“It will be interesting,” said Ondrejov meditatively, “to see who does turn up to take the responsibility for Miss Barber.” He smiled into the inscrutable distances of his own thoughts, which were certainly more devious than his bucolic appearance suggested, and repeated pleasurably: “Very interesting!”
Chapter 8
THE MEN WHO CAME TO THE RESCUE
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The man in charge arrived in Liptovsky Pavol at about four o’clock in the morning, having preferred to go directly to the scene of the crime and make his own observations on the spot, before taking over the office end of affairs from the local force. He brought with him a very smart police car from Bratislava, a driver, and two subordinates, which entourage was in itself a more signal recognition of Robert Welland’s V.I.P. status than he had ever received in his lifetime.
The officer’s name was Kriebel, and he looked like an alert, confident, athletic schoolmaster. He was two steps above Ondrejov in rank, six inches taller, and twenty-five years younger, and he weighed up his man in one long, careful glance, and then enthroned himself casually on a corner of the desk, and swung his legs. This move, which established their relationship while keeping it informal, also deprived Ondrejov of his own favourite chair without putting it into use for his superior officer. To Kriebel a tactful gesture, it seemed to Ondrejov merely silly. But he was adroit at handling young men who were ambitious, sensitive of their rights and advantages in the presence of the old and stagnating, and considered themselves to be handling him. This one wouldn’t give him much trouble. He had never wanted to move into the plain-clothes branch himself, and not only because it would have meant moving from Pavol. He knew where his talents lay.
He planted himself squarely on his two sturdy legs, and made his report reasonably fully. The young people? They were all put to bed long before this, the girl Barber in the cell downstairs, the others at Pavol’s single small hotel. Had they made formal statements? No, he had preferred to wait for the arrival of the detectives from Bratislava. He contrived to suggest that he had been a little nervous of pressing four English students very far, with the possibility of an international incident obviously hanging over them like a storm-cloud. He outlined the evidence against Tossa, colouring it brightly and then slightly deprecating its brightness, even suggesting that it was not enough of a case to justify holding her. Kriebel, listening and frowning a little, found the tone too patronising on one hand and too timid on the other, and came to the considered conclusion that the girl should be held.
The body of Robert Welland was by then being manhandled from the chapel towards the ambulance that waited for it at the Riavka hut, on its way to Liptovsky Mikulas, where the experts were sleepily and crossly preparing its reception.
“And the other three?” asked Ondrejov, with hunched shoulders and dissenting face. “None of them can possibly have been involved in the actual killing, only the girl Barber had the opportunity. I take it there’s no need to interfere with their plans? We can reach them at Zbojska Dolina whenever you want them, there’s no particular advantage in keeping them here.”
“On the contrary, I think it’s essential to have them under our eyes. We’d better fix them up here in the town, and keep them under surveillance, at least until we get the medical and laboratory reports. Then we’ll know better what we’re handling.”
All very well being correct and courteous with foreigners, but Kriebel carried the responsibility, and this was murder.
“As you think,” said Ondrejov austerely, with a face so blank that a duller man than Kriebel couldn’t have failed to deduce what it was concealing. “Then after you’ve seen them, I’d better send the young man Felse off with their van to bring their things from the Riavka, and settle them in here at the Slovan.”
“I should be glad if you would,” said Kriebel, his voice noticeably thinning as the woodenness of Ondrejov’s face thickened.
“Certainly, Comrade Major, whatever you say.”
If you want a superior, half your age, to keep things rolling your way, there’s nothing like persuading him that the idea was his in the first place, and that you cordially disapprove of it. Ondrejov wasn’t going to have the slightest trouble with this one.
“By the way, Comrade Major, I’ve notified the British Embassy of the girl’s situation. Since they’re concerned in any case, the victim being one of their own men, I thought it wise to forestall any criticism on that head. I hope that’s all right? It won’t, of course, affect your handling of the case in the least,” he hastened to add, with a nice blend of flattery and malice.
It wouldn’t now, at any rate. Ten ambassadors threatening all the professional reprisals in the world couldn’t have made Kriebel release his hold of Tossa Barber, after that.
It was some hours more before the rescue party began to gather. Even Kriebel had to sleep, after driving some three hundred kilometres from the Slovak capital, and then putting in an hour and a half of intensive work in Zbojska Dolina; consequently the four enforced guests of the establishment were also, by native standards, allowed to lie late, though not, to judge by the look of them when they were finally assembled in the police office, to sleep late.
Only Tossa, once stretched out on the cot in her small, bare room, had collapsed out of the world as though hit English attache the head with a blackjack; it was her only way of escape from a load temporarily too much for her to carry or comprehend. They dragged her out of her refuge too soon, but at least she had been able to withdraw for a few hours into the utter darkness and indifference of irresponsibility.
She came back to her distorted and frightening world drunken and stunned with sleep, but calm. She was glad, in a way, that they had kept her segregated even from Christine; the load was hers, and sympathy and advice would only have confused her. As it was, though she hadn’t spent one waking minute thinking about it, she had a very clear idea of what she had to do. Last night there had seemed no point in correcting her false story, since Mirek had effectively established what was false in it; now it seemed to her essential that she should tell it herself as fully as she could. There were still things she could not talk about; but to admit that she had felt unsatisfied about her stepfather’s death, and set out deliberately to investigate it herself, need not involve the Marrion Institute at all. No lies this time. Truth and nothing but truth, if not all the truth. It might not help her out of her mess, but it would do something to put her right with herself.
“I want to make a statement,” she said, when Ondrejov came to fetch her up to the office.
“So you shall soon, but not to me. And don’t be in too big a hurry.” He looked her over with shrewd and thoughtful eyes. “Finish your coffee, there’s plenty of time.”
She shook her head; it seemed to her an odd attitude. “The men from Scotland Yard came, then?” she said, with a pale, brief smile.
“They’re not the only arrivals. There are three gentlemen here to get you out of trouble.”
