circumstances it was written down there. Those questions are important, gentlemen, for I, too, have been plotted against by assassins. They threw a bomb and badly wounded my chauffeur. That was outside my house, and to find my house you need the address, and to remember it you have to write it down. I have no wish to deprive Minister Vukashin of his martyr’s laurels, but if I am to be convicted of plotting against his life, at least make sure that the evidence you use is not part of an old plot against my life. For a new plot new evidence should be manufactured. Economy in such matters is discourteous.’
But Deltchev said nothing at all and the afternoon drowsed on. Curiously, it was only the diplomatic and press sections who seemed bored. For most of the spectators it was an exciting afternoon. As each witness appeared, there would be a buzz of interest, then dead silence while he gave his evidence, then breathless whispering as he stepped down. It was the factual nature of the evidence that did it. There must have been many in that courtroom who had been unwilling to believe in Deltchev’s guilt and privately uneasy about the trial. Now they were enjoying the illusion that the legal forms were being properly observed and that they were free of the responsibility of condoning an injustice. I was glad when the afternoon was over.
Pashik had nothing to say as he drove me back to my hotel. He knew that I was going to see Petlarov and he was saving himself for a farewell admonishment on the subject of discretion; so I thought, at least; and I was tired of him; I was tired of his smell, of his admonishments, of his evasions and mystery-making, of his long-suffering brown eyes, of his dirty seersucker suit, and of his bad driving.
He stopped jerkily outside the hotel and turned to me. ‘Mr Foster-’ he began.
I interrupted irritably. ‘Look, do you have to go on calling me “Mr Foster” all the time? Can’t you make it “Foster” or “you”? It would be easier for you and I shouldn’t feel so stiff-necked.’
He began again picking at the vulcanite covering of the steering wheel. He already had most of it off and the metal beneath looked bare and squalid.
‘I am sorry, Mr Foster,’ he said, ‘I wished only to be polite.’
‘Yes, of course. It’s not important.’
But he was upset. ‘I am afraid you are not a good-tempered man, Mr Foster,’ he said.
‘No, I’m not. I apologize. You wanted to tell me to be discreet again, didn’t you?’
He picked for a moment or two in silence. He was working on a big piece and it peeled away like a strip of sunburnt skin.
‘I don’t know what more I can say to you, Mr Foster,’ he said. ‘I have tried to warn you, not because I like you or even because I have a responsibility to the New York Office, but in the spirit of any man who sees another by accident going into a danger he does not realize. I can do no more. There are things more important than the safety of a stranger. You will not take the advice; then you must take your chance. I will not discuss the case with you further. The services I am paid for are yours, however. Tomorrow I will be getting your press ticket for the Anniversary Celebration. When the end date of the trial is known, your return passage by air will be available. If there is any other service you wish performed, you must tell me. Meanwhile, when we meet we can talk of other things.’ He turned and looked at me. ‘Good night, Mr Foster.’
‘Good night.’
I got out and went into the hotel. I was both impressed and depressed. As I walked up the stairs I decided that I would take his advice. I told myself that it was only my personal dislike of the man that had prevented my taking it before. That was really stupid. My task was to write articles about the trial, not to play policeman. I had stumbled on a political murder in a country where political murder was a commonplace. The fact that for me it was a novelty did not give me a licence to enquire into it. I should remember that I was a foreigner, there on sufferance, that I had a very lucrative profession to return to, and that in my temporary role of newspaper reporter I had done very well to get an exclusive interview with Madame Deltchev. That was enough. I would now mind my own business. And it might be a good idea to apologize to Pashik. He had been very patient with me and I had behaved with the bumptiousness of an amateur. And, by the way, since when had Mr Foster been entitled to object to being called Mr Foster by someone who wished to be courteous? Mr Foster was making a very tiresome fool of himself. He’d better stop.
Petlarov was sitting stiff and straight on his usual seat in the corridor. Without speaking he followed me into my room and sat down. I went to the wardrobe and got out the whisky. He took the toothglass with his usual polite bow and then glanced up at me.
‘You look tired, Herr Foster.’
‘I’ve had a tiring twenty-four hours.’
He nodded politely. He did not even look a question.
‘What about today’s evidence? What do you think?’ I asked. ‘It’s more or less what you feared, isn’t it?’
He considered for a moment, then he shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think it is. You see, I expected something possible. I thought that Yordan might have committed some indiscretion capable of being shown badly. But not this. It is really very funny. I know Yordan and I know that he is incapable of this kind of association. And with men of the type of Eftib and Pazar it is grotesque.’
‘He associated with Vukashin and Brankovitch.’
‘He did not like them, but he recognized their importance. Both are considerable men, leaders. But conspiracy with this delinquent riffraff? It is impossible! Yordan is too much of a snob.’
‘What sort of indiscretion did you expect?’
He shrugged. ‘Many things are possible. For example, it would not have greatly surprised me to learn that some of the exiles were planning a coup d’etat and had nominated Yordan their leader. If they appealed to him he would be flattered. He might temporize, but he would treat with them. In transactions of that kind many foolish things are written. Now with this, all is different. We have circumstantial evidence of the kind that is used to convict ordinary criminals — the piece of paper with the note on it, the scribbled address, the conspirators who escape and those who do not, the mysterious Pazar, who is missing but really dead — it is all of a different pattern.’ He shrugged again. ‘But that is only what I feel.’
‘What did you mean by saying that Pazar is really dead?’
‘If he were alive they would certainly have found him before the trial. They could not risk his being found unexpectedly. He might be an inconvenient witness and it would look bad if he, too, were killed resisting arrest.’
So then of course I told him. Whatever else was not my business, the problem of the evidence against Deltchev certainly was, and I had come to rely upon Petlarov’s opinions. I told him about the letter I had carried, of the dead man in Patriarch Dimo 9, of Pashik’s arrival, of the visit to Aleko, and of the Aleko note. He listened in silence and was silent for a time when I had finished. I noticed that he had gone very pale. Then he put down his drink and stood up.
‘Herr Foster,’ he said slowly, ‘I too have something to tell you. Every two days I have to report to the police to get my papers stamped. It is part of the control to which, as an untrustworthy person, I am subject. Today when I reported, I was warned. I was told that I had recently made an undesirable association and that if I did not wish to be removed with my wife to a labour camp, the association must cease. That was all. Your name was not mentioned.’ He hesitated. ‘When I came here this evening, Herr Foster, I had almost made up my mind to ignore the warning. I thought that if it had been a serious matter I should not have been warned but arrested. I see now that I was wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
But he did not reply. He was fumbling agitatedly in his pocket. He got out the ration card I had given him and held it out to me.
‘I am sorry, Herr Foster,’ he said, ‘I cannot keep our bargain.’
‘That’s all right. I understand.’ I didn’t, but he was so obviously upset that I wanted to soothe him. ‘Keep the ration card anyway. I don’t want it.’
He shook his head. His face looked pinched and there was sweat on his forehead. I had a curious sense of shock. I had come to think of Petlarov as some kind of genie who inhabited the corridor outside my hotel room, ready to explain, to enlighten, to serve when I needed him. Because his own account of himself had been quite calm and impersonal, because he had not exuded the self-pity I should have been so quick to condemn, I had not found it necessary to think of him as a human being. Now suddenly he was very much a human being; he was frightened. The realization gave me a curious feeling of discomfort.
‘Herr Foster,’ he said, ‘please take the card. I cannot use it any more, and if I am arrested I do not wish to
