The Alien

by Josephine Bell

  At ten o’clock he listened to the B.B.C. news. There had been a boating accident on the Thames near Marlow. In spite of the danger notices in mid-stream, the calm, reasonable voice said, a punt had gone to the wrong side of the river and over the weir. A young woman and a man, both said to be foreigners, had been thrown into the water and though the lock keeper and others had picked them up almost at once and applied artificial respiration, both were found to be dead when they arrived at hospital.

  The unknown man, the heavy body that had failed to push him in and the greedy bitch who had tried also to kill him. Margrethe, the gay, quick-witted lunch companion. Margrethe, the pale-gold ice-maiden.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The newspaper account of the accident on Monday morning made the whole plot very clear to Boris. The spot had been carefully chosen, a part of the river-bank where no other boats would be found because danger notices set up on posts in the water guided craft to the opposite bank. He had been directed into the field for two reasons; so that he would not see the notices, hidden by the bend in the stream and so that no one would see him at the boathouse.

  But it was clear from the account that the drowned man, whose name and nationality were still withheld, had hired the punt much further upstream and had embarked Margrethe at a chosen spot near those houses she had pointed out as the boathouse, but where no boathouse existed. Here the man must have gone ashore to creep up behind Boris while Margrethe engaged him in discussion about their lunch. He had been lucky to see the look in her eyes and to have the branch handy. Or had he really been prepared for something of the sort. Certainly he had been more alert than usual, if that were possible. Certainly Sørensen’s clear warning and wish to transfer him had given him his doubts of Margrethe’s sincerity.

  Boris did not go out that morning until lunch-time, when he bought an early edition of an evening paper. The reporters had been to work on the drowning with much enthusiasm, he found, assisted by the disclosure of Margrethe’s identity. They had discovered that she had met a man at Marlow railway station and had travelled with him on a bus. They assumed that this man was the other victim. So far so good. Two station employees and the bus conductor remembered Margrethe; no one could describe the man. The punt belonged to a boathouse a mile above the fatal weir and had been hired quite early that morning.

  This was fortunate. In planning carefully, the would-be assassins had made his own presence unnecessary. The man could have left the punt tied up somewhere along the river and gone on to Marlow to pick up Margrethe. There was nothing to prove it was not she who had travelled from London that morning. On the contrary. She had left Paddington by an earlier train than his own. Since she had dictated the time for their meeting he had taken the appropriate train. As she knew he would. Clever girl. Cold-blooded, scheming harpy.

  They had forgotten only one thing, the two of them and that the most important; his constant, conditioned, unfailing appreciation of danger. He was like an animal in his awareness, he thought, with weary disgust. An animal on the run. Would it never end?

  In Scziliekowicz’s room that evening he allowed himself to slip back into the well-preserved civilization of the old man’s surroundings. There was no doubt that he was welcome. Scziliekowicz was alone and did not even mention the general except in passing.

  “We hoped you were not offended that evening at the curious little club – international students’ club – isn’t that what they call it?’’

  “Something of the sort.’’

  “You see we had a certain knowledge of your – contact.’’

  “Which?’’ asked Boris, bluntly.

  The old man smiled.

  “The girl,’’ he said. “It was the other we wished to identify. And to make up our minds that you were aware of what you were doing.’’

  “At that time,’’ said Boris, carefully, “I was not fully aware.’’

  “But you are now?’’

  “Yes.’’

  “And so?’’

  “I am grateful to you for interrupting that meeting, but it has meant certain additional difficulties for me.’’

  “I was your father’s friend,’’ said Scziliekowicz. “Can you not be more frank with me?’’

  Boris’s whole inclination at any time was to withhold facts, to give nothing away. But his present need was very great. Also his inward urge to find some solid ground under his feet in the present swamp where he moved. He plunged.

  “I was sent here to work for the Russians,’’ he said, speaking quickly in a low voice. “I did nothing and so now they want to eliminate me to prevent me disclosing what I know of their methods and organization in this country.’’

  “All that is negative,’’ said Scziliekowicz, gently. “You have, on the contrary, been very active.’’

  “For others, I have, for several years, making money where and how I could. Never anything of importance for Russia. Only what was needed to continue at sea.’’

  “This seems to be generally known.’’

  “I’m afraid so. And that means it will come to an end, one way or another.’’

  “What d’you mean?’’ For the first time that evening, the old man’s voice expressed anxiety. He went on, “Have you done something irrevocable? Something outrageous? Had you anything to do with the death of Margrethe Olsen?’’

  Boris, thankful to be cut short in a confession he knew to be dangerous, smiled.

  “Margrethe? Oh no, I was not responsible. She died because she changed her allegiance, as you yourself had discovered.’’

  “That isn’t an answer,’’ Scziliekowicz growled. “But I suppose I’ll have to take it as one. But if you haven’t come here tonight as a consequence of this accident, why the devil are you here?’’

  “Because you were my father’s friend,’’ said Boris, very seriously, “and as such I want to ask you to be the executor of my will.’’

  “Your will?’’

  The old man was astounded.

  “Are you ill? You don’t look like a man in his last illness. Have you any property to leave? Anyone to leave it to? A refugee – arriving from the sea – with nothing but his seaman’s clothes—’’

  “My life is in danger. I have a certain sum of money to dispose of. If you agree I will give you the particulars. Or you can get them from my solicitor. I will give you his name. The will was drawn up earlier this afternoon. I shall sign it before the end of the week.’’

  Scziliekowicz sighed. Other exiles had approached him on a similar errand. Men chiefly, an occasional woman, cut off from the channels of a law of customs they knew and understood. Boris was different. A life apart, in spite of his brief confession; a life unknown, fearful, secret, lived without regard for the past, where he himself found his own solace, or for the future, where the young hoped to achieve some goal. Boris was no longer young, but he was the son of the murdered Alexei.

  “Of course, of course,’’ he muttered. “Anything I can do, my boy. But it will not be necessary. I’m old. You’ll outlive me, easily. You must do so.’’

  “If I die you will be notified, I hope,’’ Boris said, frowning. The old man’s agitation upset him and he had to make certain things clear.

  “If I die,’’ he repeated, “and you know of my death, you will arrange my funeral. There will be funds for that.’’ He smiled and went on. “Any money left over, and you must bury me cheaply so that there is money left over, is to go to my father’s groom, Sergei Alexandrowicz Voliniak, if he is alive, or to his English wife and his family.’’ He held up his hand to check the other’s excited exclamation. “Yes, he is, or has been, living in England. I dare not tell you any more now.’’

  “Dare not? But this is tremendous news! Why have we never heard of him or got into contact?’’

  “There is a good reason. He has been away a great deal. His English wife … No, you mustn’t ask me any more. You will have the whole story when I have gone.’’

  “Oh, Boris,’’
Scziliekowicz said, getting up and going across to him where he sat. “Oh, my dear boy, what are you going to do?’’

  Boris rose and embraced him according to the custom of his country and thanked him, brokenly, much moved by his concern, but told him nothing more. When they were calmer Scziliekowicz poured drinks for them both and they discussed the peculiarities of British government and the curious indifference to politics of all classes of Englishmen.

  After he had finished his drink Boris thanked his host warmly for all his kindness, promised to let him know when the will was signed, gave him Bill Phillimore’s address in case an emergency should arise at any time and went home.

  Though it was nine o’clock, with summer time there was full daylight in the streets. A sunset glow still warmed the sky in the west and dimmed the street lamps that had just come on. Boris was reminded of the white nights in his prison camp in Siberia during the brief season of summer when hopeful fools tried to escape and mostly died for it. He shivered, though the night was pleasantly warm and was thankful when he had his own door locked behind him.

  A telegram had been delivered in his absence. It was from Stephen arranging to meet him in Portsmouth the next day. This was a brisk answer to his letter, which could only have reached his friend that morning. Half an hour later the bell rang. Boris went to open the door with his hand ready inside his jacket and found John Carfax on the mat outside.

  “I want a word with you,’’ said John, moving into the flat, “about that Russian chap who was drowned yesterday.’’

  The rest of the week moved steadily by for Boris. His day in Portsmouth was both interesting and satisfactory. Stephen, with youthful enthusiasm, embellished Boris’s plan with ingenious and fairly practical suggestions. Some of them the Pole considered too fantastic, others too risky, but he gained a new light on the British imagination and individual resource. No wonder they extricated themselves from hopeless positions. It was only at the top they seemed to fail, when sentiment or traditional rigidity stifled this quality, making it sterile, out-of-date, smothered under useless loads of custom. Boris went back to London on Tuesday evening both heartened and pleased by Stephen’s enthusiasm for his plan. Also slightly more anxious, because the full control of it no longer rested with himself. For many years he had acted without help from anyone. He found it difficult and frightening now to rely on others.

  Wednesday afternoon was a visiting day at the hospital near Reading. Boris went to see Voliniak again, found him much improved, though still weak on his legs, but looking forward with joy to returning home at the end of the week.

  He listened to Boris’s plan with eager approval. They spoke in Polish, freely, because no one at the hospital understood that language.

  “I have not many months left,’’ he said, “perhaps only weeks. I would like to spend them with my wife and family.’’

  “You shall. You shall, Sergei Alexandrowicz. No harm shall come to you for your help. I would not ask for it otherwise.’’

  “It will be something to remember when the end comes,’’ Sergei said, his dull eyes lighting up as he spoke. “To have been of use once again to the family my people have served in four, five, I don’t know how many generations.’’

  “It will be a great something,’’ Boris answered, “and I swear to you, Sergei Alexandrowicz, that your family shall benefit. I have made provision. You will hear of this later.’’

  “I don’t want to be paid for my services,’’ Voliniak said, with angry excitement.

  “Now, now!’’

  Sister Hood put her head through the screens.

  “Time for you to go, Mr. Sudenic. Didn’t you hear the bell or were you two jabbering away so hard you were deaf to it?’’

  Boris got up at once. He pressed Sergei’s hand, said “Goodbye’’ in English and went away with a heavy heart. He would see this true friend once more; once only. He might never again retrieve even so small a scrap of his past as Voliniak had given him.

  He stayed in the flat all Thursday. In the evening Louise came to him. He saw at once that she was too full of anxiety for reproaches, though it was a full week since they had been together. At first he stopped her mouth with kisses and she submitted, forgetting her fears while he made love to her. Afterwards, with his head on her shoulder, both of them drowsy with pleasure, she began to complain gently, in the Swiss French she always used with him.

  “I was afraid,’’ she said. “I thought you had gone away. Then there was that terrible threat in the newspaper. We were all afraid; Mr. and Mrs. Brentwood were equally upset. And the Ogdens! I did not know they cared for you so much. Mrs. Ogden cried for a whole morning and the lunch was terrible.’’

  Boris laughed.

  “You exaggerate, but I like it. I like people to be anxious about me. It makes me proud.’’

  “You’re proud enough already. Why don’t you explain? You had better make the most of me. I shall not be here much longer.’’

  “You too? But I thought you were in England for a year?’’

  “Then you are going? Why do you never tell me anything, Boris? Don’t we love each other?’’

  He kissed her gently.

  “We have been good lovers, my darling. But it will end soon. You go back to Switzerland and I go away. Did Margaret tell you to leave?’’

  “Of course. There was a long, silly talk about you. She is an innocent. So stupid. These English—’’

  “Margaret has the old standards,’’ Boris corrected her. “She is not a prude, as you think. She does not like affairs, but they happen, she knows, and it must always be very, very discreet. Or followed, in married people, by divorce, if it becomes generally known. As far as you are concerned, she is only afraid of a child.’’

  “How absurd! And not true. She is jealous. You were her old love, weren’t you?’’

  “Did she tell you that?’’

  “No. Mrs. Ogden told me. She has all the family scandals. From old Mrs. Brentwood. Colin’s mother, who detested Margaret.’’

  Boris stirred restlessly. He found this sort of conversation both distasteful and boring. But it was probably the last time he would hold Louise in his arms and he still found her very charming, very generous.

  “Let us forget Margaret,’’ he said. “We have so little time, both of us. I need your help, Louise. I need it badly, my darling. I will tell you presently what you must do for me. But just now at this moment I can only think of how I love you.’’

  On Friday afternoon Boris went to see Margaret at the house in Fawcett Street. She was in the drawing room with the french windows open on a rain-soaked garden, where the clouds still emptied themselves in a fine, soft downpour. Boris shivered as he entered the room.

  “Are you soaked?’’ Margaret said, jumping up. “I’ll shut the window. Would you like the fire?’’

  “No, no. I wore my coat. Mrs. Ogden took it away. I am not wet at all.’’

  He stretched out his hand to lift hers to his lips in his customary gesture of greeting, but Margaret turned abruptly away before he could touch her, stooping over an electric fire that stood in the grate.

  “No fire, please,’’ Boris said. “Not for me. I am very warm with walking.’’

  “Sit down, then.’’

  They both sat, both silent now, each waiting for the other to begin a conversation. Boris sighed. He had come to make some important arrangements for which he needed her help and sympathy. But here she was, still angry with him, totally withdrawn, polite, cold, armoured against both him and her own truer feelings. He sighed again, as audibly as possible.

  “You are angry with me,’’ he said, sadly. “You have already punished Louise and now you wish to punish me.’’

  “I’d rather not talk about it,’’ she said, looking at him as at a stranger.

  “But Margaret, what have I done to offend you? We meet again as old friends, but without, surely without, any obligation to each other? I see your new life from the end of the war.
I tell you mine. You are kind, you receive me in your house—”

  “And you seduce a foreign girl for whom I am responsible! If – if the worst should happen, how could I face her parents?’’

  “This is not the real reason,’’ Boris told her calmly. “You know, as I do, that Louise is not innocent. She is of age in her own country. She is able to make her own decisions for her personal life. And she is never – careless. So this is not the real reason.’’

  “How dare you!’’

  Margaret, white-faced now with anger and a deep sense of outrage, jumped up from her chair and went to the window, staring out into the dismal garden, clutching the curtain in her effort to control herself.

  “How could I understand that I should hurt you like this?’’ Boris said, with such wonder and sadness in his voice that Margaret’s rage was melted away and she collapsed into bitter tears.

  Boris got up, put an arm round her shoulders and drew her to the sofa where he sat her down beside him and let her weep, his arm still holding her. At last she began to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.

  “I’m sorry,’’ she said, gulping down the sobs that still rose in her throat. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m out of my mind.’’

  “No. I think you are a woman who feels deeply,’’ he said, “and loves deeply and this love you have kept in a prison when you should have released it to – to …’’

  He could not bring himself to say ‘Colin’; it would sound too entirely sanctimonious and ridiculous. Besides, she understood him perfectly.

  “Do you blame me for being faithful to you, even if you were only a memory?’’

  “Yes, Margaret. Such memories are sentimental, worthless, dangerous, often cruel.’’