Curtain of Fear (35 page)

During the next few minutes neither of them had a very clear impression of what was happening. As they gulped air into their bursting lungs they smelt the stench of the foul water, and felt rough hands dragging them from it. For a brief interval they lay sprawled on the hard boards of a deck, vaguely conscious of the lurid fire still raging far above their heads, drifting clouds of smoke, and the mutter of low, urgent voices nearby. Then all these were blotted out by a big tarpaulin being hastily dragged over them.

When, after a few more minutes, Nicholas' thoughts became coherent again, he could hear Fedora breathing fast but regularly as she laboured to restore her respiration to normal; so he knew that she could have suffered no great harm. His next thought was that while they were exceedingly lucky to be alive at all, they were still luckier in having fallen into friendly hands; for it seemed evident that they had. He had registered just enough of his surroundings to know that they had been hauled aboard a motor river barge, and he felt sure that the tarpaulin could have been thrown over them only to hide them from any police who might be watching the canal, as the barge chugged past the streets adjacent to the warehouse. Temporarily relieved
of any immediate fears, he gave his mind to the minor physical ills he had sustained, spitting out the filthy water he had swallowed, gently massaging his arm where the rope had chafed it, and generally pulling himself together.

Five minutes later his surmise, that they were among friends, was confirmed. The tarpaulin was lifted off them and a gruff voice said, “We are just about to turn into the river; but I take it you two have no wish to be landed yet awhile?”

The man who had spoken to them was a big, bearded fellow, wearing a square pilot jacket and a peaked seaman's cap. Swiftly and simultaneously the two fugitives answered him, saying they would prefer to remain on board. At their eagerness he laughed, and said while helping Fedora to her feet:

“When I saw you hanging from that cable, and all those Coms down in the street, I guessed it must be you that they were after. No one who was not on the run would have taken such a suicidal risk to escape the fire alone—not when they could have signalled for a fire ladder to be run up to them. But come down to the cabin and get your wet things off.”

Still holding Fedora by the arm, he led the way across the deck and down a short steep ladder to a low cabin which was dimly lit by a single oil lamp. As he turned up its wick he went on: “My name is Sova—Karel Sova. Don't tell me yours if you'd prefer not to. I'm the master of this barge, and we're taking a cargo of army boots down the Moldau as far at Litoměřice.”

“We owe our lives to you, Pan Sova,” said Nicholas with deep feeling; and Fedora chimed in, “Indeed we do, and there are no words with which we can thank you.”

“It is God you should thank,” came the quick reply. “For this night, He clearly had His hand over you. Since you did not break your necks in your fall, you should certainly still be stuck in the mud at the bottom of the canal. At that hour, the chances against a barge passing the place at which you dropped, close enough to mark the spot and throw you a rope, must be at least a thousand to one. And I was due to sail at midnight. Had not my wife been suddenly taken ill I should by this time have been an hour and a half's distance away down the river.”

“Surely more even than that,” Nicholas murmured, “as it must be getting on towards morning.”

The bearded Sova pulled out an old-fashioned turnip watch, and glanced at it. “Not much,” he said. “It is now twenty minutes to two, and it can hardly be more than ten minutes ago that we picked you up.”

It had been ten minutes to one when the alarm bell had gone in Mr. Smutný's penthouse. Nicholas found it almost impossible to believe that all the frightful experiences he had undergone, from that moment till he had been pulled out of the water, had occurred inside forty minutes. Yet there was no contesting it; and it was even more remarkable that only owing to the sudden illness of a woman they had never seen, he and Fedora should be alive.

As Fedora said she hoped Mrs. Sova's illness was nothing serious, the barge-master produced from a locker the inevitable bottle of Slivowitz and glasses. Setting them on the square table that occupied most of the floor-space of the cabin, he said:

“Thank you,
Slečna
, it might be worse. Five years ago, before we knew better about such things, several hundred women marched in a procession to protest about the price of bread. The Coms dispersed them with rifle fire and my wife was among the wounded. She recovered, praise be to God; but twice since, when she has over-excited herself, the wound has reopened, and it did so again tonight. So I had to make her as comfortable as I could, and leave her behind.”

“She usually comes with you on your trips, then?” said Nicholas.

Sova nodded. “Yes: and that is fortunate as matters have turned out. It will enable me to provide some woman's clothes for the
Slečna
while her own are drying. It is lucky, too, that the night is so fine and warm, otherwise you might already have caught a severe chill. But you both look very white and shaken by your terrible experience. Drink this, and it will put new life into you.”

As he spoke he pushed two tumblers that he had half-filled
with Slivowitz across the table, and motioned them to sit down to it. The plum brandy was raw stuff and burnt their throats as it went down, but it was just what they needed to prevent them from collapsing after the shock they had sustained.

While they were drinking it the barge-master opened two low doors; one on either side of the cabin. The first was that to the galley, in which a small stove was glowing brightly; above it he pointed out some racks which were specially constructed for drying clothes. The second led to a double sleeping cabin, and as he showed it to them, he said:

“My crew of two sleep forward. These are my married quarters, and I fear you must share them whether you are married or not, as I have no others to offer you. But you will be safe and comfortable here; and you will find plenty of dry clothes belonging to my wife and myself. Please help yourselves to such night things as you want. If you put your own things on the racks in the galley they will be dry long before morning. And you have no need to worry about me. In any case I should take several hours at the wheel, and I often stay on deck all through these short summer nights.”

When they had thanked him, he was about to leave them, but Fedora said, “One moment please, Pan Sova. As you are going down river you will pass quite near the Ruzyně airport, won't you?”

“Fairly near,” he agreed. “It lies about four to five kilometres from the right bank of the river.”

“Then could you possibly land us somewhere near there? We have friends who live near the airport and are willing to hide us. In fact we were waiting for a car to take us out to them when the warehouse in which we had taken refuge was raided.”

He nodded. “I could land you; but it will still be dark when we pass that bend in the river; and as I am late already I dare not wait about until it is light before putting you ashore. Do you know the district well?”

Fedora shook her head. “No; hardly at all.”

“Then, unless you have very urgent reasons for trying to get
to your friends before morning, I certainly would not advise you to attempt it. All the chances are that you would become hopelessly lost while striving to find your way across country in the darkness.”

“But it is urgent!” Nicholas put in, suddenly alarmed by the thought that unless they got off the barge fairly soon they might be carried many miles down river. “It is terribly urgent. Whatever happens we have got to be at an inn near the airport by midday to-morrow.”

Sova smiled. “Ah! that is rather different. And in that case I think I can help you. A kilometre or so past the bend there is a hamlet, and a cousin of mine owns a farm there. I could land you practically at his door, and I am sure he would put you up for the rest of the night. Then in the morning he, or one of his people, could drive you over to Ruzyně.”

Again in Nicholas' mind the necessity for stopping Bilto leaving England had assumed priority over all else; so it was with great relief that he exclaimed, “If you could do that, we'd be most terribly grateful.”

Fedora added her thanks, then asked, “About what time should we reach this hamlet where your cousin has his farm?”

“About four o'clock,” replied Sova, after a moment's thought. “That means you have a little over two hours in which to rest and dry your clothes, so I should lose no time in getting them off. In case you drop asleep, I will come down at about ten to four and give you a call.”

Once more they thanked him, then he went up the short ladder to the deck and closed the hatch behind him.

Nicholas looked across at Fedora. She was in a shocking state. Her satchel-bag was still slung round her neck, but she had lost her beret in the water, and her coronet of plaits had come undone so that they now hung about her head in a ring of sodden rat's-tails. Her face was begrimed, blood was seeping from a cut on her neck and her hands were filthy. To drag herself free from the grip of the ooze she had had to abandon both her shoes, and she was smothered in mud nearly up to her waist. Raising a smile, he asked:

“How are you feeling?”

“I'm alive,” she replied. “But that's just about all. And even that I owe to you. I'm thoroughly ashamed of the exhibition I made of myself up on the roof.”

“You needn't be,” he assured her sincerely. “You are the bravest woman I've ever met, Fedora. And if you hadn't come down to the fourth floor to guide me back, we'd neither of us be here now. So that makes us quits. Come on, now, let me play lady's-maid again and help you get your wet clothes off.”

She shook her head. “No, Nicky. I can't face it. That rope with which they pulled us out gave my back hell. I'd rather let my clothes dry on me.”

“You'll catch your death of cold.”

“What's it matter? We are clear of the Coms now. They must believe that we were burnt to cinders in the pent-house. Anyway, there is no possible means by which they can trace us; so, unless we get a shockingly bad break, by this time to-morrow we'll be in bed and asleep in London. Having caught a cold won't spoil that for me.”

“Nor me!” he agreed feelingly. “All the same, I'm going to get my things off; and you might as well let me take off your frock, anyway. Then if you sit by the stove your underclothes won't feel so cold and clammy.”

To his last suggestion he persuaded her to agree, and having settled her in the galley he retired into the little sleeping cabin. On one of its bulkheads hung a mirror. When he glanced in it he hardly knew himself. His hair was a matted tangle, his eyes were bloodshot and his face, which seemed much thinner, was streaked with soot marks.

One end of the cabin was occupied by a dressing chest and the other by a broad shelf that formed a wash-stand. Having got his clothes off, he gave himself a good rub down, slipped on Sova's dressing gown, and carried his own things through to dry. Then he had a good wash and brush up and, now feeling considerably refreshed, decided that he must do something about Fedora. Refilling the wash basin, and collecting some towels and toilet things, he carried them through to her.

While talking with Sova she had given the impression that she had recovered remarkably quickly from her ordeal; but Nicholas realised that must have been a flash in the pan, as she now appeared thoroughly exhausted. Seeing that she was incapable of making any effort, he washed her face and hands for her, then undid the plaits, dried her silvery-gold hair, and gave it a good brushing.

When he had finished she took his hand, pressed it, and smiled up into his face. “Thank you, Nicky. You are being awfully good to me; and I don't deserve it, as I got you into all this.”

He returned her smile. “No, I got myself into it; and you, too, in a way. If I hadn't impersonated Bilto in the first place you would never had been sent to Prague. Anyhow, the object of both of us was to stop him, and if our luck holds we'll succeed in that yet. That's the only thing that matters.”

As they were both only partially clad they remained in the warm galley, sitting on two boxes of stores, with their backs against the bulkhead and their feet thrust out towards the stove. After Nicholas' ministrations Fedora felt much more comfortable and fell into a doze; but his brain remained too active for him to get a nap.

In considering their prospects, he decided that if they could reach the inn owned by Mr. Lutonský there seemed no reason why they should not get away as arranged. Even if the two telephone conversations between Smutný and Lutonský had been taken down by some spy in the exchange, nothing could have been made of them, as they had been couched in such cryptic language. That Smutný had escaped capture was evident from his telephone call about the apparatus for crossing the canal by the telegraph cable; therefore the police had nothing at all to go on which could connect Fedora and himself with Lutonský or Jirka.

But he was by no means so optimistic about Fedora's idea that they might sleep the following night in London. Apparently the ‘funnel' was a well-established escape route in frequent use; so, barring unforeseen accidents, it should get them to Frankfurt.
About their onward journey from there, though, although there would be no dangers, there would certainly be difficulties. They had no money for fares and their passports had been taken from them; so they might be held for several days before they could fully establish their identities and get themselves repatriated.

It occurred to him that as Fedora had been working against the Communists in London she must have contacts in the British Secret Service, and that through them she might be able to short-circuit many official bottle-necks; but, even so, it would take her several hours, at least, before she could secure a clearance through them, and the means to fly on to England.