Lawrence Durrell - White Eagles Over Serbia

It seemed wiser to shelve the whole business for a time as Carter was showing some disposition to yawn and fidget. After dinner they played a round or two of rummy and listened to the news. Carter owned an excellent collection of classical records, and played them some until it was time to telephone. This they planned to do from an outside call-box, as the chances of the wire being tapped were less. Porson knew of one by the tram stop at the end of the road, and accordingly the three of them set out to walk the distance at a leisurely pace. As they crossed the garden and passed through the front gate Methuen saw a figure stir in the darkness on the opposite side of the road. “Ah yes,” said Carter following his glance, “we all have leather men attached to us. One gets used to them.” They walked down the rough badly cobbled street between the trees; only one in three street lamps were alight and whole stretches of the street were in total darkness. “It wouldn’t be difficult to shake him off,” said Methuen, but Carter shrugged his shoulders. “Why bother?” he said. “I always take a stroll after dinner and he’s used to the idea.”

They skirted the dark line of villas and descended the hill. The tram stop was well lit, though at this time of night there were few passengers about. A long line of horse-drawn carts clattered along on the main road which lay between them and the river. Somewhere in the fastnesses of the goods yards an engine shrieked twice and was silent. A light wind sprang up sending little eddies of dust swirling along the cobbled reaches of the road, and ruffling the dense foliage of the trees. They walked from shadow to shadow, and from shadow to shadow the man in the leather coat followed them. “There it is,” said Porson, and after covertly glancing at his watch Methuen left them and walked smartly towards the telephone booth. The light was broken and it smelt foully of sunflower-oil. He had to grope with his finger and count the numbers carefully. Excitement gripped him as he heard in the dimness the slight noise of a connection slipping into place and the slow blurred scraping which indicated that somewhere a bell was ringing.

The seconds lengthened themselves eternally in the stillness. Perhaps he had the wrong number? Perhaps he had memorized it wrongly. A thousand and one possibilities sprang into his mind, yet he quietly ignored them and held oa to the chipped receiver waiting for the ringing to stop and for a voice to answer. His stillness communicated itself to the other two who stood outside the box, quietly smoking. The man in the leather coat retired discreetly to a pool of shadow and was swallowed up in it.

There was a faint click and then a voice spoke: “Hullo.” Methuen spoke hoarsely. “Please, Madam, may I speak to Miss Sophia Marie?” There was a moment of hesitation as if the person at the other end was gathering her forces together. Then she said: “This is Comrade Marie speaking.”

“Then be so kind as to let me speak to Vida if she is there.”

The answer came like a blow in the face.

“Vida is dead.”

There was the faint dry click of the receiver as it was put down — like the snapping of a stalk of celery — and Methuen was left holding the black receiver in his trembling fingers. A thousand suppositions flooded into his mind as he stood there. Then in a fury he dialled the number again and again stood listening to the faint purring note of a distant bell ringing. “Vida is dead.” The words kept echoing in his mind with monotonous iteration. “She can’t be,” he said to himself, furiously. The bell rang on and on.

Then at last there came a click and a man’s voice answered, as if drugged with sleep. “Hullo,” Methuen said, “I want to speak to Sophia Marie please. It is urgent.”

The answering voice sank into a deeper register as it said: “There is no one of that name here. You have the wrong number.”

Methuen walked slowly out into the street, feeling dazed and numb. He joined his two companions in their stroll back to the house, and to their eager whispered questions he could only repeat helplessly: “They say Vida is dead.”

They returned to the house in silence and sank into the cretonne-covered arm-chairs of the drawing-room in attitudes of despondency. Carter mixed them a whisky and soda with a solicitude which showed that he knew how deep a shock Methuen had sustained. “And yet it’s not possible,” Porson burst out. “Who would kill her? Why?”

Methuen sighed: “You see the nature of the thing we are up against. Obviously there is something big brewing and the suggestion that she should let the British Government in on it has alarmed the White Eagles. So they’ve.…” He had difficulty in getting the word out: “Murdered her. Or locked her up. God knows.”

“Alternatively,” said Carter, “the OZNA might have tumbled to her. They are morbidly suspicious of their own employees. Everyone is double checked. She may have given herself away.”

“Yes,” said Methuen. “Yes.” A savage fury was rising in him. “Poor Vida.”

It was lucky that there was still much to do to prepare for to-morrow’s journey. It would take his mind off the subject.

He got up and went to his room where he wrapped his clothes and equipment in a parcel and gave them to Porson who would be driving the car. Then he sat down and composed a long despatch for Dombey, setting out the new material with which he had been faced and asking him to have the problem followed up from the London end as quickly as possible. Carter was still in the living-room reading when he returned. “Can I count on you”, he said, “to send this signal to Dombey about to-night’s little affair? It is quite up to date, I told him about the ’phone call.” Carter nodded.

“And Carter—”

“Yes.”

“If you lose track of me for goodness’ sake promise not to raise any hue and cry with the Government until a full ten days has gone by without a message from me. If I am on to something good it may take time, and a sudden hunt for me by the OZNA might spoil everything.”

Carter hesitated. “Very well,” he said at last, “though it won’t be easy to restrain H.E. He flaps terribly.”

“You must try. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this business if I have to take out residence papers and stay for the rest of my life.”

“All right old man,” said Carter gently. He was thinking of Anson: of the body he had helped to carry feet first through the Chancery door: a huddled figure covered in an old army ground-sheet. His friend had spent one night upon the map-laden table of the office before the local mortuary would take him in. And then all the trouble and fuss to find a carpenter to make a coffin.

“Go to bed and get some sleep,” he said, standing up and putting his arm on the elder man’s shoulder. “You have a hell of a day ahead of you.”

He locked Methuen’s draft in the little wall-safe and turned out the light. From the window-sill he retrieved the bowl of flowers in which the thoughtful OZNA had placed a microphone a little larger than a bee. It was gagged. “Shall we pass them a message before we turn in?” he said, but Methuen was in no mood for humour. “I should disconnect it,” he said. “Ah, but then they’ll stick another one somewhere. At least I know where this one is,” said Carter, fondling the bowl lovingly.

Methuen grunted and said good night. As he undressed he said to himself under his breath: “Vida is dead.” Yet somehow he could not believe it; yet who could doubt that it was true?

He slept.

It was still dark when the little green alarm-clock beside the bed set up its discreet purring and woke Methuen from a sleep which had been relatively calm and dreamless. Sitting up in bed at the brink of day he felt like a diver poised above a pool. Soon he must dive into the unknown waters of adventure. Where they would carry him he did not know; but action was a relief from too much meditation. It brought into play a different side of his character, the part where experience and will took over from doubt and conjecture; where the buccaneer took over from the comparatively timid and law-abiding person he was.