Please return immediately.
I read it over several times. I smiled.
“As a matter of fact,” I told Mr van Hoorn, “you’re quite right. She does.”
The telegram was signed “Ludwig.”
Chapter Fourteen
Something had happened to Arthur. That much was obvious. Otherwise, if he’d wanted me, he’d have sent for me himself. And the mess he was in, whatever it was, must have something to do with the Party, since Bayer had signed the telegram. Here my reasoning came to an end. It was bounded by guesses and possibilities as vague and limitless as the darkness which enclosed the train. Lying in my berth, I tried to sleep and couldn’t. The swaying of the coach, the clank of the wheels kept time with the excited, anxious throbbing of my heart. Arthur, Bayer, Margot, Schmidt; I tried the puzzle backwards, sideways, all ways up. It kept me awake the whole night.
Years later it seemed, though actually only the next afternoon, I let myself into the flat with the latch-key; quickly pushed open the door of my room. In the middle of it sat Frl. Schroeder, dozing, in the best armchair. She had taken off her slippers and was resting her stockinged feet on the footstool. When one of her lodgers was away, she often did this. She was indulging in the dream of most landladies, that the whole place was hers.
If I had returned from the dead she could hardly have uttered a more piercing scream on waking and seeing my figure in the doorway.
“Herr Bradshaw! How you startled me!”
“I’m sorry, Frl. Schroeder. No, please don’t get up. Where’s Herr Norris?”
“Herr Norris?” She was still a bit dazed. “I don’t know, I’m sure. He said he’d be back about seven.”
“He’s still living here, then?”
“Why, of course, Herr Bradshaw. What an idea!” Frl. Schroeder regarded me with astonishment and anxiety. “Is anything the matter? Why didn’t you let me know that you were coming home sooner? I was going to have given your room a thorough turn-out tomorrow.”
“That’s perfectly all right. I’m sure everything looks very nice. Herr Norris hasn’t been ill, has he?”
“Why, no.” Frl. Schroeder’s perplexity was increasing with every moment. “That is, if he has he hasn’t said a word about it to me, and he’s been up and about from morning to midnight. Did he write and tell you so?”
“Oh, no, he didn’t do that . . . only . . . when I went away I thought he looked rather pale. Has anybody rung up for me or left any messages?”
“Nothing, Herr Bradshaw. You remember, you told all your pupils you would be away until the New Year.”
“Yes, of course.”
I walked over to the window, looked down into the dank, empty street. No, it wasn’t quite empty. Down there, on the corner, stood a small man in a buttoned-up overcoat and a felt hat. He paced quietly up and down, his hands folded behind his back, as if waiting for a girl friend.
“Shall I get you some hot water?” asked Frl. Schroeder tactfully. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked tired, dirty, and unshaved.
“No, thank you,” I said, smiling. “There’s something I’ve got to attend to first. I shall be back in about an hour. Perhaps you’ll be so kind and heat the bath?”
“Yes, Ludwig’s here,” the girl in the outer office at the Wilhelmstrasse told me. “Go right in.”
Bayer didn’t seem in the least surprised to see me. He looked up from his papers with a smile.
“So here you are, Mr Bradshaw! Please sit down. You have enjoyed your holiday, I hope?”
I smiled.
“Well, I was just beginning to . . .”
“When you got my telegram? I am sorry, but it was necessary, you see.”
Bayer paused; regarded me thoughtfully; continued:
“I’m afraid that what I have to say may be unpleasant for you, Mr Bradshaw. But it is not right that you are kept any longer in ignorance of the truth.”
I could hear the clock ticking — somewhere in the room; everything seemed to have become very quiet. My heart was thumping uncomfortably against my ribs. I suppose that I half guessed what was coming.
“You went to Switzerland,” Bayer continued, “with a certain Baron Pregnitz?”
“Yes. That’s right.” I licked my lips with my tongue.
“Now I am going to ask you a question which may seem that I interfere very much in your private affairs. Please do not be offended. If you do not wish it, you will not answer, you understand?”
My throat had gone dry. I tried to clear it and made an absurdly loud, grating sound.
“I’ll answer any question you like,” I said, rather huskily.
Bayer’s eyes brightened approvingly. He leant forward towards me across the writing-table.
“I am glad that you take this attitude, Mr Bradshaw . . . You wish to help us. That is good . . . Now, will you tell me, please, what was the reason which Norris gave you that you should go with this Baron Pregnitz to Switzerland?”
Again I heard that clock. Bayer, his elbows resting on the table, regarded me benevolently, with encouraging attention. For the second time I cleared my throat.
“Well,” I began, “first of all, you see . . .”
It was a long, silly story, which seemed to take hours to tell. I hadn’t realized how foolish, how contemptible some of it would sound. I felt horribly ashamed of myself, blushed, tried to be humorous and weakly failed, defended and then accused my motives, avoided certain passages, only to blurt them out a moment later, under the neutral inquisition of his friendly eyes. The story seemed to involve a confession of all my weaknesses to that silent, attentive man. I have never felt so humiliated in all my life.
When at last I had finished, Bayer made a slight movement.
“Thank you, Mr Bradshaw. All this, you see, is very much as we had supposed . . . Our workers in Paris know this Mr van Hoorn very well. He is a clever man. He has given us much trouble.”
“You mean . . . that he’s a police agent?”
“Unofficially, yes. He collects information of all kinds and sells it to those who will pay him. There are many who do this; but most of them are quite stupid and not dangerous at all.”
“I see . . . And van Hoorn’s been making use of Norris to collect information?”
“That is so. Yes.”
“But how on earth did he get Norris to help him? What story did he tell him? I wonder Norris wasn’t suspicious.”
In spite of his gravity, Bayer’s eyes showed a sparkle of amusement.
“It is possible that Norris was most suspicious indeed. No. You have misunderstood me, Mr Bradshaw. I have not said that van Hoorn deceived him. That was not necessary.”
“Not necessary?” I stupidly echoed.
“Not necessary. No . . . Norris was quite aware, you see, of what van Hoorn wanted. They understood each other very well. Since Norris returned to Germany he has been receiving regular sums of money through van Hoorn from the French Secret Service.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Nevertheless, it is true. I can prove it if you wish. Norris has been paid to keep an eye on us, to give information about our plans and movements.” Bayer smiled and raised his hand, as if to anticipate a protest. “Oh, this is not so terrible as it sounds. The information which he had to give was of no importance. In our movement we have not the necessity to make great plots, as are described of us in the capitalist Press and the criminal romances. We act openly. It is easy for all to know what we do. It is possible that Norris can have been able to tell his friends the names of some of our messengers who are going frequently between Berlin and Paris. And, perhaps, also, certain addresses. But this can have been only at the first.”
“You’ve known about him a long time already, then?” I hardly recognized the sound of my own voice.
Bayer smiled brilliantly.
“Quite a long time. Yes.” His tone was soothing. “Norris has even been very helpful to us, though he did not wish it. We were able, occasionall
y, to convey much false impressions to our opponents through this channel.”
With bewildering speed the jig-saw puzzle was fitting itself together in my brain. In a flash another piece was added. I remembered the morning after the elections; Bayer in this very room, handing Arthur the sealed packet from his writing-table drawer.
“Yes . . . I see now . . .”
“My dear Mr Bradshaw,” Bayer’s tone was kind, almost paternal, “please do not distress yourself too much. Norris is your friend, I know. Mind, I have not said this against him as a man; the private life is not our concern. We are all convinced that you cannot have known of this. You have acted throughout with good faith towards us. I wish it had been possible to keep you in ignorance over this matter.”
“What I still don’t understand is, how Pregnitz . . .”
“Ah, I am coming to that . . . Norris, you see, found himself unable any longer to satisfy his Paris friends with these reports. They were so often insufficient or false, and so he proposed to van Hoorn the idea of a meeting with Pregnitz.”
“And the glass factory?”
“It exists only in the imagination of Norris. Here he made use of your inexperience. It was not for this that van Hoorn paid your expenses to Switzerland. Baron Pregnitz is a politician, not a financier.”
“You don’t mean . . .?”
“Yes, this is what I wished to tell you. Pregnitz has access to many secrets of the German Government. It is possible for him to obtain copies of maps, plans, and private documents which van Hoorn’s employers will pay very much to see. Perhaps Pregnitz will be tempted. This does not concern us. We wish only to warn you personally, that you may not discover yourself innocently in a prison for the high treason.”
“My God . . . how on earth did you get to know all this?”
Bayer smiled.
“You think that we have also our spies? No, that is not necessary. All information of this sort one can obtain so easily from the police.”
“Then the police know?”
“I do not think that they know all for certain, yet. But they are very suspicious. Two of them came here to ask us questions concerning Norris, Pregnitz, and yourself. From these questions one could guess a good deal. I believe we have satisfied them that you are not a dangerous conspirator,” Bayer smiled, “nevertheless, it seemed best to telegraph you at once, that you might not be further involved.”
“It was very good of you to bother what became of me at all.”
“We try always to help those who help us; although, unfortunately, this is sometimes not possible. You have not seen Norris yet?”
“No. He was out when I arrived.”
“So? That is excellent. It is better that you should tell him these things yourself. Since a week he has not been here. Tell him, please, that we wish him no harm; but it will be better for himself if he goes away from Germany at once. And warn him also that the police have him under observance. They are opening all letters which he receives or writes; of this I am sure.”
“All right,” I said, “I’ll tell him that.”
“You will? That is good.” Bayer rose to his feet. “And now, Mr Bradshaw, please do not make yourself reproaches. You have been foolish, perhaps. Never mind; we are all sometimes very, very foolish. You have done nothing to be ashamed. I think that now you will be more careful with whom you make a friend, eh?”
“Yes, I shall.”
Bayer smiled. He clapped me encouragingly on the shoulder.
“Then now we will forget this unpleasant matter. You would like to do some more work for us soon? Excellent . . . You tell Norris what I said, eh? Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
I shook hands with him, I suppose, and got myself off the premises in the usual manner. I must have behaved quite normally, because nobody in the outer office stared. It was only when I was out in the street that I began to run. I was suddenly in a tremendous hurry; I wanted to get this over, quick.
A taxi passed; I was inside it before the driver had had time to slow down. “Drive as fast as you can,” I told him. We skidded in and out of the traffic; it had been raining and the roadway was slimy with mud. The lamps were lighted already; it was getting dark. I lit a cigarette and threw it away after a couple of puffs. My hands were trembling, otherwise I was perfectly calm, not angry, not even disgusted; nothing. The puzzle fitted together perfectly. I could see it all, if I wished to look at it, a compact, vivid picture, at a single glance. All I want, I thought, is to get this over. Now.
Arthur was back already. He looked out of his bedroom as I opened the front door of the flat.
“Come in, dear boy! Come in! This is indeed a pleasant surprise! When Frl. Schroeder told me you’d returned, I could hardly believe it. What was it made you come back so soon? Were you homesick for Berlin? or did you pine for my society? Please say you did! We’ve all missed you very much here. Our Christmas dinner was tasteless indeed without you. Yes . . . I must say, you’re not looking as well as I’d expected; perhaps you’re tired after the journey? Sit down here. Have you had tea? Let me give you a glass of something to refresh you?”
“No, thank you, Arthur.”
“You won’t? Well, well . . . perhaps you’ll change your mind later. How did you leave our friend Pregnitz? Flourishing, I hope?”
“Yes. He’s all right.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Very glad. And now, William, I really must congratulate you on the admirable skill and tact with which you fulfilled your little mission. Margot was more than satisfied. And he’s very particular, you know; very difficult to please . . .”
“You’ve heard from him, then?”
“Oh, yes. I got a long telegram this morning. The money will arrive tomorrow. I’m bound to say this for Margot: he’s most punctual and correct in these matters. One can always rely on him.”
“Do you mean to say that Kuno’s agreed?”
“No, not that, alas! Not yet. These things aren’t settled in a day. But Margot’s distinctly hopeful. It seems that Pregnitz was a little difficult to persuade at first. He didn’t quite see this transaction would be of advantage to his firm. But now he’s become definitely interested. He wants time to think it over, of course. Meanwhile, I get half my share as we arranged. I’m thankful to say that it’s more than sufficient to cover my travelling expenses; so that’s one weight lifted from my mind. As for the rest, I’m convinced, personally, that Pregnitz will agree in the end.”
“Yes . . . I suppose they all do.”
“Nearly all, yes . . .” Arthur agreed absently; became aware, the next moment, of something strange in my tone.
“I don’t think, William, I quite understand what you mean.”
“Don’t you? I’ll put it more plainly: I suppose van Hoorn usually succeeds in getting people to sell him whatever he wants to buy?”
“Well — I don’t know that, in this case, one could describe it as a sale. As I think I told you . . .”
“Arthur,” I interrupted wearily, “you can stop lying now. I know all about it.”
“Oh,” he began, and was silent. The shock seemed to have taken away his breath. Sinking heavily into a chair, he regarded his finger-nails with unconcealed dismay.
“This is all my own fault really, I suppose. I was a fool ever to have trusted you. To do you justice, you more or less warned me against it, often enough.”
Arthur looked up at me quickly, like a spaniel which is going to be whipped. His lips moved, but he didn’t speak. The deep-cleft dimple appeared for a moment in his collapsed chin. Furtively, he scratched his jowl, withdrawing his hand again immediately, as though he were afraid this gesture might annoy me.
“I ought to have known that you’d find a use for me, sooner or later; even if it was only a decoy duck. You always find a use for everybody, don’t you? If I’d landed up in prison it’d have damn well served me right.”
“William, I give you my word of honour, I never . . .”
“I won’t pret
end,” I continued, “that I care a damn what happens to Kuno. If he’s fool enough to let himself in for this, he does it with his eyes open . . . But I must say this, Arthur: if anybody but Bayer had told me you’d ever do the dirty on the Party, I’d have called him a bloody liar. You think that’s very sentimental of me, I suppose?”
Arthur started visibly at the name.
“So Bayer knows, does he?”
“Of course.”
“Oh dear, oh dear . . .”
He seemed to have collapsed into himself, like a scarecrow in the rain. His loose, stubbly cheeks were blotched and pallid, his lips parted in a vacant snarl of misery.
“I never really told van Hoorn anything of importance, William. I swear to you I didn’t.”
“I know. You never got the chance. It doesn’t seem to me that you’re much good, even as a crook.”
“Don’t be angry with me, dear boy. I can’t bear it.”
“I’m not angry with you; I’m angry with myself for being such an idiot. I thought you were my friend, you see.”
“I don’t ask you to forgive me,” said Arthur, humbly. “You’ll never do that, of course. But don’t judge me too harshly. You’re young. Your standards are so severe. When you get to my age, you’ll see things differently, perhaps. It’s very easy to condemn when one isn’t tempted. Remember that.”
“I don’t condemn you. As for my standards, if I ever had any, you’ve muddled them up completely. I expect you’re right. In your place, I’d probably have done just the same.”
“You see?” Arthur eagerly followed up his advantage. “I knew you’d come to look at it in that light.”
“I don’t want to look at it in any light. I’m too utterly sick of the whole filthy business . . . My God, I wish you’d go away somewhere where I’ll never see you again!”
Arthur sighed.
“How hard you are, William. I should never have expected it. You always seemed to me to have such a sympathetic nature.”
“That was what you counted on, I suppose? Well, I think you’ll find that the soft ones object to being cheated even more than the others. They mind it more because they feel that they’ve only themselves to blame.”
The Berlin Stories Page 18