Background to Danger (29 page)

“So if Saridza wanted to safeguard himself he’d go somewhere where he’d got a pull with the operator. My bet is that those photographs and a duplicate set of prints are now waiting in a newspaper office for Saridza to collect when he’s ready. He’ll collect one set, of course, and leave the other in the safe. It’s easy.”

“But why a newspaper office?”

“It’s got a photographic studio. It’s well protected. There are people there day and night. It’s the ideal place.”

“So,” said Zaleshoff ironically, “the photographs are in a newspaper office. That is a great help. There can’t be more than fifty newspaper offices in Prague.”

Madame Smedoff grunted irritably.

“Use your brains, Andreas Prokovitch. Saridza would not leave them with any paper. I have an idea.”

She flung an arch look at Kenton and waddled out of the room.

Zaleshoff sighed loudly and made a gesture of despair.

“Always,” he said, “that old woman makes me feel like ten cents.”

“How old is she?”

“God knows! Getting on for eighty, I should say. She was a friend of Clara Zetkin, and she knew Lenin in London. Once she mentioned quite casually that she’d met Marx, and said she’d felt sorry for Frau Marx. Marx died in the early eighties so that must make Olga well over seventy. She never forgets a fact or a face, speaks nine languages and has translated the
Jobelin
of François Villon into modern Parisian argot. There were only fifty copies of it printed and they’re worth a thousand dollars apiece to-day.”

“What does she do her face up like that for?”

“She used to have looks. Then she got into a jam while
she was organising a strike somewhere Galicia way and a woman threw vitriol in her face. It didn’t do much damage, but it scarred her a bit. That’s why she puts so much make-up on. She used to do it very well they tell me. She’s got a bit careless about it the last few years.”

Madame Smedoff came back into the room with a grin of triumph on her lips.

“The
Prager Morgenblatt
is the paper.”

“How do you know?”

“I looked through the lists of shareholders of the German language papers—twenty-five per cent of the Ordinary shares of the
Prager Morgenblatt
are in the name of Elsa Schirmer, that is Frau Bastaki. She’s probably her brother’s nominee. In any case, she would have quite a lot of influence in the
Morgenblatt
offices and Saridza would know it.”

Zaleshoff got to his feet.

“Tamara, we will go immediately. Kenton, you may come if you wish. Olga, I think this is a waste of time. Please see that Saridza does not get away without our knowing.”

As they hurried from the room, Kenton glanced back.

Madame Smedoff had sunk back into her chair, her dead white mask stretched into a broad grin, her hair glinting redly. Her eyes met Kenton’s, and she chuckled. Then, very deliberately, she winked.

T
HE
offices of the
Prager Morgenblatt
were situated on the corner of a narrow side street, running parallel to the main road from the Karlsbrücke. Tamara pulled the Mercedes up behind a lorry unloading paper. From the windows above came the clicking and clatter of Linotype machines. Zaleshoff and Kenton got out of the car and walked along to the main entrance, a narrow doorway in the side of the building.

It had been arranged that Kenton, who, knowing something of newspaper offices, might be able to present a more circumstantial front than the Russian, should make the first move. Inside the entrance, a doorkeeper sat in a small
glass office. Followed by Zaleshoff, Kenton approached him.

“A packet for Colonel Robinson was to be ready for him this morning. I have come to collect it on the Colonel’s behalf.”

The man shook his head slowly.

“I know nothing of it. The packet was to be called for, you say?”

“Colonel Robinson was unable to come himself.”

“I know nothing of it.”

“Let’s go,” muttered Zaleshoff; “we’re wasting our time.”

“It is curious,” persisted Kenton; “the matter was arranged.” His hand on the pigeon-hole in front of the man’s face opened slightly and a bank-note rustled.

“If you could perhaps tell me with whom the matter was arranged,
mein Herr
, I will make inquiries.”

Kenton took a chance.

“With the
Herr Redakteur.”

“Ah! One moment,
mein Herr.”

The man picked up a telephone and pressed a switch.

“Entschuldige, Herr Direktor
. Two gentlemen have called on behalf of Colonel Robinson. They desire a packet as was arranged.” There was a pause.
“Ja, Herr Direktor.”
He hung up the receiver and turned to them. “Please to wait a few minutes, the packet will be ready.”

“Danke.”
Kenton opened his hand and the note fluttered to the doorkeeper’s table.

“Danke schön, mein Herr.”

“Well,” murmured Kenton triumphantly, “what do you know about that? A Managing Editor isn’t in his office at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning for nothing.”

“I don’t like it,” replied the Russian gloomily; “it’s too easy; and, besides, you’re forgetting that other print, aren’t you?”

“We’ll say we’ve been told to fetch the copy as well. Or Saridza may have intended to leave the extra prints somewhere else. In that case he’ll give us both. I don’t suppose Saridza’s told the man much anyway.”

“It may be a trap.”

“Don’t forget we’re supposed to be languishing in that tank.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

They waited for about ten minutes, then the doorkeeper’s telephone buzzed and the man picked up the receiver and listened. Kenton saw a curious expression cross the man’s face and his eyes flickered towards them. Then he said:
“Ja, Herr Direktor,”
and replaced the receiver.

“The
Herr Redakteur
will see you. The packet is in his office. This way.”

There was no lift, and the man led the way up a flight of narrow stone stairs to the fifth floor and along a glass-partitioned corridor to a door at the end of it. They passed through into a small outer office with a secretary’s desk in it. On the far side was an imposing pair of tall mahogany double doors. Their guide knocked on them and threw them open. The two walked in.

It was a large cedar-panelled room with a window occupying nearly the whole of one wall. To the right was a smaller door. The man who sat behind the massive desk was a large, square-headed young German with thick pebble glasses which magnified grotesquely the pale blue eyes behind them.

“Be seated, gentlemen.”

They remained standing.

“We have very little time,” said Zaleshoff; “we understand that the photographs are now ready. We may add that the Colonel has instructed us to take the copy prints also.”

The pale blue eyes moved from one to the other.

“That is understood. Everything will be ready for you in a short time now.”

“We shall, of course, wish to examine the photographs to see that all is in order. Perhaps we can commence now with the originals?”

“Please be patient. I have given instructions for the photographs to be got ready immediately.”

“Very well.”

There was silence in the room. The German sat motionless behind his desk. Kenton wandered across to the window and looked down into the street below. He could see the Mercedes parked behind the lorry. Suddenly a closed car dashed round the corner and pulled up in front of the building with a squeal of brakes. A second later the doors of the car were flung open and uniformed figures got out and ran along the pavement. Kenton turned with a start.

“Zaleshoff!”

“What?”

“Here, quick! It’s the police!”

The Russian dashed to the window, looked down and swore.

They swung round.

The German was pointing a small revolver at them.

“Put your hands up and don’t move.”

They obeyed. The German’s pale eyes gleamed.

“I took the precaution,” he said slowly, “of telephoning Colonel Robinson before inviting you in here. He advised me to call the police. The doorkeeper will show them up in a moment. The evidence of Soviet perfidy is now on its way by special messenger. Rumania will soon be convinced, in common with the rest of the world, of the reality of the Jew-Communist menace.”

“And the copies of the evidence?”

The German hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders.

“As you will have no further interest in this matter, I may tell you. They are in the safe in the wall behind me. When the time comes the evidence will be given to the German nation.”

Kenton glanced at Zaleshoff. The Russian was standing slightly in front of him, his arms half raised above his head, his attitude that of the man who recognises defeat when he sees it.

“Keep your eyes on his face, Kenton,” he murmured in English.

“Silence!”

There was a murmur of voices from the corridor beyond the outer office and the sound of hurrying footsteps.

“Stop, Kenton!” shouted Zaleshoff warningly in German.

The trick succeeded. The journalist saw the German start and jerk the gun in his direction. Then Zaleshoff sprang.

The revolver went off and plaster showered from the ceiling as the two rolled to the floor.

“Lock the door, quick!” gasped Zaleshoff.

Kenton dashed to the double door. The key was on the other side of the lock. He pulled one side of the door open and snatched the key as the leading policeman came through the open door opposite. The man shouted and charged across the room. Kenton slammed the door and leaned against it, feverishly trying to get the key into the lock. As he succeeded the handle was wrenched from his fingers and the door was thrust open a few inches. The toe of a boot appeared in the gap. Kenton brought his heel down hard on the boot. There was a shout of pain and the boot disappeared. For a second the pressure on the door relaxed. He threw his weight against the panels and turned the key. The lock clicked home.

He turned in time to see Zaleshoff bring the butt of the German’s revolver down hard on its owner’s head. The
man fell forward on his face. Outside the door, pandemonium had broken loose. The door was quivering under the onslaught. Orders were being shouted.

“Stand away from the door,” said Zaleshoff. “They’ll start shooting the lock away in a minute.”

Even as he spoke the thumping at the door ceased and a bullet crashed through the woodwork by the lock. The Russian rummaged in the German’s pockets, then rose to his feet with a bunch of keys in his hand. He went to the small safe recessed in the wall and began to try the keys one by one. He glanced round as another shot rang out.

“See where that other door leads to.”

Kenton was already at the small door and opened it. Inside was a small lavatory. His heart sank. Above the wash basin, however, was a narrow frosted-glass window. He flung it open and looked out. A few feet below was a flat leaded roof with two square glass roof lights, like cucumber frames, built in to it. He dashed back into the room.

“There’s a window we can get through on to the roof.”

“Good.”

A volley of shots tore through the lock. Then shoulders were put to the door. It shook violently and there was a loud splitting noise. By this time Zaleshoff had the safe open and was scattering the contents right and left. Kenton stood by the small door in any agony of impatience.

“For God’s sake hurry, Zaleshoff.”

“O.K., you go on.”

The journalist hesitated. Then above the din outside he heard a cry of satisfaction from the Russian. The next moment there was a tinkle of breaking glass and he saw that Zaleshoff had thrown a packet of whole plate negatives on to the carpet and that he was pounding them to dust with his heel. At the same instant there was a crash from the door.

“Look out!”

But almost before the cry had left Kenton’s mouth, Zaleshoff was across the room and through the door. Kenton slammed it and put the catch up.

“Have you got the prints?”

Zaleshoff held up a large paper envelope, tore it in half and crammed the pieces in his pocket.

“Through the window with you!”

Already the lavatory door was being subjected to a furious battering, and a bullet tore through the thin woodwork and flattened against the opposite wall.

Kenton landed on the roof on all fours. A second later Zaleshoff dropped beside him. The journalist started across the roof between the two skylights. Zaleshoff caught his arm.

“Keep close to the wall or they’ll spot us from the windows.”

But their way of escape had evidently already been anticipated for the onslaughts on the door above had ceased.

“There must be a way off this darn roof,” muttered Zaleshoff. “We’ll try this way.”

Keeping close to the brickwork they followed the wall along. The roof was shaped like a very thick letter E and was bounded on every side by the fifth storey walls. Suddenly they rounded a corner in the centre of the E and found themselves facing a door set in the brickwork. At that moment there was a shout and Kenton saw that they had been seen from a window on the far side of the roof. As they leaped for cover a volley of shots spattered the wall beside them. Zaleshoff tried the door. It was locked.

“They’re coming round to where they can get a shot at us,” said Kenton.

Zaleshoff pulled a revolver from his pocket and fired three rounds into the lock. It held. The Russian stood back, then jumped forward and rammed his foot square on the lock. The door flew open and they tumbled down a
flight of iron stairs. A few yards from the foot of them was a pair of swing doors from which came the clatter of Linotype machines. The place reeked of printing ink and hot oil.

“Through here,” snapped Zaleshoff; “don’t run, walk quickly.”

They pushed through the swing door and marched in. Above their heads was one of the glass skylights, but the racket of the machines had evidently drowned the noise of the shots, for the men were working as if nothing had happened. It was a long narrow room and they had to pass down the entire length of it to reach the door on the far side. They were about half-way through when a man, who looked like the foreman, looked up from a table piled with galley proof, frowned and moved to intercept them. Zaleshoff made for him instantly.