Background to Danger (22 page)

“Ortega being the owner of my hat and coat,” put in Kenton.

“If you’re going to interrupt …”

“Sorry.”

“Ortega was told to steal the photographs. He exceeded his instructions. When he got to the Hotel Josef he stabbed Borovansky. He said Borovansky pulled a gun but he was probably lying. Ortega, you see,
liked
stabbing people. He once worked in a slaughter-house in Ceuta. He may have acquired the taste for it there.”

“Sachs did have a gun in a holster under his arm. It was gone when I found him.”

“Ortega took it. What he didn’t take was the photographs. You had them. Anyhow, Ortega got out of the back entrance and went to Kölnerstrasse 11. Rashenko arranged to hide him in an empty room on the floor below.
The next thing that happened was that the police got on to you. Now that was awkward because, while I’m no sentimentalist, I’m not quite the man you evidently think me. I didn’t much like the idea of a man being run for a killing he didn’t do. So I persuaded Master Ortega to write and sign a confession.”

“Just asked him kindly if he’d mind signing a life sentence for himself in an Austrian prison, I suppose?” said Kenton unpleasantly.

Zaleshoff bounded to his feet with a roar of anger.

“Tamara,” he snarled, “tell this reporter, this—this bum scribbler, that when he’s ready to listen I’m ready to talk.”

“All right, all right,” said Kenton hastily, “no offence meant. I was just asking.”

“I’m not asking you to ask,” said Zaleshoff violently, “just telling you to listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, all right then. Only listen and don’t make any more dumb cracks.”

“Sorry.”

“Ortega confessed because he darn’ well had to and because it didn’t matter a nickel to him either way. He’s wanted for murder in Lisbon and I threatened to turn him in for extradition unless he confessed to killing Borovansky. Naturally, I didn’t tell him why I wanted the confession. He thought it was because we wanted another screw to turn on him in the future. Besides, what’s one conviction more or less to a guy like that. He may be wanted in Spain too, for all I know. Both Portugal and Austria have abolished the death sentence for murder and he couldn’t be in two prisons at once, so what the hell? Anyhow, I’d got his confession ready to use if things got hot for you. The difficulty was this. I had work to do. If you were arrested you’d certainly tell your little story and that might be inconvenient at present. If I’d fixed it for Ortega to be taken he’d have spilled
his
story too with a bit added on. When Rashenko telephoned that you’d gone, my first idea was that you’d decided to give yourself up. It was lucky for you you didn’t. You’d have been in a nasty jam and made it difficult for me to help you. The police don’t like having to do any more thinking once they’ve got what they’ve decided is their man. But Rashenko said you were coming to Prague and that as I’d not told him to keep you there by force he’d let you go and given you Ortega’s things as well. If he’d thought there was a possibility of your going to the police, he’d have put a bullet in you before he’d have let you go; but he’s fairly shrewd when it comes to weighing people up, and he reckoned you were telling the truth about going to Prague. The only thing he didn’t spot was the bloodstain on that sleeve. When I told him about it on the telephone he nearly threw a fit. I must say I was a little anxious until you arrived. I suppose you realise that it was that stain on your sleeve that enabled those two men to pick you up at the station?”

“How does Rashenko talk on the telephone if he’s dumb?”

“He’s got a special signalling arrangement hooked up.”

“Hm! I still don’t see why he had to give me Ortega’s things.”

Zaleshoff sighed noisily.

“Because, my dear Mr. Kenton, it would have been too dangerous to buy them in a shop in a town the size of Linz. The police, you know, are not complete fools.”

“Well, well, and what’s the next move? I suppose I’m expected to hang about here until you’re ready to tell the Austrian police that I’m innocent.”

“That’s right,” said Zaleshoff blandly, “although, of course, it won’t be quite as simple as that. Ortega must be discovered in suitable circumstances. There must be no question of myself or Rashenko becoming involved. In any case, Rashenko will have to move his quarters.”

“Why?”

Zaleshoff did not answer.

“I suppose,” said Kenton, “that wouldn’t be because I know where he lives?”

“Another drink, Mr. Kenton?”

“Thanks. You’re a cold-blooded devil, aren’t you, Andreas? This man Ortega may be a lousy cut-throat, but I don’t quite like the idea of handing him over to the police with a confession he wrote to save himself.”

Zaleshoff operated the syphon.

“Very fussy all of a sudden, aren’t you? A little while ago you were cracking on about the injustice of their accusing you. Now that there’s a fair prospect of your seeing justice done, you don’t like it.” He turned to the girl. “That, Tamara, is a typical piece of Anglo-Saxon thinking.”

The girl helped herself to a cigarette from a box on the tray.

“I don’t think Mr. Kenton should worry,” she said; “I think he will find that Ortega will regard the whole matter philosophically when the time comes.”

“That, my dear,” said her brother, “is not in the best of taste.”

Kenton was about to demand an explanation of this somewhat cryptic remark, when there was a sharp knock at the door. With a word of apology, Zaleshoff got up and went out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“What’s happening?” asked Kenton.

“I don’t know,” answered Tamara.

Kenton let this obvious untruth pass.

“I have been puzzled,” he said. “Do you mind explaining exactly how you come to be mixed up in this business? I suppose you could call it a business?”

“Yes, you could call it a business. As for your other question, it is one I ask myself constantly. I never get any reply. One day, soon I hope, for the first time in years my brother and I will take a holiday. For a little while, perhaps, we shall
live as normal people away from this imbecile game of snakes and ladders.”

“That sounds as if you don’t like it.”

“It’s not a question of liking it or not liking it, it’s just whether you happen to be a counter or not.”

“And whether you’re going up the ladders or down the snakes?”

“No. I don’t care about that. My brother does. If he’s winning he feels good. If he’s losing he’s miserable. For me it makes no difference. I just feel that it’s another game of snakes and ladders.”

“I don’t very much care for these allegorical metaphors. In the end they lead one to all sorts of nonsenses.”

“Nor do I, but it saves thinking. My brother calls that sort of thing ‘
Wagon-lit
philosophy,’ because people always seem to get that way in trains.”

“They do. I’ve had some. A man I met once in the slip-coach for Athens kept me awake all night explaining the universe in terms of a game of poker he’d played the night before. Needless to say, he’d been winning.”

She laughed, but before she could reply, the door burst open and Zaleshoff came back into the room.

His manner had changed. The rather hearty mien of a few minutes ago had been replaced by an elaborate air of carelessness which Kenton failed to interpret. He glanced at the girl but she was gazing disinterestedly into the fire.

“Sorry to have been so long,” said Zaleshoff; “I had a little matter of business to attend to.”

“Kidnapping somebody or just bumping them off?”

The Russian ignored the sally and sat down on the edge of a chair.

“Now Mr. Kenton,” he said genially, “let us, as you are so fond of putting it, get back to the point. I’ve set your mind at rest on the unfortunate subject of Borovansky’s killing. Supposing you fulfil your part of the bargain by giving me
that precious piece of information you talked about?”

He spoke easily, almost indifferently; but behind that ease and indifference there was, Kenton felt, something very much akin to a boiler a few seconds before it is to burst. Clearly, something important had happened while he had been alone with Tamara.

“Well?” said Zaleshoff.

Kenton nodded.

“All right; but on one condition.”

“More conditions, Mr. Kenton?”

“A very simple one. I want a chance to be in at the death. I have a particular wish to see Saridza’s face when the photographs are removed.”

“You mean if the photographs are removed.”

“I mean
when.”

“We won’t argue the point. I see little prospect of meeting Saridza.”

“I don’t see how you’re going to get the photographs without meeting him.”

“Perhaps you don’t. But I’m waiting for your information.”

“Very well then, here it is.” Kenton leaned forward impressively. “When I told you that Saridza said he was going to Prague, I forgot one thing—that he said he was going to meet a man named Bastaki. In the coach to the frontier I met an English commercial traveller named Hodgkin. I found out from him that not only is Bastaki a Rumanian but also that his father is one of the biggest industrialists in Rumania. Bastaki himself has an electric-cable works just outside Prague and this man Hodgkin described him as one of the biggest twisters from here to Shanghai. Now if that isn’t a useful piece of information, I’ll eat Ortega’s overcoat.”

Zaleshoff rose slowly to his feet and walked to the window. For a moment or two he stood looking at the pattern on the heavy curtains. Then he turned round.

“Mr. Kenton,” he said solemnly, “words fail me. I have done myself a grave wrong. I should, without a doubt, have handed you over to the police in Linz. I have expended a considerable amount of both time and breath on you in the hope that you had the merest scrap of information to give me, and what do I get?”

“Don’t you believe me?”

Zaleshoff clapped his hands to his forehead and closed his eyes as if praying for strength.

“Certainly I believe you, Mr. Kenton. Certainly!” His voice rose, then, suddenly, the words came tumbling furiously from his lips. “I believe you, my dear friend, because I was given exactly the same information over the telephone three minutes ago. I can even, though the fact will no doubt come as a great surprise to you, add something to it. Saridza met Bastaki at the cable works offices exactly one hour ago. With Saridza were the photographs. Half an hour later, while you were trying to decide whether I was doping your drink or not, Bastaki left for the station and caught the twelve-twenty train. Saridza has gone with Mailler to Bastaki’s house on the other side of Prague. Half an hour ago, Mr. Kenton, those photographs were within reach. Thanks to you, they are now on their way to Bucharest.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “Well, what have you to say to that, Mr. Wise-Guy Kenton?”

Kenton looked at the carpet.

“Nothing much.”

Zaleshoff laughed unpleasantly.

“Nothing! That’s splendid. At least we shall retain our sanity.”

“I said nothing
much.”

Zaleshoff snorted impatiently and started pacing the room furiously.

“Tamara,” he said suddenly, “telephone the police and tell
them that you have had a necklace stolen, a diamond necklace. Say it was snatched from your neck by a man who held up your car in the Altstadt. Give Bastaki’s description. It’s in the files. Say that your chauffeur chased the man into the station and that he caught the twelve-twenty going to Bucharest. Tell them to hold him at Brünn. No, that won’t do. Make up your own story. Make it sound good, but arrange it so that Bastaki is held at the frontier long enough for us to get at him. Tell Serge to get the small car ready and to put on his uniform. You’ll have to interview the police. Grigori will get out the Mercedes for me. Whatever you do, hurry!”

The girl started for the door.

“Don’t go for a minute,” said Kenton.

The girl paused.

“What is it now?” snapped Zaleshoff.

“I shouldn’t bother about Bastaki.”

“What do you mean? Go, Tamara.”

“Bastaki hasn’t got the photographs.”

“What?”

Kenton leaned back in his chair.

“You know, Monsieur Zaleshoff,” he said in malicious parody of the Russian’s manner, “your great weakness is that you get too close to your job.”

“If you’ve got anything to say, say it and be quick about it.”

“Certainly, only keep your hair on. You jump to conclusions. If I’d told you about Bastaki the moment I got here you wouldn’t have had time to do anything if, as you say, the meeting with Saridza broke up half an hour ago.”

“This is a waste of time.”

“Wait a minute. I say you jump to conclusions. Bastaki meets Saridza who has the photographs. Bastaki afterwards leaves for the station and catches a train. You’re so obsessed
by the bogey of those photographs getting to Bucharest that you immediately assume that Bastaki must be taking them there. He’s not.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve frequently caught the twelve-twenty from Prague myself. It’s a very convenient train, but it doesn’t go to Bucharest. It goes to Berlin.”

“Berlin?”

“Exactly. And if you had half the gumption I thought you had, you’d know why Bastaki is going to Berlin after meeting Saridza.”

“Well, why
is
he going there?”

“Do you remember that very clear exposition you gave me of Saridza’s relations with the Rumanian Fascists?”

“I do.”

“Then you will remember pointing out that one of Codreanu’s principal aims was a German alliance.”

Zaleshoff nodded.

“Has it occurred to you to wonder just why Bastaki comes into the picture at all? Why Saridza comes to Prague instead of going straight to Bucharest?”

“It hasn’t.”

“It should have done so. Bastaki is a comparatively insignificant person. The fact that his father is a big Rumanian industrialist is misleading. Why doesn’t Saridza deal with the father, who is, presumably, a financially interested party? Where does Bastaki junior come in? Those, Andreas, were the questions I asked myself while I was waiting at Budweis for a train this evening. Accordingly, as I had time to spare, I amused myself by getting on to a Prague news agency, pretending I was their Vienna correspondent, who happens to be a friend of mine, and making a few inquiries about the Bastakis. I uncovered something juicy. Bastaki’s wife is a Czech—that’s why he works here—but she is a German Czech, and, believe it or not, her brother is Schirmer, the Nazi
Under-Secretary at the German Foreign Ministry. Now do you see why Bastaki goes to Berlin after seeing Saridza? Bastaki’s job was to inspect the photographs, assure himself of their authenticity and run off to brother-in-law Schirmer to tell him the glad news. Codreanu is no fool. He’s making sure of his support before he makes a move. Meanwhile Saridza sits tight until Bastaki returns with the official blessing. Balterghen is no fool, either. He’s not moving to help Codreanu until he’s quite sure he’s going to get his money’s worth. I should say you could rely on Saridza’s sitting on the photographs in Bastaki’s house a clear thirty-six hours—that is, until Bastaki returns. You might, of course, telephone your little friend in Berlin to delay Bastaki, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You might fail and then the fat would be in the fire. Saridza would be off like a shot out of a gun.”