That unpleasantly close, sticky day of low cloud and high temperature had started ominously. Everyone had arrived exhausted with travel in the airless heat, full of foreboding about the thunderstorm that must inevitably follow. In fact it was cooler inside the building than out, but that did not revive the spirits of the drooping personnel. Looking through Masterson’s windows at the motionless trees in the Mall and the very few slow-moving tourists making their way towards Buckingham Palace, Colin allowed himself to drift off into a kind of stupor, only to be recalled suddenly, brutally and with a sinking heart to reality as a knock on the door brought Masterson’s head up from the paper he was reading after his brief acknowledgement of Colin’s presence. John Carfax slipped into the room, went over to stand behind the man at the desk and half-turned away, to stare in his turn out of the window.
“You wanted to see me, sir?’’ Colin asked, when nothing further happened.
At the sound of his voice Carfax turned his head round again.
“Hullo, Colin,’’ he said, with pleasure in his voice. “Ages since I’ve seen you.’’
“Yes, Brentwood,’’ said Masterson stiffly. “I want to see you.’’
Colin shot an angry glance at his old school friend, rebuking him silently for interrupting his boss in his slow approach to the point of his own presence there. Carfax, still behind Masterson’s back, grinned his derisive understanding. But when Masterson turned his head to look at him Carfax presented a serious, even deferential appearance.
“Know each other?’’ Masterson asked, sharply.
“At school, sir,’’ said Carfax smoothly, not offering any further enlightenment. This meagre information irritated the older man, but he could not very well ask for details so irrelevant to his present purpose. He made a mental note to investigate the matter at lunch-time. Why had no one told him there was this connection between the two? Was it wise to have them on the job in hand together?
Suppressing the minor worry, Masterson put his elbows on his desk and his finger-tips together and said to Colin, “Since I saw you yesterday and made those arrangements for you to meet Mr. Scziliekowicz, M.I.5 tell me his society has reason to believe Sudenic is working for Sweden.’’
“The Baltic Trading Company, sir. Swedish exporters, London office off Kingsway. He landed the job for himself, as I think I told you yesterday.’’
“Yes, yes, you told me yesterday. So did Scziliekowicz. When I said working for Sweden naturally I meant spying for Sweden.’’
“I see, sir. Mr. Scziliekowicz knows this, does he?’’
“He has reason to suspect it.’’
“We’ve been pretty sure of it for a long time,’’ said Carfax quietly.
This was too much for Colin.
“Damn you, John, you might have told me!’’ he burst out and immediately apologized.
“Perhaps you were not aware that Carfax is in M.I.5?’’ suggested Masterson with malice.
“I did know, sir. It was he I first contacted from Higlett when Sudenic came ashore there to my – to my house.’’
“Was it indeed?’’
Masterson looked from one to the other but could make nothing of their closed faces.
“Be that as it may,’’ he said, using a favourite phrase that always allowed him to skid past a difficulty, “we shall expect to find that the free Poles are losing interest in the improbable Mr. Sudenic. I understand their initial concern was—’’
He seemed uncertain how to go on and turning, appealed to Carfax.
“You explain it,’’ he said. “Security is not my favourite subject.’’
“It’s like this,’’ Carfax said, coming round at last to Colin’s side of the desk between them. “When Sudenic landed there were two main possibilities: (a) he might be a genuine refugee, (b) he might be a plant. As he is a Pole one would expect if (a) is right that he would contact free Polish organizations here. If (b) that he would use his connection with your family, Colin, to get himself into a position to begin spying for his masters, the Russians. The point is that he seems to have done neither. He has led a blameless, but extremely active life, first teaching languages and then using them in this Swedish firm. He has changed his address several times, but quite in keeping with his growing prosperity.’’
“My brother-in-law lent him some money at the start,’’ Colin said.
Masterson intervened.
“But you did not?’’
“I saw no necessity,’’ Colin answered, stiffly. “I’d never met him before. It was the Langs, my wife’s family, who knew him before the war.’’
“Quite,’’ said Carfax, quickly. “The point is, Colin, Scziliekowicz wanted to find out from us how he really stood with your family. Now they think he’s possibly acting for the Swedes – though how he does it they haven’t a clue and no more have I. They may feel you’ll resent their inquiry. We thought you ought to know that we are keeping an eye on the chap, but he isn’t really our headache. I imagine his chief headache is his own.’’
“I don’t know what you mean by that,’’ Colin said. After a pause he added, “The papers were full of him for a few days after he landed. Didn’t the Russian Embassy make any sort of protest? They usually mention provocation or enticement on these occasions.’’
Carfax laughed. Masterson said, “Nothing more than the usual formal request to speak to him. But you know that.’’
“I remember, yes. Considering the trawler up-anchored and left Higlett Bay almost before he landed, certainly before we’d revived him, they couldn’t very well talk about our provocation this time. They did nothing then to get him back, always supposing they knew he’d gone.’’
“Since he got his six months’ permit we have no record that he has been in touch with any Russian national, Communist or non-Communist. Nor has anyone from the Iron Curtain tried to meet him. So what’s his game, or isn’t there one?’’
“Am I expected to find the answer?’’ Colin asked, exasperated.
“You see something of him,’’ Masterson answered, mildly surprised by this antagonism. “We don’t. Just keep your eyes open for anything fishy. And humour Mr. Sczili – what’s it, this afternoon. That’s all now.’’
“Thank you, sir.’’
Outside the room Colin was joined by Carfax.
“Is this your doing, John?’’ he demanded, angrily.
“Is what my doing?’’
“Tying me up with this bastard. I wish to God I’d left the house earlier. The rest of them all wanted to get back down to the hotel and I would go on pretending to sort out papers. Anything not to go away for the last time. So I was caught. Serves me right for sheer sentimental indulgence.’’
“If I had the smallest idea what you’re blathering about—’’
“Never mind. Forget it.’’
“I ought to know, perhaps.’’
They faced one another at a corner where their ways parted.
“Then you damn well aren’t going to. I’ll do what I’m ordered to do and no more. It’s not my job.’’
“But it is mine. Look, I haven’t met the chap yet. Not socially, I mean. Ask me to dinner in about a week’s time. Get Margaret to ring me. One or two other people as well. It’s important.’’
“The hell it is! Why can’t you use Stephen, John? He’s still the starry-eyed schoolboy where Sudenic is concerned. Get Steve to do your dirty work for you. I’m not the right one for it. I’m not safe. I’m biased.’’
He spoke so savagely before he swung away towards his own room that John Carfax stood looking after him for nearly a minute before he too moved off, walking slowly and thinking over the recent interview and its sequel. Perhaps it would be just as well not to load too much on Colin. He knew the cause, Margaret’s old engagement – and it sickened him. A hidden abscess in their marriage festering all these years. Well, if what he knew of the Pole was correct they were both in for some salutary shocks, that would rattle their small closed conventional Bri
tish world and perhaps fling them out a little wiser, a little more mature. But happier? He shook off these irrelevant musings to settle back into his own world of probing, conjecture, manoeuvre, check and counter-check.
Colin let himself into his house at a quarter past three exactly. He had allowed himself a quarter of an hour in which to prepare for his visitor. He went at once into his study.
While he was still locking up his brief-case in the bureau Ogden knocked and came in.
“There’s a gentleman to see you, sir. Polish gentleman, I should say. Not a name I could get my tongue round, first off.’’
Colin smiled.
“I wouldn’t expect you to. Did it sound like Scziliekowicz?’’
“That would be it exactly, sir. I showed him in the drawing-room, you not being at home at the time.’’
Colin looked startled.
“How long has he been here, then?’’
“Not above ten minutes, sir.’’ He was about to explain why he had not seen fit to take the old gentleman into the garden when Colin walked briskly past him into the hall, making for the drawing-room.
“All out except you, Ogden?’’ he threw back as he reached the other door.
“Mrs. Ogden and Louise are out, sir. But—’’
Colin gave him no time to report on the couple in the garden. He nodded briskly as Ogden began to speak and had disappeared before the old man had completed the first sentence. Muttering an unfavourable comment on his master’s impatience, Ogden went down to the kitchen. Mrs. Ogden was not yet back from her shopping expedition. Ogden growled again, filled a kettle and put it on to boil. They’d all be crying out for tea before long, he decided.
Scziliekowicz rose from a chair near the window as Colin entered. The latter’s greeting was warm and suitably deferential from a younger man to one at the head of an emigré organization, even if the latter engaged in no political activities which might serve as a bond between them.
“Mr. Masterson thought you would prefer a quiet milieu for our talk,’’ Colin began. “I should like to say at once that we do very much appreciate your forbearance and reasonableness over the question of this man, Sudenic.’’
“Count Sudenic,’’ said the other, gently, “is or was, meaning his father, an important figure in my country.’’
“Count?’’ Colin was rather put out. “I had no idea—’’
“His father, Count Alexei Sudenic, was a large landowner, a most cultivated man and a personal friend of mine.’’
“I see,’’ Colin said, cursing his boss for inadequate briefing. “So no wonder you take a deep interest in his son. I suppose Sudenic – Count Sudenic – got in touch with your society as soon as he obtained his temporary residence permit.’’
“Not exactly,’’ answered Scziliekowicz. “We heard he was in England and got in touch with him. We wanted to hear his story.’’
This was better. Colin urged the old man to repeat the version he had been told, and all he knew of the man’s family and antecedents. It proved to be disappointingly similar to the results of the original screening.
“That is what we got from him, too,’’ he agreed.
“I believe it is the truth. He is not in the habit of telling lies.’’
There was a little pause. Colin decided to wait. After all, it was the old Pole who had asked for an interview. So far he had not given any reason for it nor asked any questions. Surely such precautions, such careful privacy, could not have as their sole object the simple matter of confirming Sudenic’s statement, which he had said he did not doubt. When at last Scziliekowicz spoke, Colin’s mind was so relieved of confusion and near-guilt that he almost laughed.
The Pole said, “Do you trust him, Mr. Brentwood?’’
Official caution withheld a heart-felt ‘no’.
“There are certain doubts,’’ Colin answered. “You share them, it seems.’’
“I will tell you the reason for it, so that you may be more frank with me. I have described to you the manner of Count Alexei’s death with the rest of his family. Boris’ expressed a natural horror and grief when he heard it from me. But there is a variant of his description of his own actions which suggests that he persuaded the troop he was with to turn aside, not because the Germans had an ambush for them, but precisely because he knew of the peasant rising and did not wish to run into it, despite the fact that he had sent a message to his family to leave their home and wait for him in a certain place.’’
“My God!’’
“If they had not left their home two days before I passed through Count Sudenic’s estate I should have taken the family with me. My friend, his wife and family would have accompanied me into exile.’’
“I suppose he meant to keep his word to them? Germans or peasants, he got them to leave for their own sakes, didn’t he?’’
“He did not go to the meeting-place. So they went home again to their deaths. He must have known they would do this.’’
“Have you proof?’’
“That it was he who acted? That he was not forced, as he says? No better proof than he has of his complete innocence. The word of soldiers, of loyal servivors from the Sudenic estate. How can one prove? Especially now, twenty years after the event?’’
“One can’t, of course. But you have doubts?’’
Scziliekowicz spoke slowly, choosing his words with great care. So far Colin had found his English remarkable both for fluency and correctness, though spoken with a noticeably foreign accent. Now the old man hesitated at times and it was clear that the impediment was all emotional.
“I find this – difficult – and gives me pain to say. Boris I knew as a child – as a young man in a very famous regiment of Poland. His position made him rise – with ease – so that he came here to England as military attaché.’’
“When he became engaged to my wife,’’ said Colin, steadily. “That is the basis of our present acquaintance with him.’’
Scziliekowicz bowed his head in a dignified gesture of appreciation.
“Thank you. This I was told. This explains – or can explain – the mode of entry – can it not? The place chosen.’’
Colin nodded.
“Boris – as I knew him twenty years ago – was brave, young, inexperienced – full of resource, of ideas – and always truthful. But with a hardness, a lack of – of—They were not originally Polish, you know, the Sudenics. It is not a Polish name.’’
“No?’’ Colin said, astonished. “No, I suppose not.’’
“The family was of origin Czech, perhaps a bit Teutonic. Perhaps that is unkind.’’
They both smiled a little sheepishly. But it relieved the tension that had built up as Scziliekowicz ground out his perplexities.
“I would like – all of my friends would like – to trust him – to accept him. But always there comes this feeling – perhaps a traitor – perhaps he betrayed his own family.’’
“To save himself?’’ Colin finished.
“That could be the reason. There could be other reasons. With Boris there is nothing simple, it seems.’’
“I’m with you there,’’ Colin said, fervently.
Again they fell silent. Colin glanced at his watch, surprised to find the time was only a little after half-past three. He felt as if they had been discussing Boris for hours. All his weary distaste for the subject rose in his throat like an ill-digested meal.
It was at this moment that Margaret and the refugee himself appeared on the lawn at the far end of the garden. Colin, having his back to the closed window did not see them, but he saw Scziliekowicz rise slowly from his chair, his face distorted with fury and affront.
“It is the man himself!’’ he said, his voice rising. “You have him here and do not tell me of it. It is an outrage!’’
Colin sprang up, wheeling round to the window. He was just in time to see Margaret disappear beneath the balcony, followed by Boris, who did not look up. Their footsteps on the iron staircase were clear
ly heard and Margaret then appeared, with her visitor immediately behind her.
“Hullo, Colin,’’ she said, lightly, as she always did when Boris was with her. “You’re back early, aren’t you?’’
Boris, smiling broadly, advanced from her side.
“My dear Nicolas Stepanovicz,’’ he said, holding out both hands to the old man, “how delightful to find you here!’’
Colin pulled himself together with an immense effort. His jaw felt paralysed, as if he had had a large injection of cocaine into it for work on a tooth. Ignoring Boris he managed to grate out, “Margaret, can I present Mr. Scziliekowicz, president of the Society of Free Poles?’’
Scziliekowicz stepped forward, took Margaret’s offered hand, kissed it with stately formality and stepped back.
“I regret,’’ he murmured. “I leave at once. You will excuse.’’
He was already retreating across the room. Colin had no choice but to follow him into the hall, find his hat and umbrella for him and move on to open the door.
“I had no idea he was here,’’ he pleaded. “I swear I hadn’t. Confound the fellow, what right has he to use my house—’’
A gleam in the old European’s eye checked him. He almost heard the words, ‘And your wife, perhaps?’
“It is unfortunate he has found me here,’’ Scziliekowicz said, coldly. “When we entertained him he gave us to understand he would pass on any information that might come his way that would interest us. I think now it may be the other way round.‘’
“God forbid!’’ Colin exclaimed.
“I do not think God directs the movements of Count Sudenic,’’ was the immediate answer. “Perhaps the devil – perhaps no master but himself. Good afternoon, Mr. Brentwood.’’
Colin murmured his own farewell, too filled with anger and humiliation to attempt to mollify the old man’s just annoyance. That’s torn it, he thought miserably, good and proper, a plate-size blot on the copy book, a clanger by any standard. Damn him, damn him, damn him to hell, he thought, fastening the front door before walking slowly back across the hall.
The Alien Page 8