Judgment on Deltchev Read online

  ‘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.’

  ‘What’s the matter with frankness? Why has it to be forced?’

  ‘You say you fight no battles, Mr Foster,’ he said quietly, ‘but I tell you, you are wandering like a fool between the opposing forces of those who are. That is a crazy thing to do. Once, years ago in Vienna, I saw street fighting between troops and revolutionaries. The fighting went on for many days. But there was one street that was swept equally by the fire of both sides, and neither could advance. Then one afternoon something very silly happened, as so often it happens in war. Into this empty, silent street there came a man. We heard his footsteps first. Then we saw him. He staggered from a side turning right into the middle of the street and stood there swaying. He belonged to neither side. He was drunk and did not know where he was or what he was doing. He began to sing and wave and call out for a woman. At first the soldiers laughed and shouted jokes at him. But after a while their officer noticed that the enemy was taking advantage of the distraction to run across the far end of the street in ones and twos so as to outflank the troops. He shouted a warning and they opened fire. The enemy replied with covering fire and the street was swept from end to end with machine-gun bullets. The drunk was killed immediately. You see, Mr Foster?’

  ‘Which side were you on?’

  ‘I was a soldier then. I have been many things, Mr Foster.’

  ‘Yes. Tell me. The reason that your friend Valmo doesn’t want me to go to the Deltchev house again is that he doesn’t want me to ask Katerina Deltchev to confirm his story, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Foster. As long as you keep faith with Mr Valmo it does not matter. O
ne thing I have to ask of you myself, however. I thought it discreet not to mention your connection with Petlarov; it would have complicated the affair. None of these things must on any account be mentioned to Petlarov. Or Mr Sibley. That is most important.’

  ‘All right.’ I was tired of the whole business now. I wanted to get to bed. I opened the car door. Pashik put out his hand again.

  ‘You will think over what I said, Mr Foster,’ he said anxiously. ‘It is for your own good I ask.’

  I got out of the car. ‘I’ll be very sober,’ I said. ‘That I promise you. Good night.’

  I was about to slam the door. He leaned across and held it open. His glasses flickered in the light from the hotel entrance as he looked up at me.

  ‘I hope so,’ he said slowly. ‘But if you do not intend to take my advice, Mr Foster, it might be less painful to be drunk. Good night.’

  Then he shut the door and drove off.

  I did not sleep well that night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was on the fourth day of the trial that the evidence connecting Deltchev with the Brotherhood was given.

  When the court opened, a man named Kroum was called into the witness box. He was about fifty, with a bald head and glasses and an erect military appearance. He looked shrewd and brutal. He described himself as a Brigadier of Police in the detective department of the Ministry of the Interior. He was carefully washed and brushed and his manner was irritatingly complacent.

  Prochaska began his examination in what was for him an unexpected way.

  ‘Brigadier Kroum, how long have you been a member of the police?’

  ‘Thirty years, sir.’

  ‘How long have you held your present appointment?’

  ‘Twelve years, sir.’

  ‘Are you a member of any political party?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Have you any political affiliations?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘I do not interest myself in politics, sir. I have my work to do.’

  ‘An excellent citizen! Have you ever arrested a man or ordered his arrest for political reasons?’

  ‘The only reason for any arrest, sir, is that a man breaks or is suspected of breaking the law. I do not make the law. It is my duty simply to enforce the law under the constitution. That is the duty of every police officer,’ he added.

  Someone near me sniggered at this; but my impression was that Brigadier Kroum meant what he said.

  Prochaska glanced at a paper. ‘In March,’ he said, ‘were you concerned with the arrest of eight persons on the charge of trading illicitly in prepared opium?’

  ‘I was responsible for the arrests, sir.’

  ‘Did you also examine the prisoners?’

  Kroum hesitated. ‘Unofficially, sir, and solely for the purpose of obtaining information about other members of the gang. The examining magistrate was responsible, of course, for the official interrogation.’

  ‘You were not usurping the magistrate’s function, but merely doing your duty as a police officer. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That is correct.’

  ‘But you gave the prisoners the impression that they were making official depositions?’

  ‘It is sometimes necessary, sir.’

  He had a blubbery mouth with bad-tempered creases round it. Interrogation by Brigadier Kroum would not be an agreeable experience.

  ‘Was one of those arrested a man named Rila?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you interrogate him?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘Tell the court about this interrogation.’

  ‘Yes, sir. This Rila is a criminal well known to the police. He is an old man who has served many prison sentences. I knew that his eldest granddaughter was pregnant for the first time. I told him that this time he would surely die in prison and never see his great-grandchild, but that if he assisted the police by telling all he knew, a permit might be obtained for the child to be brought for him to see.’ He looked doubtfully at the Prosecutor. ‘It is customary to offer such inducements to prisoners. No regulations would be broken, sir.’

  ‘No, no. Continue please.’

  ‘At first he refused to talk. Said he knew nothing. The usual.’ Kroum was gaining courage. ‘But the following day, when I saw him again, he was in a better mood. He had thought over my offer and he was worried. After a while he asked if I would protect him from any consequences there might be of his talking. That, too, is usual with criminals informing,’ he added confidentially.

  ‘Yes. Continue please.’

  ‘I asked him for the names of the other members of the gang. He said there were no other members and that we had them all and that there was no information he could give about that case. But he wanted to see his great-grandchild and there was other important information he could give in return for the concession. I said that if the information was valuable it might be possible.’

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘He then told me that there was in existence a conspiracy to assassinate Minister Vukashin and that the conspirators were members of the Officer Corps Brotherhood.’ He paused.

  ‘And did you believe him — this criminal who wished to purchase a concession with information?’

  ‘No, sir. At first I thought it was merely an impudent lie and sent him back to his cell. But on thinking it over I decided to question him again. Even though I thought that what he had said must be fantastic, the suggestion was so serious that I felt it necessary to make quite sure. I felt it my duty,’ he added virtuously.

  ‘Yes, yes. So you questioned him again.’

  ‘Yes, sir, and again he began by asking for protection. Again I reassured him. Then he told me a strange story. He lodged in a house in the Maria Louisa quarter. One of his fellow lodgers was a man named Pazar.’ He paused. He was at his ease now, talking more as an experienced policeman and less as an applause-hungry functionary. ‘We know that house,’ he went on, ‘it is a place for crooks; and because we do know it we let it be; but anyone living there is automatically suspect. Pazar, however, was new there. Rila was curious about him. For Rila there was always the possibility that a stranger might be a police spy. So he took note of this man’s movements and was watchful. All he discovered to begin with was that on certain evenings Pazar would be visited by three or four men unknown in the Maria Louisa quarter. They did not look poor, and Rila wondered what they were up to. It is probable, I think, that all along he had an idea of joining in what he thought might be a profitable racket, but this, of course, he denied when I suggested it. He gave another explanation. However…’

  ‘Just a moment, Brigadier. What was the explanation he gave?’

  Kroum looked embarrassed, ‘He said, sir, that he was an old man and only interested in human nature.’

  There was some laughter. Prochaska frowned. ‘Go on,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Yes, sir. Rila said that Pazar had been living there for about a month when one day he stopped Rila on the stairs and asked to speak to him privately. Rila agreed and they went to his room. After a lot of talk Pazar came out with what he wanted. Someone had told him that Rila dealt in illicit drugs and Pazar wanted some heroin for a friend. Rila’s first thought was that Pazar was a police spy after all and he pretended to be shocked. But after a little more talk Rila became convinced that Pazar himself was a heroin addict and needed the stuff badly. Now Rila is quite frank about what followed. Pazar had little money and asked for credit. Rila refused. With heroin addicts one might as well give the stuff away as give credit. Instead he referred to Pazar’s well-dressed visitors and said that if he, Rila, could afford smart clothes like that he would be very grateful to the person who had helped him. In other words, he asked for a share in the profitable business he thought was being done by Pazar’s friends. Pazar refused angrily and went away. Rila shrugged and waited. Pazar would have to have his stuff, and if he had been driven to asking Rila for it, that
meant that his old source of supply had for some reason been stopped. Two days later Pazar came again to Rila, who repeated his price. Pazar again refused, but this time he did not get angry; he pleaded with Rila. His friends, he said, were nothing to do with any trade. They were political. He went on pleading and Rila went on refusing until Pazar became desperate. He begged on his knees, and when Rila told him to go away he broke down and wept. Then it came out. Pazar and the friends who visited him were members of the Brotherhood.’

  Kroum paused. He had his audience now. There was dead silence. He went on, ‘At first Rila did not believe him. When he did believe, he was worried. Our criminals have never liked the Brotherhood. They have been resentful of the extra vigilance it has caused, but also they have been afraid. It is curious,’ Kroum went on thoughtfully, ‘a man who kills for money they understand, but the Brotherhood killer troubles them. This old criminal Rila talked about the Brotherhood as a boy might talk about ghosts and demons.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Continue.’

  ‘Pazar worried him very much, for he knew the ways of heroin drug addicts, as I have said, and he knew that they were treacherous and spiteful. If he refused Pazar and Pazar told his mysterious friends of the Brotherhood that their secret was known to Rila, then Rila would be in danger. So to keep Pazar quiet he gave him some heroin. After a few days Pazar came back for more, and soon Rila was supplying him regularly. Pazar would come into his room and stay and talk and gradually he became more indiscreet.’