Prelude for War (40 page)

“The Reichstag,”
he said. “Remember the Reichstag.
That’s
what Kennet wrote on that bit of paper, which he
probably
pinched from the headquarters of the Sons of
France
when he was a member. That’s why he had to be
cooled
off. He knew one thing too much, among a lot of
stuff
that didn’t matter, and if he’d lived that one thing
might
have wrecked the whole scheme.”

“But what did he
know?”

“Do you remember the
Reichstag fire, in Berlin? That
was the thing that started
the Nazi tyranny in Germany.
Of course the Nazis said
that the Communists had done it;
but a good many people
have always believed that the Nazis
arranged it themselves, to give
themselves a grand excuse for
what they went
on to do afterwards. It seems pretty plain
that the Sons of France have planned something on the same
lines for tomorrow. That piece of paper was a list
of various suitable occasions for a blowup of that sort which had been
jotted
down and discussed and eliminated for various reasons
until just one was left—the opening of the Hostel of Mem
ory at Neuilly by Comrade Chaulage. The scheme
will be
to have Comrade Chaulage
assassinated during the pro
ceedings. This of course will be the work of
the Communists,
like the Reichstag fire; and
it will not only be proof of what
desperate
and disgusting people they are, but it will also
be evidence of their contempt for the Heroes of France,
which is always a very strong point with the
Fascist gang.
The Sons of France will
claim the assassination as a crowning example of the incompetence of the
present government to keep the Red bandits in check; so they will mobilize
their
forces, seize the government and
proclaim a dictatorship.
And there
you are.”

“You mean the Sons of
France are going to kill Chaulage
,” she said,
“and Luker and Algy and General Sangore
know
all about it.”

“That was my guess.
And I still like it.”

She seemed a little
disappointed, as if she had expected
something more
sensational than that. Her brief silence
seemed
to argue that after all there were millions of French
men,
and one more or less couldn’t matter so much as that.

“I think I saw a
picture of Chaulage in the paper once,”
she
said, with almost polite indifference. “A funny little fat
man who looks like a retired grocer.”

“He is,” said the
Saint. “He also happens to be prime
minister
of France. And funny little fat Frenchmen who look
like
retired grocers often have ideas, particularly when they
get to be prime ministers. Of course that would never be
allowed in this country, but it happens there. And one of
Comrade Chaulage’s ideas is a bill to take all the private
profit out of war, which is naturally very unpopular with
Luker and Fairweather and Sangore and the directors of
the Siebel Factory. So that makes Comrade Chaulage a
doubly suitable victim. And when the Sons of France seize
power his bill will be firmly forgotten, people will march about and
wave flags, bigger and better armaments will be
the
cry, the people will be told to be proud of going without
butter to pay for bombs and the people who sell the bombs
will be very happy. Hitler and Marteau will scream insults
at each other across the frontier like a couple of fishwives,
and pretty soon everything will be lined up for a nice bloody
war. Some millions of men, women and children will be
burned,
scalded, blistered, gassed, shot, blown up and starved
to death, and the arms ring will sit back on its foul fat
haunches and rake in the profits on a turnover of
about five
thousand pounds per corpse,
according to the statistics of the last world war.”

“Would that
photograph have something to do with it,
too?”

“That’s probably the
most damning evidence of all. It
seems to me that there’s
only one thing it can possibly mean.
The
half-witted-looking warrior on the right-—you remem
ber
him?—he must be the martyr who’s going to do the job. Some poor crazy fanatic
they’ve got hold of who’s been sold
on the idea of how
glorious it would be to give his life for|
the
Cause; or else some ordinary moron who doesn’t even
know
or care what it’s all about. It must be that, or the
photograph
doesn’t mean anything. God knows how Kennet managed to take it—we never shall.
He risked his life when he did it, and the risk caught up with him in the end;
but it’s
still a photograph that might make
history. It would probably
swing all except Marteau’s
most fanatical sympathizers
against him if it was
published; under any government that
Marteau wasn’t
running it could send Luker to the guillotine
.
…”

He went on talking not
because he wanted to, but to give
her the distraction
she had asked for. It grew darker and
darker until he
could no longer see her at all. The time
dragged
on, and presently he had nothing new to say. Her
own
contributions were only short, strained, apathetic sen
tences
which left all the burden of talking to him.

Presently he heard her
stirring in an abrupt restless way
which warned him
that the sedative was losing its effect. He
was silent.

She shuffled again, coming
closer, until her shoulder
touched his. He could feel
her trembling. It would have
helped if he could have
held her. But his wrists were bound
so tightly that his
hands were already numb; long ago he
had tried every
trick he knew to release himself, but the
knots
had been too scientifically tied, and anything with
which
he might have cut himself free had been taken from
him
while he was unconscious.

Because there was nothing else he could do, he
kissed her,
more gently than he had ever
done before. For a while she
gave
herself up hungrily to the kiss; and then she dragged
her lips desperately away.

“Oh hell,” she
sobbed. “I always thought it’d be so
marvellous
if you ever did that, and now it just makes everything
worse.”

“I know,” he
said. “It must be dreadful to feel so safe.”

Then she giggled a little
hysterically, and presently her
head drooped on his
shoulder and they were quiet for a
long time. He sat
very still, trying to strengthen and com
fort
her with his own calm, and the truth is that his thoughts were very far away.

In the kitchen two men sat smoking moodily. The
plate on
the kitchen table between them was
piled high with ash and
the ends of
stubbed-out cigarettes.

One of them was Pietri. He
was not coloured in tasteful
stripes any more, but a
certain raw redness combined with
an unusually clean
appearance about his face testified to
the
labour with which they had been removed. The shaven
baldness
of his head was concealed by a loud tweed cap
which
he refused to take off. The other man was quite
young,
with close-cropped fair hair and a prematurely hardened face. In his coat lapel
he wore the button badge of the British Nazis.

He yawned, and said in the
desultory way in which their
conversation had been
conducted for some hours: “You
know, it’s a funny
thing, but I never thought I’d have the
job
of putting the Saint out of action. In a way, I used to
admire that fellow a bit at one time. Of course I knew he
was a crook, but he always seemed a pretty sound chap at
heart. When I read about him in the papers, I used to think he’d be
worth having in the British Nazis. Of course he deserves what’s coming to him,
but I’m sort of glad I haven’t
got to give it to him
myself.”

Pietri yawned more
coarsely. He had no political lean
ings: he simply did
what he was paid to do. To him the
British Nazis were
nothing but a gang of half-hearted ama
teur
hooligans who got into scraps with the police and the
populace
without the incentive of making money out of it,
which
proved that they must be barmy. .

“You’re new to this
sort of thing, ain’t you ?” he said pityingly
.

“Oh, I don’t
know,” said the other touchily. “I’ve beaten
up
plenty of bastards in my time.” He paused reminiscently.
“I was in a stunt last Sunday, when we broke up a Com
munist meeting in Battersea Park. We gave them a revolu
tion all right. There was an old rabbi on the platform with long white
hair and white whiskers, and he was having a
hell
of a good time telling all the bloody Reds a lot of lies
about Hitler. He’s having a good time in the hospital now. I got him a
beauty, smack in the mouth, and knocked his
false
teeth out and broke his jaw.” He sat up, cocking his
ears. “Hullo—this must be Bravache at last.”

He got up and went out of
the kitchen and across the
hall. His feelings were
mixed: they were compounded
partly of pride, partly of
a sort of uneasy awe. He was a
picked man, chosen because
the leaders of the movement
knew that his loyalty and
efficiency could be absolutely re
lied on; he was one
of the first to be entrusted with the busi
ness
of liquidating an enemy. In future he would probably
be
detailed again for similar deadly errands. He was one of
the storm troops, the striking force of the movement, and
their duty was to be merciless. As he opened the front door,
the young British Nazi saw himself being very strong and
merciless, a figure of iron. It made him feel pretty good.

A two-seater sports car
had drawn up beside the black
Packard that was parked in
the drive, and Bravache was
already stumping up the
steps. Dumaire followed him.
Their faces, like Pietri’s,
looked scoured and tender; and
they also kept their hats
on. Bravache raised his hand perfunctorily
as the British Nazi came to attention and gave
a
full Fascist salute.

“The prisoners?”
he said curtly.

“This way,
Major.”

The young British Nazi led
the way briskly through the
kitchen, opened the
scullery door and switched on the light.
Lady
Valerie stirred and gave a little moan as the sudden
blaze stabbed her eyes.
Bravache bowed to her with punctili
ous
mockery, his lips parting in the unhumorous wolfish
smile that Simon remembered.

“Much as I regret to
disturb you, mademoiselle, your
presence is required at the
headquarters of the Sons of
France.”

Dumaire came past him and kicked Simon savagely
in the
ribs. Then he bent over, grinning
like a rat, and lightly touched the dried bloodstains on Simon’s cheeks.

“Blood is a better
colouring than paint,” he said.

He closed his fist and hit
Simon twice in the face.

“Bleed, pig,” he
said. “I like the colour of your blood.”

“It is red, at any
rate,” said the Saint unflinchingly.
“Yours
would be yellow.”

Dumaire kicked him again;
and then Bravache pushed
him aside.

“Enough of
that,” he said. “We have no time to waste
now. But there will be
plenty of time later. And then I shall
enjoy
a little conversation with Mr Templar myself. We
have several things to talk over.”

“You must let me give
you the address of my barber,”
said the Saint
affably.

Bravache did not strike
him or make any movement. His
cold fishy eyes simply
rested on the Saint unwinkingly, while
his
teeth glistened between his back-drawn lips. And in the
duration of that glance Simon knew that all the mercy he
could expect from Bravache was more to be feared than any
vengeance that Dumaire could conceive.