Judgment on Deltchev

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

That was on Friday, the 14th of June. The assassination took place on the Saturday.

I have since been described in the People’s Party press as ‘a well-known agent of the English secret service’, ‘the leader of a foreign murder gang’, ‘Anglo-American spy and pervert’, and in other less reproducible ways. In one article the fact that I am a writer was acknowledged by a reference to ‘the notorious pornographer and English murder-propaganda lackey Foster’.

That part of it has been less amusing than I would have thought. Some of the stuff was reproduced in London papers, and among my friends the ‘notices of Foster’s Balkan tour’ were quoted hilariously for a day or two. But when the news of the Deltchev verdict came and the mass executions of Agrarian Socialists began, the attacks on me became related to events that were anything but funny. I began to be asked questions which the Foreign Office had suggested I should not answer.

With the newspapers it was not difficult; I did as I had been asked and referred them to the Foreign Office. With friends and acquaintances it was less simple. It is, I find, extraordinarily embarrassing to be described in print as a member of the British secret service. The trouble is that you cannot afterwards convince people that you are not. They reason that if you are a member you will still presumably have to say that you are not. You are suspect. If you say nothing, of course, you admit all. Your denials become peevish. It is very tiresome. Probably the only really effective denial would be a solemn, knowing acknowledgment that there might be some truth in the rumour. But I can never bring myself to it. Foreign Office or no Foreign Office, I have to explain what really happened.

To begin with, I think I should make it clear that I am not one of those persons who enjoy danger. I take pains to avoid it. Moreover, my timidity is speculative and elaborate. For instance, in Paris at the time of the Stavisky riots I was living in a hotel room overlooking a street in which the police fought a revolver battle with rioters. My first impulse was to lean out of the window and watch. The firing was several hundred yards away and I knew perfectly well that at that distance a revolver is about as dangerous as a water pistol. What I remembered, however, was that the author of Way of Revelation had had a similar impulse of curiosity in Mexico City and died of it, absurdly, with a stray bullet through his head. Instead of leaning out of the window, therefore, I had knelt on the floor by it and tried to use my shaving mirror as a periscope; but by the time I had arranged all this, the battle was over and I saw nothing but an indignant woman with an upset shopping bag.

The war did nothing to make my attitude to danger bolder or more philosophic. I do not have heroic impulses. The news that a bomb had killed my wife in our London flat had many other effects on me, but it did not send me out in a murderous rage to exact retribution of the enemy, nor did it make me volunteer for some suicidal duty. For a long time my life felt less worth living than before, but I did not for that reason become careless of it. Accounts of great bravery sometimes move me deeply, but they arouse in me no desire to emulate them. The spirit of romantic derring-do runs somewhat thinly in my veins.

The truth about my part in the Deltchev affair is untidy. I did not even blunder into the danger; I strayed into it as if it were an interesting-looking tangle of streets in an old town. Certainly I had been warned that they were dangerous; but only to those who warned, I thought, not to me. When I found out that I was mistaken and tried to get out, I found also that I was lost. That was how it felt. The last moment at which I could have turned back was when Petlarov went out of my room that evening. If at that point I had shrugged my shoulders, had another drink, gone out to dinner, and spent the evening at a cinema, I should have been fairly safe. And I very nearly did do that. I had the drink — it was the last of the whisky — and I looked at a cinema I could see from my window. It was called LUX and was playing a dubbed version of a German film called La Paloma that I did not want to see. I considered opening a bottle of plum brandy I had bought, decided against it, and then caught sight of the typewriter I had brought with me but not yet used. I thought of the solemnity of my departure with it from London ten days or so before and felt absurd. Images came into my mind of those groups of toys you see mounted on highly coloured boards in the shops at Christmas time: the Boys’ Conductor Set (complete with ticket punch), the Boys’ Detective Set (complete with disguises), the Boys’ Tank Commander Set (complete with binoculars). I spent a self-abasing minute or two thinking of a new one: the Boys’ Foreign Correspondent Set, complete with typewriter, whisky bottle, invisible ink, and a copy of John Gunther’s Inside Europe. Then I did a foolish thing: I decided to pull myself together and be sensible.

What, I asked myself over dinner, were the facts? Quite simple. I was supposed to be reporting the trial of a man named Deltchev who was accused of planning an assassination. Probably he was innocent. Yet some of the evidence against him had a ring of truth about it. Moreover, his daughter had been in touch with someone concerned in the assassination plan. I had found that person dead, killed in the same way as an Austrian politician and most likely by the same man, Aleko. Aleko had pretended to be of the secret police but was probably an agent of another kind. Who had employed him? Deltchev? Or the People’s Party to implicate Deltchev? But why should either employ Aleko when they had dangerous psychotics like Eftib and Pazar ready to hand? It didn’t make sense. And where did Deltchev come in? That was the important thing. I was preparing to defend him before a very large public. It might be just as well (might it not?) to make sure that I had the facts right. Might be! A fine fool I should look if the noble Deltchev I had postulated turned out to be in reality as murderous as his persecutors but rather cleverer at concealing the fact. ‘Mr Foster, what steps did you take to check the validity of your impressions?’ ‘Well, none really. I thought it better not to be inquisitive. Too risky.’ Oh dear, oh dear! By the time the wine arrived I no longer had any doubts. Nothing I already knew about the case seemed either logical or in any other way satisfactory. Far too much was hidden. Well, it must be revealed; and if the intimidated Petlarov did not want to help me, I would find it out for myself. The first thing for me to do anyway was to see Madame Deltchev at once — that evening — and hear what she had to say about the day’s evidence. Then I would give myself the pleasure of an interview with little Miss Katerina, tell her the news about her friend Valmo, and ask her the questions that Aleko did not want me to ask. After that I would decide what to do next.

I finished my dinner and walked out to the Deltchev house. As I turned into the street where it was, the mood of hearty resolution in which I had started out suddenly weakened. The guards I had passed before might not be on duty. A different set might have taken over. Then, as I approached, I saw that the same guards were there. It made no difference; my anxiety deepened. I realized that the real source of it had nothing to do with the guards but with the undertaking I had given to Aleko and my too ready disposal of it. If, I had reasoned, Aleko had really had any police powers he would not have asked for an undertaking not to visit the Deltchev home again; he would simply have issued an order to the guards not to admit me. Therefore, I had concluded, he had no police powers and I might call his bluff. But it was one thing to have arrived at a theoretical conclusion and quite another to act upon it in this way. All sorts of unconsidered possibilities occurred to me as I walked toward the house. Supposing, for instance, he really did have police powers and had planned to test my good faith by including this prohibition in the undertaking. For a moment I hesitated and was about to turn back; then I realized that the Corporal had seen and recognized me. Retreat was impossible now. I walked on up to him and took out my press permit. He nodded curtly, but examined the permit carefully again while the doltish Private stood grinning at me. At last the Corporal handed back the permit with a faint shrug (ominous?) and nodded to the Private. The latter hitched his rifle sling more snugly on his shoulder and, crossing to the door in the wall, pulled the bell.

It was as before. I waited. They watched me. There was the clacking of old Rana’s sandals on the paving of the courtyard. The door opened cautiously. But then she recognized me and held the door for me to go in. Inside she said something and signed to me to wait. She was not long. Soon I heard her sandals flapping down the stairs inside the house. She opened the front door and beckoned me in.

I went upstairs. The same slippery floor, the same smell of furniture polish, but this time no Katerina. She, I thought, would be standing with her man-of-the-world air behind her mother’s chair. I hoped, uncharitably, that my arrival would alarm her.

But Madame Deltchev was alone. She was standing facing me by the window as I came in. The light was behind her, but there was tension in the way she stood. On the table by her were two empty tea glasses. The old friend had delivered his report for the day.

She turned quickly. ‘Good evening, Herr Foster. It is good of you to call again.’

‘You are very kind, madame. I am afraid I have more questions.’

‘Naturally. Please sit down.’

‘Thank you.’

There was a grande dame artificiality about her manner that accentuated the feeling of strain she meant it to conceal. ‘Although,’ she went on, ‘I think it unlikely that I shall be able to give you the information you need. Tea?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Of course. You have dined, and the English do not drink tea after dinner.’ She smiled mechanically and, picking up one of the glasses, went over to the samovar. ‘With us it is a habit,’ she said. ‘Russian, of course. Most of our habits are Russian or Turkish or German or Greek. We have few of our own.’ Boiling water spluttered from the tap into the glass. ‘You see now why our patriots mean so much to us here. Their unquestioning belief that we are indeed a nation with our own cultural and political identities, and not merely a marginal tribe with some curious ethnological affinities, is a great comfort. The truth about many of our great traditional patriots is ugly or ludicrous; but it makes no difference. They are defended angrily. National feeling in small states is always angry; it must be so, for its roots are in fear and self-doubt, and for those things reason is no protection.’

She spoke as glibly as a journalist quoting without acknowledgment from an article he has just written. I was not sure whether she was talking for concealment or whether I was being offered an elaborately wrapped hint. Was there perhaps an ugly truth to be known about patriot Deltchev?

‘Your husband has meant a great deal to his people,’ I said carefully.

‘Yes, yes, he has.’ She had carried her tea over to her chair. Now she sat down facing me. ‘They will not give him up easily, no matter what lies are told about him. A cigarette, Herr Foster?’

‘Thank you. I’m sure you are right. Have you heard about today’s court proceedings, madame?’

‘Yes, I have heard about them.’

I lit the cigarette she had given me. ‘Do you consider that the evidence was false in itself or that it was false only in relation to your husband?’

‘Some of his witnesses may be truthful, but their testimonies compose a lie.’

‘May I put a hypothetical question? Supposing that the evidence were all true, that your husband had in fact been involved in this plot, would you have known about it, madame? Would he have confided in you?’

She did not answer immediately. Then: ‘He always confided in me. I should have known.’

‘It would be a dangerous secret to confide to anyone.’

‘If it had existed; yes, very dangerous.’

‘For comparison’s sake, madame, can you tell me if your husband confided in you his intention to make that radio speech about the elections before he made it?’

She sat quite still for several moments, staring out through the window at the bare hills. I almost wondered if she had heard what I had said. She had heard, I knew, and understood too, but her air of preoccupation was very nearly convincing. Then, with a slight puzzled shake of the head as if to banish other thoughts and face the immediate reality, she turned her gentle, intelligent eyes toward me.

‘I am very sorry, Herr Foster,’ she said with a faint, confused smile, ‘I am afraid I was not paying attention. I had other thoughts.’ She put her hand to her forehead as if she had a headache. ‘It was inexcusable.’

It was not badly done; I have known actresses make a worse job of it; but if I wanted to parody a particular style of drawing-room comedy I would have that speech, and the performance that goes with it, well in mind. She must have seen it in dozens of bad plays. Probably she was expecting from me one of the two conventional reactions to it; the guilty (‘Forgive me, you’re tired’) or the aggrieved (‘I’m a busy man and my time is valuable’). However, I felt neither guilty nor aggrieved. I did feel intensely curious.

I repeated the question.

Her lips twitched with annoyance. ‘Herr Foster, what is the point of this question? Please be honest with me.’

‘Certainly. You deny that there is a word of real truth in the evidence put before the court today. I wish to know what value I may put upon that denial. Is it based on knowledge or an emotional conviction? You must see that that is important.’

‘What I see, Herr Foster,’ she said coldly, ‘is that this trial is beginning to have the effect intended by the Propaganda Ministry.’

I felt myself flush with anger. By the light of the setting sun she did not see that, but I did not reply and after a moment she began to apologize. I must forgive her; she was tired and overwrought; she had not slept for many nights; she was distracted with worry. I listened carefully. What she was saying was all quite reasonable and genuine, but it was also a protective screen. Something had happened to her since our first meeting; some inner certainty had gone. Before, she had been facing with calm courage the prospect of her husband’s conviction and death. Perhaps that courage had rested upon a belief in his innocence which no longer went unquestioned. Perhaps the unworthy doubts of which she now accused me were merely the projections of her own misgivings.

I tried a different way.

‘In the theatre,’ I said, ‘a little fact will sustain a lot of illusion. As Petlarov says, “the lie rests most securely on a pinpoint of truth.” Brankovitch is not a fool. He knows that although he can impose any nonsense he likes upon the people of his own country, abroad it will not be so easy. With that trumped-up case he cannot hope to deceive the outside world. But what he can do is to confuse it by mixing with his lies a little truth. This plot against Vukashin. Why is it there? To prove that your husband is a member of the Brotherhood? Nonsense! Better evidence could be invented. Besides, even a stable government will regard an assassination plot as bad propaganda and try to conceal it if they can. No, this evidence is there because it is specially valuable. It is valuable because it is true. And those in court today recognized that it is true. It was not much — a few statements confirming a small set of facts — but it was true, and already in their minds this truth has grown and obscured the great mass of falsehood that surrounds it. You say, madame, that there may be truthful witnesses but that they compose a lie. But how much of a lie? Where does the truth end and the lie begin? You cannot defeat the Prosecution’s case with blank denials. It is not as simple as that. You have to give the whole truth, and that is what I want.’

There was a long silence. She looked stonily out of the window, and when she spoke she did not turn her head.

‘Herr Foster, there is not a court of law in the civilized world that would accept the case against my husband. I have been well advised of that.’

‘No civilized court of law is going to be asked to accept it,’ I retorted. ‘If the truth is not told, the final judgment will be delivered here. A few persons may doubt and speculate, but they must all come to the same conclusion.’

‘What conclusion?’

‘That there must have been something in the accusations against Deltchev, that the conspiracy evidence was never seriously disputed, that if he wasn’t the criminal they tried to make him out, he was something very nearly as bad — a fool. Forgive me, madame, but what you do not seem to realize is that any protest against your husband’s trial is a political act. No foreign office and no responsible newspaper is going to make that protest unless it is absolutely certain that he is innocent. They must know the truth.’

‘It isn’t true. The case against him is a lie. What else can I say?’

‘To what extent did your husband confide in you?’

‘What does it matter? If I tell you that he always confided in me you will say that this particular matter might have been too dangerous to confide. If I say that he did not confide it, it is no different.’

‘If he were in any way involved in this conspiracy would you have known?’

‘Yes. He was not involved.’

‘Did you know that he was going to make that election broadcast before he made it?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Did you know why he was going to make it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why was it?’

She shook her head hopelessly. I knew she was lying.

‘Was it because at one time, long ago, your husband had been a member of the Officer Corps Brotherhood?’

For a moment she was quite still. Then, slowly, she raised her head and stared at me. ‘Is that a serious question, Herr Foster?’ she asked coolly.

I knew suddenly that it was not a serious question, but part of a fantasy in a locked room. I began to mumble, ‘It was a faint possibility, madame.’ She still stared at me. ‘It could have been a youthful indiscretion, a mistake…’ I petered out.

She smiled in a twisted sort of way. ‘Yordan does not make that kind of indiscretion. He is always an intelligent man. Are there any other questions, Herr Foster?’ she added.

If I had had any advantage it was suddenly quite gone. ‘Have you ever heard the name of Pazar before?’

‘It is a Turkish name. I know no one who has it.’

‘Or Eftib?’

‘No. Nor any of the other persons mentioned today.’

‘Aleko?’

‘Was that name mentioned?’

‘No. Do you know it?’

‘It is a short name for Alexander. That is all I know.’

‘Valmo?’

‘It is a fairly common surname, but it means nothing in particular to me. Should it do so?’

‘I don’t know.’ I stood up. ‘Thank you for receiving me, madame.’

‘It is nothing.’ She stood up too and switched on a reading-lamp.

‘Before I go, I should like, if I may, to speak to your daughter,’ I said.

She stiffened. ‘Why?’

‘I should like to ask her some questions.’

‘Perhaps I can answer them for you.’

‘Perhaps.’ I hesitated. ‘When I left here two nights ago, madame, your daughter asked me to take out a letter for her and deliver it to a man named Valmo.’ I paused.

She tried unsuccessfully to smile. ‘My daughter is an attractive young woman. She has her affairs of the heart.’

‘Yes, that was the impression of the letter she succeeded in giving to me. I agreed to take it.’

‘That was chivalrous of you.’

‘The address on the letter was Patriarch Dimo, nine. I found the place. It is a disused house in a slum.’

‘And did you find the young man?’

I shook my head. She relaxed perceptibly.

‘If you will give me the letter, Herr Foster, I will see that it is returned to my daughter. It was good of you to take so much trouble.’ She held out her hand.

I said, ‘I did not find a young man, madame. I found a dead one. He had been shot.’

Very slowly she sat down. ‘Had he shot himself?’ she asked softly.

‘No. The wound was in the back of the head.’

She did not move. ‘A young man?’

‘No. Grey-haired, about fifty I should think. Why do you ask?’

She straightened up a little. ‘I thought perhaps some poor young student-’ She broke off and drew a deep breath. ‘There are so many tragedies. You must have gone to the wrong house, Herr Foster.’

‘No. It was the right house. But if the dead man was the person who had called himself Valmo, then your daughter knew Pazar. For that was the dead man’s real name.’

There was a silence. She did not look at me.

‘Did the police tell you that?’ she said at last.

‘I did not go to the police. It would have been difficult to explain how I came to be visiting the Brotherhood assassin they are supposed to be searching for. Difficult and embarrassing for us all.’

‘We are in your debt, Herr Foster.’

‘Perhaps you would prefer your daughter to explain,’ I said.

She looked at her handkerchief. ‘My daughter is not here.’

I was silent.

She looked at me. ‘I am speaking the truth, Herr Foster.’

‘I understood that everyone here was under house arrest.’

‘My daughter is not here. She has gone.’

‘Do you mean that the police took her away?’

‘No. She escaped.’

‘How? What about the guards?’

‘Katerina has lived in this house all her life, Herr Foster. There are other ways of leaving it than by the gates.’

I hesitated. ‘A few minutes ago, madame, I asked you if you had heard of Pazar before. You said that you had not. Do you still say that?’

‘Yes. It is the truth.’

‘But others in this house do know him?’

‘I do not.’

‘Do you know where your daughter has gone?’

‘No.’

‘When did she go?’

‘This evening.’

‘Can you think of any reason why she should go?’

‘Herr Foster, I am very tired.’

I waited a moment or two, but she did not look up again. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I think I might have been of help to you.’

‘I have told you all I can.’

‘You have told me all you think it advisable for me to know, madame.’

‘Good night, Herr Foster.’ She pressed the bell-push.

I said good night and picked up my hat, but as I got to the door she spoke again.

‘Herr Foster.’

I stopped.

‘My daughter’s letter. Will you give it to me, please?’

‘It is burned.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

She hesitated. ‘Forgive me, but do you know what was in it?’

‘I did not open it. In any case I cannot read your language.’

She came a little way across the room toward me. ‘Herr Foster,’ she said, ‘I have not been helpful to you, but I would not like you to think that I am ungrateful for your kindness and patience. I do most sincerely thank you.’

I bowed. I could not think of anything coherent to say which would not have deepened my embarrassment. The sound of Rana’s sandals flapping along the passage outside came like the answer to a prayer.

‘Good night, madame,’ I said, and got out of the room as quickly as I could. It did not occur to me until I was walking down the stairs that my twinges of guilt were unnecessary. Beside the monumental evasions to which I had been listening for the past half-hour my own reticences were trivial.