The Man from the Sea (23 page)

There was sudden dead silence, and then a small startling crash as somebody knocked over what must have been a bottle or a glass. Day was in a corner, and four men appeared to have been sitting round him in a close circle. Now they had sprung up and turned upon Cranston, staring. Only Day made no move. Even his bloodshot eyes were motionless in a face that had gone like chalk.

One of the men threw a swift question at Cranston – but not in English. Then he turned and talked volubly to one of his companions. A third joined in. But the fourth was silent, and this drew Cranston’s eyes to him. Like the other three he was dark, and in dress he was not much distinguished from them. But he was very different, all the same. It was difficult to tell why. Perhaps it was simply because he assumed he was. And now he spoke a single sharp word. There was immediate silence.

Cranston took advantage of it. “It’s all right, Day. I’ve got things in hand.” He spoke slowly and distinctly. Then he turned to the others. “I suppose,” he said, “that your trade makes it necessary for you to understand English. So listen. You are in the heart of London, and your chances are even smaller than those of your friends in the Highlands. I think you’d better give over. These antics are fit only for a comic strip – a decadent, bourgeois comic strip. I don’t know whether this is still Mrs Day’s flat. But I’m pretty sure it’s not yours. Clear out.”

At least they were startled. The fourth man glanced at Cranston for a moment and then looked at Day. It almost had the appearance of being interrogatively. “This is altogether unforeseen,” he said in English. “And most awkward. I appear to have been badly served.” He turned and spoke rapidly to his companions in his own language. Cranston didn’t understand a word. And yet suddenly the language told him a great deal. It was, in a fashion, speaking to him. It couldn’t be the language it ought to have been. It wasn’t nearly remote enough. In fact, it was Latin, not Slavonic, and distinguishably first or second cousin to languages he knew.

He took another look about the room – and then turned to the corner in which, according to his first impression, Day had been surrounded by a threatening group. Beside Day he now saw a low table. It held a decanter, a syphon, glasses and an open box of cigars. Cranston, who had been without consciousness of fear, suddenly felt rather sick. He walked up to Day and just managed to speak to him steadily. “Your wife – does she live here?”

They looked at each other directly. A muscle quivered at the corner of Day’s mouth, and then with an effort he seemed to turn his face to stone. “My wife? Certainly not.” He spoke with his old irony. “You must have been misled by the little card downstairs. But that was provided by these gentlemen, you know – just in case you happened to take a look.”

“Have you a wife?”

“Dear me, yes. She is said to be living at Marlow.” He shook his head. “But I doubt whether she would care to see me again. I would certainly not be so inconsiderate as to intrude upon her.”

“I see.”

There was a long silence. Cranston found that he was hoping to feel in himself some flare of anger. But it didn’t come. Only the sense – the acute physical sensation – of sickness increased. He was learning that betrayal is the worst thing of all.

The fourth man took a step forward. “There is a distressing side to this,” he said. “But, sir, you must take a balanced view. Thanks to you – for I am sure it is largely your doing – our friend here has got safely through. And from this point we know how to look after him. He is enlisted once more under the banner of the free peoples.”

With an enormous effort, Cranston gave some attention to the man thus orotundly addressing him. “Are you Spanish?” he asked.

“My culture is Spanish. Let that for the moment suffice.”

“In fact you come from South America somewhere? And you’re proposing to smuggle Day away in your own interests? He’s been plotting this with you – for a long time, and under the noses of the people he’s been working for? If he managed to get clear of them and make this rendezvous you’d pick him up and get him away?”

“I must dispute the terms in which you express the matter.” The fourth man suddenly smiled charmingly. “May I offer you a whisky-and-soda? No? Then let me put it rather differently. Let me ask you to consider this matter from the point of view of a civilised man, unfettered by narrow nationalistic notions. Our friend here is in great difficulty. He has abjured the errors into which he had lately fallen. You agree?” The fourth man paused. He was clearly pleased with his own excellent English. “But his own country can scarcely welcome him, or at once reinstate him in his labours – labours, mark you, invaluable for the cause of the free world. There would be vulgar outcry at once. You follow me, Mr – ?”

“Cranston.” It was Day who composedly supplied the name.

“Thank you. We see, then, that Mr Day is obliged to seek asylum – would you agree that asylum is the word? – elsewhere. And my country is honoured to provide it.”

“I see.” Cranston felt horribly tired. The whole business appeared weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. He couldn’t look at Day now. It would be like looking on the very face of treachery… Yet underneath the numbness and shock his brain was working. “Oughtn’t you,” he said to the fourth man, “to have a little talk about this with our Foreign Secretary? And haven’t you, in joining in personally like this, rather overreached yourself?” He pointed to the fourth man’s silent companions. “It’s all very well sending people of that sort along to play a hand like this. But weighing in yourself is another matter. As you said a few minutes ago, it’s most awkward.”

The fourth man took a second to turn this over. “May I ask,” he said, “what you take me for?”

“I don’t know your country. Perhaps it’s a big one or perhaps it’s a little one. In either case it may well stand high in the world’s regard.” Cranston paused. “But I should take you to be its Minister at the Court of St James’ – or its Ambassador, if it runs to one. As I say, you’ve been indiscreet.”

“It is arguable, Mr Cranston, that you have been guilty of some little indiscretion yourself.” The voice of the fourth man had taken on a new edge. “Let it be granted that publicity in the present matter would not be welcome to me. But no more, surely, would it be to you. There is again the factor of vulgar outcry. For nearly twenty-four hours you have been sheltering Mr Day from the law. An inhuman law, no doubt, which enlightened persons like ourselves must be anxious to mitigate. But there it is. Technically, Mr Day is chargeable with some very serious offence – and you have known it ever since you identified him.” Abruptly the voice of the fourth man changed once more. “My dear young man – had you and I not better come to an understanding?”

“Look at Day.” Cranston now spoke with energy. “
I
don’t want to – but do
you
look at him. You’ll see he knows that that’s no good.” Cranston tilted his chin. “At least he knows
that
– that I won’t just say thank you and walk out quietly, promising to keep mum. Do you know what he is wondering? He’s wondering if you’re up to the standard of his former friends – those that he’s been plotting to swap for you. Are you tough enough? That’s his question. He knows that his only hope is in screwing you to murder.”

“There is something in that.” As Day spoke he reached for the decanter. “Our young friend, who began so decidedly as a romantic, is developing a realistic temper very fast. Unfortunately he clings to certain ideals of conduct. He won’t, in fact, let go.” Day turned to the fourth man. “In other words, my dear Sagasta, the decision lies with you.”

The man called Sagasta drummed with his fingers on the back of a chair. He didn’t like it. He walked slowly across the room and back, frowning. Then he gave a sudden nod. One of his assistants stepped instantly to the door.

Day laughed softly. “That’s a little better. It looks as if we may reach your friends at Porthkennack – is it? – after all. But you’ll have to keep your nerve.”

Sagasta liked this still less. He had turned very pale. Cranston decided that the game wasn’t quite lost. “It will never do,” he said. “Even if you brought it off, your Government would never support you in it. They may want a big man in his line, like Day here, very much. They may be prepared to put him right at the top of a whole big show – which is what it’s now clear to me he’s prepared to sell and resell himself for, poor devil. But your Government won’t stand for a big risk. They have no stomach, you know, for that sort of thing. Why should they have? The blood of the hidalgos doesn’t exactly run in them – does it? Merchants and shopkeepers. They’d let you down.”

This was a bow drawn decidedly at a venture. Yet it discernibly went home. Sagasta produced a handkerchief and delicately mopped his forehead. “I will take my chance, Mr Cranston. There needn’t, I think, be much risk of unpleasant publicity. If we can smuggle Mr Day out of England alive, we can smuggle you out – how should I put it? – in another state of being. And we needn’t take you so far. Say, just a little beyond the Lizard.”

Sagasta gave a nod at another of his assistants. The man’s hand went to a pocket. And at that moment an electric bell rang sharply somewhere in the flat.

Cranston sat down. He was uncertain whether he did so as a gesture or because he was doubtful about the state of his knees. He still didn’t believe that he was frightened, but he felt physically fagged out. It was how the truth about John Day had taken him. His voice, however, was perfectly steady. “I imagine,” he said, “that we are now to be joined by the police. Tiresome for you all… Yes, there they are.”

The ringing of the bell had been immediately succeeded by a formidable knocking on an outer door. Sagasta snapped out an order to one of the men, who made a dash from the room. It was as if they had recalled the unreliable character of their janitor. But it was too late. There was a sound of brief expostulation in the hall, and then a new figure walked into the room. It was not, however, a policeman. It was Sir Alex Blair.

“Sorry to make such a row.” He advanced, genial and confident, and swept the company with a rapid glance. “Good evening, Dick, my boy. No – don’t get up. A pretty pickle you’ve contrived, I must say. And we must sort it out, I suppose – we must sort it out.” Sir Alex drew off a pair of gloves, tossed them on a table, and briskly rubbed one against the other the palms of two perfectly manicured hands. “And John Day? Well, well – what a lot you must have to tell us. And what a change good Scotch whisky must be.” He turned to Sagasta. “Your Excellency has a reputation as a man of enterprise – but I hardly expected to find you here in person. These gentlemen – yes.” He waved a contemptuous hand at Sagasta’s assistants. “I happened to know they operate here. And I decided to drop in.”

“I don’t understand you. There is, I think, some misapprehension.” Sagasta was plainly discomposed, and for the moment could only fall back on conventional phrases.

“A misapprehension? I’d say there have been a good many. We believed, my dear Day, that you were interested in your wife. And your late friends – shall we call them the Hyperboreans? – appear to have been banking on that too. Marlow is swarming with them. But I had a shrewd idea you were really minded to other company. And here you are.”

Sagasta had taken his little turn up and down the room. “You have brought your police with you?” he asked.

“The police will appear when it is appropriate that they should do so.” Sir Alex’s manner had changed. He had become grave and weighty. “I admit that the matter has its complications, Sagasta. This young man has got himself most undesirably involved in an affair he has had no proper understanding of. You follow me?”

Sagasta slightly inclined his head. “Possibilities open out,” he said smoothly.

“And
you
follow me?” Sir Alex looked hard at Cranston.

“I suppose so.” Cranston was confused. He was aware that he had to get new bearings.

“Then I think you had better go.” Sir Alex was kindly but curt. “No purpose will be served by your remaining.”

“But, Sir Alex – are you here alone? These people are–” Cranston paused, doubtful whether he was talking sense. “It’s decent of you to try to get me out. But I’d like to know–”

“You must know already.” Sir Alex appeared to misinterpret the unfinished question. “Sally told me – almost at once. She’s a good girl, and you mustn’t blame her. It was the only reasonable thing to do.”

Cranston was silent. Of course the man was right. He himself ought to say something at once – something to the effect that he indeed didn’t blame Sally. But he found it impossible. The silence became strained.

“It’s true, you know, that you
haven’t
properly understood what you were about.” Sir Alex was still kindly. “It was no affair, believe me, for romantic scurrying over the heather. Your first duty was to the security of your country, my dear boy. Well, that aspect of the matter is all right now. You can leave it to me. Go straight home and forget it. Forget it
entirely
. Do you understand me?”

Cranston nodded. Confusedly, he thought he did understand. Sir Alex was stretching a point – was stretching a point pretty far – in order to disentangle him from his follies. It was, as he had said, decent of Sir Alex. And over the face of this benevolent intention there lay a hideous and humiliating irony. The man who was thus taking risks with his own reputation – for it must amount to that – was Caryl’s husband. Treachery all round. That was what it came to. Himself treacherous to Sir Alex. Day treacherous to him… Yes, he had better clear out. Sir Alex’s standing by him in this way was the only decent spot in the affair. He had better do what he was told.

And Cranston stood up and moved towards the door. Nobody else stirred or said a word. There was some sort of doubt in his mind, but he couldn’t place it. Something rather unexpected was happening. Or rather the unexpectedness was in the fact that something wasn’t happening. The South Americans, who had been preparing a few minutes before to cut his throat, were doing nothing. They were simply letting him go. They were letting Sir Alex have it all his own way. But the puzzle, if there was a puzzle, was no longer any business of his. He had been charitably dismissed from the horrible involvement, and he had better go.