The Tin Princess

  Not much, Jim thought. He looked at Karl, and back at her.

  "All right," he said, "now listen to me. He must come out of that damned hole in the rock - and we'll get him out, tonight. But if you think that gang of parasites around Godel are ever going to let you near the throne, you're crazy. As soon as Leopold is on his feet again, they'll kill you like a rat. No, don't interrupt. Leopold will never be king, but he's got a chance of living a fairly decent life if you help him. And that means helping us. You've really got no choice. That's the only path that's open to you."

  She blinked. There was a flutter of not-wanting-to-understand in her eyes like a broken bird trying to escape a cat; but it couldn't reach the air; it could only flap in ragged circles on the lawn. And Jim the cat had never felt more cruel.

  She bowed her head.

  "What must I do?" she said.

  Jim began to tell her. The flutter in her eyes calmed as if an invisible presence had fallen silent, and withdrawn to some deep chamber far inside, and for a while, Carmen Ruiz was contrite and eager to please; so eager and so warm that Jim had to remind himself forcibly of what she was and what she'd done, and found the facts almost impossible to believe.

  In the Council Chamber, the second day of the talks was drawing to a close, and the outline of a treaty was in place. It was an astonishing achievement. Adelaide had persuaded the two powers to guarantee, jointly, the continued independence of Razkavia; to come to her aid if she were threatened; to respect her borders; to extradite offenders against the criminal laws; to enter into a Customs Union that permitted the free flow of goods and trade; in short, to give up for ever any claims either of them might have had on the little kingdom that lay between them.

  The clerks and secretaries of all three teams went away to draw up the treaty in its finally agreed form, for a signing ceremony on the following morning. The Queen and the delegates, together with representatives of the other major powers, went to a gala performance at the Opera. Becky went to bed.

  At eight o'clock, our acquaintance Herr Bangemann (of the five daughters lined up in order of size) blotted the last page he had been writing, handed it to the Chief Secretary, and put on his hat and coat ready to leave.

  The Chief Secretary checked the work. It was impeccable; every word, every comma was in place, in the finest copperplate on the smoothest vellum. He put it together with the other two completed copies in the safe, locked it carefully, and hastened to change for the

  Opera.

  Herr Bangemann, meanwhile, was in a cab on his way to a large house not far from the Casino, on the wooded hills at the western edge of the city. His plump wife was waiting placidly in their apartment; there was venison soup and dumplings on the stove; the five daughters were lined up ready to tell him of their day's work at school.

  But Herr Bangemann's clerkly salary would not have paid for Gretl's piano lessons, for Inge's new calico dress, for Bertha's winter hat, for Anna's satin slippers, for Marlene's dancing class, never mind the chocolates Frau Bangemann enjoyed. They thought their man had an important post, to work so late and to buy them the little luxuries they liked. And in a way they were right.

  Herr Bangemann paid off the cab, rang the doorbell, gave his hat and coat to the servant, and was shown into a study where a warm fire was burning. Two men were sitting there: one in an armchair, the other at a table where a curious selection of apparatus was laid out: mahogany boxes with brass terminals, copper-bound induction coils, and an instrument like a piano keyboard, the keys each marked with a letter of the alphabet. From the terminals, wires bound in gutta-percha trailed up to a corner of the ceiling, and then through a dark hole. An efficient electrical hum came from it all.

  Herr Bangemann glanced at the apparatus with polite curiosity before bidding good evening to the man in the armchair.

  "Good evening to you, Herr Bangemann," said the host. "Please be seated at the other table, and begin when you like."

  There was a smaller table, with a carafe of water and a glass thoughtfully provided. The keyboard operator was flexing his fingers. Herr Bangemann sat down, cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and summoned up on the screen of his photographic memory the entire text of the tripartite treaty.

  "Whereas," he began...

  A wintry landscape: in the background, a castle on a pine-covered mountain; in the foreground, a row of ancient houses, with snow swirling out of a low sky to settle tentatively on the cobbles and rush up and around and down again.

  It might be Razkavia. In fact, it's only three inches across, and it's contained in one of those glass toys filled with liquid which you shake to make a snowstorm, and at present it's in the hand of another acquaintance of ours: the banker from Berlin, Herr Gerson von Bleichroder.

  He holds it up to his eyes, peering closely in, and then puts it gently back on the desk. It's the only snow that's falling in Berlin just now; the weather is cold, but the streets are dry. Bleichroder crosses to the window, looks down towards the well-lit Behrenstrasse below, taps a hand into the palm of the other behind his back, waiting.

  He's waiting for the energetic clatter of the tape-machine in the corner of the office to come to an end, and presently it does. Julius the secretary, who has been patiently gathering the yards of paper tape into a wicker container, snaps off the end and says: "Ready, sir. It's all here."

  "Good. Read it to me, Julius."

  Julius raises his eyebrows, but sits obediently and rustles through the tape to find the start. As he reads, the banker comes back to his chair and sits in his usual posture, leaning back, hands behind his head. His prominent nose and chin are immobile, but his fine hooded eyes dart this way and that, as if trying to see every implication of every clause that Julius reads out.

  Finally Julius reaches the end, and drops the tape into the basket.

  "That's it, sir," he says.

  "Well, well. Is the messenger waiting?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. Send it off to the Chief, then."

  Julius rings a bell, and instructs a clerk to roll up the tape neatly, put it in an envelope, and give it to the messenger waiting in the lobby. Bleichroder sits up, rubbing his hands.

  "Now, take a letter, Julius. Can you see all right? Would you like some more light?"

  "I can see perfectly well, thank you, sir."

  "To His Excellency Count Emil Thalgau... Special messenger, Julius. Address it to the Palace in Eschtenburg."

  Julius, at his smaller desk, inscribes his neat shorthand on a piece of heavy paper.

  "My dear Count Thalgau," begins the banker. "It is with great pleasure that I learn of the imminent accession to the throne of His Royal Highness the Crown Prince Leopold. I trust that his health has benefited from the devoted medical attention that he has no doubt been receiving.

  "The various constitutional... Give me a synonym for obstacles, Julius."

  "Impediments, sir?"

  "That will do. The various constitutional impediments which might prevent his immediate resumption of the throne are not, of course, of the slightest concern to the House of Bleichroder, nor, more importantly, to Prince Bismarck."

  He breaks off, and strokes the little glass toy for a moment. The secretary waits, pencil poised.

  Bleichroder goes on: "Here's a little test for you, Julius. I've learnt from the British Ambassador that London wouldn't give tuppence to preserve this little English girl who finds herself Queen; that she's a profound embarrassment; in short, that if she meets with a fatal accident, the British lion won't even twitch its imperial tail. Now, Julius, say that diplomatically."

  The secretary frowns faintly, composes his thoughts, and says, continuing the letter: "Nor, for that matter, to the British government. Private sources at the highest level have disclosed a decided preference on the part of London for a resumption of the normal dynastic arrangements."

  "Excellent, my boy! Write it like that."

  The secretary's pencil moves, and Bleichroder continues: "As to the
matter of the tripartite treaty, no doubt His Excellency the Chancellor Prince von Bismarck will make his dispositions known in the near future. In accordance with our agreement, I can confirm transmission of the first half of the agreed sum, namely eighty thousand marks, in a draft on the House of Rothschild. The remainder will be paid in full on the day following the coronation of Crown Prince Leopold.

  "With my cordial regards, Gerson von Bleichroder, and so on. There you are, Julius. Special messenger. It will be in Eschtenburg by the morning."

  "Very good, sir."

  Bleichroder leans back again, hands behind his head. Julius waits deferentially.

  "Now, Julius, tell me what you read into this correspondence."

  "Firstly that Count Thalgau has been in financial trouble, from which he expects to be rescued by the House of Bleichroder."

  "Correct. A mortgage on his entire property; he could not meet it; he would have been ruined. He is a patriot, none more so, but his estate, his castle will now be his whatever happens to Razkavia. So far correct, but easy, dear boy; you have seen the file. Carry on."

  "There is a plot to remove the English girl and substitute Prince Leopold... Is he the genuine Prince, sir? I thought he was dead. And surely the English girl's claim is good?"

  "Yes, he's perfectly genuine, though probably insane by now. And her claim is as good as it could possibly be. You know about their picturesque ritual, with the flag and so on? Charming; I wish I could see it... But why must she go? Come on, Julius, the hidden motive. Look beneath."

  "The treaty..."

  "Yes. What will the Chief think of the treaty?"

  Julius tries to think: the treaty looks good for all parties - therefore something must be wrong with it; official German policy is to negotiate and settle - therefore Bismarck's private policy must be to disrupt and subvert. Unless of course he's really doing what he pretends to be doing, in which case... "The Chief wants to prevent the treaty in order to ... get a better deal?"

  "Not quite, Julius. This is the true plan: the Chief wants to restrict the power of the German parliament. The Reichstag is getting too dominant, and the treaty is a Reichstag affair, not a Chancellery one. If it collapses, the Chief's judgement will be vindicated. And the incidental outcome will be favourable too: the Chief wants all the nickel they produce in that funny little country. Krupps need it. Therefore they must have it. The treaty would prevent that; therefore the treaty must not be signed. You understand so far?"

  "Indeed, sir."

  "Furthermore, there will be a disturbance tomorrow in the Razkavian capital. As a friendly gesture, the Chief will dispatch a regiment of Grenadiers to help restore order. The soldiers are currently boarding the trains."

  Julius marvels. To sit in this quiet office, at the heart of Europe, and learn of these complex, hidden manoeuvres of state! It is a rare and mighty privilege.

  "I see, sir. But ... Count Thalgau and the mysterious Prince Leopold. How are they connected?"

  Bleichroder laughs. It's a merry laugh, like that of a fond grandfather at a Christmas party.

  "They're not connected at all, Julius! When poor Thalgau reads the first paragraph of that letter he will be thunderstruck. And when he reads the last sentence - thunderstruck again! No, I happen to know that the conservative elements have had Prince Leopold up their sleeves for a long time, as a desperate card to play. They had him ready on the day the English girl was crowned, but she was too strong for them."

  Julius is amazed. "Do you mean that... The assassination..."

  "Was planned, yes. You remember the Spanish actress I told you about? She was married to Prince Leopold. Headstrong, you know; passionate, hot-blooded. You know women, Julius. Well, in effect she's a torpedo. Prime her, load her, aim her in the right direction, press the button, and bang! The poor woman imagines she is thinking it all up for herself. But it's all planned, Julius, all thought out in advance. The only thing that wasn't planned is the English girl. She was too strong, and she's been too popular with the common people. Well, it'll all fall apart very soon. And poor Count Thalgau, who imagines that all that will happen is a six-month delay in the treaty..."

  "That's what he's been told?"

  "Oh yes. He wouldn't want to harm his little English Queen. We told him we only wanted a slight delay, that everything would be safe after that. And now to find the ground falling away beneath his feet... Oh, dear, dear. And to find us seeming to assume that he knows about it and is part of the conspiracy..."

  Julius is silent. Bleichroder, smiling to himself, is gazing upwards, but he presently coughs and sits up.

  "Come, come, my boy, this kind of thing happens all the time. In a year or two I'll have a word with the Chief on his behalf. We'll create some kind of position for Count Thalgau - provincial governor, something of that sort. I believe in making friends, Julius, not enemies. Banking thrives on peace, you know. That's a very important lesson to learn. Now, read me back the letter."

  The secretary does so. Bleichroder leans back listening, suggests a minor change or two, and sends the young man away to have the letter transcribed and dispatched by telegraph to the house in the woods near the Casino.

  Then he picks up the little glass toy and shakes it once more. Holding it up an inch or two away from his right eye, he tries to make out the swirling white flakes, but it is no good: only the vaguest blur is visible. He lost the sight of his left eye some time ago, and now the right one can only just distinguish dark from light. The snow in the little glass globe swirls and dances and settles on the pretty landscape, so like that of Razkavia, and he sees nothing of it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  BETRAYAL

  Becky, deep in sleep, heard a knocking, and muttered, "Go away. Hau ab! Leine ziehe!"

  But whoever they were, they didn't. They knocked again and her door opened a little way. "It's me," said Jim's voice quietly. "I need to talk to you. Asleep? Tough luck. I'll stir the fire up and pour you a glass of something."

  She growled. He closed the door and, still nine-tenths submerged, she felt for her dressing-gown. When after a minute she dragged herself through into the little sitting room, tousled-haired, sleepy-eyed, barefoot, she found him standing by the rekindled fire, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses. He looked like a sailor: he was wearing rough trousers, rubber-soled shoes, and the navy-blue jersey Mrs Goldberg had knitted for him. A heavy pea-jacket lay over a chair.

  "What do you think you look like?" she said crossly. " 'Once aboard the lugger and the girl is mine', I suppose. I don't want wine. I want cocoa. Schokolade. Do you realize how tired I am? What's the use of wine to me? And you don't need it, you're full of beer, I can smell it, ach, disgusting. If you were a gentlemen you'd never dream of bursting into someone's room without Schokolade. Go and get some at once. Oh, all right, don't. The servants are asleep and you'd set fire to the kitchen. What do you want?"

  "I could make a cup of tea," he said helpfully. "I've got all the doings..."

  "Tea - pah. English swill. What do you want?"

  "I want you to listen. Sit down and put the poker in the fire."

  "Oh - mulled wine. That's different..."

  He took a twist of paper from his pocket, shook some sugar and a pinch of spice into each glass, and topped it up with red wine. When the poker was hot, he dipped it into the wine, careful not to touch the glass, and the liquid hissed and bubbled angrily.

  "Bit sooty, but it'll do," he said, and handed her a glass. She sat close to the fire, her bare feet on the fender, and hugged her knees, sipping the steaming wine as he spoke.

  He told her everything that had happened since the moment on the terrace two nights before. She listened appalled. After the work of the last two days, she thought she knew about politics; that it was complex but open, achieved by painstaking negotiation and compromise. How wrong she was! Because all the time, underneath, a different politics was taking place. And that politics was simple but secret, achieved by cruelty and violence.

&
nbsp; "I'm ... I'm breathless," she said. "Baron Godel hid that poor man in an asylum all this time? I can't take it in... And what about the woman? You say she's the one who killed King Rudolf? Where is she now?"

  "She's with Karl and the others - under guard. We need her to help get Leopold out. They're on their way here now. Once we've got him out we can arrest Godel and have done with it. Clear the whole thing up."

  "What's going to happen to her?"

  "She's a murderer, Becky."

  "But what's going to happen to her?"

  "We'll hand her over to the police."

  "What'll happen to her then?"

  "She'll be tried. The penalty is hanging. In fact I'll make sure she'll plead insanity; then she'd be locked in an asylum instead of him. That'd be ironic, wouldn't it?"

  "It's hardly fair. She did it because she loved her husband, and now you're tricking her into helping you, and you're going to betray her."

  He ran his hands through his hair and stared at the floor, elbows on knees, shoulders tense.

  "That's about the size of it," he said. "But loving your husband isn't a good enough reason to shoot someone else. She's not fully there, Becky. If you saw her you'd soon see how odd she was. Little things that don't fit; her hair, for instance. She must spend hours on it, pulling it back so fiercely from her face that the skin on her forehead's drawn back as well, and it's so tightly rolled at the nape of her neck that it feels like wood - I noticed when we fought. But with all the attention she pays her hair, she neglects her shoes altogether - they're scuffed, muddy, the soles are loose. A dozen little things like that; she's coming adrift. And it's not just that - it's something in her eyes, in the intensity of them. But whether she's mad or not, she's just too dangerous to leave at large. And think: if she got what she wanted, would it make her happy? Could she put her husband on the throne, and reign beside him? He's destroyed, poor devil. He wouldn't even be able to lift the flag, much less know where to carry it, ten thousand times less deal with these diplomats like Adelaide's doing. If Carmen Ruiz is in her right mind, that life wouldn't make her happy; and if she isn't, she'd never know anyway. This is tragic, I dare say - for her, for him, for them both. And we're instruments in this tragedy. But we have to do it. We can't sacrifice everything Adelaide's done, everything you've done, the whole future of the country for the sake of a moment's happiness for her - which would be illusion anyway. So yes, we've used him as bait to catch her, and we're going to use her as the bait to get him, and then we're going to betray her; but I'll go in any witness box in the world and swear blind she's insane. They won't hang her if I've got anything to do with it."