“Here’s his dossier. Read it, will you?”
R. gave Ashenden a couple of typewritten pages and Ashenden sat down. R. put on his spectacles and began to read the letters that awaited his signature. Ashenden skimmed the report and then read it a second time more attentively. It appeared that Chandra Lal was a dangerous agitator. He was a lawyer by profession, but had taken up politics and was bitterly hostile to the British rule in India. He was a partisan of armed force and had been on more than one occasion responsible for riots in which life had been lost. He was once arrested, tried and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment; but he was at liberty at the beginning of the war and seizing his opportunity began to foment active rebellion. He was at the heart of plots to embarrass the British in India and so prevent them from transferring troops to the seat of war and with the help of immense sums given to him by German agents he was able to cause a great deal of trouble. He was concerned in two or three bomb outrages which, though beyond killing a few innocent bystanders they did little harm, yet shook the nerves of the public and so damaged its morale. He evaded all attempts to arrest him, his activity was formidable, he was here and there; but the police could never lay hands on him, and they only learned that he had been in some city when, having done his work, he had left it. At last a high reward was offered for his arrest on a charge of murder, but he escaped the country, got to America, from there went to Sweden and eventually reached Berlin. Here he busied himself with schemes to create disaffection among the native troops that had been brought to Europe. All this was narrated dryly, without comment or explanation, but from the very frigidity of the narrative you got a sense of mystery and adventure, of hairbreadth escapes and dangers dangerously encountered. The report ended as follows:
“C. has a wife in India and two children. He is not known to have anything to do with women. He neither drinks nor smokes. He is said to be honest. Considerable sums of money have passed through his hands and there has never been any question as to his not having made a proper (!) use of them. He has undoubted courage and is a hard worker. He is said to pride himself on keeping his word.”
Ashenden returned the document to R.
“Well?”
“A fanatic.” Ashenden thought there was about the man something rather romantic and attractive, but he knew that R. did not want any nonsense of that sort from him. “He looks like a very dangerous fellow.”
“He is the most dangerous conspirator in or out of India. He’s done more harm than all the rest of them put together. You know that there’s a gang of these Indians in Berlin; well, he’s the brains of it. If he could be got out of the way I could afford to ignore the others; he’s the only one who has any guts. I’ve been trying to catch him for a year, I thought there wasn’t a hope; but now at last I’ve got a chance, and by God, I’m going to take it.”
“And what’ll you do then?”
R. chuckled grimly.
“Shoot him and shoot him damn quick.”
Ashenden did not answer. R. walked once or twice across the small room and then, again with his back to the fire, faced Ashenden. His thin mouth was twisted by a sarcastic smile.
“Did you notice at the end of that report I gave you, it said he wasn’t known to have anything to do with women? Well, that was true, but it isn’t any longer. The damned fool has fallen in love.”
R. stepped over to his dispatch-case and took out a bundle tied up with pale blue ribbon.
“Look, here are his love-letters. You’re a novelist, it might amuse you to read them. In fact you should read them, it will help you to deal with the situation. Take them away with you.”
R. flung the neat little bundle back into the dispatch-case.
“One wonders how an able man like that can allow himself to get besotted over a woman. It was the last thing I ever expected of him.”
Ashenden’s eyes travelled to that bowl of beautiful roses that stood on the table, but he said nothing. R. who missed little saw the glance and his look suddenly darkened. Ashenden knew that he felt like asking him what the devil he was staring at. At that moment R. had no friendly feelings towards his subordinate, but he made no remark. He went back to the subject on hand.
“Anyhow that’s neither here nor there. Chandra has fallen madly in love with a woman called Giulia Lazzari. He’s crazy about her.”
“Do you know how he picked her up?”
“Of course I do. She’s a dancer, and she does Spanish dances, but she happens to be an Italian. For stage purposes she calls herself La Malaguena. You know the kind of thing. Popular Spanish music and a mantilla, a fan and a high comb. She’s been dancing all over Europe for the last ten years.”
“Is she any good?”
“No, rotten. She’s been in the provinces in England and she’s had a few engagements in London. She never got more than ten pounds a week. Chandra met her in Berlin in a Tingel-tangel, you know what that is, a cheap sort of music-hall. I take it that on the Continent she looked upon her dancing chiefly as a means to enhance her value as a prostitute.”
“How did she get to Berlin during the war?”
“She’d been married to a Spaniard at one time; I think she still is though they don’t live together, and she travelled on a Spanish passport. It appears Chandra made a dead set for her.” R. took up the Indian’s photograph again
