results.’
‘You mean you put a secret watch on the house to catch the murderer when he returned?’
He smiled gently and shook his head. ‘I am afraid you do not know the street of the Patriarch Dimo, Herr Foster,’ he said. ‘That sort of secret could not be kept there. No. I set a different kind of trap. All I wanted was to get the false documents into the conspirators’ hands. I had reason to believe that in fact that had happened. Tonight I asked Herr Pashik, who is a friend of mine and also sometimes a helper, to go to the house and make sure.’ He spread his hands out like a conjuror. ‘He finds you there.’
‘With a letter addressed to you.’
‘Exactly. Katerina Deltchev had recalled an important piece of evidence. She wrote to tell me of it.’
‘Through your agent.’
‘Naturally. This address is most confidential, Herr Foster. So you see how it has happened and the need for your discretion.’ He sat back with a smile, clicked his lighter, and held the letter in the flame of it. As it caught fire, he smiled at me again. ‘I’m sure you do,’ he added.
I thought quickly. It was just not quite good enough. The man who called himself Valmo and said that he was of the secret police had had a certain initial advantage; he did not look like the conventional secret policemen of fiction. If he had been vaguer and more mysterious about his story, it might even have been convincing. There would have been nothing unlikely about a secret policeman who was secretive. But this man had seen the holes in his story as he was telling it and instead of leaving them had tried to cover them up. For instance, having indicated an official connection between the Deltchev household and Patriarch Dimo Street he had decided that it did not satisfactorily cover Katerina’s letter, so he had added another detail: that weak one about her recalling an important piece of evidence. It would have been better to let me see the hole and question it. He could then have replied with a knowing shake of the head that he was afraid he could not permit himself to give me that information. And that, in turn, would have prevented my asking the awkward question I did in fact ask.
‘Herr Valmo,’ I said, ‘what I don’t understand is why Fraulein Deltchev, who is under house arrest, has to get me to smuggle out a letter to the head of the secret police. Why didn’t she just give it to one of the sentries?’
He crushed the ashes of the letter onto the tray. ‘She is a girl. No doubt she was afraid I would not get it.’
‘She seemed more concerned about the censorship than anything else. She made me promise to deliver it by hand.’
‘Confinement affects some people strangely.’
‘Shall you go to see her?’
‘It may be necessary. I do not know.’ He was getting confused now. He pulled himself together a trifle impatiently. ‘Those, however, are not matters of immediate concern, Herr Foster. It is your position that we must make clear.’
‘Yes?’
‘I have given you a great deal of confidential information. It must, please, remain confidential.’ His pale eyes stared at me coldly. ‘I may add, Herr Foster, that if you were not a distinguished journalist, it would have been considered advisable to put you in prison for a short while to make sure of your behaviour. That, however, we need not discuss. You have already assured me that you will be discreet. I require now three further undertakings from you. Firstly’ — he held up a finger — ‘that you will not return to the house in the Patriarch Dimo or tell anyone of it. Secondly, that you will not again visit the Deltchev house. Thirdly, that you will make no attempt to identify this house and that you forget its existence, and mine.’
I did not reply immediately. I knew now the kind of conversation that must have taken place between Valmo and Pashik while I was safely locked up and waiting. My one desire was to get out of the place as quickly as possible. But I had the sense to realize that if I showed my anxiety and agreed to the terms too hastily, they would not feel quite safe. They were both watching me narrowly. I frowned, then looked up and nodded.
‘All right,’ I said curtly. ‘I agree. And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like another brandy.’
Valmo stood up. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said perfunctorily. He poured a small one. He could not wait to get rid of me now. ‘Herr Pashik?’
‘Thank you, no.’
They stood looking at me impatiently while I sipped the brandy. It was the only moment of enjoyment I had had in the whole evening and it lasted about ten seconds. As I swallowed the first sip, I heard the front door of the apartment open and close and footsteps in the passage outside.
‘It is my brother,’ said Valmo quickly.
Then the door opened and a young man came into the room. He saw me and stopped.
‘Good evening, Jika,’ Valmo said. ‘We are talking a little business. I shall be with you in a minute.’
He was about twenty-five, dark and very tired-looking. He had a raincoat on and his hair was blown about as if he had been in an open car. He looked at us suspiciously. For a moment he did not move; then he turned away slowly and went to the door.
‘Don’t be too long, Aleko,’ he said. ‘I have something for you.’
I raised the brandy to my mouth again. I was not looking directly at Pashik, but I could see his face and it had gone the colour of mud. He knew that I had seen the ‘Aleko’ note in the Deltchev file and for some reason was terrified lest I had remembered it. Aleko himself was waiting for me to finish my drink. The use of his Christian name had not visibly upset him. But the situation was delicate. I had seen something I should not have seen, but Pashik did not know if I realized it. The main thing then was to get out of the apartment before he could make up his mind what to do. I drank the brandy at a gulp and held out my hand to Aleko.
‘Thank you, Herr Valmo, and goodbye.’
He smiled agreeably. ‘I hope your stay is pleasant here, Herr Foster,’ he said.
I turned to Pashik. ‘Are you going to drive me back to my hotel, Pashik?’
‘Yes, Mr Foster, yes,’ he said heavily.
We went along the passage to the front door. Aleko came out to the lift with us. He shook my hand again.
‘I have liked you, Herr Foster,’ he said, ‘and with a journalist that is a new experience for me. I have faith in you. Goodbye.’
He might have been sending a promising young dancer on a first international tour.
Pashik was already in the lift. I got in after him. We went down in silence.
It was not until we were in his car and out on the road again that I broke the silence.
‘Aleko Valmo,’ I said. ‘A curious name.’
‘In these parts it is quite common, Mr Foster,’ he said calmly.
He had made up his mind that I had forgotten the other name.
I was not feeling very friendly toward Pashik, and for a moment or two I toyed with the idea of asking him suddenly, ‘What was the case of K. Fischer, Vienna ’46, about, Pashik, and what had Aleko to do with it?’
Then I decided not to. We did not speak again until he drew up outside my hotel. As I went to get out, he put his hand on my arm, and his brown eyes sought mine.
‘Mr Foster,’ he said, ‘it has been a lousy experience for you this evening and no doubt you will wish to forget all about it. That is, if you are wise.’
I did not answer. His voice took on its cautious roundabout tone.
‘I wish only to tell you,’ he said, ‘that I understand your feelings and share them. But you have your own profession and need not trouble about what happens to dead-beats and bums far away from your home. Men are dying all over the world for the causes they believe in. You cannot fight their battles.’
‘Are you telling me that I should mind my own business?’ I asked.
‘Ah, please, Mr Foster!’ He spread his hands out. ‘You are mad at me.’
I was exasperated. ‘I’m not mad at you, Pashik. I’m merely trying to get you to say straight out what you mean without all this double talk. I don’t mind being advised to mind my own business. That’s all right. I don’t have to take the advice if I don’t want to. I’m still capable of deciding what is my own business and what isn’t. I’m not fighting any battles. I’m trying to find out what goes on here.’
‘That is what I mean, Mr Foster. It does no good to try.’
‘You mean I won’t be able to find out?’
He looked away from me and picked at the steering wheel. ‘You force me to be frank, Mr Foster.’
