The Penguin Book of First World War Stories (18 page)

‘I've asked the lady if she will dine in the restaurant-car, but she prefers to have dinner in the carriage, so I've ordered a basket. Is that quite correct?'

‘Quite,' said Ashenden.

‘My companion and I will go into the diner in turn so that she will not remain alone.'

‘That is very considerate of you. I will come along when we've started and have a chat with her.'

‘She's not disposed to be very talkative,' said the detective.

‘One could hardly expect it,' replied Ashenden.

He walked on to get his ticket for the second service and then returned to his own carriage. Giulia Lazzari was just finishing her meal when he went back to her. From a glance at the basket he judged that she had not eaten with too poor an appetite. The detective who was guarding her opened the door when Ashenden appeared and at Ashenden's suggestion left them alone.

Giulia Lazzari gave him a sullen look.

‘I hope you've had what you wanted for dinner,' he said as he sat down in front of her.

She bowed slightly, but did not speak. He took out his case.

‘Will you have a cigarette?'

She gave him a glance, seemed to hesitate, and then, still without a word, took one. He struck a match, and lighting it, looked at her. He was surprised. For some reason he had expected her to be fair, perhaps from some notion that an Oriental would be more likely to fall for a blonde; but she was almost swarthy. Her hair was hidden by a close-fitting hat, but her eyes were coal-black. She was far from young, she might have been thirty-five, and her skin was lined and sallow. She had at the moment no make-up on and she looked haggard. There was nothing beautiful about her but her magnificent eyes. She was big, and Ashenden thought she must be too big to dance gracefully; it might be that in Spanish costume she was a bold and flaunting figure, but there in the train, shabbily dressed, there was nothing to explain the Indian's infatuation. She gave Ashenden a long, appraising stare. She wondered evidently what sort of man he was. She blew a cloud of smoke through her nostrils and gave it a glance, then looked back at Ashenden. He could see that her sullenness was only a mask, she was nervous and frightened. She spoke in French with an Italian accent.

‘Who are you?'

‘My name would mean nothing to you, Madame. I am going to Thonon. I have taken a room for you at the Hoˆ tel de la Place. It is the only one open now. I think you will find it quite comfortable.'

‘Ah, it is you the Colonel spoke to me of. You are my jailer.'

‘Only as a matter of form. I shall not intrude upon you.'

‘All the same you are my jailer.'

‘I hope not for very long. I have in my pocket your passport with all the formalities completed to permit you to go to Spain.'

She threw herself back into the corner of the carriage. White, with those great black eyes, in the poor light, her face was suddenly a mask of despair.

‘It's infamous. Oh, I think I could die happy if I could only kill that old Colonel. He has no heart. I'm so unhappy.'

‘I am afraid you have got yourself into a very unfortunate
situation. Did you not know that espionage was a dangerous game?'

‘I never sold any of the secrets. I did no harm.'

‘Surely only because you had no opportunity. I understand that you signed a full confession.'

Ashenden spoke to her as amiably as he could, a little as though he were talking to a sick person, and there was no harshness in his voice.

‘Oh, yes, I made a fool of myself. I wrote the letter the Colonel said I was to write. Why isn't that enough? What is to happen to me if he does not answer? I cannot force him to come if he does not want to.'

‘He has answered,' said Ashenden. ‘I have the answer with me.'

She gave a gasp and her voice broke.

‘Oh, show it to me, I beseech you to let me see it.'

‘I have no objection to doing that. But you must return it to me.'

He took Chandra's letter from his pocket and gave it to her. She snatched it from his hand. She devoured it with her eyes, there were eight pages of it, and as she read the tears streamed down her cheeks. Between her sobs she gave little exclamations of love, calling the writer by pet names French and Italian. This was the letter that Chandra had written in reply to hers telling him, on R.'s instructions, that she would meet him in Switzerland. He was mad with joy at the prospect. He told her in passionate phrases how long the time had seemed to him since they were parted, and how he had yearned for her, and now that he was to see her again so soon he did not know how he was going to bear his impatience. She finished it and let it drop to the floor.

‘You can see he loves me, can't you? There's no doubt about that. I know something about it, believe me.'

‘Do you really love him?' asked Ashenden.

‘He's the only man who's ever been kind to me. It's not very gay the life one leads in these music-halls, all over Europe, never resting, and men – they are not much, the men who haunt those places. At first I thought he was just like the rest of them.'

Ashenden picked up the letter and replaced it in his pocketbook.

‘A telegram was sent in your name to the address in Holland to say that you would be at the Hoˆtel Gibbons at Lausanne on the fourteenth.'

‘That is to-morrow.'

‘Yes.'

She threw up her head and her eyes flashed.

‘Oh, it is an infamous thing that you are forcing me to do. It is shameful.'

‘You are not obliged to do it,' said Ashenden.

‘And if I don't?'

‘I'm afraid you must take the consequences.'

‘I can't go to prison,' she cried out suddenly, ‘I can't, I can't; I have such a short time before me; he said ten years. Is it possible I could be sentenced to ten years?'

‘If the Colonel told you so it is very possible.'

‘Oh, I know him. That cruel face. He would have no mercy. And what should I be in ten years? Oh, no, no.'

At that moment the train stopped at a station and the detective waiting in the corridor tapped on the window. Ashenden opened the door and the man gave him a picture-postcard. It was a dull little view of Pontarlier, the frontier station between France and Switzerland, and showed a dusty
place
with a statue in the middle and a few plane trees. Ashenden handed her a pencil.

‘Will you write this postcard to your lover? It will be posted at Pontarlier. Address it to the hotel at Lausanne.'

She gave him a glance, but without answering took it and wrote as he directed.

‘Now on the other side write: “Delayed at frontier but everything all right. Wait at Lausanne.” Then add whatever you like,
tendresses
, if you like.'

He took the postcard from her, read it to see that she had done as he directed and then reached for his hat.

‘Well, I shall leave you now, I hope you will have a sleep. I will fetch you in the morning when we arrive at Thonon.'

The second detective had now returned from his dinner
and as Ashenden came out of the carriage the two men went in. Giulia Lazzari huddled back into her corner. Ashenden gave the postcard to an agent who was waiting to take it to Pontarlier and then made his way along the crowded train to his sleeping-car.

It was bright and sunny, though cold, next morning when they reached their destination. Ashenden, having given his bags to a porter, walked along the platform to where Giulia Lazzari and the two detectives were standing. Ashenden nodded to them.

‘Well, good morning. You need not trouble to wait.'

They touched their hats, gave a word of farewell to the woman, and walked away.

‘Where are they going?' she asked.

‘Off. You will not be bothered with them any more.'

‘Am I in your custody then?'

‘You're in nobody's custody. I'm going to permit myself to take you to your hotel and then I shall leave you. You must try to get a good rest.'

Ashenden's porter took her hand-luggage and she gave him the ticket for her trunk. They walked out of the station. A cab was waiting for them and Ashenden begged her to get in. It was a longish drive to the hotel and now and then Ashenden felt that she gave him a sidelong glance. She was perplexed. He sat without a word. When they reached the hotel the proprietor – it was a small hotel, prettily situated at the corner of a little promenade and it had a charming view – showed them the room that had been prepared for Madame Lazzari. Ashenden turned to him.

‘That'll do very nicely, I think. I shall come down in a minute.'

The proprietor bowed and withdrew.

‘I shall do my best to see that you are comfortable, Madame,' said Ashenden. ‘You are here absolutely your own mistress and you may order pretty well anything you like. To the proprietor you are just a guest of the hotel like any other. You are absolutely free.'

‘Free to go out?' she asked quickly.

‘Of course.'

‘With a policeman on either side of me, I suppose.'

‘Not at all. You are as free in the hotel as though you were in your own house and you are free to go out and come in when you choose. I should like an assurance from you that you will not write any letters without my knowledge or attempt to leave Thonon without my permission.'

She gave Ashenden a long stare. She could not make it out at all. She looked as though she thought it a dream.

‘I am in a position that forces me to give you any assurance you ask. I give you my word of honour that I will not write a letter without showing it to you or attempt to leave this place.'

‘Thank you. Now I will leave you. I will do myself the pleasure of coming to see you to-morrow morning.'

Ashenden nodded and went out. He stopped for five minutes at the police-station to see that everything was in order and then took the cab up the hill to a little secluded house on the outskirts of the town at which on his periodical visits to this place he stayed. It was pleasant to have a bath and a shave and get into slippers. He felt lazy and spent the rest of the morning reading a novel.

Soon after dark – for even at Thonon, though it was in France, it was thought desirable to attract attention to Ashenden as little as possible – an agent from the police-station came to see him. His name was Félix. He was a little dark Frenchman with sharp eyes and an unshaven chin, dressed in a shabby grey suit and rather down at heel, so that he looked like a lawyer's clerk out of work. Ashenden offered him a glass of wine and they sat down by the fire.

‘Well, your lady lost no time,' he said. ‘Within a quarter of an hour of her arrival she was out of the hotel with a bundle of clothes and trinkets that she sold in a shop near the market. When the afternoon boat came in she went down to the quay and bought a ticket to Evian.'

Evian, it should be explained, was the next place along the lake in France and from there, crossing over, the boat went to Switzerland.

‘Of course she hadn't a passport, so permission to embark was denied her.'

‘How did she explain that she had no passport?'

‘She said she'd forgotten it. She said she had an appointment to see friends in Evian and tried to persuade the official in charge to let her go. She attempted to slip a hundred francs into his hand.'

‘She must be a stupider woman than I thought,'said Ashenden.

But when next day he went about eleven in the morning to see her he made no reference to her attempt to escape. She had had time to arrange herself, and now, her hair elaborately done, her lips and cheeks painted, she looked less haggard than when he had first seen her.

‘I've brought you some books,' said Ashenden. ‘I'm afraid the time hangs heavy on your hands.'

‘What does that matter to you?'

‘I have no wish that you should suffer anything that can be avoided. Anyhow, I will leave them and you can read them or not as you choose.'

‘If you only knew how I hated you.'

‘It would doubtless make me very uncomfortable. But I really don't know why you should. I am only doing what I have been ordered to do.'

‘What do you want of me now? I do not suppose you have come only to ask after my health.'

Ashenden smiled.

‘I want you to write a letter to your lover telling him that owing to some irregularity in your passport the Swiss authorities would not let you cross the frontier, so you have come here, where it is very nice and quiet, so quiet that one can hardly realize there is a war, and you propose that Chandra should join you.'

‘Do you think he is a fool? He will refuse.'

‘Then you must do your best to persuade him.'

She looked at Ashenden a long time before she answered. He suspected that she was debating within herself whether by writing the letter and so seeming docile she could not gain time.

‘Well, dictate and I will write what you say.'

‘I should prefer you to put it in your own words.'

‘Give me half an hour and the letter shall be ready.'

‘I will wait here,' said Ashenden.

‘Why?'

‘Because I prefer to.'

Her eyes flashed angrily, but controlling herself she said nothing. On the chest of drawers were writing materials. She sat down at the dressing-table and began to write. When she handed Ashenden the letter he saw even through her rouge that she was very pale. It was the letter of a person not much used to expressing herself by means of pen and ink, but it was well enough, and when towards the end, starting to say how much she loved the man, she had been carried away and wrote with all her heart, it had really a certain passion.

‘Now add: “The man who is bringing this is Swiss, you can trust him absolutely. I didn't want the censor to see it.”'

She hesitated an instant, but then wrote as he directed.

‘How do you spell “absolutely”?'

‘As you like. Now address an envelope and I will relieve you of my unwelcome presence.'