The Alien (13 page)

“The socialist countries are one,'' said Galinski, the spokesman, but without enthusiasm.

“And a Pole is a Pole is a Pole,'' answered Boris and added softly, “Just as a Russian is always a Russian.''

He smiled as he saw the effect of his remark on the faces round him.

“I am a Pole,'' he said and went on smiling.

“That is not according to our information,'' Galinski told him. “We understand that you were sent here to work for the Soviet Union as you have been doing for a number of years. Your previous record was a criminal one.''

“My previous record was made up of Stalin's famous mistakes,'' said Boris, evenly. “It has since been cancelled.''

“You were sent here with excellent opportunities, carefully provided for.''

“Now there,'' answered Boris, vigorously, “you have a splendid example of their well-known cunning, married to inevitable inefficiency. My landing was arranged – yes – everyone knows that. The British were not deceived for a moment. In fact they were expecting me – some of them. But the house where I was to find an old couple to befriend me no longer housed them. They were dead. Instead I found two people who had known me well and who recognized me at once. In addition, the son of the old dead pair, who was to have met me much much later in London, was there, too. Result, emotional overtones, crude suspicions, the subtle opening ruined. All because there had been no recent check on those two old people.''

“Does that account for your total lack of activity for nearly four months?'' Galinski demanded. “You may have antagonized this Brentwood, but have you got nothing from him?''

“Nothing. And never shall.''

“Other contacts?''

“Such as?''

One of the other men spoke in a harsh voice.

“You work at this Baltic Trading Company. They have an agent working at this office. You cultivate her company.''

“Not extensively,'' Boris answered. “She is very beautiful. I have lunch with her occasionally.''

“You have not answered the question.''

“I don't think you asked one. In any case by what authority are you here at all? If you are so sure of my position in the Soviet service, why not inquire of the appropriate person at their embassy?''

Galinski said slowly, “We should prefer to hear from you direct.''

“I see.'' Boris looked again at each of them in turn. “You want my information unedited, unexpurgated. Do you propose to pay me for this service? Or am I to help you as a fellow-countryman? How do I know you really are what you represent yourselves to be? This may be a trap laid by the free Poles, who are extremely anxious to make me one of them; to bind me to them, in fact, hand and foot. You have neither said nor done anything to convince me of your true identity.''

“What proof do you need?''

“What proof can you possibly give me, here and now? None.''

“Exactly. That's why we came to persuade you to meet the one who directs us. You will recognize him.''

Boris rose at once.

“Very well. I have agreed to nothing at all, so you hold nothing against me. But I don't intend to waste the whole evening over this. Besides, there are far too many of you. Do I really need a posse of the Western type to keep me with you?''

Galinski was also on his feet. Ignoring Boris's last question he said. “It will not take long. He will meet us outside your block of flats. We can speak together in your rooms. He's probably waiting there now. We can walk there in five minutes.'‘

They moved to the door, two of them in front, then Boris with Galinski close at his elbow and the fourth man just behind. In the same formation they turned to walk along the street.

Boris was thinking furiously. He did not intend to show these men that he had changed his home again. They had evidently kept up with his moves so far; perhaps all the others had, too. He still possessed one key to the old flat, the extra one he had had made for it. The new tenants were not in, yet. He had learned this from the caretaker that morning before he left. Perhaps, if the caretaker had not removed his name from the board and from the door he could hold this absurd conference in the flat, after all. It would be difficult, otherwise, to get rid of so many.

It was not difficult at all. They walked past two little shops, one a newsagent-tobacconist with new paper boards leaning against the wall below the dirty window. They came to the mouth of an alleyway leading into a narrow cul-de-sac with small houses on either side of it and the tall fence of the railway cutting at the end.

Though the storm had grumbled off into the distance, taking the rain with it, the sky was pitch black and gave a feeling, so oppressive was the heated air, of being considerably lower than it should be, not much higher than the roofs of the houses, a flat black metal grill, heated from the other side. The street was lighted by infrequent, old-fashioned lamp standards, one being placed on the edge of the pavement opposite the alley openings, so making its shadow even darker than it might otherwise have been. The attack came from the darkness of the alley as the five men were walking past it.

Boris saw the figures pile out of the shadows, so when one of them, breaking past two of his recent guards or captors, seized his arm he was prepared. The man gave a choking cry. Stooping low Boris struck again, turned quickly, dived past another struggling pair and reached the alley opening, sliding back into the shadow.

A man ran past him, his eyeballs glinting in the lamp light as he emerged on the street, all his attention for the fight. Boris, flattened against the wall, understanding that this was a native of the cul-de-sac, stayed motionless. He had seen his assailant fall.

Directly afterwards and as the man from the cul-de-sac slipped past the still struggling group and ran away up the street, a black car drew in to the pavement and three men jumped from it. Boris waited no longer, but moved quickly into the cul-de-sac, hearing as he did so a police whistle not far away, followed by the sound of running footsteps.

In the doorway just ahead of him a shape moved and a soft voice said, “'Nother row, was it? Satisfied?''

Boris gave a loud grunt, moved forward towards the voice and found warm arms clasped about his neck. The girl or woman, he could not see her face, only a pale blur beneath his own, evidently mistook him for the man who had run out, he decided. So be it. His own arms went round her and his mouth found hers.

“Oo!'' she said, wriggling away and immediately pressing close again. “A bit of excitement don't ' alf pep you up, Sid!''

A torch shone into the cul-de-sac. Boris moved forward a little and bent his head to stop her mouth with another kiss. A train thundered past in the cutting, drowning all other sound. But she pulled her head away to whisper in his ear, “It's a copper! Did you see anythink out there? Don't you dare speak to 'im! I'm not getting mixed up in anythink!''

“Shut up, then!'' he whispered back, hoping his words and accent would pass. He kissed her again and this time she was quiet in his arms.

The constable flashed his light on the amorous pair. He was not deceived. They knew he was there all right, but they weren't interested. Well, they looked as if they were having a long session, had been at it right through, so why get into an argument? After moving round the rest of the small area, seeing window curtains drop silently as the light reached them, hearing radios turned up higher as he passed, he left the place and went outside.

He was puzzled. From the end of the street he had seen a fight in progress for a few seconds before it broke up. He had seen several men bundle into a black car waiting at the kerb and several more scatter and run away. Going quickly to the scene of the fight he had found blood on the pavement but no victim. Taken him off in the car, he decided, wondering if any of the local gangs had been involved and if so, why. He had then inspected the cul-de-sac and returned to the street still puzzled. But his duty was plain. He must report to his station and then stand by the blood-stain until they sent someone to investigate.

The public telephone box was on the corner some distance away. There was no police pillar in that street. The constable set off towards it. On the way he passed the man from the cul-de-sac who had dialled 999 and then, seeing through the window of the box the fight dissolve, had replaced the receiver and turned back. He saw no point in stopping the rozzer now. Never where they were wanted, as usual.

When Boris heard the constable's footsteps move away he released the girl, murmured indistinctly and began to move away.

“Now wot's up with you?'' she demanded, unwilling to break off Sid's new high-powered technique. “Must ' ave another dekko, must you? You men!''

Boris walked into the empty street and turned away. The man from the cul-de-sac turned into it a few seconds later. As he did so lightning flashed, thunder followed at once in a shattering roar and rain hissed down.

“Had to follow the copper, did you?'' the girl greeted him, pulling him into the doorway out of the rain. “Why didn't you speak to 'im when 'e was in 'ere?''

“Wot d' you mean in ' ere? I went down to phone. 'E passed me coming back. But the chaps'd run off by then.''

The truth broke into her mind with shattering impact. Not Sid. A stranger. One of the gang. Might have murdered her! Instead – Bitter disappointment mixed with shock and fear. Not Sid. Those smashing kisses. Not Sid's.

“Wot's up with you?'' he demanded, roughly.

“I like that. Leaving me 'ere. Sticking your nose into wot don't concern you—''

He stopped her mouth as Boris had done, but oh, so differently. And she could never even tell him. Or not till they were married and he could take a joke. Perhaps not then.

When Sid had gone she went straight up to her room. She found on the back of her dress the mark of fingers, a spread of dark red streaks that she recognized as blood. She washed it out easily enough and crept shivering into bed. Now she would never tell Sid or anyone. Could she ever forget?

Boris walked all the way to his new flat. The rain had stopped as abruptly as it had begun. There had been no more thunder. But the storm was evidently going round and round as storms had a way of doing. The air had not cleared, nor the sky. A dirty night in more than one sense.

He arrived a little after ten, but Louise was still there. She had made up the bed, for the linen cupboard was not locked. She was already leaning back on the pillows, waiting for him, her clothes neatly piled on a chair.

He undressed in the bathroom. He was worried by the blood he had seen on his right hand when he opened the door of the flat. He had kept the hand in his pocket as he stood in the bedroom doorway smiling at Louise lying there, the sheet drawn up high, her bare arms outside it, a book in her hands. In the bathroom he took off each garment carefully and laid it down separately. Stupid of him to imagine the stickiness had been merely the heat and the exertion of the fight. That girl's dress must be stained, too. Well, nothing could be done about that now. Probably she would keep her mouth shut. If not—

He hid the shirt where Louise would not see it when she used the bathroom later. Then he went back to her, prepared to sink all his problems in an hour of unmixed pleasure.

He was not, however, allowed to submerge immediately.

“What is this nasty cheap perfume you wear?'' Louise demanded.

“Me?''

“It is on your hair and your face.''

“My new hair tonic, perhaps? It rained as I came away from the restaurant. That would bring out the scent.''

Why had not the rain washed it away, he wondered, angrily. Louise disregarded his explanation.

“You don't use hair tonic. Your hair is strong and grows easily.''

“Shaving cream, perhaps?''

“I know your shaving cream. This is not a man's perfume at all, it is a woman's.''

“Are you accusing me?''

“I am asking you. I have never smelled this cheap perfume before.''

“I can promise you that you never will again.''

“Then you admit it?''

“What should I admit?''

“That you have been with another woman today. The scent is very strong.''

“I utterly deny what you suggest. I swear to you that I have only seen and spoken to two women today, besides yourself. Margrethe Olsen at the office and Margaret Brentwood at her home.''

He spoke the truth with evident self-righteousness.

“Moreover, Mrs. Brentwood would never use such a perfume. Margrethe uses none at all. She is a tall, pale-golden ice-maiden.''

Louise made a sound expressing rage and disbelief.

“If you don't stop this ridiculous complaint and interruption,'' Boris told her, “I will turn you out of my bed and send you home. And tomorrow I will set about melting the ice-maiden.''

“You wouldn't dare,'' said Louise, but she knew very well that her position was far from impregnable. So she said no more and allowed the love-making to proceed unhindered.

After Louise had gone Boris washed his shirt carefully, blessing the new English drip-dry material of which it was made. Then he turned to his suit and went over it carefully with a lens, sponging out any stains he found on the material. The rain had made the legs of the trousers and the front of the jacket damp. Boris inspected both the outside and the inside of each garment with particular care and brushed out the turn-ups of the trousers. After hunting about in the cupboards of the flat he discovered an electric iron. While he pressed the suit he thought over the events of the evening. He realized that he still did not know what the Polish comrades wanted of him, but it was very clear that their Russian counterparts had made one of their usual rough blunders. The black car had been meant for him, obviously, because he had not so far obeyed any of his instructions or attempted to make any of the ordered contacts. It would be interesting to see what happened next. Someone had been hurt, a Russian undoubtedly, because he must have been removed in the car. There had been no sound of an ambulance bell and no time for one to be summoned and arrive. The police officer, the Poles, the Russians, the fallen body, all had vanished when he himself left the alleyway. The blood on the ground, washed by the rain, would by now have vanished also. He hoped the injury he had dealt would not be fatal. He had no personal feelings of animosity against anyone. They would certainly treat the victim themselves if they could. Publicity, in such cases, was the worst kind of propaganda.