Next morning appearance in court was delayed—if, that is, the beaks kept business hours. It was after eleven when the Superintendent himself opened the cell door.
‘Good morning, Mr. Scheeper.’
‘I am not Mr. Scheeper.’
‘In the same trade perhaps?’
Bernardo denied it with an indignation which must have been impressive, for the Superintendent smiled.
‘If this was a rescue operation, wouldn’t you be wise to make a full statement?’
‘Rescue?’
‘Her movements were very quickly traced and they were waiting for her at the Belgian frontier.’
‘You must have got the wrong girl.’
‘There will be no trouble in identifying her. Our information is that she has four hum—ha.’
So the game was up for Nadya. Bucarest police seemed to have attended to their in-trays a lot more rapidly than usual. But of course they need hardly have been brought into it at all. As soon as Scheeper discovered that Holgar was firmly in gaol and could never have telephoned him, he would have reported the theft of his passport to his consul. Then routine enquiries quickly established that Nadya had crossed the frontier on the Arlberg Express with a Scheeper who wasn’t Scheeper. It might still be some time before anyone guessed that the companion was David Mitrani.
‘For all I know she may have as many as Diana of the Ephesians,’ Bernardo replied with pretended impatience.
‘Disgusting what they will allow abroad! The Ephesians—yes, I’ve heard of it. One of those so-called theatre clubs, I believe.’
Bernardo saw another possible line of defence. It had the advantage, considering Scheeper’s reputation, of being plausible.
‘Would the police consider a rescue operation justifiable?’
‘It might assist us to overlook irregularities. Now, I advise you again to think it over and give me a full statement as soon as you are returned.’
‘Returned from where?’
‘Never mind that! Just an informal talk with a certain person, I understand.’
The Superintendent led him to a handsome limousine standing outside the station. There was a chauffeur in the front seat and a burly fellow in the back, quite big enough to frustrate any attempt at vanishing into London. Bernardo was firmly shoved in alongside him. The car headed along Piccadilly and down the Haymarket.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘The Admiralty.’
That was a puzzler. Arson on the Danube? The port of Bilbao? That fictitious horse delivered at Galatz? Or had Mr. Scheeper a concession for providing naval conveniences in Malta?
He was escorted through a maze of passages and into a small office stacked with filing cabinets. His companion sat down at a desk with a typewriter on it, refusing conversation and leaving him standing; he could not be anything but a retired Chief Petty Officer with a full appreciation of his own importance. There was another door opposite that through which they had entered. A bell rang sharply in the room beyond it. The Petty Officer jerked his thumb in that direction and said the Admiral would see him now.
The room was carpeted and restful and resembled a bachelor’s study rather than a government office. Standing in front of a comfortable coal fire with his hands in his coat pockets was a genial, grey-haired, old cock who was presumably the Admiral and looked it.
‘Good morning, Mr. Mitrani.’
‘Good morning, sir.’
Bernardo found that he had very slightly peed himself—not enough to show, he thought. The naval bloke asked him to take a chair, which he did in a rush, and himself remained in his fatherly position in front of the fire. His constant smile varied and was nerve-racking. Sometimes it seemed to reflect inner amusement; sometimes it would do very well for raising morale in an Arctic gale.
‘You’ve given those fellows over on the continent a long run, haven’t you?’
‘In Belgium, sir?’
‘In romantic Romania, Mr. Mitrani. Now, what could have made them think that you are really Bernardo Brown?’
‘Who’s Bernardo Brown?’
‘A quite remarkable crook. I could do with one or two of him. Arranges an accident for his accomplice, disreputable but after all a Grand Duke. Makes a get-away into Hungary—you will tell me how he managed it—and then appears in Bucarest where he calls at the Legation to explain that it was all clean fun at the seaside and does not improve his case by doing what I have always wanted to. While living off women from one end of Bucarest to the other he learns the language perfectly in one winter. And you still say he isn’t you?’
‘I admit I am David Mitrani. But I am not this Bernardo Brown.’
‘Mr. Brown, what a whopper! Your hair is very badly dyed. You must have done it in a hurry.’
It was futile to go on denying. If the truth had to come out, this was the man who should have it. Bernardo felt that it was better, roughly speaking, to be eaten by this tiger with the bared teeth of imperial security than to be worried to bits by the pack which was after him.
‘Their police exaggerate, sir. I have never lived on women in my life.’
‘I am glad to hear it. So that brings us to the subject of your real income. Who was paying you?’
‘Who is it supposed to be?’
‘Cards on the table, Mr. Brown? All right! My report from Romania states that you were working for Hungary.’
‘I had no need to spy for anyone if that’s what you’re getting at. The Alhambra paid me enough to live on. And the Romanians are inclined to see Hungarians under the bed.’
‘They are, are they? Well, they needn’t be. Hungarians always conduct their dirtier business in a jovial blaze of publicity. Then they get caught like you and have to lie their way out of it. What do you know about those forged francs they were circulating?’
‘Nothing beyond what I read in the papers. It sounds crazy.’
So there was the mysterious crime again! He expected better of the Admiral. Forgery of francs seemed a stock accusation against any suspected international criminal. It left him almost indifferent.
Old Bernardo chuckled at the memory, saying that it was the most incredible example of post-war intrigue in Central Europe but absolutely true. The State Cartographical Institute of Hungary had printed in their cellars thirty million French francs in thousand-franc notes. The main distribution was done by half-witted, young, idealistic Hungarian agents who were caught in possession of the forgeries in December 1925.
‘And that had a lot more to do with me than I knew,’ he went on. ‘In the first week of January, about the time Pozharski warned me, Prince Ludwig Windischgraetz—a very prominent figure, he was, at the old Hapsburg Court—was arrested in Budapest with, God help us, the Chief of Police! Both of them got ten years penal servitude. Windischgraetz swore that none of the proceeds had been used for personal gain and that he had done it for patriotic motives. Hungarian character being what it is, that was enough to make him into a national hero. But nobody to this day knows what the patriotic motives were: probably to finance a putsch, either nationalist or monarchist. The only defence their Prime Minister could put up—he was on the edge of it as well—was that thirty million francs, say £230,000 at the then rate, was not nearly enough to finance an internal plot, let alone an international one. And that was true, too. So you pays your penny and you takes your choice. But there were France and her allies of the Little Entente roaring bloody murder against the Hungarians, and everyone else’s Central Bank more than a little nervous about what might really be going on.’
The Admiral agreed that the plot was crazy, but added that it must have been profitable or Bernardo and his accomplice would not have been such fools as to have anything to do with it.
‘Why did you bump him off?’
‘I did not. He fell. And I never knew who he was.’
‘The Hungarians did.’
‘I think Count Kalmody was trying to avoid any suspicion of that, sir. So he drugged me and had me flo
wn out to his estate. If I wasn’t around to answer questions, the two dead men would not be connected with the Empress Zita at all.’
‘You killed them both?’
‘Count Kalmody shot one when he broke into the villa, and I tell you the other one they call Bobo fell.’
‘That’s for the Spaniards to decide when we hand you over to them. When did the Russians first contact you?’
‘I don’t know any except White Russians.’
‘Just as bad as the other lot! What about that groom of Kalmody’s?’
‘Have you run across many Spanish-Americans, sir?’
‘Of course I have! Excellent fellows when they aren’t building castles in the air!’
‘Well, that was Perico. He just wanted to live where there were no big landlords and lots of horses. And I couldn’t stop him.’
‘I see. This Russian girl you arrived with—did you pinch Scheeper’s passport for her or did she pinch it for you?’
‘I did. For her.’
‘Another lie, Mr. Brown. Who is she?’
‘A very unfortunate refugee, sir, earning an honest living. She made herself look young, but she is really seventeen. Her name is Nadya Andreyev.’
‘In love with you, I suppose?’
‘No. More like brother and sister. I was able to do her a favour once, and when she knew I had to clear out of Bucarest she helped me. That’s all.’
‘Remarkably generous for a sister. What was the favour?’
‘I will not answer that.’
His interrogator refreshed memory by a glance at the file on his desk.
‘Believed to be a certain Nadya Stepanov, drowned off Giurgiu. Well, there could not be two answering her physical description. A background of travelling fairs, Mr. Brown—is that where you usually recruit your agents?’
‘I suggest you question her yourself, sir.’
‘What for? This is not a Waifs and Strays Society. She’ll only tell me a lot of gipsyish lies about the pair of you.’
‘But with your long experience I am sure you can tell which are lies and which are not.’
‘Ha! Only seventeen, eh? She’ll be easier than the usual run.’
He rang a bell for the Petty Officer in the adjoining office.
‘Tomkins, ask the Vine Street Superintendent where he has put Mr. Scheeper’s niece and bring her here!’
‘And if she won’t come, sir?’
‘For Christ’s sake, boy, then get a constable and make her come!’
Bernardo was dismissed to a waiting room where the morning paper and the usual cup of tea were provided. When all was quiet he opened the door and looked out. A naval rating in uniform was on guard outside. The window was barred. There was nothing for it but to wait in patience.
After three-quarters of an hour the faithful Tomkins escorted him back to his chief’s office. Nadya was curled up in an arm-chair by the fire. The Admiral was in his usual position in front of it, looking down on her with indignant, paternal eyes. She smiled at Bernardo tenderly, her eyes brimming with tears. It occurred to him that he had never once seen her cry for joy or for sorrow, whatever she might do in private. She had undoubtedly been editing the truth with some emotion. He had been right ten times over to draw her in to defend himself.
‘I’m glad there is at last something to be said for you, Brown,’ the Admiral growled. ‘The poor child! Good God!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Bernardo answered non-committally.
‘If these Belgians make any fuss, I think you have both a perfect defence to the charge. Not that it matters to you personally—well, we won’t disillusion the child. Now, I have a Captain Walinski in my department. Late of the Imperial Russian Navy. I know he and his wife will be delighted to look after Miss Andreyev till her case is settled. I’ll get him over here.’
He jiggled the telephone without any result.
‘Damn that switchboard! If I hadn’t got feet under me, we could be at war for a week and I wouldn’t know it. Come on, Miss Andreyev!’
‘And David? Mr. Mitrani?’ Nadya asked pathetically.
‘That’s in the hands of the police, my dear. A sad business. Nothing to do with Scheeper. A sad business. But there you are. These things happen.’
‘Can’t he come too? I’m frightened all alone.’
‘Well, no reason why not. Tomkins!’
The confidential clerk jumped to it as to an imaginary bosun’s pipe.
‘Tomkins, tell ’em I’ll want the car in five minutes to take this fellow home to Vine Street. You’ve no need to come back. I’ll send him down to you under guard when I’ve finished with him. Close up at your end!’
The Admiral took them out through the other door of his room into a far grander passage. He carefully locked the door behind him, put the key in his waistcoat pocket and led them down the corridor and round a corner with Nadya timorously at his side.
‘Did you drop something, my dear?’ he asked.
Nadya glanced at her bag and the floor.
‘No, I don’t think so. I expect it was the heel of my shoe. It’s so worn.’
Bernardo’s thoughts were wandering in a linked day-dream from the majesty of an Admiralty corridor to a chill Spanish courtyard. He could not remember whether the condemned man stood with his back to the garotting post or sat. At any rate this Walinski would look after Nadya. She had always said that Russians were kind.
Nadya felt for his hand as if to comfort him. The little darling seemed to know instinctively what he was thinking. He pressed the hand and found the key of the Admiral’s office transferred to his own. That was the last straw. What the hell was he supposed to do with it? He’d have to drop it unseen if there were any trouble. But of course! That slight noise which the Admiral had heard made sense. She had covered them both.
Captain Walinski was not in his office. The Admiral left a message for him and returned to his own. Bernardo waited, deep-frozen with apprehension, while he searched his waistcoat pocket.
‘Where the bloody hell did I put that key? I beg your pardon, Miss Andreyev.’
He searched all pockets without success.
‘But it’s automatic, damn it! Same every day. When I leave the office I lock it and I put the blasted ... Oh, that must be what we heard drop!’
He trotted down the corridor and round the corner.
‘No time! No good!’ Bernardo hissed as Nadya prepared to bolt. ‘He’ll see at once it isn’t there.’
They had just time to unlock the door and stand back looking lost and lonely. The Admiral reappeared with a giant, bearded Russian who suggested George V and Nicholas II piled one on top of the other.
‘Some ass must have picked it up,’ he exclaimed and introduced Walinski to Nadya.
‘Are you sure you locked the door, sir?’ Bernardo asked. ‘I don’t remember you doing so.’
The Admiral roared that of course he did, violently turned the door handle and nearly pitched head first into his room. Walinski followed him in and was at once overwhelmed by an embarrassed, incoherent explanation of keys and waistcoats and down the passage. Both had their backs to the door. Bernardo quietly shut and locked it.
They ran, stopping at the head of a fine, curving staircase. One floor down they could see a hall, a door to the outside and a glass box with a porter in it.
‘We have to walk this whatever happens,’ Bernardo said. ‘Innocence—dignity—only chance.’
Before they reached the bottom he could hear the distant thunder as the Royal and Imperial Navies attacked the door. He hoped to heaven that the Admiralty switchboard was living up to its reputation.
‘Pass, sir?’
‘We were told to look for Tomkins who has the car ready.’
‘Other side of the courtyard, sir.’
As they passed through the door and hesitated a taxi drew up. Bernardo waited in agony till it was paid off, then threw Nadya and himself into it. The racket upstairs had stopped, showing that the prisoners had broken out or been
released. He told the driver loudly to go to the House of Lords. The porter who was walking towards them returned to his box.
‘We can’t have more than a minute,’ he said as the taxi moved off. ‘Got any English money?’
‘Yes, I changed some.’
‘We must get out before the Lords.’
‘Why did you choose it?’
‘The only swell place I could think of. And who but a lord would wear this coat?’
At the bottom of Whitehall he spotted the Westminster Underground Station, paid off the taxi and vanished into it. There was no time at all for thought. He was obsessed by an impulse to get clear of London. That ancient shooting jacket of Pozharski’s made him as distinctive as if he were walking around waving a flag, and no coat at all would be nearly as bad. He grabbed tickets to Charing Cross, the nearest railway station, and three minutes later was back in the open air on the Embankment. But he had forgotten that the mainline terminus was a fairish walk from the underground station and that both were far too close to Whitehall. If the Admiralty porter had taken the number of the taxi it could have been traced already. He dragged Nadya back into the Underground and glanced at the map in the booking hall.
‘Two to Marylebone.’
They were away again and perhaps safe, for at Charing Cross Underground one had a choice of all four points of the compass. The ticket clerk could not fail to remember so odd a pair and would remember their destination if the police got on to him soon enough. But would they? Say that they spotted at once the dash from Westminster to Charing Cross. Then the search would be concentrated on the Strand, the Embankment, the mainline terminus and adjoining streets. It might be an hour or more before it occurred to somebody that the fugitives had bounced straight back into the Underground.
Marylebone. A station of modest size and far too empty. As they ran up the steps into the open, Bernardo saw a constable coming out of the Gents Lavatory and another wandering loose. Both had the professional far-away look in their eyes calculated to assure the innocent public that it was not being watched and the criminal that he was. Both came to life and stared at them. He told himself that naturally they would stare; it didn’t mean that Marylebone Station had been alerted yet.
The Lives and Times of Bernardo Brown Page 23