by John Creasey
The officer gabbled again.
Drusilla turned to Palfrey, but said nothing. Brian said hoarsely:
‘Sentence of death.’
He made a move forward. As he went a bayonet pricked his chest, while another Guarda moved behind him and tripped him up. He managed to avoid the full thrust of the bayonet, and fell heavily. None of the others appeared to notice what had happened, and Palfrey and Drusilla stood quite still as the four Patriots were bundled against the hedge, their hands tied behind them to pieces of branches. It was an incredible thing, macabre and unnerving. The men’s eyes were not even bandaged; none of them fought, but one began to talk. Before he finished a big Guarda struck him heavily across the mouth.
Six men lined up, with rifles ready, opposite the four ‘convicted’ men. Even in its execution it was a travesty, an incredible and unbelievable thing, for the dapper officer made no real pretence at giving orders, the guns were fired one after another. Sharp cracks echoed, the men by the hedge slumped downwards, supported only by their bonds.
Drusilla turned about abruptly, and Palfrey saw that she was biting her lower lip, and that tears welled from her eyes.
The dapper officer stepped forward and fired at close range at a man who had not yet died. The smoke from his gun had not faded away before he holstered it, turned, and walked smartly to Palfrey.
‘That happens to spies!’ he rapped.
Palfrey said wearily: ‘I do not speak Catanese.’
‘You!’ snapped the man, and swung Drusilla round. ‘You can tell him what will happen to all of you. Understand this, we shall do that unless—’ he paused – ‘unless you deliver to us the person of José Fonesca, whom you are hiding.’
Drusilla said: I don’t know where he is.’
‘That is a lie. You!’ He saw Brian struggling to his feet and turned to him, a little cockatoo in his drab but clean uniform, his eyes glittering and his expression fierce. ‘Where is Fonesca?’
‘A long way away, I hope,’ said Brian.
‘He was with your party.’
‘We separated,’ said Drusilla.
‘That is a lie! He—’
‘Isn’t here,’ completed Drusilla. ‘He’s gone.’ Her voice was dull, and once she looked towards the figures on the ground, bodies which were being cut loose from the hedge and carried across the field.
‘We shall see!’ snarled the officer. ‘Your friends were in Vicosa. Did he go there?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Drusilla, and then very softly: ‘Why don’t you go to find out, Commandant?’ The little man’s face coloured, and she went on: ‘Are you afraid? Are the authorities in the village too powerful for you? Would there be danger for you there?’
The man raised a clenched hand, then turned about and stamped away. Brian brushed his hand over his forehead and said: ‘Well done, Drusilla, but damned dangerous.’
‘Yes,’ said Drusilla wearily. ‘I know, but—’ She looked down at van Hoysen. ‘But we had to find out, Brian. They daren’t raid the village. They waited for you to come before attacking us, of course—they hoped the bombing would draw you away. Is he there?’
Brian nodded, while from the dapper officer came quick orders to his men. All except those with the prisoners lined up and began to march away. The party with the prisoners used their bayonets to urge them to move forward, while two men came from the ranks to lift and carry van Hoysen. They walked for perhaps ten minutes, much of the time down an incline, so that they were hidden from the road which they had left. At the foot of it was another road, little more than a track, and on it were two cars and several lorries.
Drusilla was helped into the back of one of the lorries. Palfrey and Brian climbed in after her, and van Hoysen was pushed in after them. Four Guarda men followed, keeping their bayonets fixed. The little convoy started off along the track, which led across the hills and the fields.
After a while Brian said.
‘Well, they don’t seem to want to kill us yet.’
‘They haven’t learned what they think we know,’ said Drusilla.
After what seemed an interminable drive the convoy stopped and they were all blindfolded. Then the lorry lurched off once more.
No word was passed before it stopped again.
They heard footsteps, barked orders and commands. The voices sounded hollow, echoing dully about their ears. The scarves were taken from their faces, and they were helped out of the lorry, narrowing their eyes against the light.
It was not the light of day. Shadeless electric lamp-bulbs hung on flex dangling from the roof of what might have been a large cavern – explaining the echoing noise.
The dapper officer approached them, gave orders to their guards, and then led the way down a narrow passage with damp walls, in some places streaming with water. In places the light was very dull, but the commandant walked without hesitation until he reached a heavy, iron-studded door. He pressed a bell-push. After a pause the door opened, and a guard with fixed bayonet looked out. An exchange of words followed before they were led through, one at a time.
Rough walls gave place to plaster, and the earth floor to concrete. As they went onwards, their footsteps echoing, Palfrey began to wonder where they were; it was the first time his mind had revived enough to feel an interest. He thought of Brian’s earlier story of the way two men had attacked the police-car which had been following the Marquis on his arrival in Catania, and wondered if this underground hiding-place explained the way the two men had disappeared from Brian’s sight.
They went through another door, also guarded, and then entered a long, low-ceilinged room, brilliantly lighted, and well-enough furnished.
Palfrey blinked in the sudden light, and then looked about him at easy-chairs, at a bar on one side of the room, at desks and upright chairs by another wall. Three officers in the uniform of the Guarda Nationale were drinking at the bar, several more were lounging in chairs, another was sitting at a large desk.
Brian stopped short, staring towards the men who were drinking. Palfrey eyed one fellow, tall, well-dressed, clean-shaven. ‘Well, I’m damned!’ exclaimed Brian. ‘That’s de Barros.’
‘And coming towards you,’ said Palfrey, for no reason except that the officer was approaching slowly.
He remembered Brian’s story of the American girl – what was her name? Leah, yes, Leah Gentry – and the interview with de Barros. He expected de Barros to speak to Brian, who stood quite still.
But de Barros passed him, ignored Palfrey, and reached Drusilla, who was standing and looking vaguely about her.
‘Señorita’ said de Barros, bowing, I am glad to see you again. And you need refreshment. Come, please.’ He took her hand.
She looked up at him and smiled wanly. It was a fleeting, fragmentary smile, with a tinge of something which neither of the Englishmen could understand. It was forlorn, helpless, even apologetic. She let herself be led towards the bar and helped into an easy-chair, while de Barros gave an order to the barman. Palfrey and Brian stared at her as if transfixed. De Barros spoke in his good English, saying: ‘So you succeeded, señorita? What of Fonesca, is there any news?’ Drusilla sipped her drink, a long one, and straightened up.
She pushed a hand through her hair and glanced towards the men prisoners, then quickly away. She licked her lips, and said: ‘He escaped before your men came.’
‘It is bad!’ exclaimed de Barros. ‘But perhaps’ – he shrugged his shoulders – ‘perhaps it will not matter so much, and we have your fine friends! There is no sign of the big Russian—did he escape also?’
‘Yes,’ said Drusilla.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Not Amongst Friends
To Palfrey the events since the first bomb on the road had been a nightmare, a phantasmagoria of incredible things. He had thought himself beyond further sho
ck or surprise, but he felt as he knew Brian did while he stared towards Drusilla. Tired, heavy-eyed, bewildered, depressed by Don Salvos’ attitude and elated temporarily by Fonesca’s, he felt that he could not comprehend this new revelation – that Drusilla was known by de Barros and was on friendly terms with him.
Yet as he stood waiting, although not knowing what might be coming nor who was to interrogate him, cogs slipped into place. They had been betrayed, and the Marquis had let them believe he suspected Drusilla. Palfrey and Stefan had decided that was wrong, but it could have been right. Drusilla had been in a position to give most things away, but that was no real evidence that she had done so; but her attitude towards de Barros was evidence.
There was another thing.
De Barros had been waiting for Brian when he had returned to the del Roso. The assumption had been that Drusilla had escaped in time, but now it seemed apparent that he could have been in the suite by arrangement with her.
Palfrey had a darkling thought, darker even than most of the others: he remembered how Leah Gentry had been treated, and there was the possibility that Drusilla had led her into a trap, that Drusilla had –
‘No!’ exclaimed Palfrey aloud. ‘This is nonsense!’
He peered across the room, narrow-eyed.
From her attitude of utter dejection Drusilla had revived a little, and she was smiling at de Barros, who brought her another drink. Then a door opened.
The men who were sitting sprang to their feet. De Barros and another officer who were drinking put their glasses down and stood rigidly to attention. There was no salute, although Palfrey expected one, the circumstances seemed to demand it.
A murmur went round the underground room, and on all tongues there was the word ‘Excellency’.
The man who entered was tall and painfully thin, with lantern cheeks and jutting eyebrows of jet black. He had a large, hooked nose, fierce grey eyes, heavily-lidded, and a slit of a mouth which made Palfrey draw in a deep breath; there was no shape to the man’s lips at all. He had a long, pointed chin, and his forehead was high. Black hair streaked with grey was bushy and upright, adding to his height.
He raised a hand and said something quickly. The company relaxed. He looked about the room and then approached de Barros and Drusilla. Until then Drusilla had remained sitting; now she stood up, and the newcomer bowed, clicking his heels in approved German style, and saying in English:
‘My congratulations, señorita. You have done well.’
‘I have done all I could, General Silverra,’ said Drusilla. Silverra turned away from them and approached Palfrey and Brian.
Drusilla did not look towards them, but left the room with a hand resting on de Barros’s arm.
Palfrey thought: ‘Silverra, General Silverra. Fonesca named him.’
The orderly spoke rapidly in Catanese. Silverra nodded, sat down behind the desk, and then for the first time deigned to notice the two prisoners. As he was looking at Palfrey the door through which the prisoners had been brought was opened and van Hoysen came into the room.
He was on his feet but walked unsteadily. His face looked grey. His head was bandaged so that the wrappings seemed like a great white turban. Palfrey expected him to be put in a chair. Instead he was left standing, and Palfrey moved to his side to support him.
‘Which is Palfrey?’ Silverra demanded. His voice was harsher than when he had spoken to Drusilla. ‘I am Dr. Palfrey,’ said Palfrey quietly.
Silverra’s eyes turned towards him. He looked up and put a hand forward, resting it on the desk.
‘You are charged with conspiring against the best interests of Catania, conspiring to upset the ruling authority and to impose on the people the will of the outlawed political party called the Social Patriots,’ declared Silverra.
‘Wrong,’ said Palfrey; ‘and in any case I deny your right to read such a charge, to make such a charge, and to hold me a prisoner against my will. None of the accusations is true, but in any case they should be read by a representative of the police or of a court of law.’
He felt less tired, his mind was working swiftly, he wanted to talk much more than was likely to be permitted. He saw Brian glance at him in surprise, and heard van Hoysen grunt.
Silverra’s expression did not change.
‘This is a military tribunal.’
‘This is a nonsensical gallery of puppets,’ said Palfrey hotly, ‘and as much outlawed as the Social Patriots.’
‘You forget yourself,’ said Silverra harshly. ‘I have the power to order your immediate execution.’
‘I know,’ said Palfrey bitterly. ‘I’ve seen some of your trials and some of your executions. But they were Catanese nationals, Silverra, and you might be able to get away with it. You won’t be able to get away with the murder of American and English citizens. I doubt if you will dare to murder any more.’
‘I have heard enough,’ said Silverra. There was no change in his expression nor in the harshness of his voice. I have told you the charges. You will be convicted summarily and sentenced to death, Palfrey. Unless—’
He paused, obviously for effect.
Palfrey stared at him, and then turned deliberately away, looking at Brian and saying:
‘Have you a cigarette, Brian?’
‘Eh?’ Brian was startled. I—oh yes, of course!’ He put his hand to his pocket and drew out a cigarette-case, but as he handed it to Palfrey an orderly stepped forward and knocked it from his grasp. It clattered to the floor, and cigarettes spilled about. Palfrey looked into the orderly’s eyes and then bent down and retrieved a cigarette.
Van Hoysen put an unsteady hand to his pocket and drew out a lighter. The orderly moved forward again, the lighter joined the cigarettes.
Palfrey eyed the one in his hand, shrugged, and put it to his lips.
‘You are insolent,’ said Silverra evenly, but muscles in his throat were working and it was obvious that he was righting hard to repress his anger.
‘Now, come!’ said Palfrey, as if shocked. He did not understand the unnatural calmness which possessed him, but it gave him a sense of elation. ‘Let’s be sensible, Silverra. I don’t acknowledge your right to try me, to sentence me, or to question me. If you kill me—’ He shrugged. ‘I deny your right to murder, too, but I can’t stop it. Go on, get on with it, but don’t talk a lot of nonsense about commuting sentences. It isn’t a sentence, it’s plain bloody murder. Now can I have a light?’ Silverra half rose from his chair.
The orderly stepped forward and gripped Palfrey’s arm. Van Hoysen, left to stand alone, moved forward and leaned against the desk, turning his back on Silverra.
‘Sap,’ he said wonderingly, ‘I hand it to you, you know how to talk.’
‘You have one chance of living!’ thundered Silverra, and his right hand clenched as he waved it above his head. ‘One chance and one only! I wish to know—’
‘I can’t tell you where Fonesca is,’ said Palfrey mildly. He was quite sure that Silverra was astonished at his attitude, the subservience of the others proved that their attitude towards him was one of absolute obsequiousness. Opposition, this kind of opposition, was new to him. And Silverra raved.
He roared at the top of his voice and waved his clenched fists, he shook them under Palfrey’s nose, he strode up and down the room violently, he spluttered, his face went red with rage and lack of control. There was no sound but his rantings, no movement but his, until in the middle of it Palfrey stooped down and retrieved the lighter.
The movement was so unexpected that the orderly was taken by surprise. Palfrey flicked the lighter into flame and lit the cigarette. The action so startled Silverra that he stopped shouting, and into the silence came van Hoysen’s quiet laugh.
‘Take him away!’ roared Silverra, choking. ‘Take him away!’
Two men seized Palfrey a
nd bustled him through the door through which Silverra had entered. One knocked the cigarette from his lips, and sparks from it stung his cheeks. He could not see where he was going, and several times missed his footing, but his captors kept him on his feet until they stopped and, opening a door, flung him inside a cell.
He sprawled forward and banged his head sharply against a stone.
The door closed behind him, and through the thudding in his ears he heard a key turn in the lock. For some minutes he lay there, dazed and confused. Then he straightened up and groped about the room, which was in darkness. He stumbled against a table or a chair, and the blow on his thigh was painful. He swore mildly, and then groped for the wall. He found it and walked round the room unsteadily, until he found what he thought was an electric light switch. He pressed it down; a blue light shone from the centre of the ceiling, in no way painful to the eyes.
Palfrey looked about him.
The room was no more than ten feet by twelve, a bleak bare place, with three straw palliasses along one wall, side by side, a bare wooden table and three wooden chairs. The walls were dripping with water, and there was moss and green slime on them. There was a dank, musty smell, one he remembered: it was like the smell in the underground room where he had first seen Fonesca.
He felt a little stupid, dazed, and bemused as he groped for his pipe and touched the smooth bowl, deriving some comfort from it. He felt annoyed with the man who had robbed him of his cigarette and then foolish because of the way he had acted. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and sat on the corner of the table, the empty pipe jutting from his lips.
There were footsteps outside, some heavy and some light. He waited for them with a tenseness which made his whole body go rigid. They drew nearer. He prayed that they would stop outside his door, and that he would hear the key being turned in the lock.