A Dead Man In Trieste

Chapter Thirteen

‘Signor Machnich to see you,’ said Augstein.

‘Ah!’ Seymour rose from the desk. ‘Signor Machnich! It is good of you to come.’

Machnich glanced round the room, took in the pictures on the walls and winced, then sat down.

‘Signor Machnich, I have a confession to make. I am not a King’s Messenger but an English police officer. I am here to investigate Signor Lomax’s death. Now, I know you were a friend of Signor Lomax. I have found out some things that interest me, and I wonder if I could run through them with you?’

‘Certainly,’ said Machnich. ‘We were people of a kind. Close together. Like that!’ He put his two fingers together.

‘Quite so. And that is why you, of all people in Trieste, can help me. Can we go back to the beginning? You got to know each other when he was advising you over that cinema business, and you got on surprisingly well. Not only that, you were a prominent Serb locally, so it was, perhaps, natural that he should talk to you when he found out something about the Serbs — that they were running an escape route through his Consulate.’

‘Well, now — ’

Seymour held up his hand soothingly.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Do not worry. We are talking about Lomax, yes? Only about him. He was not, I think, too disturbed. Indeed, he had some sympathy for the students. He may even have been prepared to let it continue, although I think he probably suggested to you that you should think about bringing it to an end. Anyway, he talked about it with you. Why not? You were people of a kind, you understood each other. And you were friends.

‘And then, suddenly, you were not friends. Why was that, I wonder?’

He waited.

Machnich merely shook his head.

‘Shall I tell you what I think? I think it was because you, or Rakic, misread the friendship. You thought it went further than it did. You put something to Lomax and he didn’t like it. Not one little bit!

‘But, again, you, or Rakic, misread the situation. You thought you could persuade him. You kept sending him to Lomax, or, perhaps, he insisted on going — he was that kind of man. But still Lomax wouldn’t agree. And in the end Rakic realized that he would have to do what he wanted to do another way.

‘The trouble was, he had a deadline. What he wanted to do could be done only on a particular occasion. He needed access to the reception at the Casa Revoltella.

‘Well, Rakic being Rakic, he thought he could bluster his way in. Lomax, however, was there. He may even have been waiting for him, guessing that he might try to get in. Anyway, he intercepted him. There was a fracas at the entrance and Rakic was prevented from going in and delivering his package — which, incidentally, he claimed was for you. I don’t think you would have been very happy to take possession of it. That was, perhaps, why you weren’t there. And if that was so, then it means that you knew about it, didn’t you, and what Rakic was intending?’

‘I know nothing about that,’ said Machnich, ‘or any of it.’

‘Don’t worry. We’re only talking about Lomax. For the moment. And Lomax, you see, had suddenly become important. For it wasn’t just that he had stopped Rakic from doing what it was that he had in mind to do, it was that he knew about it. He knew about it and could tell someone about it. Schneider, for example.

‘Now why he didn’t tell Schneider about it straightaway, I don’t know. Perhaps he was so shocked by it, perhaps he didn’t quite believe that it could happen, until he saw Rakic there. And then perhaps when he did, he still couldn’t quite believe it. Or maybe that a man he looked upon as his friend could lend himself to such a thing. So he waited and thought about it. Perhaps, in the end, he was too much of a diplomat: too cautious, reluctant to move until he could be quite sure, could quite convince himself. That was his mistake.

‘For Rakic, too, was thinking about it. He knew he had to act, and act quickly. Luckily, the two men he had wanted had now arrived and they were just the men for something like this.

‘So he got you to ask Lomax to come and see you. In your room at the Edison. I don’t know what the pretext was. Perhaps it was precisely this. To talk about what had happened and what he was going to do. He might even have told you that he was going to see Schneider and you might even have tried to persuade him not to.

‘Anyway, afterwards he left. By your private, secret door. Was that your suggestion? I think it must have been. If so, it was hardly an act of friendship. Because outside the door Rakic’s two men were waiting.’

‘This is mere supposition,’ said Machnich. ‘I spit on it.’

‘Is it? Is it supposition that Rakic tried to get into the reception at the Casa Revoltella? Is it supposition that he wanted to leave a package? That Lomax stopped him?

‘That you invited Lomax to the Edison the night that he died? That he left not in the ordinary way but by a door which only you — or so you thought — knew about? And that he was killed after leaving that door?’

‘It is mere supposition,’ said Machnich. ‘You cannot prove any of it.’

‘I am not so sure. You see, Mr Kornbluth has learned about the secret door. And he has been checking with people who were in the Piazza delli Cappucine at the time that Lomax would have come out of the secret door. And he has found someone who saw him come out. This person is prepared to say that he saw Lomax leave with two men. He is even able to identify the men. They are the two Herzegovinians whom you brought to Trieste and who were so close to Rakic that the strikers thought they were his bodyguards. The two men whom Rakic tried to get Koskash to make out papers for so that they could leave quickly and secretly. After they had done what they had been brought to Trieste for. He refused, and I hope that will be remembered in his favour.’

‘Whatever your person in the Piazza delli Cappucine saw,’ said Machnich, ‘he did not see me. There is nothing to link me with any of this.’

‘We shall see what the Herzegovinians say. Because, you see, we shall now have an opportunity of questioning them. Since Mr Kornbluth was able to find out where they were hiding and has arrested them,’

Machnich let out a long breath.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ he said.

‘Because I hoped that you would save us a lot of time by telling me that you recognized it to be true.’

Machnich laughed.

‘Do you think I would do that?’

‘Well, yes, I think you might.’

‘Well, let me tell you, you are wrong.’

‘I think you might,’ said Seymour, ‘once you recognize that you have been used.’

‘Used?’ said Machnich.

‘Used by the Bosnians. The Serbs here have been used by the Bosnians. And the intention was that Serbs everywhere should pay the penalty.’

‘What is this?’ said Machnich.

‘You knew what Rakic intended to do. He intended to plant a bomb which would kill the Governor. But do you know why he wanted to do that?’

‘To strike a blow at the Austrians. To hit back at them for their annexation of Bosnia.’

‘Oh, yes, but it went further than that. Much further. You see, as Mr Schneider once explained to me, one thing is bound to another. One country is bound to another. Russia, for example, is bound by treaty to Serbia. So if Austria attacked Serbia for some reason, it would be obliged to intervene. Rakic, who was, of course, Bosnian, meant to supply that reason. He intended to kill the Governor and then see that Serbia was blamed for it. Why else, do you think, he associated himself so much with you?’

‘Could this be?’ said Machnich.

‘He meant to slip out and leave you to take the blame. You, the Serbs.’

‘Bosnians!’ said Machnich, angrily. ‘What can you expect from a people like that but treachery?’

‘Why I am telling you this,’ said Seymour, as Schneider and Kornbluth came into the room, ‘is so that you can have a chance of putting things right. Rakic, fortunately, did not succeed. But the story will come out and it will anger the Austrians. You can see that the right story is told and that the right people are blamed. Not the Serbians.’

Machnich was silent for quite a long time. Then he said:

‘I can do better than that. Because the story is not over. Rakic failed, but he is going to try again. The Governor will be at the Politeama tonight. With those crazy Futurists. In fact,’ he looked at this watch, ‘in just about twenty minutes’ time.’

Huge, stridently coloured banners were draped all over the front of the Politeama. The Future is Here! they cried. This Evening! Balloons with bright faces painted on them hung over the doors. A gigantic papier-mâché mask had been hoisted into a central position among them. From its mouth dribbled a string of sausages. Was it Seymour’s imagination, or just his weakness of aesthetic sense, or did the mask faintly resemble the face that hung everywhere in Trieste, the Emperor’s face beneath the familiar peaked military cap?

And at the doors, and everywhere round the Politeama, were policemen. They checked everyone who went in, opening all handbags and parcels, plunging their hands deep into the voluminous pockets of the cloaked worthies and the surprised, and resentful, Citizens of the Future.

‘What have you got there?’

‘It’s my penis, isn’t it?’

‘Then why has it come off?’

The policeman’s hand emerged from the pocket holding a banana.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s for the performance. Hey, give it back!’

The policeman, slightly bemused, surrendered it.

‘Thank you, officer. Would you like a bite?’

A cry went up.

‘Hey, they’re confiscating penises now!’

Marinetti came rushing out of the doors.

‘You’re ruining everything! Everything!’ he cried to Kornbluth in anguish.

‘I’ve told you — ’ began Kornbluth.

But Marinetti had already dashed back into the hall. A moment later he re-emerged with a large, hastily painted notice which he propped up against the doors. It said:

They are Trying to Arrest the Future!

Please Give them every Co-operation. Let them search your pockets.

The Citizens of the Future responded enthusiastically, pulling out their pockets for the benefit of the policemen. Some of them took down their trousers.

‘Just bloody get on in there!’ said Kornbluth, harassed.

Inside the hall huge backcloths on the walls showed aeroplanes diving, cities exploding, museums and galleries collapsing, fractured Venus de Milos tumbling out of them in dozens, racing-cars hurtling off the walls, fireworks opening into golden raindrops which became shell bursts tinged with red, and military caps rising disembodied into the air as if suddenly levitated by an explosion, one of the caps instantly recognizable as that of the Emperor of the thousands of portraits, with a seagull poised ominously above it, about to jettison a load of white excrement, some of which had, indeed, already fallen.

Down one of the aisles strutted a large ginger cat. It was six feet high and had its arm around a nude girl. The nude girl was Maddalena.

Or nearly nude. She had put on a cat mask which covered her face; black, to go with the bow-tie she had donned. That was the only thing she had donned; apart, Seymour suddenly saw, from a tail.

‘How do I look?’

‘Well,’ said Seymour, ‘not overdressed!’

‘How do I look?’ said the ginger cat anxiously, in a voice that Seymour recognized. ‘It’s very hot in here,’ James complained.

‘Have you seen Rakic?’ asked Seymour.

‘He was standing here a moment ago,’ said Maddalena.

Seymour scanned the audience and couldn’t see him.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

He looked around again. Over by the door Kornbluth was doing the same thing.

‘Why?’ asked Maddalena.

‘It’s important, We’ve got to find him.’

Marinetti came running down the aisle.

‘Perfect!’ he said. ‘Take it up there.’ He pointed towards the stage.

‘I can’t see in this!’ complained James.

‘I’ll go first,’ said Maddalena.

They stooped and picked up a long cardboard box. It was black. It took Seymour a moment to realize that it was a replica coffin.

The two cats, the ginger one and the black one, set off up the aisle towards the stage. There was a little ripple of applause.

It was hard for them to find a space on the stage because most of it was already occupied by the two giraffes, dancers dressed in spangles and little else, a small group of bearded, slightly apprehensive poets, and, at the back, a row of even more apprehensive, mostly uniformed worthies.

There was a stir at the door. The police around it parted and in came a small group of clearly still more exalted worthies, led by a grand couple, he in gorgeous, be-medalled uniform, she in a beautiful, near-ballroom dress.

‘I thought they’d been told not to come!’

They insisted!’ whispered Kornbluth.

The couple mounted the steps to the stage and took their place in the centre of the worthies.

‘He was here!’ Seymour whispered. ‘Maddalena saw him.’

‘Jesus!’ said Kornbluth and started going up and down the aisles scanning the rows.

With a discordant fanfare of trumpets the Evening’s entertainment began. A tall yellow banana marched to the front of the stage and bowed to the audience. It split apart and Marinetti emerged, to applause, dressed as a ringmaster.

He cracked his whip and the dancers at once began cartwheeling and somersaulting. The poets all started to declaim their poems, simultaneously and increasingly loudly. Live fish were thrown slithering on to the stage. The dancers began to hurl them into the audience. The row of worthies, as goggle-eyed as the fishes, watched it all, stunned.

The two cats had put down their box.

Marinetti cracked his whip. He waited and then cracked it again impatiently. Maddalena gave the ginger cat a push and it started running round the stage in a circle. The dancers, still somersaulting, fell in behind it, and the giraffes behind them. Dwarfs, elves and gnomes emerged from the wings chased by an angry old troll, and joined the circling.

Kornbluth came back up the aisle.

‘I can’t see him,’ he said, vexed. ‘Are you sure?’

‘It was Maddalena,’ said Seymour. ‘She seemed pretty sure.’

‘He would have been searched,’ said Kornbluth. ‘Everyone was searched.’

‘Where the hell is he?’ said Seymour.

‘Perhaps he’s left,’ suggested Kornbluth.

And then, suddenly, Seymour knew where he was.

‘The Canal Grande! Send some men. He’s catching a boat.’

Kornbluth, blessedly, didn’t stop to question but spun on his heel.

Marinetti cracked his whip again and everything speeded up. The fanfares now were incessant. Crackers began to explode, the poets shouted louder and louder, the dancers leaped and jumped, chased now by the troll, who had transferred his attentions from the elves. He hurled himself on one of the dancers and began to surge with her in an ecstatic embrace. The music and the noise rose to a crescendo.

James, short-sighted, anyway, but also handicapped by the costume, blundered into the black box, tripped and nearly fell over. Maddalena caught him and pushed him back into the dance. She moved the coffin out of the way with her foot.

And then Seymour started running. Up the aisle and then up the steps on to the stage, pushing aside people, policemen and participants. He caught hold of the black box and began to tear at it with his bare hands, forcing the cardboard apart, so that he could reach down for what was inside.

He took it out and jumped down from the edge of the stage. He began to run up the aisle, pushing everyone aside.

‘Signor, Signor -

The police at the door half turned to stop him but he forced his way through them and out into the piazza outside.

It was dark but there were dozens of lamps hanging from the trees and from the front of the Politeama and by their light he could see people standing everywhere. The piazza was crowded. He looked around frantically.

And then there, at the end of the piazza, he saw that there were no people, just stalls dismantled from the market that normally occupied that end of the piazza every morning, and in a corner something hanging, perhaps a sheet left out to dry.

He threw the thing as far as he could, towards that end of the piazza, hoping that it would fall on the other side of the stalls and that they would deaden the force of the explosion.

And the next moment there was a light brighter than that of all the lamps hanging from the trees and from the Politeama and he found himself lying on the ground and only then was aware of the crack that had hurt his ears and of the acrid smell drifting across the piazza towards him.