The Balkan Trilogy (11 page)

‘Dear boy,’ he said, ‘we might wait all day.’

Galpin sharply asked: ‘You’ve got your card, haven’t you? Then follow me.’ He strode authoritatively into the multitude, holding up his card to proclaim his privileged position. No one questioned him. The peasants and workpeople gave way at the sight of him and Screwby and Yakimov followed in his wake.

A square had been cordoned off in the centre of the market place. It was guarded by a dozen or so police lolling about in their dirty sky-blue uniforms. They stood upright at the sight of Galpin. One of them examined his card, pretended to understand it, then began, importantly, to clear a viewpoint. The assassins were revealed.

Yakimov, who disliked not only violence but the effects of violence, hung back till ordered forward by Galpin. With distaste, fearing a loss of appetite, he looked at the bodies.

‘Just been tumbled out of a lorry,’ said Screwby. ‘How many are there? I can see four … five, six, I’d guess.’

They looked like a heap of ragged clothes. The sightseers, kicking at them under the rail, had brought to view a head and a hand. On the head there was a bald spot, like a tonsure. One side of the face was pressed into the ground. The visible eye and nostril were clotted with blood; blood caked the lips together. The hand, growing dark and dry in the hot sun, was stretched out stiffly as though in search of aid. Blood, running down from beneath the sleeve, had stained the cobbles.

Galpin said: ‘That one wasn’t dead when they pitched him out.’

‘How do you know, dear boy?’ Yakimov asked, but received no reply.

Galpin put his foot under the rail and, stirring the heap about, uncovered another face. This one had a deep cut across the left cheek. The mouth was open, black with a vomit of blood.

Galpin and Screwby began scribbling in notebooks. Yakimov had no notebook, but it did not matter. His mind was blank.

Back in the car, he said to Galpin: ‘Dear boy, I’m faint. Wonder if you’ve a hip-flask on you?’

For answer Galpin started up the car and drove at speed to the post office. There they were given forms, but when Galpin presented his story he discovered that once again the stop was down. Nothing could be sent out. This was a relief for Yakimov, who had created five words (‘They caught the assassins and …’). His eyes glazed with effort, he moaned: ‘Not used to this sort of thing. Simply must wet m’whistle.’

‘We’re due at the press luncheon,’ said Galpin. ‘You’ll get all you want there.’

‘But I’m not invited,’ said Yakimov, near tears.

‘You’ve got your card, haven’t you?’ Galpin, his patience exhausted, said. ‘Then, for heaven’s sake, come along.’

With the quivering expectancy of an old horse headed for the stables, Yakimov followed the others into the desolate building which had been recently refurbished as a Ministry. They passed through a tunnelling of china-tiled passages to a room too high for its width, where, sure enough, food was lavishly displayed on a buffet table. The buffet was roped off. Before it stood several rows of hard chairs. It was to these the journalists were conducted.

Most of those present, being in Bucharest temporarily, to cover the assassination, had seated themselves unobtrusively at the back. Only Mortimer Tufton and Inchcape, now British Information officer, were in front. Tufton had placed his stick across the three chairs that separated them. He lifted it and motioned Galpin to sit beside him.

Inchcape sat askew, his legs crossed at the knee, an arm over his chairback and his cheek pressed back by his fingertips. He looked sourly at Yakimov, who took the chair beside him, and said: ‘Something fishy about all this.’

Yakimov, seeing nothing wrong but fearing to betray again his inexperience in the cunning world of journalism, murmured: ‘Quite, dear boy, quite!’ His tone lacked conviction and caused Inchcape to wave an irritable hand at the buffet.

‘Roped off!’ he said. ‘Why? Never saw such a thing before at a public function. These people are nothing if not hospitable. And what are all these damned insolent flunkeys doing here? Are they on guard? Or what?’ In an access of indignation, he jerked round his head and stared at the back rows.

There were, Yakimov now observed, a remarkable number of waiters; and these were smirking together as though involved in a hoax. Yet the food looked real enough. A side table was crowded with bottles of wines and spirits. Thinking he might get himself an apéritif, he motioned the nearest waiter and made a sign that seldom failed. It failed this time. The man, his lips twitching, lifted his face and appeared entranced by the fretted wooden ceiling.

Yakimov shuffled unhappily in his seat. Others shuffled and talked behind him. There were no new arrivals; time was passing; there was no sign of the Minister of Information. Inchcape’s suspicion was extending itself through the room.

Suddenly Galpin said: ‘What’s going on? Not a Boche or a Wop at the party. Nobody here but the friends of plucky little Rumania. And why are we being kept waiting like this?’

Tufton rapped with his stick on the floor. As the waiter looked up, he commanded: ‘Whisky.’

One of the waiters, giving his fellows a sly, sidelong glance, replied in Rumanian.

‘What the devil did he say?’ asked Tufton.

Inchcape translated: ‘We must await the arrival of His Excellency Domnul Ionescu.’

Tufton looked at his watch: ‘If His Excellency doesn’t come within the next five minutes, I’m off.’

The servants, expecting uproar, watched this exchange with interest and looked disappointed when nothing more resulted. The five minutes passed. Ionescu did not arrive, but Tufton remained in his seat. After a long pause, he said: ‘I suspect this is leading up to a reprimand.’

‘They’d never dare,’ said Galpin.

Yakimov’s spine drooped. His hands hung, long, delicate and dejected, between his knees. He sighed repeatedly, like a dog kept too long on trust, and at one point told the world: ‘Haven’t had a bite today.’ Placing his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands and his thoughts wandered. There had been a time when he could dress up into an anecdote every incident of his life. Every situation became a comic situation. He had, he supposed, a gift for it. In those days he had entertained for the sake of entertaining. It delighted him to be the centre of attention. When times changed, he had entertained for any reward he could get. He told himself: ‘Poor old Yaki has to sing for his supper.’ Now he had lost interest in anecdotes. He felt no great inclination to entertain anyone. This working for food and drink was exhausting him. He only wanted sustenance and peace.

An electric bell rang in the room. The servants hurried to open the double doors. Yakimov roused himself hopefully. The journalists fell silent.

There was a further interval, then Ionescu entered, almost at a run. He stared, wide-eyed, at his guests and flapped his hands in humorous consternation that he should have kept them waiting so long. ‘
Comment faire mes excuses? D’être tellement en retard est inexcusable
,’ he said, but he was grinning, and when he came to a stop in the middle of the room he appeared to be expecting applause. Being met with nothing but silence, he raised his brows; his eyes, black and small as currants, darted from face to face; his moustache twitched; he bit his lower lip as though he could scarcely keep from laughing outright.

He exuded a comic bewilderment that seemed to ask what could be the matter with them all. Hadn’t he apologised?
Suddenly sobering, he started to address the gathering in English:

‘Gentlemen – and, ah yes, ladies! How charming!’ He bowed at the two women present, one of whom was American, the other French. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I should say, then, should I not?’ He started to smile again, but, receiving no response, he shook his head to show bewilderment, and went on: ‘Yesterday afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, you were privileged to send your papers – cables. Was that not so?’ He looked round in enquiry, moving his head with bird-like pertness. When no one replied, he answered himself: ‘Yes, it was so. And what cables! I may here and now tell you that in place of the fantasies handed in at the Central Post Office, the following announcement was sent to all papers …’ He brought out a pair of heavily rimmed glasses and, placing them half-way down his nose, slowly searched his pockets. ‘Ah!’ he said. He sobered again, produced a paper and, after gazing at it for some moments, read out unctuously: ‘“Today Rumania with broken heart announces the tragic loss of her much loved son and Premier A. C
ǎ
linescu, assassinated by six students who failed to pass their baccalaureate. While attempting to forgive this mad act of disappointed youth, the nation is prostrate with grief.”’

He stepped forward, bowed and handed the paper to Inchcape.

‘I take it,’ said Galpin, ‘we’ll get our money back?’

Ionescu gave his head a sharp shake: ‘No money back.’ He wagged a finger before his nose. ‘This is, as the English say, a little lesson. You have all been very naughty, you know.’ He moved back to the rope and, catching it with either hand, swung on it.

‘Like a bloody parrot on a perch,’ whispered Galpin.

Ionescu’s smile widened. ‘You must remember,’ he said, ‘you are guests of a neutral kingdom. Here we are peaceful. We wish no quarrel with our neighbours. While living here, you must behave like good children. Isn’t it so?’

Turning in his chair, Tufton asked his neighbours: ‘How long’s this nonsense going on?’

A voice from the back asked: ‘What fantasies? What’s biting him?’

‘Ah, dear friends,’ said Ionescu, ‘am I perhaps mistaken? Did no one here invent the story that the assassins were Guardists in German pay? That the Germans had planned an invasion? That a certain foreign diplomat was under house arrest, having been found in possession of a cheque with which to reward the assassins?’

‘Is von Steibel under house arrest, or isn’t he?’ asked Tufton.

Smiling, Ionescu said: ‘He is in bed with influenza.’

‘He’s been ordered to leave the country, hasn’t he?’

‘Tomorrow he returns to Germany for a cure.’

Questions now followed one another rapidly. In the confusion Ionescu straightened himself, raised his hands in alarm and waved for quiet: ‘A little moment, ladies and gentlemen. There is a more serious matter of which I am compelled to speak.’ His face grew grave and his voice became portentous. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is scarcely to be believed. Had I not seen with my own eyes the cable, I would have said such an invention was not possible.’

Having made this statement, he paused so long that Galpin said: ‘All right. Let’s have it.’

Ionescu said: ‘A reputable journalist, representative of a famous paper, invented a story so scandalous I hesitate to speak of it. In short, he accused our great and glorious King, father of culture, father of his people, of being behind this fiendish murder. This journalist, we learn, is a sick man. He was wounded while driving out of Poland. He suffers, no doubt, a fever and we tell ourselves this story comes of delirium. No other explanation is possible. Nevertheless, as soon as he is capable, he will be ordered to leave.’

Several present looked at Yakimov but Yakimov showed neither by expression or movement that he connected this reproof with anything he had permitted to be sent in McCann’s name. Having administered this reproof, Ionescu relaxed and smiled again.

‘Nearly three o’clock,’ said Tufton.

‘One more little moment,’ said Ionescu. ‘We will now answer questions.’

The American woman asked: ‘
M. le Ministre
, you have said the assassins were students. Isn’t it possible they were Guardists, too?’

Ionescu smiled on her in pity: ‘
Chère madame
, was it not announced by His Glorious Majesty himself that not a single Guardist remains alive in this country?’

The French woman journalist now said: ‘It is widely rumoured that the assassins were in the pay of Germany.’

Said Ionescu: ‘It is being widely rumoured that the assassins were in the pay of the Allied Powers. You must not believe café gossip,
madame
.’

‘I never go to cafés,’ said the Frenchwoman.

Ionescu bowed to her: ‘Then you must permit me to take you to one.’

Tufton broke in on this exchange to ask with ponderous slowness: ‘And may we enquire who executed the assassins – no doubt without trial?’

Ionescu grew grave again. He recited quickly: ‘The military, mad with grief and indignation at the murder of a beloved Prime Minister, seized the young men and, unknown to the civil authorities, shot them out of hand.’

‘Is that official?’

‘Certainly.’

Someone asked: ‘Are you aware the bodies are being displayed at this moment down in the market-place? Do you approve of that sort of thing?’

Ionescu shrugged: ‘The military here is powerful. We dare not interfere.’

‘I saw the bodies,’ said Galpin. ‘They looked to me pretty old for students.’

‘In this country we have students of all ages. Some remain at the university all their lives.’

Galpin grunted and looked at Tufton. Tufton said: ‘We’re wasting our time.’

Galpin rose, and the rest, needing no further encouragement,
began to leave their seats. Roused by the squeak of chairs, Yakimov started up in wild hope. He blundered forward into Ionescu.

‘Permit me,’ said the Minister, unable to hold back the surge, and, unhooking the cord where it joined in the middle, he admitted his guests to the buffet.

With a restraint that was painful to him, Yakimov awaited his associates. Tufton was slow in getting to his feet. ‘A slap for Rumania’s kind friends,’ he said to Galpin. ‘A playful slap, but a significant one. Something has reminded them that Hitler is uncomfortably close.’

Galpin said: ‘Those bastards accepted our guarantee
after
the Germans occupied Slovakia.’

Tufton was up now. As he began to limp towards the buffet, he said: ‘So did the Poles.’

That evening the autumn set in. The Pringles, leaving their hotel restaurant, where the air was hot and heavy with smoke, came out into an unexpected freshness. Rain had fallen. In the distance, wetly agleam, were the cupolas of the Opera House, where the Prime Minister lay in state.