When she asked him how he knew all this he told her that for weeks he had been slipping out at night; following them to their hide-out and listening to them at their meetings. It wasn’t only just tonight, he insisted; he’d been there lots of times. The things he began telling Anna were so horrifying that she couldn’t believe them. And yet why not? The hut, as the child said, was full of cracks and in many places open to the sky. It was easy enough to hear what was going on inside. They always had a look-out, but he had usually been placed on the tow-path where the entrance of the shelter faced the river. Robert had apparently crept up behind the hut each time, and climbed the tree; hidden in its branches, he could hear most of what they were saying.
He had not been so lucky tonight. The wind had been so fierce that some of what they had been planning had been lost in the sighing of the branches. They had almost caught him tonight. He had slipped, but just managed to grasp another branch and by keeping terribly still had managed to slither down while the wind was particularly wild.
When he had finished whispering to Anna he began to sob.
Anna was so shocked at what he had told her that for a time she could think of nothing to say. She bathed his hands and knees and comforted him as best she could. She knew Katie and Hank belonged to some kind of gang. Hadn’t Katie asked her to cut in with them? But that these children, for they were little more, robbed and killed, she hadn’t had the faintest idea. Who could, even in their wildest dreams have imagined such a thing? At first she thought Robert was inventing it all, but the look of terror on his face as he implored her to save Krista told her that this part at any rate must have some truth in it. Then she remembered those black gloves . . . and the blood . . . the death of that old caretaker . . . Katie’s strange behaviour . . . the police coming with that belt. She questioned Robert further. Yes. He knew all about that; they had killed him. Worse, they said that Hank had killed him, only Hank, and that if he didn’t make Krista do this thing they wanted, Leo would either kill Hank or give him up to the police.
They heard the sound of the motor cycle approaching. “Go back to your bed,” ordered Anna. She realized with a stab of fear the danger that this child had put himself into. He had given away the only real clue to the police by admitting that he recognized Katie’s belt. Of his appalling danger in going out at night she shuddered to think. She hugged him to her, trying to calm him and assuring him that if only he had come to her sooner she could have prevented all this.
“Why didn’t you tell someone?” she urged him.
“I was too frightened,” he confessed, hiding his face. “They told me when they carved my back that if I opened my mouth again they’d do something much worse to me.”
“But you could have told Father Lange,” said Anna gently, “that would have been different.”
“He guesses some, he’s always asking me. Once he saw me out at night. He took me back to his house and gave me cocoa and tried to make me tell him what I had been doing. But I didn’t.” He finished proudly. “No one’s made me tell. Not even Heinz and Hank, and they tortured me.”
The one thing which Robert had not been able to hear was the actual time when this thing was planned to happen. The wind had prevented that. When he had been tucked back into bed and she left him, she put on her coat and sat thinking. She heard the motor cycle approaching and later Katie scrambling in the window, and lay down with the sheet pulled right up to her chin, pretending to be asleep. As she heard Katie undressing in the dark she was filled with loathing of her mean spitefulness. She had always known of these traits in her sister, and accepted them, but that Katie would go to such lengths to hurt an innocent girl shocked Anna inexpressibly. She lay awake turning over this hate-full, appalling problem.
How to do something to prevent it happening? And Hank? Anna held no brief for Hank. He was a murderer. At least it seemed so. But that was such a nightmare, if it were true, that for the moment she accepted only the fact that Hank was in Leo’s power; that he held over Hank’s head this appalling threat of giving him up to the police for the crime—whether or not he had done it—if he did not produce Krista. Anna knew that Leo had had his eye on Krista for a long time. She had seen him looking at her in the tram, on the tow-path, in the town. And there had been the episode of her being annoyed by him in the woodland.
What puzzled her was Robert’s insistence that Hank did not want to do this thing: that they had said they wouldn’t hurt Krista if only he would help get her to Eddie’s room. And Robert didn’t know where that room was.
What should she do? Warn Krista? No, she would be terrified. Go to the police? Would they believe her? She had only the garbled story of a frightened little boy. But they were already suspicious. They would surely look into the whole matter. Anna shrank from the police. They’d had so much petty trouble from them already. Pa! Should she go to him? He was suspicious of something, that was obvious, ever since the police had come. Since Robert’s back had been carved with that vile word, Pa had watched them all whenever he came home. Should she tell him? Or should she tackle Hank—now?
Anna was no coward. Acting on the impulse of the moment she dropped out of the window and went round to the conservatory where he slept. He came at once at her insistent tapping.
“Come out,” she whispered, “I must speak to you.” Something in her tone made him obey, although he was just getting into bed.
She wasted no time. As soon as he walked round the corner of the house to join her, angry but apprehensive, she attacked him. She knew all about the gang and its activities. She knew about the murders. She saw Hank’s danger, knew that he was in Leo’s power.
“The game’s up,” she said firmly, “the police are on to the gang. It’s only a matter of time. Unless you go to Pa and tell him everything I’m going to tell him myself.”
Hank made a move towards her. His great hands were trembling. “Take care,” he warned; “I may silence you.”
“What’s the good of that?” asked Anna contemptuously. “How d’you think I know all this? I’m not afraid of you.”
“Who told you?” His threatening attitude had no effect on Anna. Calm, stolid and forthright she stood there and told him what she thought of him. Her words were pitiless. “And don’t think it’ll make a penny-worth of difference if you kill me,” she ended sharply. “Others know all this. They told me. It’s only a matter of time before the police round you all up.”
“What am I to do?” Hank was terrified now. Anna was so sure, so absolutely certain of herself. He had not the faintest idea that she was bluffing him.
“Tell Pa the whole thing,” insisted Anna. “If you won’t then I will.”
“Give me until tomorrow night,” pleaded Hank.
“All right. But no longer. You tell me tomorrow when I get back from work what you’ve decided.”
“All right,” agreed Hank finally. “I’ll make up my mind. But what can Pa do?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Anna fiercely. “But I do know that he won’t let Krista suffer for your vileness.”
She turned from him without a word and went back to bed. She had suddenly remembered that slip of paper in her bag. It bore the address of Paul’s present whereabouts. Not so very far away. If she wrote to him “express” he would get it quickly. The proper person to come and take Krista away from all this filthy mess was Paul. She didn’t trust Hank. She would write the letter anyhow.
When Paul received Anna’s letter he thought he was reading some piece from a cheap gangster magazine. She had had very little time, and she was no great letter-writer. It was terse and to the point. “Krista is in danger from a gang. They intend to force her into it. They have got the means to do this. If you love her, come as soon as you get this letter. Come to the house and ask where she is. I’ll look out for you. Don’t fail her. Anna.”
He re-read the letter. It had a ring of both urgency and sincerity. He liked Anna. She had a solid enduring quality which all the others i
n that family lacked. She had said that she would help him. Was this her way? Was it some trick? Some way of reuniting the lovers?
At the thought of any possible danger to Krista Paul saw red. What could such a gang be? How could they threaten a girl like Krista; have the means, as Anna said, of forcing her into their power? The gangs round that part of the Rhine were notorious. Paul knew this. They hid in the ruined parts of the Haven. Was this such a gang? That lad Hank—Paul was sure he had a hand in this. He took the letter to his friend Bob.
“Read that,” he said.
Bob read it, then whistled.
“What d’you make of it?”
“Dunno. It sounds the real thing to me. This kid’s scared out of her skin. Not for herself. For your Krista.”
“It’s incredible. It must be some trick.” insisted Paul doubtfully.
“Maybe. Maybe not. How much d’you care for the girl?”
“She means everything in the world to me.”
Bob whistled again. “Looks like you can’t ignore this then. It may be a trick, it may be O.K. Let’s go see!”
“You’d come with me?”
“Sure thing. If we can get off. This border dump’s about as thrilling as a Sunday school. We’ll take my automobile.”
Paul was undecided whether or not to answer Anna’s letter. She had sent it express. He had got it the same night. They might get week-end leave and set off tomorrow afternoon. It wouldn’t take long in Bob’s fast car.
Finally he decided against a telegram. It might attract too much notice. He would send an answer the same way as she had, by express.
“Supposing it’s a hoax,” he said to Bob as he posted the letter. “Well, we’ll have had the trip. We’ll have got out of this dump,” Bob said cheerfully. “And you’ll see your girl.”
Would he? Paul began to think. The idea of seeing Krista again was so exciting that he didn’t see how he was going to get through the next twenty-four hours.
XXVIII
HANK tossed and turned. The night was close. Although all the windows in the conservatory were wide open it was absolutely airless. Accustomed to heaving himself into bed and knowing nothing more until Moe awoke him with the watering-can (if the alarm-clock had failed to do so), he was now wide awake and burning with impatience. Tomorrow would be Friday. Anna had come to him again today as soon as she had come home.
“Well, what about it?” she had demanded in a hard voice. He had stalled. He had some plan for getting the twins to help against Leo in this thing planned for tomorrow. He would see that Krista didn’t come to any harm. He had begged her not to warn Krista. Anna was dubious.
“You’d much better go to Pa,” she urged.
“Look,” pleaded Hank, “it’s life or death to me. Can’t you see that? If I can fix this without having to tell Pa it’ll be the better for us all. I promise you no harm shall come to Krista.” He couldn’t bear the thought of Krista knowing of his part in the gang.
“I don’t trust you,” said Anna bluntly; “I’ll give you until tomorrow morning. If you haven’t done something by then I’ll have to tell him.”
He lay now wondering what on earth to do. How to get the better of Leo in this terrible fix. Leo was ruthless. He wouldn’t have the slightest compunction in turning Hank over to the police. And he would get the rest of the gang to lie for him. They would lie not only from fear, but also for money. The wild thought of making a run for it entered his mind. He was sick of the whole beastly business. He’d gone into the thing chiefly because he was bored. He’d run away!
The thought that if he did so Krista would be left to the mercies of Katie and Leo was so terrible that he simply couldn’t lie still. He got up and went out of the conservatory, put on a coat in the lobby, and went into the garden. It was a lovely night, still warm as he entered the summer-house. Even as he went in he smelt the tobacco-smoke and, too late, saw his father sitting hunched up in a corner.
Joseph looked up. “Come in,” he said. “It’s not often we have any talk together.”
Hank was astonished to find his father there, and embarrassed too. Joseph noticed his perturbation. “What’s wrong?” he asked, taking his pipe from his mouth.
“Nothing,” mumbled Hank.
“Oh yes, there is,” said Joseph. “And the police came here this afternoon again. Didn’t Moe tell you?”
He did not miss the fear which came into Hank’s face.
“I’ve been looking round,” said Joseph slowly, “and I’ve been thinking.”
“What did the police want?” Hank’s voice shook.
“The number of your motor cycle.”
“What for?”
“How should I know? I’ve never owned a motor-bicycle. In fact I’ve never owned an ordinary push one, as you very well know.”
“Did they ask to see mine?”
“Yes. Moe showed it them.”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing. Just took down the number and examined it. They wanted to know about the licence, I expect. But I don’t like it. All that business about that belt. It was funny Robert thinking he’d seen it before. He’s a bright boy and not usually mistaken.”
“Moe never told me about the police coming today,” said Hank.
“Why are you so frightened? What’s the matter, Hank?” For Hank was shaking now and it was obvious to Joseph that something was terribly wrong. “What’s the matter?” he asked sharply again.
For answer Hank put his head in his hands and sat silent. Joseph was thoroughly alarmed now. A sense of terrible foreboding had been with him all day. The priest’s words came back to him. He had seen Hank, Katie and that horrible Leo on a motor cycle late at night. But they had denied that it could have been them. The police had come here twice. About that belt found under the caretaker’s body, and now about Hank’s motor cycle.
“Hank,” she said sharply, “Tell me where you go at night. The truth now.”
Hank drew a deep breath. “Robbing, housebreaking, and murdering,” he said in a rush.
Joseph was so astounded that he could only stare. He thought Hank was joking. “Don’t be a fool!” he said roughly. “It’s no time for joking. I want the truth, I don’t want jokes for an answer.”
“I’m not joking,” said Hank, and there was in his voice that which froze Joseph into horrified acceptance of what he had said. “Robbing, housebreaking and murdering.” God. God. What did the boy mean?
“Father.” The word burst from Hank. “You must help me.” And he burst into appalling broken sobbing.
Joseph sat as if turned to stone. Then as he looked at the bent huddled figure of this great lump of wickedness that was his son. A wave of violent anger enveloped him. A red, wild rage seized him. He wanted to choke the evil out of this wretched youth. To take his throat in his hands and shake him like a mad dog and choke him—choke him until there was nothing left but a cry for the mercy he had never shown anyone himself.
But he sat perfectly still and slowly the fury died down. He’d done that recently. And it always worked. He took hold of his thoughts. Anger would not help him. It would only muddle his brain. He needed to get his mind clear. He tried to think of Hank as a small boy. When he had gone away first to join the army Hank had been just such a plump merry rascal as Franz Joseph was now. He’d been such good friends with his son. What had happened? When he’d come back there’d been nothing but violent antagonism between them. Bitter wrangling and sullen jealousy. Looking at him now Joseph could find no point of contact. None. And yet this was his son! Flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood. God, oh God. What was the outcome of this to be? The thing was real. A wave of terrible conviction that what Hank had said was true came over him. He sensed it now. The dead weight which had been hanging like a black fear over his head for months was about to descend in a horror far worse than anything he could have imagined.
Putting his hand roughly on Hank’s shoulder he tried to control his voice. “It’s no use sitting t
here like that. Tell me the whole thing. I can’t help you unless I know the truth. All of it. No excuses. Get it out quickly, for God’s sake.”
Hank raised his head. Joseph, looking at his son in the moonlight coming through the acacia, thought he looked like a crushed creature. Something brought to bay but still alive and dangerous. He pushed the thought from him. This was his son. His son.
“I killed a man. The old caretaker. If I don’t give Krista up to Leo tomorrow night, he’ll split on me to the police. There’s no choice. What can I do? What?”
Joseph’s brain could not take this in.
“Say that again,” he said incredulously. “You sit there, my son, and tell me you killed a man. How? Was it an accident?”
“No. I didn’t mean to kill him. But the old fool resisted!”
“Resisted? Resisted what?”
“The gang, of course. He put up a fight.”
“Gang?” said Joseph. “Gang? What is this? Tell me what you mean.”
“I belong to a gang. Everyone does. Katie got me in. We did housebreaking. On one of the evenings we coshed this old fellow too hard and he died.”
“We? Just now you said I. Who did it? Answer me. Which of you do you mean?”
“I did it. Alone. That’s why Leo has got it on me. He can make the others swear to it. Damn him.”
“You, my son, murdered an old man deliberately. My God, Hank, how can you sit there and tell me that?”
“Because you’ve asked me to. And don’t keep on harping on the word murder. You’ve killed plenty of people yourself.”
“I? I’ve killed people? What d’you mean?” Joseph’s voice was rising in anger.
“I’ve heard you talking about the war. The invasions . . .” Joseph looked at Hank in horrified despair. Was his son actually a murderer? A self-confessed one? And what was far worse, an unrepentant one. He simply could not stomach this last justification. That his father had killed. That there was no difference in those deaths.
A House on the Rhine Page 27