a team down here.”

“Our anarchist might get suspicious and bolt for it. No. You stay with him …”

And what, Feliks wondered, would they do then? They could either take him off the train somewhere along the route or wait to catch him at Waldenhall Halt.

Either way he had to get off the train, fast.

What to do about the detective? He must be left behind, on the train, unable to give the alarm, so that Feliks would have time to get clear.

I could tie him up, if I had anything to tie him with, Feliks thought. I could knock him out if I had something heavy and hard to hit him with. I could strangle him, but that would take time, and someone might see. I could throw him off the train, but I want to leave him on the train …

The train began to slow down. They might be waiting for me at the next station, he thought. I wish I had a weapon. Does the detective have a gun? I doubt it. I could break the window and use a shard of glass to cut his throat—but that would surely draw a crowd.

I must get off the train.

A few houses could be seen alongside the railway track. They were coming into a village or a small town. The brakes of the train squealed, and a station slid into view. Feliks watched intently for signs of a police trap. The platform appeared empty. The locomotive shuddered to a halt with a hiss of steam.

People began to get off. A handful of passengers walked past Feliks’s window, heading for the exit: a family with two small children, a woman with a hatbox, a tall man in tweeds.

I could hit the detective, he thought, but it’s so hard to knock somebody unconscious with just your fists.

The police trap could be at the next station. I must get off now. A whistle blew.

Feliks stood up.

The detective looked startled.

Feliks said: “Is there a toilet on the train?”

The detective was thrown by this. “Er … sure to be,” he said.

“Thank you.” He doesn’t know whether to believe me, Feliks thought.

He stepped out of the compartment and into the corridor.

He ran to the end of the carriage. The train chuffed and jerked forward. Feliks looked back. The detective poked his head out of the compartment. Feliks went into the toilet and came back out again. The detective was still watching. The train moved a little faster. Feliks went to the carriage door. The detective came running.

Feliks turned back and punched him full in the face. The blow stopped the detective in his tracks. Feliks hit him again, in the stomach. A woman screamed. Feliks got him by the coat and dragged him into the toilet. The detective struggled and threw a wild punch, which caught Feliks in the ribs and made him gasp. He got the detective’s head in his hands and banged it against the edge of the washbasin. The train picked up speed. Feliks banged the detective’s head again, and then again. The man went limp. Feliks dropped him and stepped out of the toilet. He went to the door and opened it. The train was moving at running speed. A woman at the other end of the corridor watched him, white-faced. Feliks jumped. The door banged shut behind him. He landed running. He stumbled and regained his balance. The train moved on, faster and faster.

Feliks walked to the exit.

“You left it a bit late,” said the ticket man.

Feliks nodded and handed over his ticket.

“This ticket takes you three more stations,” the ticket man said.

“I changed my mind at the last minute.”

There was a squeal of brakes. They both looked along the track. The train was stopping: someone had pulled the emergency brake. The ticket man said: “Here, what’s going on?”

Feliks forced himself to shrug unconcernedly. “Search me,” he said. He wanted to run, but that would be the worst thing he could do.

The ticket man hovered, torn between his suspicion of Feliks and his concern for the train. Finally he said, “You wait here,” and ran along the platform. The train stopped a couple of hundred yards out of the station. Feliks watched the ticket man run to the end of the platform and down on to the embankment.

He looked around. He was alone. He walked briskly out of the station and into the town.

A few minutes later a car with three policemen in it went past him at top speed, heading for the station.

On the outskirts of the town Feliks climbed over a gate and went into a wheatfield, where he lay down to wait for nightfall.

The big Lanchester roared up the drive to Walden Hall. All the lights were on in the house. A uniformed policeman stood at the door, and another was patrolling, sentry-fashion, along the terrace. Pritchard brought the car to a halt. The policeman at the entrance stood to attention and saluted. Pritchard opened the car door and Walden got out.

Mrs. Braithwaite, the housekeeper, came out of the house to greet him. “Good evening, my lord.”

“Hello, Mrs. Braithwaite. Who’s here?”

“Sir Arthur is in the drawing room with Prince Orlov.”

Walden nodded and they entered the house together. Sir Arthur Langley was the Chief Constable and an old school friend of Walden’s.

“Have you dined, my lord?” said Mrs. Braithwaite.

“No.”

“Perhaps a piece of game pie, and a bottle of burgundy?”

“I leave it to you.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Mrs. Braithwaite went away and Walden entered the drawing room. Aleks and Sir Arthur were leaning on the mantelpiece with brandy glasses in their hands. Both wore evening dress.

Sir Arthur said: “Hello, Stephen. How are you?”

Walden shook his hand. “Did you catch the anarchist?”

“I’m afraid he slipped through our fingers—”

“Damnation!” Walden exclaimed. “I was afraid of that! No one would listen to me.” He remembered his manners, and shook hands with Aleks. “I don’t know what to say to you, dear boy—you must think we’re a lot of fools.” He turned back to Sir Arthur. “What the devil happened, anyway?”

“Feliks hopped off the train at Tingley.”

“Where was Thomson’s precious detective?”

“In the toilet with a broken head.”

“Marvelous,” Walden said bitterly. He slumped into a chair.

“By the time the town constabulary had been roused, Feliks had melted away.”

“He’s on his way here—do you realize that?”

“Yes, of course,” said Sir Arthur in a soothing tone.

“Your men should be instructed that next time he is sighted he’s to be shot.”

“Ideally, yes—but of course they don’t have guns.”

“They damn well should have!”

“I think you’re right, but public opinion—”

“Before we discuss that, tell me what is being done.”

“Very well. I’ve got five patrols covering the roads between here and Tingley.”

“They won’t see him in the dark.”

“Perhaps not, but at least their presence will slow him down, if not stop him altogether.”

“I doubt it. What else?”