White Eagles Over Serbia

CHAPTER SEVEN. The Picture Gallery

The morning dawned fine, and Mr. Judson permitted himself the luxury of an early morning bathe in the river before breakfast, driving out in Carter’s car to a point beyond the town. Carter himself lay in bed making incoherent noises and refused to share in this exploit, and it must be admitted that he showed little shame when Judson reappeared at the breakfast-table to crack his egg with an air of triumphant virtue. “I’m not as badly out of condition as I thought,” he told his host. “I swam about a mile on a very tough current.” Carter shook his head: “After forty, my dear chap,” he said, “one must play safe. Or one springs a sprocket. Early rising is for the young.”

“When were you forty?” asked Mr. Judson.

“Two years from now,” said Carter.

They drove to the Embassy in great good humour and once more Mr. Judson locked himself in with the account books — which he handled for all the world as if they were rare, and slightly disgusting palimpsests. Somehow the thought of meeting Vida had displaced his preoccupation with the Serbian folksongs; she might offer him the clue to them and save him further cogitation. He whistled softly to himself as he copied out those which had been repeated. Even the Ambassador, it seemed, was in a good humour. There was a little note on his desk which he opened with some surprise, marvelling at the fine lacework of the handwriting on the envelope: “My dear Colonel,” he read, “nothing would have pleased me better than to have you to a meal despite the view I take of your mission here. Nevertheless since you are masquerading as a clerk I feel it would be bad policy to draw you into the limelight by inviting you to my table. I trust you will not mistake discretion for churlishness.”

“Very decent of him,” said Methuen, “considering.”

He showed the letter to Porson who chuckled and said: “Maybe he has discovered that you fish.”

“By the way: this rendezvous—”

“Yes?”

“Can I borrow your raincoat and beret?”

Porson put on a long-suffering air and said: “Take them, dear old spy-catcher. They are in the hall.”

“And will you drop me off in some odd corner of the town so that I am not followed?”

“On one condition.”

“What?”

“That if she is beautiful you introduce me.”

“Ah,” said Methuen. “She is; I wish I could.”

“I’ve always wanted a beautiful spy.”

The fat and snouty figure of Marriot appeared in the Chancery doorway. “Ah,” he said with ineffable condescension. “Ah, Methuen, everything all right I hope?”

“Yes,” said Methuen gravely.

“I’m glad. Of course you must feel a bit out of it with H.E.’s uncompromising attitude to your work, but you know how it is in diplomacy.” He smiled as amiably as he could and rubbed his hands. “We have to be extra careful, extra careful.”

The change in his attitude was rather marked and Methuen turned to Porson when the door closed and said: “There seems to be a slightly different attitude to-day. The natives are less hostile.”

“They are getting used to you. Just wait until you muck things up and are brought back on a slab.”

“God forbid,” said Methuen not without a touch of superstition.

“Come along,” said Porson. “Time to be moving.”

They climbed into his battered old racing-car which he drove with great skill and raced away across the town. Despite the fact that they did not seem to be followed, Porson took no chances and for twenty minutes they doubled about the town, crossing and re-crossing their tracks until in a wilderness of alleys in the area above the Sava Bridge Methuen asked to be put down. He had by this time put on Porson’s mackintosh and beret.

He turned down a street and crossed to the Knez Mihaelova, pausing from time to time to gaze into a shop window. The park, by comparison with the mean streets and bare shop windows, looked singularly inviting and he crossed the asphalt paths towards the little picture-gallery with a light and springy step. Here and there, to be sure, he spotted a blue-clad militia man and not infrequently a “leather man” (as Porson called the secret policemen), but he was sure that their attention was not focused on him, and he only hoped that Vida had managed to arrived at the rendezvous without difficulty. He bought a ticket to the exhibition which commemorated the Partisan War and entered the gallery with the crowd. His heart gave a little leap for he saw her directly, standing in the far corner of the gallery examining a painting. He opened his catalogue and worked his way slowly towards her, gravely examining each picture in turn with a judicial eye. It was not long before they found themselves standing together before a particularly flamboyant representation of the fourth offensive and Vida whispered: “Go up to the tower of the fort. I will follow.”

With the same unhurried air of concentration he did as he was told, working his way out of the gallery and turning to the left, across the expanse of gravel to the steps which led up into the old tower. The path led them across a sort of ravelin and through a gate towards the central bastion, and here he climbed the stairs slowly, pausing from time to time to take in the magnificent view which changed from room to room. A few couples sauntered in the sun on the terrace, and some children played about in one of the courtyards, but for the most part the fort seemed more or less deserted. He tucked himself in a corner of the battlements and stared out at the confluence of the two rivers which swirled away round the foot of the Kalemigdan. The Danube and the Sava met in a single jointless ripple beyond the Sava Bridge and swept down, turbid and brown, towards the eastern flank of the city.

Here Vida joined him in a little while and putting her arm round his shoulders stood beside him as he gazed out over the soft purple plain which stretched away towards Hungary. “Is is not lovely?” she said. Anyone who saw them might imagine they were husband and wife, pausing for a rest and for the first time he saw a smile of unshadowed content on her face. The old Vida was coming alive.

“Why are you working for them?” said Methuen at last when the first of her few questions had been asked and answered. “Ah,” she said, “the only choice left was to become the mistress of someone. My ration card was taken away because I refused. One has to eat. But luckily, luckily … I found I could be of use.” She lowered her voice to a whisper again and said: “They are afraid of us, Methuen. They know we are getting strong. They know that everyone is on our side and that the country would rise to-morrow if it could hear the voice of a leader.”

“Tell me about the broadcasts,” said Methuen, drawing a bow at a venture, and was delighted to see the look of surprised recognition in her eyes. “Ah! you know about those,” she said.

“A certain amount. Sophia Marie must be a White Eagle too.”

“How do you find out things that even the OZNA does not know?”

“How is the message passed?”

“Some are repeated.”

“I know.”

“The message starts at the tenth line.”

Methuen could have kicked himself with annoyance. He should really have thought of something as simple as that. With a sudden impulse he took out of his pocket the little collection of folk-songs which Anson had carried with him on his journey. He hunted out the passage marked in pencil and was delighted to find that it started at the tenth line of the poem.

“What is that?” said Vida. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m an ass,” said Methuen, “I should have known.”

“I should not tell you this,” she said, squeezing his arm through the sleeve of his mackintosh. “I am sworn to secrecy. The eagles would kill me. I told you that they hate England now, nearly as much as they hate Tito. They do not understand you like I do. Methuen, help us.”

“How?” he said helplessly. “Just how?”

She turned her dark magnificent eyes on him and said: “At this very moment our movement needs help. We need access to the highest quarters in England. Can you reach perhaps the Prime Minister with a message if you wish?”

“I doubt it.”

“It is important for England too. Something very big is happening in the mountains of south Serbia. We have the means in our hands to overturn the Tito régime. Surely England would be interested in that? I remember when I worked for you you could always reach the Secretary of State’s office. Our people are savage, they don’t trust England. They think that if you knew what we had discovered you would help Tito to suppress our movement. Oh, Methuen, do you see?”

“What is it?” Tears came into her eyes and she shook her head. “I cannot tell you without authority. I must not. I dare not.”

There came the tramp of feet on the turret stairs and she broke off. A large family party, surrounded by children, rambled up to the terrace with much puffing and blowing, and admired the view with considerable expenditure of oaths and grunts. Gravely the father pointed out the sights to his children: “There is Smederavo — or should be if you could see it,” and “There is Zemun — only it is hidden in smoke.…” Methuen could feel the girl trembling, and glancing at her out of the corner of his eye he saw that she was crying noiselessly. She recovered herself and blew her nose. The Serbian family rambled off and silence fell once more.

“I’m going to-morrow,” he said.

“To London?”

“Yes.”

“How I wish I could come with you. But I feel I must see this thing through to the end. In spite of being brought up abroad I feel so terribly Serbian here,” and she pressed her hand to her heart with an old familiar gesture that gave Methuen a pang of sympathy. “You too loved our country, before, Methuen. Have you seen what they are doing to it?”

Silence fell for a moment during which they stood gazing out across the magnificent sweep of the two rivers. Then she said: “Methuen, I have decided one thing. To-night we have a secret meeting and I shall ask permission to tell you what we are doing. Just one phrase will make it clear to you. Believe me, it is nothing small. But I only do this if you promise to go to the Foreign Secretary yourself and tell him that England must help us. Will you? Will you?”

“I promise you with all my heart”, said Methuen, using the lovely Serbian phrase with an emotion that surprised him, “that I will try. I promise you.” She took his hand and kissed it. “To-night,” she said, “after twelve, you may telephone the number I am giving you. Ask for Sophia Marie. Ask her if Vida is there and if I have the permission of my people I will say one phrase to you which will contain the whole meaning. You will understand then.”

She produced a diminutive powder-puff and restored her complexion, saying as she did so: “I must go now. I cannot tell you what a pleasure it was to see you; like a visit to honest old England, Methuen. I know you will not fail us. But I must ask permission from my people.”

She turned and was gone from sight before Methuen could struggle out of the grip of his emotions and face the inadequacy of language to express how deeply moved he was. Walking back across the green lawns, and through the shabby streets of the town to the Embassy he repeated to himself again and again: “What the devil can it be?”

Nor was the goggle-eyed Porson much help when he heard the story. “I bet you it’s uranium,” he said after many perplexed guesses. “But what use would that be?”

“Uranium?” said Methuen with resignation. “What use would that be to Vida and her crowd?”

Porson made a vague sweeping gesture with his arm. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “everybody seems to want the stuff.”

“Young man,” said Methuen severely, “don’t waste my time with nonsense guesses. Leave me to work on the messages a bit. If we are starting to-morrow we haven’t much time. And besides Vida may put the secret into our hands to-night.”

He retired once more to Mr. Judson’s little den and impatiently sweeping aside the account books took out some paper and pencils from the drawer. He had already marked the repeat-poems which, according to Vida, carried the message, and it was the work of a moment to arrange them in chronological order and underline each tenth line. Apart from the fragment already quoted, he assembled the following quotations:

O King beset by shapes innumerable

As the dead, you must not leave

Unless your birthright goes with you,

And that is ours.

The King’s secret touchstone

We have discovered, but many

Are the whispers and grave

The dangers, speed alone will help him.

Help for the King will come

By four-footed friends,

Caravans to carry his tokens,

And turn his shame to victory.

In the month of the magpie

He must set forth in a hedge of muskets

Seeking the sea where

Help will await him.

These fragments he typed out in several copies, giving one to Porson and one to Carter so that each might work independently on them. Porson became tremendously solemn and stared at them through his eyeglass. “My dear fellow,” he said hopelessly, “I was never any good at riddles. But this mass of highly metaphorical Slav guff simply defeats me.” Methuen said: “Try. Think about it a little. Let us all have dinner tonight and see if we can make anything of it.”

His own elation had given place to gloom, for it had suddenly struck him that they might be trying to break a prearranged code — that the meaning might not lie in the actual verses themselves. Each verse might stand for a message already agreed upon; in which case no amount of thought could unriddle these oracular utterances. Nevertheless something was plain — the talk of a king’s “birthright”, “touchstone”, etc., did seem to have some relation to Vida’s statement about something the White Eagles had discovered; something perhaps they had been hunting for.

At dinner that evening neither he nor his colleagues had successfully interpreted the riddle. Porson suggested that “four-footed friends” might mean horses, but this was his only contribution to the discussion. Carter plainly declared his mind to be a blank and added disarmingly: “But then it always has been whenever you pushed some poetry under my nose. Ever since I was a nipper.”

There was nothing to do except to wait upon the telephone-call which might offer them the key to the mystery. “I’m sorry to have turned into a club-bore,” said Methuen, “but these problems are tremendously exciting and they grip you. I must confess, though, that apart from the ‘month of the magpie’ which is June, I can’t make any progress.”

It seemed wiser to shelve the whole business for a time as Carter was showing some disposition to yawn and fidget. After dinner they played a round or two of rummy and listened to the news. Carter owned an excellent collection of classical records, and played them some until it was time to telephone. This they planned to do from an outside call-box, as the chances of the wire being tapped were less. Porson knew of one by the tram stop at the end of the road, and accordingly the three of them set out to walk the distance at a leisurely pace. As they crossed the garden and passed through the front gate Methuen saw a figure stir in the darkness on the opposite side of the road. “Ah yes,” said Carter following his glance, “we all have leather men attached to us. One gets used to them.” They walked down the rough badly cobbled street between the trees; only one in three street lamps were alight and whole stretches of the street were in total darkness. “It wouldn’t be difficult to shake him off,” said Methuen, but Carter shrugged his shoulders. “Why bother?” he said. “I always take a stroll after dinner and he’s used to the idea.”

They skirted the dark line of villas and descended the hill. The tram stop was well lit, though at this time of night there were few passengers about. A long line of horse-drawn carts clattered along on the main road which lay between them and the river. Somewhere in the fastnesses of the goods yards an engine shrieked twice and was silent. A light wind sprang up sending little eddies of dust swirling along the cobbled reaches of the road, and ruffling the dense foliage of the trees. They walked from shadow to shadow, and from shadow to shadow the man in the leather coat followed them. “There it is,” said Porson, and after covertly glancing at his watch Methuen left them and walked smartly towards the telephone booth. The light was broken and it smelt foully of sunflower-oil. He had to grope with his finger and count the numbers carefully. Excitement gripped him as he heard in the dimness the slight noise of a connection slipping into place and the slow blurred scraping which indicated that somewhere a bell was ringing.

The seconds lengthened themselves eternally in the stillness. Perhaps he had the wrong number? Perhaps he had memorized it wrongly. A thousand and one possibilities sprang into his mind, yet he quietly ignored them and held oa to the chipped receiver waiting for the ringing to stop and for a voice to answer. His stillness communicated itself to the other two who stood outside the box, quietly smoking. The man in the leather coat retired discreetly to a pool of shadow and was swallowed up in it.

There was a faint click and then a voice spoke: “Hullo.” Methuen spoke hoarsely. “Please, Madam, may I speak to Miss Sophia Marie?” There was a moment of hesitation as if the person at the other end was gathering her forces together. Then she said: “This is Comrade Marie speaking.”

“Then be so kind as to let me speak to Vida if she is there.”

The answer came like a blow in the face.

“Vida is dead.”

There was the faint dry click of the receiver as it was put down — like the snapping of a stalk of celery — and Methuen was left holding the black receiver in his trembling fingers. A thousand suppositions flooded into his mind as he stood there. Then in a fury he dialled the number again and again stood listening to the faint purring note of a distant bell ringing. “Vida is dead.” The words kept echoing in his mind with monotonous iteration. “She can’t be,” he said to himself, furiously. The bell rang on and on.

Then at last there came a click and a man’s voice answered, as if drugged with sleep. “Hullo,” Methuen said, “I want to speak to Sophia Marie please. It is urgent.”

The answering voice sank into a deeper register as it said: “There is no one of that name here. You have the wrong number.”

Methuen walked slowly out into the street, feeling dazed and numb. He joined his two companions in their stroll back to the house, and to their eager whispered questions he could only repeat helplessly: “They say Vida is dead.”

They returned to the house in silence and sank into the cretonne-covered arm-chairs of the drawing-room in attitudes of despondency. Carter mixed them a whisky and soda with a solicitude which showed that he knew how deep a shock Methuen had sustained. “And yet it’s not possible,” Porson burst out. “Who would kill her? Why?”

Methuen sighed: “You see the nature of the thing we are up against. Obviously there is something big brewing and the suggestion that she should let the British Government in on it has alarmed the White Eagles. So they’ve.…” He had difficulty in getting the word out: “Murdered her. Or locked her up. God knows.”

“Alternatively,” said Carter, “the OZNA might have tumbled to her. They are morbidly suspicious of their own employees. Everyone is double checked. She may have given herself away.”

“Yes,” said Methuen. “Yes.” A savage fury was rising in him. “Poor Vida.”

It was lucky that there was still much to do to prepare for to-morrow’s journey. It would take his mind off the subject.

He got up and went to his room where he wrapped his clothes and equipment in a parcel and gave them to Porson who would be driving the car. Then he sat down and composed a long despatch for Dombey, setting out the new material with which he had been faced and asking him to have the problem followed up from the London end as quickly as possible. Carter was still in the living-room reading when he returned. “Can I count on you”, he said, “to send this signal to Dombey about to-night’s little affair? It is quite up to date, I told him about the ’phone call.” Carter nodded.

“And Carter—”

“Yes.”

“If you lose track of me for goodness’ sake promise not to raise any hue and cry with the Government until a full ten days has gone by without a message from me. If I am on to something good it may take time, and a sudden hunt for me by the OZNA might spoil everything.”

Carter hesitated. “Very well,” he said at last, “though it won’t be easy to restrain H.E. He flaps terribly.”

“You must try. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this business if I have to take out residence papers and stay for the rest of my life.”

“All right old man,” said Carter gently. He was thinking of Anson: of the body he had helped to carry feet first through the Chancery door: a huddled figure covered in an old army ground-sheet. His friend had spent one night upon the map-laden table of the office before the local mortuary would take him in. And then all the trouble and fuss to find a carpenter to make a coffin.

“Go to bed and get some sleep,” he said, standing up and putting his arm on the elder man’s shoulder. “You have a hell of a day ahead of you.”

He locked Methuen’s draft in the little wall-safe and turned out the light. From the window-sill he retrieved the bowl of flowers in which the thoughtful OZNA had placed a microphone a little larger than a bee. It was gagged. “Shall we pass them a message before we turn in?” he said, but Methuen was in no mood for humour. “I should disconnect it,” he said. “Ah, but then they’ll stick another one somewhere. At least I know where this one is,” said Carter, fondling the bowl lovingly.

Methuen grunted and said good night. As he undressed he said to himself under his breath: “Vida is dead.” Yet somehow he could not believe it; yet who could doubt that it was true?

He slept.