The Spy and the Atom Gun

by Ronald Seth

  There was no door to the hut. Instead some shorter logs in the end facing the cottage could be slipped out of grooves, one by one. This I did, removing just enough to allow me to crawl through. As I was replacing them a light was lit inside the cottage, and I thanked providence that I had been able to hide myself just in time.

  Most of the hay had been used, but there was enough at the back of the hut to make a comfortable bed. I only hoped that none would be needed during the day. I did not think it would be, because the entrance would not have been closed had it been in constant use.

  I made myself comfortable, half-covering myself with hay, and as I lay back and relaxed I suddenly realized for the first time how tired I was. Within a few minutes I was fast asleep.

  The next thing I knew was a man's voice out in the clearing calling: "George! George! Where are you?" and then a murmur of men's voices.

  Carefully but quickly I hurried to the end of the hut and peeped through a crack between two logs, and felt a shiver run through me as I looked at the scene in the clearing.

  A long sleek black automobile, not unlike the one that had crept up on me so silently as I lay by the roadside last night, stood just within the clearing. A group of three men in civilian clothes were over near the cottage. I think that anyone who had never seen a member of the secret police before would have had no difficulty in recognizing these three men as belonging to the L.P.R., the Gallonian Secret Police.

  One of the men was obviously the senior of the trio. He was older than his companions, who were young men still in their middle twenties. It was he who had awakened me with his shouts, because now he called again.

  "George! Come here! It's the L.P.R. We want to talk to you."

  Again there was no answer.

  "He's probably gone to Budens market, sir," one of the young men said.

  "Not George," the senior man answered. "He's got nothing to sell and I imagine has very little money for buying anything."

  "Shall Martens and I go and look for him?" the first young man asked.

  "No thank you, Rikards," he was told. "George will appear when he's ready."

  "Why do you stand for his nonsense, sir?" Rikards asked.

  "He's an old man, Rikards. The old people can't get used to the changes, you know. Besides, he's harmless enough. I suppose you could say he was simple." He called again. "George! Come here! Quickly!"

  This time an old man, in trousers in which there was little of the original material left, a supposedly white shirt and a peaked cap of the type yachtsmen wear, came round the end of the cottage.

  "All right! I heard you! I'm coming!" he called in a cracked old voice, his pointed beard wagging up and down as he spoke. "Oh, it's you, superintendent. I was gathering eggs. Two of my old hens are laying away. What do you want now?"

  "Have you seen any strangers pass this way?" the superintendent asked.

  "Two or three," the old man answered.

  "Two or three?" Rikards snapped. "This morning?"

  "Oh, no! Last summer. They were trippers from the city. They'd got lost," the old man explained.

  Rikards seemed to be on the point of exploding, but the superintendent said patiently: "We mean this morning. In particular, George, a youngish man about your height, when you stand up straight, wearing a gray suit and a brown overcoat with a velvet collar. He has no hat."

  It was me he was describing. I don't know whether you have ever heard yourself being described with the person describing you unaware that you can hear him. It gives you quite a queer feeling.

  "No," the old man replied. "No, I haven't seen anyone at all since the day before yesterday, and that was my nephew Jan, from Budens. He came over with my week's tobacco."

  "Mind if we have a look round?" the superintendent asked.

  "Not if you've got a warrant," George remarked.

  "I made sure I had one this time before I set out," the superintendent said, taking out his wallet and drawing from it a paper which he handed to the old man.

  George took it, and I thought was reading it until I heard the superintendent say: "You've got it upside down, George."

  The old man grinned sheepishly, then handed it back, saying: "Well, it doesn't matter. I can't read, you know."

  For a moment the superintendent's mouth fell open. Then he threw back his head and laughed loudly.

  "You old rogue!" he stammered. "Do you mean to say you made me go all the way back to headquarters to get a search warrant the last time we met, and you can't even read?"

  "Ah, I know my rights." George shook his head. "Not even the L.P.R. can make a search without a warrant."

  "Well, well, well!" The superintendent subsided.

  At that moment a cat came out of the cottage and ran across the clearing straight for my hiding place. Its tail was standing straight up and it was making a raucous crying sound. George saw it and began to call after it: "Kuss, kuss, kuss! Come here!"

  "What's the matter with the cat?" Rikards asked.

  "He's a stupid old thing. I ought to get rid of him." George evaded the question. "Look anywhere you like, superintendent," he called over his shoulder, as he loped after the cat, which was now only a few yards from the hay hut.

  But the cat leaped ahead of him and began to tear at the lower logs of the hut with its sharp claws, crying out all the time. The old man stooped and picked it up and it struggled in his arms. But he held onto it tightly. He was little more than a foot away from me on the other side of the logs. I did not dare to move in case he should hear the rustle I might make in the hay.

  And then I got the second shock I had had since I left the train.

  In between his soothing of the cat he said urgently in a low voice: "Hide well under the hay. I'll get rid of them."

  For a moment or two, I did not realize he was talking to me.

  "Do you hear me, in there?" he said.

  "Yes," I hissed back at him.

  "I'll tell you when it's safe. They're in the cottage now. They may come here or they may not. But don't be afraid."

  And with that he began to walk slowly back to the cottage, and I did as I was bidden. From then on I only heard their voices, sometimes faintly, sometimes near.

  It was Rikards who startled me almost out of my wits. He was obviously standing near the entrance to the hay hut when he shouted across the clearing to the old man.

  "Hey, George! Come and open up the shack."

  The old man shouted back and from the increasing volume of his voice I judged he was coming over at a trot.

  "Don't you touch my hay!" he shouted. "There's not much in there. Not enough to hide anybody. And what there is has got to last the cows another month."

  "I told you to open up," Rikards shouted.

  "And I've said I won't!"

  "I'll give you just one minute!" Rikards exclaimed. "Then I shoot. It's time you learned you can't disobey the L.P.R."

  "All right, shoot!" the old man snapped back. "But I'll tell you something. If you shoot me my brother in the Ministry of the Interior will see you get yours, you young whippersnapper."

  I did not like the turn this little incident was taking at all. If the L.P.R. man came into the hut and prodded about in the hay, he was bound to find me. I did not like the risk the old man was taking to shield me. In fact, I was so sure that if he did not open up before the minute had ticked away, Rikards would carry out his threat, that I was about to call out. I had already sat up when I heard George shout.

  "Hi, superintendent! This looney of yours is going to shoot me if I don't open up the shack. I've told him…"

  "Put your gun away, Rikards!" the superintendent called.

  "It's time this old man was taught a lesson," Rikards replied truculently.

  "Do as you're told!" the superintendent snapped.

  "But…" Rikards began.

  "Go to the car!" the superintendent commanded. "I'll deal with you when we get back to headquarters."

  "Yes, sir," Rikards voice was subdued
now, but there was an undertone of angry rebellion in his voice still.

  "I'm sorry about that, George," the superintendent said. "These youngsters, you know…"

  "I know. But they only need a little discipline," the old man said. "Do you want to see in the hay shack? There's not much in there. But you're quite welcome."

  "As I'm being watched by young Rikards," the superintendent said, "you'd better take out the top two logs so that I can see in, though normally I'd take your word for it."

  Under cover of the noise George made I slid down again beneath the hay.

  "All right," the superintendent said. "We'll leave you in peace now, George."

  "What's it all for?" the old man asked.

  "Some foreigner jumped off the train at Kobo and we've had orders to search for him," the superintendent answered. "But it's like looking for a needle in a haystack. If he was wise he'd be back over the border by now."

  "What do they think he's after?" George asked.

  "They don't know. The funny thing is, he was a Dutchman, a traveler in cigars. They can't think what he was after," the superintendent explained. "Martens, get the car started. Well be off."

  "Sorry I couldn't help," the old man's voice faded as he walked away with the superintendent.

  Presently I heard the car move off, and I heaved a great sigh of relief. All of a sudden my situation had improved, for in old George I had a friend. I could not expect too much, but at any rate he would give me food and drink, and perhaps have some idea of how I might get to Tredentz with some chance of not getting caught.

  Before I moved from the hay I waited for him to come for me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Old George Calls In a Friend

  The cottage consisted of one room, in which, when there had been a family here, they had lived and cooked and slept. It was a typical Central European peasant's cottage. To get to it you had to pass through a smaller outer compartment in which were stored gardening implements, potatoes, onions, old baskets and sacks.

  It was in this compartment that an old goat was lying on its side on a sack, its stomach heaving with every breath, which came out of its mouth with a harsh, grating sound.

  "Poor old Pete!" the old man said as we passed into the living room. "He's got bronchitis badly. I'm hoping he'll come out of it, but he's not getting any better… yet."

  The living room was large, but there was strangely little room to move about in. In the middle of the room was a large round table drawn up to which were half a dozen chairs. Just inside the door on the right was the stove which served for cooking and heating in winter. In the far right corner was a wide, low bed on which the bedclothes were tumbled as the old man had left them when he got up. Round the walls ran a wide bench. This had served the children for beds. A number of small tables loaded with photographs and vases and other odds and ends stood about the room.

  "You will be hungry and thirsty," George said. "Sit down at the table."

  Within a few moments he had placed in front of me a large plate of cold cooked bacon, a loaf of black rye bread and a dish of butter, and presently the tempting aroma of coffee heating on the stove filled the room.

  "How did you know I was in the hut?" I asked him as he puttered around the room.

  "I saw you getting inside as I got out of bed," he replied.

  "And you didn't wonder what I was up to?"

  "I knew you were hiding, and if anyone hides in this country, sir, they have a very good reason. I knew, also, that if you wanted my help you would come and ask. I was half-expecting the visit of the L.P.R. and I had no better place to hide you. Unfortunately, I had forgotten the cat. He is really like a gun dog. He can scent a stranger from a great distance. I must say I was very anxious when he came out of the house and made straight for the shack. Ah, here he comes now. Don't take any notice of him, and as soon as he's got your scent properly he'll never worry you again."

  The cat came stalking into the room, its tail still in the air, but it did not make such a noise as it had made while crossing the clearing. It came boldly toward me and sniffed for several minutes at my trouser legs, as a dog will do. Then, when it was satisfied, it moved away, jumped onto the bed, curled up in a ball and went to sleep.

  "You see?" old George said. "He's quite satisfied now. We have a proverb which says, 'The cat is the goddess of curiosity.'… You're an Englishman, aren't you?"

  Throughout my conversation with him it had become quite clear to me that he was not the simple old man the L.P.R. superintendent believed him to be. With them he was putting on an act. His last words proved it beyond a shadow of doubt.

  He shot the question at me so that even if I had been on the alert for it I think I might have been taken unaware. But I had no reason for hiding it from him.

  "Yes, I am," I answered.

  "Why have you come here?"

  "I have come to see Dr. Paranu, in Tredentz."

  I recounted as briefly as I could what had happened on the train, and concluded: "Now I'm in a fix. The secret police and the army are looking for me, and I'm more than fifty miles from the capital. How am I going to get there?"

  "I'll tell you what I'm going to do," the old man said. "I'm going to fetch my neighbor, Anton Maran. He's a very clever man and you can trust him completely. I'll straighten the bed and you can lie down and rest while I'm gone. You'll be quite safe. The L.P.R. won't come back again. They're sure I'm 'touched.'"

  "Is it true what you said to the agent?" I asked. "That you have a brother in the Ministry of the Interior?"

  "Of course. He's Paul Manek, second deputy secretary," George Manek said proudly. "He's younger than I am by fifteen years. He was always the brains of the family and he's done well for himself."

  "Does he know your views on the government?" I asked.

  "Yes… And he approves. Now I must be going. It will take me twenty minutes to walk there and the same time for me and Anton to walk back. Then I shall have to find him. I'll be gone about an hour. You have a quiet nap. You'll need all your strength, I reckon."

  When he had gone, I stretched out as I was on top of the bedclothes, but though it was pleasant and relaxing I could not sleep. Now that old George was determined to help me I had a new optimism. I felt all keyed up, almost excited at the thought that now I could succeed.

  I suppose a quarter of an hour had passed when the sick goat in the outer compartment began to bleat piteously. It was very like a small lost child crying for its mother, and I could not leave it on its own, uncomforted.

  So I went out to it and bent down over it and began to stroke its heaving sides. It whimpered as I soothed it, even more childlike.

  I was so interested in what I was doing that I did not hear the man approach the cottage. It was not until he was standing in the doorway about a yard from me that I sensed his presence at the same time as he spoke.

  "Is old George at home?" he asked. "I've called to see him about the fertilizer he ordered."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Another Traveling Salesman

  He startled me so much that I jumped to my feet and swung round on him and my attitude was probably very threatening. At all events, he backed a couple of paces, a look of fear passing across his face.

  "George isn't in," I told him. "But he will be back very soon. Would you like to come in and wait?"

  My question was much more than an invitation. I realized at once that now he had seen me he would have to be kept quiet. They were clearly broadcasting my description from what the superintendent had told George Manek, but I did not know yet whether there had been a general broadcast, either over the radio or in the newspapers. However, should they ever do so, this man would be sure to recognize me and would put George in grave danger. George and his friend would know better than I how to keep him quiet, but it was up to me to keep him here until they arrived. If I could do it by peaceful means, so much the better; if he seemed reluctant to accept my offer of hospitality, however, I should have to detain him a
gainst his will.

  "The coffeepot is on the stove," I said, smiling. "Come in and we'll have a cup."

  My smile did not seem to reassure him.

  "No… no… it's quite all right, thank you," he said.

  "Oh, come on! George won't be long," I tried to persuade him. "I'm his nephew. I'm staying with him for a time."

  If I could get him inside the cottage I might be able to calm him down, I thought. As he was clearly not going to come of his own accord, I took him by the arm and helped him along.

  In the living room I almost pushed him down in one of the chairs at the table. Then I blew up the embers under the coffeepot and, while the coffee was heating, looked for cups and tried to keep up an amusing flow of conversation.

  It was as I came from the stove to the table with the coffeepot, that I saw the look on his face as he stared at my brown overcoat with the velvet collar, which I had hung over the back of a chair. I knew at once that he had heard a description of me and recognized the coat.

  "Do you like your coffee with milk?" I asked, perhaps a little too loudly.

  He stood up, pushing back his chair so violently that it fell over, catching one of the small tables and sending everything on it flying to the ground with a crash.

  "I have another call to make," he stammered. "I'll come back later." And before I could put down the coffeepot and stop him, he had dashed from the living room.

  I rushed after him, but before I reached the door I tripped over something. It brought me down on one knee, but by the time I had recovered and got outside he was two-thirds of the way to his car, which was standing at the entrance to the clearing.

  Before I was halfway across he had clambered in behind the steering wheel and started up the engine. To get out of the clearing, which cars and carts could leave by only one track, he had to drive in to turn around. Accelerating rapidly, he shot forward, and I only realized when he was three yards away from me that he was driving deliberately at me, to run me down.