Judgment on Deltchev (17 page)

‘Read the pledge to the court.’

Kroum cleared his throat. He said, ‘The form is headed:
Brotherhood of the Officer Corps for the Holy Protection of all Kindred Families and of the Sacred Motherland which gave them Birth and Honour
. Then follows the pledge:
I, Brother X, having, from the dictates of my own heart and conscience and for no other reason, submitted myself to the judgment of my Brethren in honour, and having, through the mingling of my blood with theirs, received absolution before the Mother of God for all acts committed in their name, do hereby dedicate my soul and body to the service of the Brotherhood until and unto death. Recognizing that between Brothers thus specially united by ties of blood there may be no contention or preference or inequality, I swear unconditional and immediate obedience to all orders given to me by Brothers to whom authority has been delegated by the Brethren assembled, and should authority be so delegated to me I swear to accept it and use it faithfully in the knowledge that the responsibility is shared by all equally and that my loyalty to the Brotherhood is superior to all other loyalties and avowals, private or public. My reward for faithful service shall be the honour and love of my Brothers and their protection of me and of my family. But should I betray or in any other way fail the Brotherhood, my own death will be
only part of the price to be paid for the offence, for by this oath now taken I bind my whole being, and in betrayal of it all that I hold dear is forfeit. All this I understand and accept. All this I believe just. All this I freely swear to on my blood, my honour, and my life and by this act become of you my Brothers.’
Kroum looked up. ‘That is all, sir.’

‘A licence to commit treason and murder,’ commented Prochaska, ‘as the acknowledged crimes of this fraternity have long since proved.’ He nodded to the clerk, who handed up another document to Kroum.

Kroum looked at it.

‘Do you recognize that document?’

‘I do, sir. It was hidden in Pazar’s room with the papers I have just read from.’

‘What is it?’

‘A list of names under the word “Active”.’

‘Is the name of Pazar there?’

‘It is.’

‘And Eftib?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is there any other name there familiar to the police?’

‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘The name of Deltchev.’

There was dead silence in the court now. Deltchev was sitting in his usual position with his eyes closed. He did not move.

‘Is there any other peculiarity about the list?’

‘Yes, sir. Certain names on it are underlined.’

‘Which names?’

‘Those of Pazar, Eftib, Vlahov, Pechanatz, Radiuje, and Deltchev.’

There was a faint murmur in the court. Deltchev opened his eyes and looked at Kroum thoughtfully.

‘Did you say that the plan to assassinate Minister Vukashin required five persons to operate it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then the sixth person might be the leader?’

‘It seemed likely, sir.’

‘What action did you take?’

‘I informed the Minister of the Interior, and warrants for the arrest of Pazar, Vlahov, Pechanatz, and Radiuje were issued.’

‘Did you execute the warrants?’

‘Pechanatz and Radiuje were found to have already left the country. Vlahov was arrested while attempting to do so. It was at the airport and he was placed in the waiting room to await an escort. The arresting officer had neglected to search him and while in the waiting room he shot himself. Pazar has not yet been traced.’

‘What action has been taken about the other names on the list?’

‘I ask permission not to answer that question, sir.’

‘I understand, Brigadier.’ He turned to the judges. ‘I would point out to the court that at least one man connected with the conspiracy is still in the country and free and that he may attempt to find other confederates even now. It is for that reason that all information cannot yet be made public.’

‘The Presiding Judges acknowledge the point.’

Prochaska bowed and nodded to the clerk. More papers were handed to Kroum.

‘Do you recognize those documents?’

‘Yes, sir. I identify them as from Pazar’s room.’

‘Describe them.’

‘They are messages, mostly typewritten or inked in block letters on plain paper.’

‘Read from them.’

‘The first reads:
Meeting for Thursday to take place Friday. Notified V. and P
.’

‘No signature?’

‘None is signed, sir.’

‘Continue.’

‘The second reads:
Await advice as arranged
. The third:
P. remains incomplete. Progress others
. The next:
V. unsuccessful. Will expedite
. Next—’

Prochaska interrupted him. ‘One moment, brigadier. I do not think we need trouble you to read all the messages. I wished only to show their character. They continue like that?’

‘Yes, sir. There are over thirty of them.’

‘Do you understand their meaning?’

‘I think so.’

‘They have a direct bearing on the assassination plan?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then we will be discreet. I come to another point. Do these messages constitute a correspondence or are they only messages received?’

‘Messages received, sir.’

‘What initials appear in the messages?’

‘V., P., E., R., and D.’

‘Referring to?’

‘Vlahov, Pechanatz, Eftib, Radiuje, and Deltchev, I believe.’

‘It seems likely. What is the general character of these messages? Are they, for example, instructions?’

‘I would say they are reports.’

‘To the leader of the conspirators?’

‘I think not, sir. It is difficult to say, but in my opinion Pazar, who received the reports, was responsible for coordinating the information. We learned that he received no messages at the house. My belief is that the others used a café or a shop as a post office and that he collected the messages from there, copied them, and redistributed them for information to those concerned. The nature of the plan would call for constant communications of that sort during the period of preparation. No doubt each conspirator had an accommodation address.’

‘Very well. The messages have been numbered for convenience. Please find message number twenty-seven.’

‘I have it here.’

‘Read it please.’

‘It reads:
V. in difficulty. Advise D. urgent
.’

‘Is that written or typewritten?’

‘Typewritten.’

‘Is there anything else on the paper?’

‘Yes, sir, some pencil writing.’

‘Read it please.’

‘It reads:
Strumitza, twelve
.’

The courtroom stirred.

‘Is that an address?’

‘Yes, sir. It is the prisoner’s address.’

‘What explanation have you for its being there?’

‘It is in Pazar’s handwriting. I suggest that as the message was urgent he did not deliver it to the usual accommodation address for the prisoner, but took it direct to his home. The pencil note was a memorandum of an address which Pazar would not normally use.’

I looked at Deltchev. His eyes were closed again. He had not moved. It was impossible to believe. And yet …

Stanoiev did not cross-examine. Kroum left the witness box reluctantly, like an ageing prima donna on a farewell tour, and one of his colleagues took his place. The questioning was resumed. What Kroum had said was now elaborately confirmed. I no longer paid much attention. I was trying to digest what I had already heard.

It was true; of that I had little doubt. Prochaska had an air of confidence that was not of the kind he could assume. Perhaps clever cross-examination could have made much of Kroum’s evidence look weak; Deltchev was not an uncommon name, and when you pointed out that the prisoner’s identification with the D. of the messages rested solely on a pencilled note of an address alleged to be in the handwriting of a man who could not be produced, you might have shaken a jury’s belief in the whole story. But here there was no jury to be shaken and, after the massive certainties of Vukashin and the rest, the very flimsiness of the thing gave it probability. Someone named Deltchev who lived in Deltchev’s house had been in close touch with persons desperate enough, as Eftib and Vlahov had been, to shoot when confronted by the police or to commit suicide when arrested. Madame Deltchev? Absurd. Katerina Deltchev? By the time the luncheon break came, I thought I was ready for Pashik.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘what do you think?’

‘It is very interesting.’

‘Yes. Where do you think Pazar is now?’

He shrugged elaborately. ‘It is a mystery.’

‘So they say. When do you think they’ll find that man in Patriarch Dimo?’

The brown eyes looked at me steadily. He did not reply.

I stared back at him. ‘I would guess that it’s Pazar’s body in that room, wouldn’t you?’ I said.

‘What makes you think that, Mr Foster?’

‘Just an association of ideas. Someone in Deltchev’s house sent messages to a man named Pazar. That man is now missing. Someone in Deltchev’s house sends a message by me to a man who lived in Patriarch Dimo. That man is now dead.’

‘That is bad logic, Mr Foster.’

‘It might be good guessing. Do you believe that Deltchev was in a conspiracy to assassinate Vukashin?’

‘It could be so.’

‘Yes, it could be, but do you think yourself that it was so?’

‘Who else could there be, Mr Foster?’

‘Katerina Deltchev could be the D. of those messages.’

He showed his brown teeth in a smile. ‘A nice young lady of twenty in a Brotherhood conspiracy? That is a very funny idea, but it is no more than funny. The Officer Corps Sisterhood! Ah, please, Mr Foster!’

‘Yes, it’s silly. I’m trying to find a reasonable explanation, that’s all.’

‘The reasonable explanation is the one already given. Mr Foster, we are newspapermen, not attorneys for the defence. We need only observe and report. We are lucky.’

He had a bland, non-committal look on his face. At breakfast I had not mentioned the events of the night before. In the morning light they had assumed the proportions of a bad dream, and until I could talk to Petlarov I was content to leave them so. Besides, I was tired of Pashik’s denials and warnings and had made up my mind to discover something about the case of ‘K. Fischer, Vienna
’46’ before I tackled him again. It looked now as if he thought I had taken his advice. I put aside a temptation to correct the impression.

‘What was the Brotherhood plan they’re being so secretive about?’ I asked.

‘I know no more than you, Mr Foster.’

‘Doesn’t Valmo know? Surely a man in his position would know such things?’

‘I am not in his confidence to that extent.’

‘Did you know Pazar or Eftib?’

To my surprise, he nodded. ‘Eftib I knew. He was a young man with a great dislike of dogs. A dog he found tied up one day he beat to death with a piece of chain. The other students disliked and feared him. He was not sane, I think.’

‘How did you know him?’

‘The dog he killed belonged to one of the Professors at the University. There was a scandal. I reported it for a newspaper, but his family paid to avoid the publicity. By now,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘they may wish he had been safely put in prison.’

The waiter came up with our food. This particular section of the restaurant was reserved for the pressmen attending the trial and across the room I could see Sibley talking earnestly and confidentially to one of the Americans. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw Pashik looking at me. He looked away almost as I saw him, but not quite fast enough. He had to cover up.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Mr Sibley is busy still. He may succeed with someone who has no reason to suspect him. It is very strange.’

I smiled. ‘There’s something I find even stranger, Pashik.’

‘Yes, Mr Foster?’ He was on his guard again.

‘I find it strange that although you are quite ready to serve someone you say is of the Government secret police, you put obstacles in the way of Sibley, who is trying to serve the Propaganda Ministry.’

He stared at me for a moment and I thought he was about to reply. Then he changed his mind, cleared his throat, and picked up his knife and fork. ‘Mr Foster,’ he said heavily, ‘I think we should get on with our eating.’

I could get nothing more out of him. After the luncheon break the conspiracy evidence was resumed. Now that he had something like real evidence to deal with, Prochaska spread himself. Every detail of Kroum’s evidence was sworn to by three or four different persons, every document certified and proved. Had you not heard the earlier days of the trial, you might from Prochaska’s attitude have supposed the judges to be pettifogging martinets hostile to his case. When you remembered the rubbish that had already been admitted as evidence by that pathetic trio, the present solemnity was funny. But not for long. Presently it became boring. Only one thing kept me there: the possibility of Deltchev’s speaking in his own defence. But he seemed as bored as I was. As witness after witness was brought in to swear to the authenticity of the message with his address on it, I expected a protest from him. It would have been easy enough.

‘These conscientious policemen swear to the presence of my address on this piece of paper. Nobody disputes that it is there. Why waste the time they might be devoting to more useful duties? Produce a really serious witness: the
man who wrote it or who saw it written or, even better, the man who can tell us
why
and in what circumstances it was written down there. Those questions are important, gentlemen, for I, too, have been plotted against by assassins. They threw a bomb and badly wounded my chauffeur. That was outside my house, and to find my house you need the address, and to remember it you have to write it down. I have no wish to deprive Minister Vukashin of his martyr’s laurels, but if I am to be convicted of plotting against his life, at least make sure that the evidence you use is not part of an old plot against
my
life. For a new plot new evidence should be manufactured. Economy in such matters is discourteous.’

But Deltchev said nothing at all and the afternoon drowsed on. Curiously, it was only the diplomatic and press sections who seemed bored. For most of the spectators it was an exciting afternoon. As each witness appeared, there would be a buzz of interest, then dead silence while he gave his evidence, then breathless whispering as he stepped down. It was the factual nature of the evidence that did it. There must have been many in that courtroom who had been unwilling to believe in Deltchev’s guilt and privately uneasy about the trial. Now they were enjoying the illusion that the legal forms were being properly observed and that they were free of the responsibility of condoning an injustice. I was glad when the afternoon was over.