The Angry Mountain Page 2

  “I didn’t know you were engaged to Alice Reece,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted Reece to get that job on his merits. I was afraid you’d think—” I stopped and shrugged my shoulder. “It doesn’t matter now. But I thought they were dead—both of them. That’s what they told me at H.Q. I thought I’d killed—” He shook me then and I pulled myself together. “Why did you ask me about Reece?” I asked him.

  He paused uncertainly. Then he said quietly, “He and I are both in Intelligence still. He’s waiting in Milan now for me to—”

  “In Milan?” I had a sudden, awful vision of our meeting face to face. I’d have to miss out Milan. Somehow I’d have to persuade my firm…. But Maxwell had caught hold of my arm. “Pull yourself together, Dick. I’m trying to tell you something. I need your help. Listen. You represent B. & H. Evans, machine tool manufacturers of Manchester. That gives you an excuse to visit any of the big industrialists in this town. Jan Tuček is here in Pilsen. Remember Jan Tuček, who commanded the Czech squadron at Biggin Hill in 1940?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I saw him this afternoon.”

  “You saw him this afternoon?” He cursed softly. “Then you’ll have to see him again. I daren’t go there. And I daren’t go to his home either. He’s too closely watched. My contacts are with Czech air force men. But I’ve got to get a message to him. As soon as I heard you were—”

  “Funny,” I said. “He gave me a message for you,”

  Maxwell was suddenly tense. “What was the message?” he asked quickly.

  “I was to tell you—Saturday night,” I answered.

  He nodded. “The trouble is that that isn’t soon enough. It’s got to be to-morrow night. You’ve got to see him and tell him that. To-morrow night—understand? Thursday night.” He was leaning forward, drumming it into me as though he thought I was too drunk to understand what he was saying. “Can you see him first thing to-morrow morning? It’s urgent, Dick—very, very, urgent. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Can you see him to-morrow morning?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Marič, the head of their tool section, is ringing me to-morrow morning. I should be able to make an appointment with him for the afternoon.”

  “All right then. The afternoon. But you’ve got to see Tuček. Tell him Saturday may be too late. It must be to-morrow night—Thursday. Understand? You know the bookshop just opposite here, on the corner?” I nodded. “I’ll be there at five. Don’t talk to me openly. Just tell me whether it’s okay or not as you pass. Got that?”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t fail me, Dick.” He knocked back the rest of his drink and got to his feet. “Good luck!” he said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “See you to-morrow at five.”

  As he turned to go, I said, “Wait a minute, Max. What is all this? Is Jan Tuček in trouble?”

  “Ask no questions,” he murmured.

  “Are you getting him out of the country—is that it?” I demanded.

  He swung round on me angrily. “Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.”

  “Is that’s what’s happening?” I persisted in a lower voice.

  “I’m telling you nothing, Dick. It’s best if—”

  “You mean you don’t trust me,” I accused him angrily.

  He looked at me. “If you like to take it that way, but—” He shrugged his shoulders and then added, “Would you mind having a look out in the corridor to see if it’s all clear?”

  I opened the door and peered out. The corridor was empty. I nodded to him. He went quickly down to the end and turned right. I went back to my room, closed the door and emptied the remains of the bottle into my glass.

  By the time I went to bed I was very drunk—drunk and happy. Reece was alive. Shirer was alive. I hadn’t killed them, after all. I managed to unstrap my leg and get most of my clothes off. Then when I’d fallen into bed, I suddenly had a feeling that I had made a mistake in the report I’d been working on earlier in the evening. I rolled out of bed, switched on the light and got the report out of my suitcase. The last thing I remember was trying to decipher the blur of writing through eyelids that kept on shutting out my vision.

  I awoke to a blinding light on my eyes. I remembered that I had fallen asleep with the light on and put out my hand to switch it off. It was then that I discovered that the light was off and that it was the sun shining on my face. I sat up, trying to separate the roar of traffic outside the window from the noises in my head and wondering when during the night I had switched off the light. I looked at my watch. It was only seven-thirty and no servant would have been in the room yet. At some time during the night I must have wakened and switched it off. I lay in the bright sunlight thinking about Maxwell. His visit seemed unreal, like a dream.

  I was called at eight-thirty. As soon as I was dressed I went down to breakfast. In the entrance hall I stopped to buy a paper. “Good morning, pane” It was the night porter. He was just putting on his outdoor things and his face had a confidential smirk. I paid for my paper and turned away. But before I was halfway across the room, the man was at my side. He was still struggling into his overcoat. “I hope you did not mind my letting a visitor up to your room so late,” he said.

  I stopped and glanced down at him. He was a little, rat-faced man with bulging blue eyes and a thin, greedy mouth. “Nobody came to my room last night,” I said.

  He shrugged the padded shoulders of his overcoat. “Just as pana says.” He stood there and it was perfectly clear what he was waiting for. I cursed Maxwell for having been so careless. He must have mistaken my hesitation, for he added, “One o’clock is very late for an Englishman to receive visitors in a hotel in Czechoslovakia.”

  “One o’clock!” I stared at him. Maxwell had left shortly after eleven.

  He cocked his head on one side. “And pan Tuček is a well-known figure here in Pilsen.” He shrugged his shoulders again. “But of course if pana says no one visit him, then I believe him and I also say no one visit him.”

  I remembered how the light had been off when I woke and how Jan Tuček had said he’d come to see me at the hotel. But if he had come, why the devil hadn’t he wakened me? I could have given him Maxwell’s message then. The porter was peering up at me uncertainly. “Pana must understand that I have to report everything of an unusual nature to the Party, particularly if it concerns an Englishman or an American.” His lips tightened into a smile. “But life is difficult here in Czechoslovakia. I have a wife and family to think of, pane. Sometimes economics are more important than Party loyalties. You understand, pane?”

  “Perfectly,” I said. He was like a small sparrow searching determinedly after scraps in a cold spell. I pulled out my wallet and slipped him fifty kronen.

  “Děkuji úctivé. Děkuji.” The notes disappeared into his trouser pocket. “I remember now. It is just as pana says. There was no visitor at one o’clock this morning.”

  He was turning away when I stopped him. “Did you show this visitor up yourself?”

  “Oh no, pane. He walk straight through the entrance and up the stairs. I know he is not a resident, so I follow him. It is expected of me.”

  “Quite,” I said. “And you recognised this person?”

  “Oh, yes, pane.” Then he smiled. “But, of course—no, pane. I do not recognise him any more now. I do not know to which room he go.” He smirked and with a little bow, turned and walked quickly out through the hotel entrance.

  I went through into the breakfast room. After several cigarettes and innumerable cups of black coffee I had got no nearer a solution of the matter. The porter wasn’t lying. I was certain of that. He had been far too sure of getting a fat tip. But if Tuček had come to see me so late at night, he must have had a reason, and an important one. Then why didn’t he wake me?

  The problem was with me all that morning. I took a couple of aspirins to clear my head and went out into the bright spring sunshine. The buds shone
fat and sticky on the smoke-black chestnut trees across the road. Birds were singing above the rattle of the trams and girls were wearing summer frocks. I paid three calls during the morning and did some business. When I got back to the hotel I was relieved to find that Marič had rung me. I was to call and see him at three-thirty. I could deliver my message to Tuček then.

  At the Tuček works I was escorted by one of the factory police to the main office block. Marič had two of his technical experts with him. We discussed specifications. From a business point of view the meeting was successful. When the conference broke up, I remained seated. Marič glanced at me through his thick glasses. He got rid of the others very quickly and then, when the door was shut, he turned to me and said in English, “You wish to see me alone, Mr. Farrell?”

  “Well—” I hesitated. “I didn’t think I should leave without saying good-bye to Mr. Tuček. You see, he and I were together—”

  “Quite, quite.” Marič nodded and sat down at his desk. He took off his glasses and wiped them. Then, when he’d clipped them on to his nose again, he looked across at me.

  “But I do not think you can see him.” His fingers had closed on a sheet of paper and he slowly crumpled it into a ball.”

  “Is he in conference?” I asked. “If so I will wait.”

  He seemed about to say something. Then his small blue eyes retreated behind his glasses. “I do not think it will be any good waiting. But perhaps if you care to see his secretary—” His voice sounded vague and uncertain.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d like to see his secretary.”

  He nodded and rang for his assistant. The sudden decisiveness of his movements suggested a sense of relief. His assistant came in and he instructed him to take me to Tuček’s personal secretary. “Good-bye, Mr. Farrell.” He dropped the crumpled ball of paper into his waste-paper basket and shook my hand. His fingers were soft and damp in my grip.

  His assistant took me down two flights of concrete stairs and along a passage that was full of the noise of typewriters. Then we passed through swing doors marked Správa závodu and we were in the administrative block where the sound of our footsteps was lost in the deep pile of a carpeted corridor. It was the same corridor I’d walked down the previous day. We stopped at the door marked Ludvik Novák, tajemnik ředitelství. My guide knocked and I was shown into the office of Tuček’s personal secretary. “Come in, Mr. Farrell.” He was the dapper little man with the uneasy smile I’d seen the day before. There was no warmth in his greeting. “You are back again very soon. Was your meeting with pan Marič not satisfactory?”

  “Perfectly,” I said.

  “Then what can I do for you?”

  “I would like to see Mr. Tuček before I go.”

  “I am sorry. That is not possible.” He gave me a rubber-stamp smile.

  “Then I’ll wait until he’s free,” I said.

  “It is not possible for you to see pan Tuček to-day.” His eyes were quite blank.

  I felt as though I were up against a stone wall. “You mean he’s not here?” I asked.

  “I have told you, Mr. Farrell. It is impossible for you to see him.” He crossed to the door and opened it. “I am sorry. We are very busy to-day.”

  I thought of Maxwell’s strange visit the previous night. It’s urgent, Dick—very, very urgent. “Whether you are busy or not,” I said, “I wish to see Mr. Tuček. Will you please tell him.”

  The man’s eyes stared at me without blinking. “Why are you so anxious to see pan Tuček?” he asked.

  “I was with him in the most critical days of our fight against the Germans,” I said. “I am not in the habit of leaving a town without saying good-bye to old friends.” I realised that I’d got to get under the cold official to the man beneath. “You are his personal secretary,” I said. “You must have fought against the Germans. Surely you can understand that I want to see him before I leave?”

  For an instant his eyes had warmth and feeling. Then they were quite blank again. “I am sorry. You cannot see pan Tuček to-day.”

  There was no more I could do. He had opened the door. I went out. It was only after the door had closed behind me that I realised he had not called any one to escort me out of the works. I had begun to walk down the corridor before I realised this. I stopped and looked back. At the far end of the corridor was a big mahogany door. On it I saw— Jan Tučeky předseda a vrchní ředitel. I quietly retraced my steps and stopped outside the door. There was the sound of somebody moving inside. I turned the handle and walked in.

  Then I stopped. Opposite me was a big, glass-fronted bookcase. The glass doors had been flung wide and books littered the floor. A man paused in the act of riffling through the pages of a gilt-bound tome. “What do you want?” He spoke in Czech and his voice was hard and authoritative. I glanced quickly towards the desk. Another man was seated in the chair Jan Tuček had occupied the previous day. The drawers had all been pulled out on to the floor. The carpet was littered with files. And from the midst of the pile the smiling face of Tuček’s daughter looked up at me. The steel filing cabinets against the wall by the windows had also been rifled. “What do you want?” The man by the desk was also looking at me now. The sudden chill of panic crept along my spine. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was looking for pan Novák.”

  Fortunately my Czech is quite good. The two men looked at me suspiciously. Then the one at the desk said, “In the next office.”

  I murmured apologies and shut the door quickly. I tried not to hurry as I walked back along the corridor. But every moment I expected to hear the sound of Tuček’s door opening and a voice calling me to stop. But apparently they were not suspicious. Nevertheless, it was only after I’d passed through the swing doors and heard the sound of my feet on the concrete passage beyond, that the feeling of panic left me.

  At the stairs I hesitated. If I left now, without knowing what had happened, Maxwell would think me scared. I hurried up the two flights of stairs and went into Marič’s department. “I think I left my gloves in pan Marič’s office,” I told his assistant. “Can I go in?” I didn’t wait for him to answer, but walked straight through into Marič’s office. He was sitting at his desk, staring out of the window. He turned with an obvious start as I entered.

  “Oh, it is you, Mr. Farrell.” The sudden panic drained out of his eyes, leaving them expressionless—as blank as Novák’s eyes had been when I had asked to see Tuček. “Is there—something you wish to see me about?” His voice was nervous and he fidgeted with the ruler on his desk.

  “Yes,” I said. I glanced towards the door and then lowered my voice. “What’s happened to Jan Tuček?”

  “I do not know what you mean.” His voice was wooden.

  “Yes, you do,” I said.

  He got up then, “Please go,” he said. He was very agitated. “My assistant—” His mouth drooped at the corners.

  “I’ll go as soon as you tell me what’s happened to Tuček,” I said. “I’ve just been down to his office. There are two men there, searching it. There were files and books all over the floor.”

  He sat down then and for a moment he said nothing. His body, hunched in the big arm-chair, seemed suddenly shrivelled and old. “Jan Tuček has been arrested,” he said slowly.

  “Arrested?” I think I’d known it ever since I’d walked into his office. But to hear it put bluntly into words shook me.

  “Why?” I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Why is any one arrested in Czechoslovakia to-day? He fought in England during the war. That alone is sufficient to make him suspect. Also he is an industrialist.” His voice was low and somehow fatalistic. It was as though he saw in this the beginning of the end for himself.

  “Is he in prison?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “They do not go so far yet. That Is why they search his office. They look for evidence. For the moment he is confined to his house. Perhaps he will be released to-morrow. And then—perhaps not.” He gave a slight shrug of hi
s shoulders. “This sort of thing hangs over all of us of the old Czechoslovakia. So many have disappeared already.”

  “But what has he done? “I asked.

  “I do not know.” He took off his glasses and began to polish them as though afraid of showing some emotion. There was a heavy, audible silence between us. At length he picked up a newspaper from under a pile of papers, peered at it and then held it out to me. “Column two,” he said. “The Rinkstein story.”

  It was down-page, quite a small story headed: DIAMOND DEALER ARRESTED—RINKSTEIN ACCUSED OF ILLEGAL CURRENCY DEALS. “Who is Rinkstein?” I asked him.

  “Isaac Rinkstein is one of the biggest jewellers in Prague.”

  “What’s his arrest got to do with Tuček?”

  “Everything—nothing. I do not know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “All I know is he deal in diamonds and precious stones.”

  “But he’s been arrested for illegal currency operations,” I pointed out.

  He smiled wryly. “That is the legal excuse. It is his dealings in precious stones that will interest the authorities, I think.” He bent the ruler between his two hands till I thought it must break. “I am very much afraid Rinkstein will talk.” He got up suddenly and took the paper away from me. “You must go now. I have talk too much already. Please repeat nothing—nothing, you understand?” He was looking at me and I saw he was frightened. “Sixteen years I have been with the Tuček company.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Good-bye, Mr. Farrell.” His hand was cold and soft.

  “I’ll be back in Pilsen in about three months,” I said as he took me to the door. “I shall look forward to seeing you again then.”

  His lips twisted in a thin smile. “I hope so,” he said. He opened the door and called to his assistant to get me a car. It was with a feeling of relief that I was swept through the factory gates and out into the streets of Pilsen. Black clouds were coming up from the west and as I got out at my hotel the first drops of rain fell on the dry pavements.

  I phoned the airport and checked that my passage to Munich and through to Milan was fixed. Then I got my raincoat and hurried across the road to the bookshop on the corner. It was not quite five. I searched through the paper backs with my eye on the door. Five o’clock struck from a nearby church. There was no sign of Maxwell. I stayed on until the shop shut at five-thirty. But he didn’t come. I bought several books and after waiting for a bit in the doorway, went back to the hotel. There was no message for me at the desk. I ordered tea to be sent up to my room and tried to finish off my report. But my mind could concentrate on nothing but Tuček’s arrest. Also I was worried about Maxwell.