Peter Beagle - The Line Between

«I have discovered the time and destination of their flight," Sigerson told me one morning when I relieved him as sentinel — as spy, rather; I dislike euphemism. He had gained entrance into the house on several occasions since the first, knowing the occupants' habits so well by now that he was never surprised again. «They are interesting conspirators — I discovered the trunks and valises stored in a vacant, crumbling out–building easily enough, but it took me longer than I had expected to find the two first–class railway tickets from Bucharest through to Naples, and the boat vouchers for New York City. Do you know where those were hidden?» I shook my head blankly. «At the very bottom of the wood–pile, wrapped quite tidily in oilcloth. Obviously, our friends will be taking their leave within the next two or three weeks, before the nights turn cold enough for a fire to be necessary.»

«Impressive logic," I said. Sigerson allowed himself one of his distant smiles. I asked, «What about the money they've swindled out of poor Andrichev? They'll have hidden it in some bank account, surely — in Italy, perhaps, or Switzerland, or even America. How will we ever recover it for him?»

If only Sigerson could have seen his own eyes at that moment, he might have understood what I meant by the impossibility of masking their natural lofty expression. «I think we need have no concern on that score," he replied. «Those two are hardly the sort to trust such liquid assets to a bank, and I would venture that Lyudmilla Plaschka knows men too well ever to allow her spoils out of her sight. No, the money will be where she can quickly put her hands on it at any moment. I would expect to find it in her bedroom, most probably in a small leather traveling case under the far window. Though, to be candid — " here he rubbed his nose meditatively " — there are one or two other possible locations, unfortunately beyond my angle of vision. We shall learn the truth soon.»

We learned it a bit sooner than either of us expected; not from our unwashed sentries, but from the owner of the livery stable from which we always hired our traveling wagons. He and I were haggling amiably enough over feed costs for our customary autumn tour of the provinces, when he mentioned that his good humor arose from a recent arrangement personally to deliver two passengers to the Bucharest railway station in his one caleche, behind his best team. It took remarkably few Serbian dinars to buy the names of his new clients from him, along with the time — eleven o'clock, tomorrow night! — and only a few more to get him to agree to take us with him when he went to collect them. Treachery is, I fear, the Selmiri national sport. It requires fewer people than football, and no uniforms at all.

I wanted to bring the whole matter before the police at this point, but Sigerson assured me that there would be no need for this. «From what I have seen of the St. Radomir constabulary, they are even more thickwitted than those of — " did he stumble momentarily? " — the gendarmes of Oslo, which I never thought possible. Trust me, our quarry will not slip the net now.» He did preen himself slightly then. «Should Dr. Nastase offer physical resistance, I happen to be a practitioner of the ancient art of baritsu —and you should be well able to cope with any skirmish with

Frau Andrichev.» I honestly think that was not meant as condescension, though with Sigerson it was hard to tell. A month of surveillance had made it clear to us both that Lyudmilla Plaschka, when not on her death–bed, was certainly a spirited woman.

A full rehearsal was scheduled for the following night; I elected to cancel it entirely, rather than abridge it, musicians being easily distressed by interruptions in routine. There were some questions, some grumbling, but nothing I could not fob off with partial explanations. Sigerson and I were at the livery stable by ten o'clock, and it was still some minutes before eleven when the caleche drew up before the Andrichev house and the coachman blew his horn to announce our arrival.

The luggage was already on the threshold, as was an impatient Lyudmilla Plaschka, clad in sensible gray traveling skirt and shirtwaist, cleverly choosing no hat but a peasant's rough shawl, to hide her hair and shadow her features. She had, however, been unable to resist wearing what must have been her best traveling cloak, furred richly enough for a Siberian winter; it must have cost Volodya Andrichev six months' pay. She looked as eager as a child bound for a birthday party, but I truly felt my heart harden, watching her.

I stepped down from the caleche on the near side, Sigerson on the other, as Dr. Nastase came through the door. He was dressed even more nattily than usual, from his shoes — which even I could recognize as London–made — to his lambswool Russian–style hat. When he saw us — and the coachman on his box, leaning forward as though waiting like any theatregoer for the curtain to rise — he arched his eyebrows, but only said mildly, «I understood that this was to be a private carriage.»

«And so it is indeed," Sigerson answered him, his own voice light and amused. «But the destination may not be entirely to your liking, Doctor.» He came around the coach, moving very deliberately, as though trying not to startle a wild animal. He went on, «I am advised that the cuisine of the St. Radomir jail is considered — " he paused to ponder the mot juste, " — questionable.»

Dr. Nastase blinked at him, showing neither guilt nor fear, but only the beginning of irritation. «I do not understand you.» Lyudmilla Plaschka put him aside, smoothly enough, but quite firmly, and came forward to demand, «Just what is your business here? We have no time for you.» To the coachman she snapped, «The price we agreed on does not include other passengers. Take up our baggage and let them walk home.»

The coachman spat tobacco juice and stayed where he was. Sigerson said, speaking pointedly to her and ignoring the doctor, «Madam, you know why we are here. The hospice is closed; the masquerade is over. You would be well–advised to accompany us peaceably to the police station.»

I have known people whose consciences were almost unnaturally clean look guiltier than they. Lyudmilla Plaschka faltered, «Police station? Are you the police? But what have we done?»

My confidence wavered somewhat itself at those words — she might have been a schoolgirl wrongfully accused of cribbing the answers to an examination — but Sigerson remained perfectly self–assured. «You are accused of defrauding your husband of a large sum of money by feigning chronic, incurable illness, and of attempting further to flee the country with your ill–gotten gains and your lover. Whatever you have to say to this charge, you may say to the authorities.» And he stepped up to take her arm, for all the world as though he were an authority himself.

Dr. Nastase rallied then, indignantly striking Sigerson's hand away before it had ever closed on Lyudmilla Plaschka's elbow. «You will not touch her!» he barked. «It is true that we have long been planning to elope, to begin our new life together in a warmer, more open land — " the elbow found his ribs at that point, but he pressed on " — but at no time did we ever consider cheating Volodya Andrichev out of a single dinar, zloty, ruble, or any other coin. We are leaving tonight with nothing but what is in my purse at this moment, and supported by nothing but my medical talents, such as they are, and Frau Andrichev's vocal gifts. By these we will survive, and discover our happiness.»

Yes, yes, I know — he was not only an adulterer and a betrayer, but a very bad orator as well. And all the same, I could not help admiring him, at least at the time. Even bad orators can be sincere, and I could not avoid the troubling sense that this man meant what he was saying. It did not seem to trouble Sigerson, who responded coolly, «I will not contradict you, Dr. Nastase. I will merely ask you to open the small traveling case next to Lyudmilla Plaschka's valise — that one there, yes. If you will? Thank you.»