Stamboul Train (25 page)

‘What do you mean?' the clerk asked insolently. ‘If anybody leaves the train, they leave it. They aren't left behind. Why, the train was waiting here this morning for more than half an hour.'

‘Well, then, did a girl get out?'

‘No.'

‘Will you just examine your tickets and check that?'

‘No. I said no one got out, didn't I? What are you waiting here for? I'm a busy man.'

Myatt knew suddenly that he would not be sorry to accept the clerk's word and end his search; he would have done all that lay in his power, and he would be free. He thought of Coral for a moment as a small alley, enticing a man's footsteps, but blind at the end with a windowless wall; there were others, and he thought for a moment of Janet Pardoe, who were like streets lined with shops full of glitter and warmth, streets which led somewhere. He was reaching an age when he wanted to marry and have children, set up his tent and increase his tribe. But his thoughts had been too precise; they roused his conscience on behalf of someone who had not shown the slightest hope of marriage but had been intent only on honest payment and her own affection. It came to him again as a strange and unexpected cry, her exclamation, ‘I love you.' He returned from the doorway to the clerk's desk determined to do all that he could do, to scamp no effort; she might now be somewhere in discomfort, stranded without money, possibly afraid. ‘She was seen to leave the train.'

The clerk groaned at him: ‘What do you want me to do? Come out in the snow looking for her? I tell you I don't know a thing about her. I haven't seen any girl.' His voice trailed off as he watched Myatt take out his note-case. Myatt removed a five-dina note and smoothed it between his fingers. ‘If you can tell me where she is, you can have two of these.' The clerk stammered a little, tears came to his eyes, and he said with poignant regret: ‘If I could, if I only could. I am sure I should be glad to help.' His face lit up and he suggested hopefully, ‘You ought to try the hotel.' Myatt put the case back in his pocket; he had done all that he could do, and he went out to find his car.

For the last few hours the sun had been obscured, but its presence had been shown in the glitter of the falling snow, in the whiteness of the drifts; now it was sinking and the snow was absorbing the greyness of the sky; he would not get back to the train before dark. But even the hope of catching the train became faint, for he found when he reached his car that the engine had frozen, in spite of the rugs spread across the radiator.

IV

Josef Grünlich said: ‘It is all very well to sing.' Although he complained of their inanition his eyes were red with weeping, and it was with an effort that he put away from him the little match girls and the princesses with hearts of ice. ‘They will not catch me so easily.' He began to walk round the walls of the waiting-room pressing a wet thumb to the woodwork. ‘Never have I been imprisoned. It may surprise you, but it is true. At my time of life one cannot start something like that. And they are sending me back to Austria.'

‘Are you wanted there?'

Josef Grünlich pulled down his waistcoat and set the little silver cross shaking. ‘I do not mind telling you. We are all together, eh?' He twisted his neck a little in a sudden access of modesty. ‘I have slaughtered a man at Vienna.'

Coral said with horror, ‘Do you mean that you are a murderer?' Josef Grünlich thought: I should like to tell them. It's too good to be a secret. Quickness? Why—‘Look over there, Herr Kolber,' flick of the string, aim, fire twice, wriggle, man dead, all in two seconds; but better not. He encouraged himself with the cautious motto of his profession, the poker-work injunction to keep pride in bounds—‘One never knows.' He ran his finger inside his collar and said airily: ‘I had to. It was an affair of honour.' His hesitation was infinitesimal. ‘He had—how do you say it?—made my daughter big.' With difficulty he prevented himself laughing as he thought of Herr Kolber, small and dry, and of his petulant exclamation, ‘This is a pretty kettle of fish.'

‘You mean you killed him,' Coral asked with amazement, ‘just because he'd played around with your daughter?'

Josef Grünlich raised his hands, absent-mindedly, his eyes straying to the window and measuring its height from the ground, ‘What could I do? Her honour, my honour . . .'

‘Gosh,' said Coral, ‘I'm glad I haven't a father.'

Josef Grünlich said suddenly, ‘A hairpin perhaps.'

‘What do you mean, a hairpin?'

‘Or a pocket knife?'

‘I haven't got any hairpins. What would I want hairpins for?'

‘I have a paper-cutter,' Dr Czinner said. As he handed it over, he said, ‘My watch has stopped. Could you tell me how long we have been here?'

‘An hour,' said Josef.

‘Two hours more then,' Dr Czinner remarked thoughtfully. Neither of the others heard him. Josef tiptoed to the door, paper-cutter in hand, and Coral watched him. ‘Come here, Fraülein,' Josef said, and when she was beside him he whispered to her, ‘Have you some grease?' She gave him a pot of cold cream from her bag and he spread the cream thickly over the lock of the door, leaving a little space clear. He began to laugh gently to himself, bent almost double with his eye to the lock. ‘Such a lock,' he whispered jubilantly, ‘such a lock.'

‘What do you want the cream for?'

‘Quiet,' he said. ‘It will make what I do quieter.'

He came back to the cold stove and waved them together. ‘That lock,' he told them in an undertone, ‘is nothing. If we could send one guard away we could run.'

‘You'll be shot,' Dr Czinner said.

‘They cannot shoot all three at once,' Grünlich said. He dropped two suggestions into their silence: ‘The dark. The snow,' and then stood back, waiting for their decision. His own mind worked smoothly. He would be the first out of the door, the first away; he could run faster than an old man and a girl; the guard would fire at the nearest fugitive.

‘I should advise you to stay,' Dr Czinner said to Coral. ‘You aren't in any danger here.'

Grünlich opened his mouth to protest, but he said nothing. They all three watched the window and the passing of one of the guards, rifle slung across his shoulder. ‘How long will it take you to open the door?' Dr Czinner asked.

‘Five minutes.'

‘Get to work then.' Dr Czinner tapped on the window and the other guard came. His large friendly eyes were pressed close to the glass and he stared into the waiting-room. The room was darker than the open air and he could see nothing but dim shapes moving restlessly here and there for warmth. Dr Czinner put his mouth close to the glass and spoke to him in his own tongue. ‘What is your name?' Scratch, scratch, scratch went the paper knife, but when it slipped the whine was hushed by the layer of cream.

‘Ninitch,' said the ghost of a voice through the glass.

‘Ninitch,' Dr Czinner repeated slowly. ‘Ninitch. I used to know your father, I think, in Belgrade.' Ninitch showed no doubt of the easy lie, flattening his nose against the window, but all his view of the waiting-room was cut off by the doctor's features. ‘He died six years ago,' he said.

Dr Czinner took what was only a small risk to one acquainted with the poor in Belgrade and of the food they eat. ‘Yes. He was ill when I knew him. Cancer of the stomach.'

‘Cancer?'

‘Pains.'

‘Yes, yes, in the belly. That was him. They came on at night, and he would get very hot in the face. My mother used to lie beside him with a cloth to dry his skin. Fancy you knowing him, your honour. Shall I open the window so that we can talk better?' Grünlich's knife scratched and scratched and scratched; a screw came out and tinkled like a needle on the floor.

‘No,' Dr Czinner said. ‘Your companion might not like it.'

‘He's gone up to the town to the barracks to see the major. There's a foreigner been here making inquiries. He thinks there's something wrong.'

‘A foreigner?' Dr Czinner asked. His mouth had gone dry with hope. ‘Has he gone?'

‘He's just gone back to his car, down the road.' The waiting-room was full of shadows. Dr Czinner turned for a moment from the window and asked softly, ‘How is it going? Can you be quick?'

‘Two minutes more,' Grünlich said.

‘There's a foreigner with a car down the road. He's been making inquiries.'

Coral put her hands together and said softly, ‘He's come back for me. You see. You said he wouldn't.' She began to laugh gently, and when Dr Czinner whispered to her to keep calm, she said, ‘I'm not hysterical. I'm just happy,' for it had occurred to her that this frightening adventure had been, after all, for the best; it had shown that he was fond of her, otherwise he would never have troubled to come back. He must have missed the train, she thought and we shall have to spend the night together in Belgrade, perhaps two nights, and she began to dream of smart hotels, and dinners, and his hand on her arm.

Dr Czinner turned back to the window. ‘We are very thirsty,' he said. ‘Have you any wine?'

Ninitch shook his head. ‘No.' He added doubtfully, ‘Lukitch has a bottle of
rakia
across the way.' Dusk had already made the way longer; there was no moon to light the steel of the rails and the lamp in the station-master's office might have been a hundred yards away and not a hundred feet.

‘Be a good fellow and get us a drink.'

He shook his head. ‘I mustn't leave the door.'

Dr Czinner did not offer him money; instead he called through the glass that he had attended Ninitch's father. ‘I gave him tablets to take when the pain was too bad.'

‘Little round tablets?' Ninitch asked.

‘Yes. Morphia tablets.'

Ninitch with his face pressed against the glass considered. It was possible to see the thoughts moving like fish in the translucent eyes. He said, ‘Fancy your giving him those tablets. He used to take one whenever the pain came, and one at night too. It made him sleep.'

‘Yes.'

‘What a lot I shall have to tell my wife.'

‘The drink,' Dr Czinner prompted him.

Ninitch said slowly, ‘If you tried to escape while I was gone, I should get into trouble.' Dr Czinner said, ‘How could we escape? The door's locked and the window is too small.'

‘Very well, then.'

Dr Czinner saw him go and turned with a sigh of unhappiness to the others. ‘Now,' he said. His sigh was for the loss of his security. The struggle was renewed. It was his distasteful duty to escape if he could.

‘One moment,' Grünlich said, scratching at the door.

‘There's no one outside. The guard's the other side of the line. When you come out of the door turn to the left and turn to the left again between the buildings. The car's down the road.'

‘I know all that,' said Grünlich, and another screw tinkled to the floor. ‘Ready.'

‘I should stay here,' Dr Czinner said to Coral.

‘But I couldn't. My friend's just down the road.'

‘Ready,' Grünlich said again, scowling at them. They gathered at the door. ‘If they fire,' Dr Czinner said, ‘run crookedly.' Grünlich pulled the door open and the snow blew in. It was not so dark outside as it had been in the room; the station-master's lamp across the rails lit up the figure of the guard in the window. Grünlich dived first into the storm; with head bent almost to his knees he bounced forward like a ball. The others followed. It was not easy to run. The wind and snow were enemies allied to drive them back: the wind broke their speed and the snow blinded them. Coral gasped with pain as she ran into a tall iron pillar with a trunk like an elephant's used for watering engines. Grünlich was far ahead of her; Dr Czinner was a little behind; she could hear the painful effort of his lungs. Their footsteps made no sound in the snow, and they dared not shout to the driver of the car.

Before Grünlich had reached the gap between the buildings, a door slammed, someone called, and a rifle was fired. Grünlich's first effort had exhausted him. The distance between him and Coral lessened. The guard fired twice, and Coral could hear the buzz of the bullets far overhead. She wondered whether he was deliberately aiming high. Ten seconds more and they would pass the corner out of his sight and be visible from the car. She heard a door open again, a bullet whipped up the snow beside her and she ran the faster. She was almost side by side with Grünlich when they reached the corner. Dr Czinner exclaimed behind her and she thought he was urging her to run faster, but before she turned the corner she looked back and saw that he was hugging the wall with both hands. She stopped and called out, ‘Herr Grünlich,' but he paid no attention, bundling round the building and out of sight.

‘Go on,' Dr Czinner said.

The light shining from the horizon behind the thinner clouds faded. ‘Take my arm,' she said. He obeyed, but his weight was too much for her, though he tried to ease it with one hand against the wall. They reached the corner. The rear lamp of the car blinked through the dusk and snow a hundred yards away, and she stopped. ‘I can't do it,' she said. He made no answer, and when she took her hand away he slid down to the snow.

For a few seconds she wondered whether to leave him. She told herself with conviction that he would never have waited for her. But then she was in no great danger and he was. She stood hesitating, bent down to watch his pale old face; she noticed that there was blood on his moustache. Voices sounded round the corner, and she found she had no time to decide. Dr Czinner was sitting with his back to a wooden door which was on the latch, and she pulled him inside and closed it again, but she was afraid to shoot the bolt. Someone ran by, an engine spluttered. Then the car roared into activity and distance took the sound and subdued it to a murmur. The shed had no windows; it was quite dark, and it was too late now for her to leave him.