Codeword Golden Fleece (52 page)

Rex could hardly conceal his excitement, and he had to make a tremendous effort to keep his voice casual as he said:

‘That certainly sounds like an exciting story. I’d like to hear the details if you know them.’

‘Yes. Much excitement is caused by this audacious attack. For some days it had second place in the news to the assassination of our Prime Minister. Two Germans were beaten nearly till they die. One the Commercial Attaché and the other a General von Geisenheim. They have visited one of our big business men, Monsier Teleuescu. While they are in his home their chauffeur is sandbag. The Frenchmen put him in the back of their Chrysler, then when the Germans exit from the house take them for a ride. Next morning they are come across out in the country beaten so bad neither can speak.’

‘How did the police get on to it, then, that it was these French Communists who had attacked them?’

‘They own the car, the Chrysler, in which the Germans’ chauffeur is found. He have heart-weakness, so the attack kill him from shock, and he is found dead. The policeman who patrol the beat might have seen something but he is shot dead before he can be questioned in a shoot-up with the Iron Guard outside the British Legation the next day. The Attaché and the General both have had head wounds and so cannot give clear description of their assailants; but the Attaché makes ravings from which deduction is made that it was a Jew who smash his head in. The Frenchmen are known to be secret agents and already wanted by the police. One of them is a Jew, so that and the car make it most certain that it was they who attack the Germans, perhaps because they hope to take important papers from them.’

‘It seems a bit surprising, though, that if these guys were wanted on another charge your police should have deliberately let them leave the country.’

Ferari shrugged. ‘I do not say that. It is only my own idea. It may be that there was no charge; only that they were undesirables whom the police would have deported as soon as caught, anyhow. I only suggest that our police have had many insult from the Germans and much trouble from the Iron Guard. Now that the Iron Guard can no longer make pressure on them they probably laugh to themselves about this affair and unofficially are happy that the Frenchmen got away.’

‘So that’s how it goes,’ said Rex thoughtfully. ‘Of course, the great majority of Rumanians are pro-Ally, aren’t they?’

‘Indeed yes,’ Ferari laughed. ‘As we are neutrals we must have
care to show justice when Allied agents get themselves caught, but in our hearts we do not mind how many Germans they hit on the head.’

Folding up his paper, he went on: ‘I must leave you now, and as tomorrow is Sunday I shall not come. I go this afternoon to spend the weekend at a country house in the mountains.’

‘Well, thanks a lot for bringing me the news,’ smiled Rex, standing up. ‘I hope you have a good time, and I’ll look forward to seeing you Monday.’

When the Rumanian had gone he sat down again to try to sort out the effect of these surprising new developments on his own situation.

He had naturally supposed that days ago the German Legation would have made a formal charge against the Duke, Simon and himself for the attack on von Geisenheim and that the Rumanian police would be doing their utmost to catch them. But von Geisenheim was the only person who definitely knew the identity of his attackers, and it seemed that he had been too badly coshed to make any statement. Owing to the suddenness of the assault the Attaché would probably never remember more than that two men attacked them as they entered their car and that the one who had struck him down had been a Jew. The only people, therefore, who could have given any lucid description of the occupants of the Chrysler would have been the chauffeur and the patrol man, and, by a strange decree of fate, both of these had died before any statement could be taken from them.

Rex saw that the unexpected turn in the Rumanian political situation, together with the God-sent mistake of the Rumanian police in jumping to the conclusion that the previous owners of the Chrysler were responsible for the attack on von Geisenheim, had changed the whole situation, and that he now had little to fear.

On reaching this conclusion, his first exciting thought was, why should he not now own up to the fact that his real name was van Ryn and ask for one of the members of the American Legation whom he had met in Bucharest to come up and identify him?

He was on his feet now, pacing up and down; but his next thought brought him up with a jerk. How would the Rumanians take that? What reason could he give for having concealed his real name all this time? If someone from the Legation came to Cernauti, it would emerge that he had arrived in Bucharest soon
after the war had broken out. The Legation official could do no more than say that he was Mr. van Ryn, and the Rumanians would want to know what he had been up to for the past three weeks. He dared not tell them about the oil barges and the option. To do so was to risk some pro-Nazi hurrying off and securing the Golden Fleece for the Germans before he had a chance to retrieve it himself. If he could not tell the truth, what explanation could he give of all the lies he had told and how could he explain his recent snooping about the Polish frontier under a false name? One did not have to be a German to be a spy and in their pay. The Rumanians would believe that was what he was and keep him a prisoner while still further investigations were made. Even when Richard turned up his evidence would be worse than valueless, and he would probably be held too, as having abetted a suspect by making a false declaration.

The thought was utterly maddening, but the odds were too great on the Rumanians taking umbrage at the way he had lied to them and refusing to let him go until they had checked up all his movements for the whole time he had been in their country. His only hope was to stick to his story and pray that Richard might be able to come and get him out sooner than could at present be expected.

From the heights of exaltation Rex was plunged back into the deepest gloom. But suddenly a new thought struck him. If he no longer had anything to fear from the von Geisenheim affair, then neither had Simon.

In that case, once Simon had got out of that infuriating muddle resulting from his having dressed up in a woman’s clothes, the police would have no reason to detain him. He had probably been released the day after his arrest. He would have returned at once to the Peppercorn. By hook or by crook he would have got into their old room and, once there, it was a hundred to one he would have found the message that had been left for him under the china vase on the mantelpiece. Then he would have made his way to Cernauti as quickly as he could. He was probably in the town already and might even have been there for several days nosing round trying to pick up his friend’s trail.

On realising this heartening possibility Rex did a little dance in the middle of the floor; but he soon stopped and sat down again as he considered the implication of this unlooked-for dispensation of Providence. For over half an hour he pondered
the problem of how Simon could help to bring about his release, but he could see no daylight there. He saw no way of discovering Simon’s whereabouts in Cernauti, and, even if he knew it and asked Ferari to send for him, how could he be primed with the Mr. Mackintosh story before he arrived at the prison?

Yet it now seemed virtually certain that Simon was free, and the thought that he was probably kicking his heels in Cernauti when he might have been getting back the Golden Fleece and taking it out of the country was galling beyond words.

Rex wondered how Simon would set about trying to find him. The obvious first step was to try all the hotels. That was it! Sooner or later he was certain to make enquiries of Levinsky, the Jewish proprietor of the Roebuck, the little place where Rex had stayed. Now, if only a message could be got to Levinsky to be given to Simon when he called!

It was quite possible that Simon had already been there. If he had, on describing Rex he would have learnt that his friend had spent the previous Saturday night there, then paid his bill and departed, but left his suitcase behind.

Rex brought his leg-of-mutton hand down with a resounding slap on his elephantine thigh. His suitcase! What a break that he should have decided to leave it there! When Simon was told about the suitcase he would either make the hotel his headquarters while he cast round for further indications of his friend’s later movements or at least pay Levinsky handsomely to report to him immediately the owner of the suitcase reappeared.

Standing up, Rex began to pace the small room again. Surely the suitcase should prove a means of getting into touch with Simon? He could get Ferari to claim it for him. But what then? Simon would trace the suitcase to the prison and might attempt to play Blondin to his Richard Cœur de Lion, but that would not get them very far. It might even lead to dangerous complications, as Levinsky knew him as van Ryn.

No. There was a better way than that. He must leave the suitcase out of it, but find some pretext for getting Ferari to let him send a letter to Levinsky in which he could incorporate a message for him to pass on to Simon.

All through the long quiet afternoon and evening Rex turned the new situation over in his mind, first this way, then that, but he could find no better line for attempting to exploit it.

He was furious now that a day would be lost to him through the fact that Ferari was away for the weekend. The only consolation
was that it gave him the whole of Sunday to perfect his plan.

After the most exhaustive analysis of possible repercussions he ruled out any attempt to secure his own release by getting Simon to identify him. It presented so many complications, the most dangerous of which was that Ferari must be shown any communication intended for Levinsky. In consequence, he decided that he would concentrate solely on an endeavour to put Simon wise to the fact that he no longer had the ‘Fleece’ and pass the ball to him, to get it back and safely out of the country.

With this in mind he finally wrote the following letter:

Dear Mr. Levinsky,

You will no doubt remember me as having stayed at the Roebuck on the night of Saturday the 23rd. Before I left Poland I was recommended to your hotel by a Jewish friend of mine named Simon Aron. He lent me his car, a Ford V8, number UCZ827, to get away in, and it was agreed that when he crossed the frontier himself he should meet me at the Roebuck. Circumstances prevented me from returning there and in the meantime a Major Serzeski, who is the Polish Assistant Military Attaché in Bucharest, had taken the car from a parking-place in mistake for his own. I had no opportunity to trace Major Serzeski, who left the Polish Internment Camp at Grodek, I think for Bucharest, on the night of Monday the 25th. As Major Serzeski’s car was the same model as Mr. Aron’s he may not yet have realised that the car he has got is not his own, and the title deeds to the property that Mr. Aron asked me to take out of Poland for him are still in it. So if Mr. Aron has already been to the Roebuck and left an address, or calls there to enquire for me, will you please tell him about his car and the importance of tracing up Major Serzeski immediately, in order to get his property back? You might also tell him that I am very fit and well treated here, and expect to be released in about a fortnight.

He signed it simply:

The Big American.

He pondered this for a long time but did not think that he could improve upon it. There was nothing in it which conflicted with the ‘Mr. Mackintosh’ story and it would be child’s play
for a subtle brain like Simon’s to pick up the salient facts that, somehow or other, he had been compelled to hide the Golden Fleece in a Ford V8 number UCZ827 that belonged to a Major Serzeski. Once Simon realised that, he would not rest until he had traced the car and, having located it, take it to bits piece by piece if necessary, until he found the packet.

When Ferari came in on Monday morning Rex opened the ball at once by saying: ‘I’ve had a real bad attack of conscience over the weekend.’

‘Oh, how is that?’ Ferari asked.

‘It’s this way. A little Jewish business man I knew in Poland lent me a spare car he had to get out in, and in return he asked me to take some of his family papers over the frontier. It was he who recommended me to go to a little place called the Roebuck, where I spent the one night I was in Cernauti. When I was out at Grodek the car was taken by mistake for his own by a Polish Major named Serzeski. That was only a few hours before I got into trouble, and I’ve been so mighty concerned about my own position since, I’d forgotten every darned thing about it. Aron, that’s the Jew’s name, was to settle up a few things and leave Warsaw two days after I did, so he’s probably been at the Roebuck for the past week wondering what the hell has happened to me and eating himself up with worry about his title deeds. I’ve a letter here I’ve written to Levinsky, the owner of the pub. Would you mind reading it through, and if there’s nothing you take exception to, having it posted for me?’

Ferari took the letter and read it carefully.

‘Why don’t you make use your name as a signature?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Because he’s probably forgotten it by now. I was there only one night, and although I may have registered I don’t remember having done so. But signed like that it’s bound to ring a bell with him right away.’

‘This Mr. Aron. For all we know he may be another German agent, and you take this way to communicate to him.’

‘Hang it all, is that likely—seeing he’s a Jew?’ laughed Rex.

‘There are occasions when the Nazis make use of Jews. And these family papers. They are perhaps secret documents?’

Rex laughed again. ‘If they’d been anything like that would I have been mutt enough to leave them in the pocket of the car? Come on now. You really are looking for bogeys where none exist.’

‘Perhaps so,’ admitted the Rumanian. ‘But why should I take any risk?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ said Rex. ‘When Richard Eaton turns up here it will be proved that I’m a hundred per cent perfectly innocent American business man; yet you will have been holding me as a prisoner, to my great inconvenience, for the best part of three weeks. You owe me something for that. This little Jew did me a good turn, and I’ve let him down, largely through your interference, because if you hadn’t kept me in the cooler like this I’d have got his car back for him before now. Surely, if you won’t let me attend to my own affairs you can oblige me by letting me put things right for him as far as I can?’