“And what about the information which he sends to you? He must have another line?”
Peter nodded. “Yes, and it’s a much more direct way, naturally. I knew you’d cotton on, Richard. Anything else which strikes you?”
Richard hesitated, and then, as Peter waited for an answer, he said, “The system is obviously pretty safe, except for one drawback. If the chief man himself is caught, then all information travelling out to him will get into the wrong hands. His agents might even be picked off by one if he were—persuaded into any confession. Not to mention the fate of the poor devils who thought they were escaping from Germany.”
“Exactly. That’s why the job has got to be done.”
“Your man must have been pretty sure of himself to think up that system, I must say.”
Peter said, “I suppose it looks that way, but you’ve got to take risks in his profession. It has been very much worth our while to take a chance on him. And, strangely enough, it is just this kind of system which gets the best results. Until now he has always been agile enough not to be caught; he has been doing this kind of thing, you know, since we were being pushed round the park in our prams. You may depend on one thing, Richard: he won’t talk. Anyway, you see how vital it is to know whether he is still functioning, before the volcano in Europe blows sky-high. We’ve got to be sure of him before then.”
“Yes, I can quite see that,” Richard said gloomily. “But I still think you need a professional man on the job.” It was a good sign, anyway, thought Peter, that Richard was still arguing about it. He was clearly not very much in love with the idea, but he was still at the stage of objections rather than that of a downright refusal. Peter wondered if he should tell them anything more. He thought wearily, “I’m devoted to both of them, but can’t they see, in God’s name, that I was counting on them to accept, or I wouldn’t have let them in on all this?” Yet people changed, and being a don at Oxford might very well make you too contented, too unwilling to act against your own security. Richard was waiting for his answer.
“We sent one,” Peter said briefly. “We should have heard from him by this time. When we didn’t I suggested to my Chief that we should try an amateur; that line served me well enough in Bucharest. A couple of innocents abroad might be able to get through all suspicion. The thing to remember is that you are not agents; don’t let yourself get mixed up in any sideline snooping. All we want to know is whether an Englishman is there or not. If the trail gets too hot, then just pull out of it, using your own good sense. If there’s any questioning, then stick to your story. You are just two holidaymakers having your annual trip abroad. There is one other point: your job will be finished when either you find the man or you’ve reached the sixth agent without finding him. He never worked with more in a line. You will have a margin of safety all through, because the contacting clues will be vague enough to let you have an out and your amateur status will be an additional help. That really is your strongest safeguard.”
Richard said nothing, but Galt, watching him closely, was satisfied. It wasn’t a comfortable, peaceful way of life which had held Richard back: it was the fact that Frances would be in this too.
“When you’ve finished, wire to this address in Geneva,” Peter said. He wrote some words quickly on a piece of paper and handed it to Richard, still looking undecided, worried… But Galt knew he had won.
“Better memorise the address and then destroy it,” he advised. “If you find your man, then wire, ‘Arriving Monday’, or ‘Tuesday’, or whatever day you actually saw him. If you don’t find him, wire ‘Cancel reservations’.” He drew a deep breath. “Thank God that’s over,” he said. “Is it all clear, Richard?”
“I’ve got it memorised, if that’s what you mean. But look here, Peter, if you have really decided that I ought to do this job, don’t you think I’d better go alone? I’m not running Frances into any risks.” His tone was grim. Frances looked at him suddenly. So that was what had made him hesitate.
When she spoke her voice was low, but equally determined. “Richard, I am not going to be left behind.”
Peter said, “Unfortunately I agree with Frances. Since you’ve been married you’ve never separated on your holidays. It really would be better if you were just to do what you always do. And you’ll be safer with Frances because you won’t take risks if she is with you.” He looked anxiously at Richard. “I know it’s going to ruin your summer,” he began, and then stopped. He had said enough as it was.
Richard was staring at the red geraniums in the window box.
“It isn’t the ruining of it,” he said slowly. “Everyone’s holidays are ruined this year. But I don’t think we’d really be of any use.”
Peter was picking up his gloves and umbrella and his black hat. He was still watching Richard intently. Something seemed to decide him. He moved over to Frances to say goodbye.
“I would never have asked you if I didn’t think you could pull it off,” he said. “And I would never have asked you if the whole thing wasn’t so urgent, Richard. I’d have done it myself, except that the people we are working against have got me docketed since Bucharest. I’ll be on the files by this time. I thought of someone else, but your qualifications for this job are just what we need. I didn’t enjoy asking you, I may as well say… Time I was leaving now. I see I’ve kept you late for Frame’s party. I met him this morning in front of the Mitre, and he asked me to come along too.” He waved his hat towards the invitation card propped up on the mantelpiece.
“How long,” said Richard, “should this job take?”
“We allowed two weeks to our man, but he knew the ropes. We’d better say about a month. It will be safer if you don’t hurry things. You will have to spend a few days in each place to make it look convincing. Remember, I want you to steer clear of any suspicion or danger… For God’s sake, take care of yourselves.”
His voice was normal again by the time he had reached the door.
“Goodbye, Frances; goodbye, Richard. See you when you get back.”
The door closed softly, and left a silent room.
Frances was the first to move. She pulled out her compact and powdered her nose. She readjusted her hat to the correct angle.
“You’ll do,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “Come on, my love, we are three-quarters of an hour later than I had meant to be late… You’ve got it all memorised?”
Richard nodded. “That’s the least of it. Frances, this is the time to back out. Now.”
Frances rose, and looked at the seams of her stockings. She altered a suspender. “When do we start?” she asked. “As soon as you have finished all your teaching?”
Richard looked at his wife’s pretty legs.
“Blast Peter,” he said, and took her arm as they left the room.
They talked of other things as they went downstairs.
2
THE PARTY
The party in Frame’s rooms had just reached the right temperature when Frances and Richard Myles arrived. They stood for a moment at the doorway rather like two bathers about to plunge off a springboard. Their host, armed with sherry bottles, pushed his way through to meet the latecomers.
“I’m so glad,” he breathed. “Sorry about this awful crowd: such a mob.” He turned to welcome some other new arrivals. Actually, thought Frances, he was just delighted that the room was jammed with people talking their heads off. She smiled goodbye to Richard. This wasn’t one of those ghastly affairs where you only knew the host. They wouldn’t have to put on their special act today, when they would meet each other with surprise in the middle of the room, greet each other warmly and start the vivacious conversation of two friends who rarely met. They always found that others, with an ear for preposterous remarks, would drift towards them. As Richard had said, splendid isolation didn’t mix with sherry.
But tonight Richard had already seen two men he wanted to talk to, and Frances waited in the corner she had chosen for herself as three young men g
ravitated towards her. They had, in their typical manner, only smiled politely when they caught her eye, and had then, without another glance in her direction, started a quiet but determined progress towards where she stood. She noticed Richard was looking round him in that particularly ingenuous way he had when he was most on guard… But Peter Galt had not arrived yet.
The three young men arrived from their various directions, and began one of the usual adroit conversations which sherry parties inspire. They all avoided talking present-day politics with an understanding as complete as it was tacit. This was perhaps the last conversation they would have together for a long time, and they wanted to keep it gay. They discussed the Picasso exhibition in London, and Guernica, and that led to Catalonian art and Dali. Frances wanted to know if the pineapple Cathedral at Barcelona was still more unfinished. (Michael had been there with the International Brigade. It was a bad show about his arm; Frances had heard that the shrapnel still embedded there might end in amputation.) But Michael steered the conversation to Gaudi and his architectural fantasies. Frances remembered a chapter somewhere by Evelyn Waugh on Gaudi’s telephone kiosks. It was an amusing description and they laughed.
“Eternal Oxford: how delightful it is to return and be so far removed from the rigours of life.” The voice had a very pronounced, almost too careful Oxford accent. The speaker was tall and remarkably good-looking. A duelling scar marked his chin, another his cheek; they gave his blondness a certain formidable quality. His smile was very self-possessed. “Mrs. Myles, as lovely as ever.” He bowed very low over Frances’ hand.
Frances collected herself. “Oh, hello. How are you?” She made hasty introductions. “Freiherr Sigurd von Aschenhausen— John Clark, Sir Michael Hampton, George Sanderson. Herr von Aschenhausen, you know, was an undergraduate along with Richard.”
There was a pause.
“Charming to return and find Evelyn Waugh and Oxford still inseparable.” Von Aschenhausen’s voice was friendly. The three undergraduates maintained a polite smile in place. Frances knew they were placing his date of residence at the University very accurately. She thought of explaining that it wasn’t black satin sheets but Catalonian architecture which they had been discussing, and then gave up the idea as being more trouble than it was probably worth. Even allowing for the foreigner’s favourite indoor sport of underestimating the English, surely von Aschenhausen couldn’t be serious. After all he had been to three universities, one in Germany, one in England and one in America. One thing he must know about undergraduates by this time, and that was that they were always in revolt. They were never static. The only way they could form their minds was by opposing accepted opinion. Frances herself had seen the swing of the pendulum away from the æsthete to the politically conscious young man who Studied Conditions. The æsthete himself had been in rebellion against the realism of the post-War group.
George made some polite remark to cover up their embarrassment. Michael was lighting a cigarette. John was gazing into the middle distance. Frances remembered he was allergic to Germany; since that kick four years ago when he hadn’t saluted a procession in Leipzig. The conversation limped along, the undergraduates hoping that von Aschenhausen would go; but he didn’t. Frances did her best: she talked about summer holidays. The undergraduates were going to France; von Aschenhausen was returning to Berlin. She explained that Richard and she would like to have their usual view of mountains.
“Where exactly were you thinking of going?” asked von Aschenhausen.
“We were in the South Tyrol last year. I’d like to get back there just once more”—Frances’ voice was honey-sweet—“just before the volcano erupts.” The Englishmen smiled grimly. The German protested politely.
“What! With this peaceful England? There will be no war, no general war. Just look at everyone in this room…” Unconsciously he straightened his back as he looked round the room. “And there’s not a soldier among you,” was the implication. He might just as well have said it. Michael flicked a piece of cigarette ash off his wounded arm. He spoke for the first time.
“There’s a limit to everything, you know. Goodbye, Frances. I must go now. Have a good time this summer.”
The others had to go now too, it seemed.
Von Aschenhausen remained. Frances shook herself free from her embarrassment. After all, he used to be amusing and gay. He had made many friends when he was up at Oxford; he had been invited around a good deal. She wondered how he was getting along in the New Germany; he used to laugh off any political discussions by protesting that he wasn’t interested in politics. She racked her brains for something tactful to say. It was difficult in this summer of 1939. You were so conscious of nationality now. She was relieved when von Aschenhausen spoke.
“I am afraid that young man did not like me particularly,” he said. “Is it because I am a German, or is it his usual manner? I have noticed that a cripple is usually more bitter than the ordinary man.”
“Cripple?” Frances’ eyes widened; she was at a loss for words.
“Of course, there is a change in the attitude here towards me,” he continued. “Six years ago I had many friends. Today— well”—he smiled sadly—“it would be better if I came as an exile.”
“I wondered at first if you were, and then I thought not.”
“How did you know?” He looked at her amusedly.
“By your clothes.” She looked pointedly at his Savile Row suit. He hadn’t liked that; his smile was still there, but it was less amused—good—cripple indeed!
“It is really very sad for a German to find how misjudged and abused his country is. Of course, our enemies control the Press in foreign countries, and they have been very busy. They have clever tongues.”
“Have they? It is strange, isn’t it, how criticism of Germany has grown even in countries which were once really very close to her. I wonder how it could have happened.”
He looked as if he didn’t know quite how he should take that. She gazed at him steadily with wide blue eyes. He smiled sadly.
“You see, even you have changed. It is depressing to return to Oxford, which I loved, and to find myself surrounded by glaciers.” Was the man being really sincere, wondered Frances, or was it just another of those pathetic stories?
“Perhaps it is the change in you which has changed us.”
He looked surprised. “Oh, come now, Mrs. Myles. I haven’t changed so very much. I am still interested in literature and music. I haven’t become a barbarian, you know. Politically— well, I have progressed. Everyone does, unless he is a cow. I am more realistic than I once was, less sentimental. I’ve seen the stupidities committed in the name of idealism and abstract thinking. People are made to be led. They need leadership and with strong leadership they can achieve anything. At first they must take the bad with the good; in the end they will forget the bad, because the ultimate good will be so great for them.” He spoke with mounting enthusiasm.
“You believe you have not changed. And yet under the leadership which you praise so much you may only read certain books, listen to certain music, look at certain pictures, make friends with certain people. Isn’t that limiting yourself?”
“Oh, well, limiting oneself to the good, eliminating the bad—all that is better in the end.”
“But who is to say what is good for you or bad for you? Is it to be your own judgments, educated at Heidelberg, Oxford, and Harvard, or is it to be some self-appointed leader who can’t even speak grammatical German?” Von Aschenhausen didn’t like that either. He obviously had no answer ready for that one.
Frances kept her voice gentle. “You see, you have changed. Do you remember the Rhodes scholar who preceded you here? Intelligent man, quiet, and very kind. What’s his name?
Rotha, wasn’t it? You liked him then. But where is he now? Oranienburg, I heard.”
Von Aschenhausen made an impatient gesture. “That is all very sentimental, Mrs. Myles. It is time that the British really saw the things which matter. Disciplin
e and strong measures are needed in today’s Europe. It is a more dangerous and forbidding place than it was six or seven years ago.”
“That is just our point,” said Frances. “What made Europe more dangerous and forbidding?”
He laughed, but it didn’t sound jovial.
“You are a very prejudiced person, I can see. I suppose you will now lecture me gravely on the wickedness of Germany’s claims to natural Lebensraum. It is easy to talk when you have a large Empire.”
“On the contrary, Herr von Aschenhausen, I like to think of all people having their Lebensraum, whether they are Germans or Jews or Czechs or Poles.”
His voice grated. He was really angry. “It is just such thoughts as these which have weakened Britain. In the last twenty-five years she could have established herself as ruler of the world. Instead, she makes a Commonwealth out of an Empire, and they won’t even fight to help her when she has to fight. She leaves the riches of India untapped; she urges a representative government on Indians who were about to refuse it. She alienates Italy with sanctions. She weakens herself all the time, and she thinks it is an improvement.”
“Hello, you are being very serious in this corner.” It was Richard.
“I’ve been having a lesson in statecraft,” said Frances, conscious of Richard’s eyes on the two pink spots on her cheeks. I shouldn’t let myself get angry, she thought, and listened to von Aschenhausen, once more smiling and plausible. She had the feeling that he was trying to cover up, as if he were annoyed with the impression he had given her. He was very polite as they said goodbye. He bowed low, his composure completely regained.