The Alien (11 page)

There was a little pause. Colin decided to wait. After all, it was the old Pole who had asked for an interview. So far he had not given any reason for it nor asked any questions. Surely such precautions, such careful privacy, could not have as their sole object the simple matter of confirming Sudenic's statement, which he had said he did not doubt. When at last Scziliekowicz spoke, Colin's mind was so relieved of confusion and near-guilt that he almost laughed.

The Pole said, “Do you trust him, Mr. Brentwood?''

Official caution withheld a heart-felt ‘no'.

“There are certain doubts,'' Colin answered. “You share them, it seems.''

“I will tell you the reason for it, so that you may be more frank with me. I have described to you the manner of Count Alexei's death with the rest of his family. Boris' expressed a natural horror and grief when he heard it from me. But there is a variant of his description of his own actions which suggests that he persuaded the troop he was with to turn aside, not because the Germans had an ambush for them, but precisely because he knew of the peasant rising and did not wish to run into it, despite the fact that he had sent a message to his family to leave their home and wait for him in a certain place.''

“My God!''

“If they had not left their home two days before I passed through Count Sudenic's estate I should have taken the family with me. My friend, his wife and family would have accompanied me into exile.''

“I suppose he meant to keep his word to them? Germans or peasants, he got them to leave for their own sakes, didn't he?''

“He did not go to the meeting-place. So they went home again to their deaths. He must have known they would do this.''

“Have you proof?''

“That it was he who acted? That he was not forced, as he says? No better proof than he has of his complete innocence. The word of soldiers, of loyal servivors from the Sudenic estate. How can one prove? Especially now, twenty years after the event?''

“One can't, of course. But you have doubts?''

Scziliekowicz spoke slowly, choosing his words with great care. So far Colin had found his English remarkable both for fluency and correctness, though spoken with a noticeably foreign accent. Now the old man hesitated at times and it was clear that the impediment was all emotional.

“I find this – difficult – and gives me pain to say. Boris I knew as a child – as a young man in a very famous regiment of Poland. His position made him rise – with ease – so that he came here to England as military attaché.''

“When he became engaged to my wife,'' said Colin, steadily. “That is the basis of our present acquaintance with him.''

Scziliekowicz bowed his head in a dignified gesture of appreciation.

“Thank you. This I was told. This explains – or can explain – the mode of entry – can it not? The place chosen.''

Colin nodded.

“Boris – as I knew him twenty years ago – was brave, young, inexperienced – full of resource, of ideas – and always truthful. But with a hardness, a lack of – of—They were not originally Polish, you know, the Sudenics. It is not a Polish name.''

“No?'' Colin said, astonished. “No, I suppose not.''

“The family was of origin Czech, perhaps a bit Teutonic. Perhaps that is unkind.''

They both smiled a little sheepishly. But it relieved the tension that had built up as Scziliekowicz ground out his perplexities.

“I would like – all of my friends would like – to trust him – to accept him. But always there comes this feeling – perhaps a traitor – perhaps he betrayed his own family.''

“To save himself?'' Colin finished.

“That could be the reason. There could be other reasons. With Boris there is nothing simple, it seems.''

“I'm with you there,'' Colin said, fervently.

Again they fell silent. Colin glanced at his watch, surprised to find the time was only a little after half-past three. He felt as if they had been discussing Boris for hours. All his weary distaste for the subject rose in his throat like an ill-digested meal.

It was at this moment that Margaret and the refugee himself appeared on the lawn at the far end of the garden. Colin, having his back to the closed window did not see them, but he saw Scziliekowicz rise slowly from his chair, his face distorted with fury and affront.

“It is the man himself!'' he said, his voice rising. “You have him here and do not tell me of it. It is an outrage!''

Colin sprang up, wheeling round to the window. He was just in time to see Margaret disappear beneath the balcony, followed by Boris, who did not look up. Their footsteps on the iron staircase were clearly heard and Margaret then appeared, with her visitor immediately behind her.

“Hullo, Colin,'' she said, lightly, as she always did when Boris was with her. “You're back early, aren't you?''

Boris, smiling broadly, advanced from her side.

“My dear Nicolas Stepanovicz,'' he said, holding out both hands to the old man, “how delightful to find you here!''

Colin pulled himself together with an immense effort. His jaw felt paralysed, as if he had had a large injection of cocaine into it for work on a tooth. Ignoring Boris he managed to grate out, “Margaret, can I present Mr. Scziliekowicz, president of the Society of Free Poles?''

Scziliekowicz stepped forward, took Margaret's offered hand, kissed it with stately formality and stepped back.

“I regret,'' he murmured. “I leave at once. You will excuse.''

He was already retreating across the room. Colin had no choice but to follow him into the hall, find his hat and umbrella for him and move on to open the door.

“I had no idea he was here,'' he pleaded. “I swear I hadn't. Confound the fellow, what right has he to use my house—''

A gleam in the old European's eye checked him. He almost heard the words, ‘And your wife, perhaps?'

“It is unfortunate he has found me here,'' Scziliekowicz said, coldly. “When we entertained him he gave us to understand he would pass on any information that might come his way that would interest us. I think now it may be the other way round.‘'

“God forbid!'' Colin exclaimed.

“I do not think God directs the movements of Count Sudenic,'' was the immediate answer. “Perhaps the devil – perhaps no master but himself. Good afternoon, Mr. Brentwood.''

Colin murmured his own farewell, too filled with anger and humiliation to attempt to mollify the old man's just annoyance. That's torn it, he thought miserably, good and proper, a plate-size blot on the copy book, a clanger by any standard. Damn him, damn him, damn him to hell, he thought, fastening the front door before walking slowly back across the hall.

Boris was still there. not even enough tact to take himself off, Colin thought, unreasonably disregarding the fact that Boris's only lines of retreat lay by the back stairs from the hall or else through the french windows of the drawing-room. Neither route would altogether have avoided the risk of meeting Scziliekowicz in the street. All the same it was galling to see him standing there chatting with Margaret as if nothing had happened.

“I shall be obliged,'' said Colin, in what Margaret considered his most insufferable F.O. voice, “if you would let me know another time before you barge into our home.''

“Colin!'' Margaret said, fiercely, “you forget that I invited Boris to call any time he likes.''

“It is unfortunate,'' said Boris, quite obviously unrepentant. “I apologize, Colin. I am on my way to a place I have not found on my map of London. It is very hot. I find myself in Church Street and I think Margaret will tell me how to reach my assignment while I rest for five minutes in your charming garden. The good Ogden—''

“I cannot understand why your English becomes so elementary when you are speaking to me,'' Colin interrupted in rapid Polish. “On most occasions, when there are other people present, it is very nearly perfect. What's the point of that particular form of clowning?''

“Perhaps,'' Boris answered gently, “it is because you always succeed in making me feel a stranger in your presence.''

“Stop!'' Margaret cried at them. “Stop talking in a language I don't understand. Or have you explained to him what a fuss he's making about nothing?'' she asked Boris.

“I have explained a little,'' Boris answered, “but I think Colin does not believe me.''

“Of course he believes you. What's this place you're going to? The name of the man you have to see?''

She walked firmly across the room to the telephone and began to flip over the pages of the directory. Colin protested, Boris watched. Margaret ignored them both. She found the number and dialled.

“I'm speaking for Mr. Sudenic,'' she said, when she got through. “You are expecting him, I believe. Yes, from the Baltic Trading Company. Mr. Sørensen.'' She gave a triumphant nod in Colin's direction. “He has been unfortunately delayed. He will be with you in about ten minutes time. Thank you.''

“There!'' she said, putting back the receiver. “Off you go, Boris. I said ten minutes. You'll have to get a taxi. You'll find one easily enough in Notting Hill Gate; probably pick one up on the way there.''

“Thank you,'' said Boris, quietly. His eyes were shining with amusement and relief and an unaffected admiration. He turned to Colin. “I apologize again,'' he said. “I did not imagine Scziliekowicz would have such a guilty conscience.''

This remark so astounded Colin that Boris was out of the room before he could move and had closed the front door behind him by the time Colin reached the hall. He went back into the drawing-room. Margaret was sitting down now, looking rather pale. But she had not lost her former impetus. She went at once into attack.

“What on earth possessed you to behave like that to Boris?'' she demanded. “He might be your worst enemy.''

This was a mistake.

“Perhaps he is,'' Colin answered immediately.

“What d'you mean?''

“Need I explain?''

“Are you making a vulgar, utterly imbecile suggestion?''

They glared at each other, both of them too deeply hurt to see the essentially misguided nature of their quarrel. Before either could invent a really unforgivable thrust, however, Louise put her head into the room. In spite of the heat she looked cool, her make-up was perfect, her full-skirted, gaily patterned dress was both fresh and pretty.

“Excuse,'' she said, at once noticing the signs of strain though there had been no sound of raised voices outside the room. “I bring tea.''

Leaving the door open, she went out for a moment, to reappear pushing the trolley which was set out with several cups and saucers on the top and plates of sandwiches and small iced cakes of Mrs. Ogden's baking on the shelf below.

“Thank you, Louise,'' said Margaret, bleakly.

The girl hesitated, looking round the room.

“Mr. Ogden say there are two guests,'' she began. “They go?''

“They had to go,'' said Colin.

“Sit down, Louise,'' Margaret said. “When did you get back?''

She was wondering if the girl had met Boris in the road or if she had reached the house before he left it. Surely she would have said if she had seen him. Anyway she would not have expected to find him in the drawing-room.

“Five minutes, perhaps,'' Louise told her. “It was too hot at the Institute. Everybody was exhausted.''

“You look far from exhausted,'' Colin said, smiling at her. He was thankful the quarrel had been interrupted, if only for the time being. It had been brewing too long and he knew its violence was not yet expended. In the meantime he hoped to recover his temper so that he might withstand Margaret's inevitably renewed onslaught in a stony silence. This always defeated her.

Louise smiled back at him. The poor Colin, she was thinking. So jealous and with so little cause.

“Then Martha is in, too, is she?'' Margaret went on.

“Mrs. Ogden?''

“Yes. To get the tea ready if you have only been in the house five minutes.''

“Oh, I see. No, it was Mr. Ogden who prepared the tea. He was going to bring it, but I said it was for me to receive for the trolley.''

Margaret knew she ought to correct this very imperfect sentence but she could not be bothered. Louise was a good-natured girl, she knew Ogden found it tiring to go up and down the kitchen stairs. It was thoughtful of Louise to stand at the service lift in the dining-room to load the trolley. Though of course she would be having tea with them.

“What about pouring out?'' said Colin, with false jocularity.

“Sorry,'' Margaret answered, with equally false submission.

Louise did not linger over the meal, which she always considered superfluous. Nor had the Brentwoods much appetite. Before she wheeled out the trolley again Louise said, “I forget to ask, Mrs. Brentwood. I will be late tonight. It is a party with my friend, Lotte.''

“Did you forget to tell me?'' Margaret asked, a little put out because she had counted upon having the girl there to act as a buffer between herself and Colin for the evening. “Or has it only just blown up?''

“That,'' said Louise, laughing. “This afternoon it blow up.''

“Blew up.''

“Blew? Yes. Blow. Has blown. Blew.''

“Never mind. You'll be out to dinner, then?''

“Please.''

“I'll give you a key,'' Margaret said, getting up.

“I can let her in,'' Colin suggested. “I've some work to do that'll keep me up, I expect. How late will you be?'' he asked Louise.

She shrugged, looking hopefully at Margaret.

“You shall have a key,'' the latter assured her.