“No,” Keith said. “I think that Solidarity is far from funny. I think that it may be the beginning of one of the most important things happening today. But look at the background from our point of view. In this country we’re cursed with unions whose top men mostly lean far to the left. Some of them are dedicated to ruining our economy, knowing that this will help the aims of communism. Their ideal would be to bring Britain under Russian rule. They see that as bringing the working man’s Utopia. They close their eyes to the fact that you, in Poland, have the only real union behind the iron curtain, and it is a union which the Russians are trying very hard to stamp out. If anything amuses me, it is the contrast with our unions and the verbal somersaults which our union men turn when they’re trying to explain it away. Those are funny.”
Butch considered Keith’s words and finally nodded. “Is funny,” she agreed without trace of a smile. “But in Poland is not funny. Polish peoples do not want to be communists or have Russian masters. Russians say, very loud, Polish peoples are free and more richer than peoples in west. But we know this is not true. Russians fix prices they pay for food and other things they buy from Poland. So Russians get cheap food and goods. So Polish peoples is kept poor.”
“And so . . . Solidarity,” Keith said.
“Aye, so. But when Communist Party see that Solidarity becomes more stronger, Russians start to fear.”
“They began to see blues under the bed?” Keith suggested. He found to his surprise that the glass which he had been cautiously emptying was full again.
“Is right,” Butch said. “How you know we say that? Is not good translation, but near. So. General Jaruzelski is Prime Minister and leader of Polish Communist Party, both. Behind him is Polish army. Behind Polish army is Russian army. Military council is formed and they make . . .” She snapped her fingers.
“Martial law,” said a voice.
“Is right. They make show of talking to Lech Walesa and other Solidarity leaders. But mostly is force. Thousands, truly thousands of Solidarity leaders are arrested. They do not say arrested, they say interned. They do not say that Solidarity and right to strike are banned, they say suspended. Is same things. One time, more than fifty thousand were interned. Was terrible time. Was shootings in streets.”
“I thought that things were quieter now,” Keith said.
“On surface, yes. But, deep down, no. The . . . the pushing down . . .?”
“Suppression.”
“I thank. The suppressions go on. Guns is still used and Solidarity does not have guns. Solidarity men argue peacefully, and is right to do so. Force is best not used, ’specially if other man has more force than you. But big troubles will come again some day. When that comes, we not content that Polish army turn guns on unarmed Poles. Communists must see that Solidarity can shoot back.
“But that is only beginning,” Butch said. She was picking her way slowly through the still unfamiliar language. “First we need guns in littler numbers for local troubles. There will be disasters, but world will see that we do not lie down to Russians.
“Poles do not want to be second-class Russians, want to be free. But how to do this? We can not, what you say, vote with feet. Can not vote at all. Freedom can only be bought with blood. Some day comes the big fight. That day we want guns for every Solidarity man, and all those who think the same, if they are ready to fight. Then maybe Polish army will see who are their brothers.”
Butch spoke on in her Anglo-Scots and sometimes falling back on Polish. The room warmed to her words. Drinks were circulating, but no glass went to a mouth without being raised to her first in a silent toast. Keith sensed that he had been admitted to the circle. He was on his third, or possibly fourth, of what he now found to be a mild and palatable drink. It was dawning on him that he had there the client of his dreams, with treasures to sell and an enormous need for firearms. In the cold light of sobriety the proposition would have been too large for comfort. Indeed, cold feet would no doubt make their customary appearance in the morning. But tonight was his night for dealing. Solidarity, he had read somewhere, already had ten million members . . .
Butch brought her peroration to a close in a roar of applause. When it had died down she resumed her explanation. “Before I come to London, it is known to a few friends that I wish to defect. Man comes to speak with me. I am told plan. Ship-people have already promised help. Now agents are wanted in free countries, Britain in special. Polish treasures, all hidden from Russians, is smuggled out to buy guns which is smuggled back and stored until day when is needed. Old guns is not only treasures, is stamps, jewels, gold, pictures and books, maybe other things. But I am to sell guns and to find way to buy new guns.”
“With all that money coming,” Keith said, “you can buy all the guns you need. Why did you take the risk of hijacking them? It could have blown your whole operation.”
“Just so we think also,” Butch said. “But we think is first troubles coming soon. And is not easy buying new guns. Is permits and licences and certificates wanted. There are big dealers, international dealers, who are above these things, but these are not in your yellow pages. So how we find? Go to Polish Embassy? Or ask too many questions and so tell Russians what we do? On black market can buy one here and two there, all different size bullets. We thinking maybe you can help. While we think, we get chance to take. Maybe impetuous, you right. But we felt big need. Is not to save the money. We want to pay. Feel bad, not paying. But who we pay now, Eddie Adoni? He is in the jile.”
Keith opened his mouth and closed it again.
“I have the better idea,” Butch said. “Where my bag?” Her leather bag was passed from table to table until it reached her. She took out a bundle of tissue paper and unwrapped the Russian miquelet pistol. It was even more beautiful than when Keith had last seen it.
“Taking those guns and paying nothing, that makes me feel bad, like thief,” Butch said. “Is not good to start our dealings like that. This pistol is not such value as the guns we took but, OK, so we get bargain. In business is all right to get bargain, but to take and give nothing is bad. So what I do, I give you this pistol and you promise to hold your wheesht and to help us buy more guns.”
“On the same commission?” Keith asked.
“On same commission. Is deal?”
“Is deal,” Keith said.
They shook hands. There was a murmur of approval. “You have drink,” Butch said.
Jan Batory, his grim face almost smiling, pushed a larger glass into Keith’s hand. “Stirrup cup,” he said. “One for the road.”
“He means wee doch-an-dorris,” Butch translated.
Keith had a feeling that he was expected to down the drink in one gulp and then to dash the glass into the fireplace if there were one. Instinct warned him that he had had enough. It usually did, but too late. He sipped at the drink while he thought about the snags ahead. Suddenly the contents of his glass had vanished. He lurched to his feet. Butch came out onto the silent landing with him.
“I’ll not be able to put the purchase of hundreds of new firearms through the firm’s books,” Keith said. “So this is a personal deal between you and me. Yes?”
She nodded happily.
“And no cheques,” he added.
She understood him immediately. “All cash,” she said. “Or, if you want, I make you present of old guns to value of your commissions?”
“Just what I was thinking myself,” Keith said. He beamed at her. Already he could see the magnificent additions to his personal collection; additions which Wallace could not possibly argue should be part of the firm’s stock.
But Butch had not accompanied him in order to discuss business. “Does Ronnee know that I use what he told me so we can steal guns?” she asked.
With an effort, Keith brought her into focus. She no longer looked like a leader nor even a ballerina. She was just a girl.
“He’s worried,” Keith said. “I think that he’s trying not to think about it because he doesn’t
want to work it out for himself. Why don’t you go to him and explain?”
She shook her head violently. “Is secret. And you promise not to tell.”
“Then just go and smile at him. He’ll roll over to have his tummy tickled. You’ll see.”
“Not yet,” she said sadly. “I am ashamed. I break his trust. If he hate me now, I think I die.”
The glow which pervaded Keith’s being attained a new level. It was not often given to him to play Cupid. “Come to us for a drink and a meal tomorrow evening,” he said. “We can settle some more of the details.”
He managed not to stumble on the stairs. The evening air helped to clear his mind but it turned his knees to rubber. If he had been asked to inflate a breathalyser he suspected that the little plastic bag would dissolve. He left his car where it was and walked down to the hotel. He stopped once and took out the miquelet pistol to gloat over it. Even under the light of a street-lamp in the deepening dusk, it glowed.
Chapter Fifteen
The Polish Club was not the only centre of conviviality. Younger members of Newton Lauder’s population, who had been known to refer to the town’s principal hotel as a joint, would have been justified that evening in describing it as jumping. Even in the entrance hall, Keith was aware of the drone of many voices and the sound of laughter.
Mrs Enterkin was behind the reception desk, a duty which she sometimes undertook in times of stress. “What’s going on?” he asked her. “Not Burns Night?”
“It’s the wrong end of the year for that,” she said, laughing. “What have you been drinking? No, there’s no function on. But with the action over and no more news expected until tomorrow, the reporters have got a party going in the big bar. I suppose they’re all buying each other drinks on their expense accounts. And there’s another party in the lounge, mostly of the men we thought were agents. But they seem to get on very well together,” she added doubtfully.
“I’m told that they usually do, when circumstances allow.” The penultimate word gave Keith a little difficulty. “Is anybody using the small parlour?”
“Not at the moment, my dear. The locals have all moved into the public where they can be unsociable together.”
“I’ll use the parlour then. Would you dig Mr Smithers out of the cocktail bar and ask him to join me? And don’t shout it out.”
“The black man?”
“Is he black?” Keith should have guessed it from the deep, rich voice. But somehow he had not associated the name Smithers and an Oxford accent with colour. He began to wonder what bricks he might have dropped.
“As the ace of spades, my dear,” Mrs Enterkin said. “You go on through. I’ll whisper in his ear.”
“He’ll enjoy that,” Keith said. “I would.” He moved through into the small parlour and concentrated on blowing the mists of alcohol off the surface of his mind.
Mr Smithers, when he arrived, was accompanied by a waiter bearing two glasses and an ice-bucket containing a bottle of champagne. The waiter accepted a tip which seemed to gratify him and withdrew. Keith and Mr Smithers shook hands and sat down.
“You’ll join me?” Mr Smithers asked. He was a handsome and well-built negro of early middle-age. His hair was smartly trimmed and his nails manicured to perfection. These might only have been the gloss which the service at Millmont House was liable to impress on its customers, but even Keith, himself the least clothes-conscious of men, realised that the suit and shoes must together have cost the value of a medium-priced shotgun.
“I don’t think I should but I probably will,” Keith said. “Do you have a car with you?”
“One of the Millmont House cars, with driver.”
“Then I’ll join you,” Keith said. “Perhaps you’ll be good enough to drop me at my home on your way back. If all else fails, just pour me through the letter-box.”
Mr Smithers looked concerned. “What have you been drinking?” he asked.
“I wish I knew.”
“One of those evenings? From what I’ve been able to learn during the day, you had good cause for celebration; so you may as well continue. I’ll see that you reach home safely.” He poured champagne.
“You’re enjoying your stay at Millmont House?” Keith enquired.
Mr Smithers smiled, showing very white and even teeth. They had not, Keith noticed, been filed. “Enormously,” he said. “Everything is quite delightful. I shall be sorry when our business is concluded and I must leave. His Excellency is not a devotee of the fleshpots and I shall miss my comforts. For the moment, you understand, I am on an expense account. Generous as His Excellency is in the matter of salary, it would hardly keep me in the manner to which Millmont House is accustoming me. Tell me, have you seen any trace of the guns which are still missing?”
Keith put down his glass. The chilled wine was delicious but it seemed tame after the concoction of the Polish Club. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “I have a hunch that those guns are gone beyond recall.”
“That is unfortunate,” Mr Smithers said, his cheerfulness undiminished. “But they were well insured. Which reminds me. I am assured by Superintendent Munro that you were not only responsible for locating the load of guns but also led what one might call the relief expedition. His Excellency is pleased and so are his insurers. In time, the reward will be paid.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” Keith said. “And would you like me to find replacements for those that went missing?”
“I was going to ask you to do so, once we are sure that they will not be recovered.”
“That also may take some time,” Keith said, feeling his way.
“I think that I can reconcile His Excellency to a certain delay,” Mr Smithers said. Keith understood that an extension of his time at Millmont House would cause Mr Smithers little or no distress.
“You had better led me have copies of your licences to purchase,” Keith said. “And a note stating that I’m empowered to act for His Excellency. Er — do the papers contain any limitation as to numbers?”
Mr Smithers raised his eyebrows. “None at all. The more we buy, the happier your government will be. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” Keith said, “I might be able to put you in the way of affording some extra time at Millmont House on your own account. Would that interest you?”
“Few things would interest me more,” Mr Smithers said earnestly. “Provided, of course, that it did not involve me in anything contrary to His Excellency’s interests.”
“I seem to remember that he’s anticommunist,” Keith said.
“Nothing makes him see red except red.”
“Then we can deal. I have another customer. He wants to export a large number of guns. They would not be going in your direction,” Keith explained carefully. “If they were going, for instance, to the Afghanistan rebels, I take it that His Excellency would approve?”
“Without a doubt.”
“There’s no trouble about shipping,” Keith said, “but he is having difficulty making his purchases. For a small commission, would you care to place the orders and make the payments?”
Mr Smithers nodded thoughtfully and poured more champagne. “How small a commission?” he enquired.
“A small percentage but on large numbers. All you’d have to do would be to sign a few letters and make some phone-calls at my dictation.”
“We can work out something along those lines,” Mr Smithers said. “Did the un-numbered, stainless steel Browning turn up? Or has it gone beyond recall?”
“It turned up,” Keith said.
“His Excellency will be pleased. He is particularly anxious to have it for his personal use. And he was delighted with your idea for the engraving.”
“He was?” The champagne was getting to Keith. If he had made a suggestion, he had forgotten it.
“He was indeed. Two missionaries boiling a cannibal. Very topical in view of the present conflict between His Excellency and the established church. It will make an excellent conversation-piec
e. Perhaps you could put it in hand?”
“Certainly.” Keith held out his glass for a refill. The artistic perfection of a large deal in which he could earn a commission without ever taking overt action was worth celebrating. “Your English is very good,” he said.
Mr Smithers laughed. “Fettes College and St Andrews University,” he said. “I can drop into a good Scots accent when I need it.”
“That’s good,” Keith said. “You may need it soon.”
Chapter Sixteen
Molly has never given up. To this day she will occasionally demand that Keith tell her what were the three little words which she spoke and which gave him the clue he needed.
But Keith evades the question. He does not feel inclined to tell her that the words which so timeously reminded him of her brother’s foreign connection were ‘Up the pole’.
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[1] This expression, still in ironic use, derives from the fact that Ednam, near Kelso, now a village of little consequence, once ranked among the most important burghs in Scotland.
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