The Alien (8 page)

Her flush deepened, but she only said, “Very well,'' again and turned to go.

“Stop,'' said Boris, still in his gentle voice, bantering, amused. “There are these.''

He showed her the two Polish letters but kept them in his hand as he did so and almost at once transferred them back to the desk, where he laid one arm across them.

“I will take them in to Sørensen myself,'' he said. “Will you have lunch with me?''

“Today?''

“Naturally, today.''

“Very well.''

He smiled at her. The businesslike tone was natural, he knew. Admirable girl, with her gentle young face and smooth primrose hair and cold blue eyes. How unlike Louise. How fortunate.

“Where?''

“Aldwych this time. No, beyond. A little place – not bad.''

She listened carefully as he described it and made a mental note of the name. They had never lunched together in the same place more than once. It astonished her that he had found so many small ordinary restaurants within half a mile of the office. Before he joined the Baltic Trading Company she had usually eaten a sandwich and drunk coffee at the nearest snack bar. She did so still on most days. But about once a week now she met Boris for a more substantial meal.

On this occasion he was already there when she arrived, sitting at a corner table reading the early edition of an evening paper. He did not look up until she arrived but he had pulled out a chair for her before she was quite ready to sit down.

“You will not find it too hot in here?'' he asked, anxiously.

Margrethe laughed. She was wearing a sleeveless pale coral-pink linen dress and white high-heeled sandals. She had walked from the office on the shady side of the road and had not hurried.

“Poor you!'' she said, laughing. “The business man's suit. Always this cloth, summer and winter. The British are the true masochists.''

“We stay here, then?''

“Why, yes. There is no time for moving. And I am hungry.''

Her blue eyes had warmed to the thought of food. The Swedes had Teutonic affinities, Boris thought, noticing it. But thinking too that her good appetite did not spoil her excellent figure. Let her eat then. It was good for the nerves and she needed strong nerves.

He ordered for them both and talked easily and lightly to her about a recent week-end he had spent in a charming little hotel on the River Thames between Maidenhead and Henley.

“Alone?'' asked Margrethe, primly.

“Naturally not alone,'' he answered.

“Is she English?''

“No.''

“But I thought your friends—''

“My friends are friends of the past. My – companion by the river is of the present.''

Margrethe looked annoyed.

“I do not understand these riddles,'' she said, crossly.

“You do not need to understand.''

She laid down her knife and fork.

“Perhaps it is too hot in here after all.''

Boris's hand went out to cover hers.

“The temperature will go down if we cease to discuss my private affairs.''

There was a mild emphasis on the word ‘private' that made the girl look up at him with a new light in her eyes. Her hand lay still under his and when, a moment later, he took it away she slowly closed her fingers and removed her own hand to her lap where she fumbled with her handbag and eventually produced a handkerchief with which she blew her nose and dabbed her eyes. To anyone who had happened to watch this little scene a lovers' quarrel had flared and had as quickly died away.

“So,'' she said, attacking her meal again. “From the last two letters of this morning?''

“Perhaps.''

“I must know the source.''

He looked at her thoughtfully. This was a fresh development. The messenger had woken up, showed signs of giving trouble. It was always the same. Ideals, patriotic fervour, invariably dimmed with the first payments, when money shone brighter than those other aims had ever done.

“Why must you? You are the messenger. It is safer that way.''

“I am not speaking for myself. It is from higher up. I suppose they begin to doubt.''

He frowned. The information, though not of the first importance, had always been useful and patently accurate. Then why doubt?

“I cannot give my source to the messenger.''

She sighed. She had been told to expect this reaction. What a bore. Boris was altogether disappointing. He had charm, he had looks, he admired her – but from a distance he alone chose to maintain. That week-end on the river. Some slut he'd picked up. Not even one of his English friends and acquaintances. An unknown – always to remain unknown – without a name she could abuse—

“Very well,'' she said, carelessly. “As you will. I will arrange a meeting. But not in private, that would be too dangerous for them.''

“How then?''

“There is an international club I attend. Students,
au pair
girls, refugees. Many Africans and Eastern races. They belong to the British Commonwealth, but they find the European aliens more better to talk with, more kind.''

“It sounds terrible,'' said Boris simply, with feeling.

“It is not terrible. It is jolly and perhaps sad. Everyone is happy to meet.''

“Terrible,'' Boris repeated.

“I can manage that you meet – a personage – at one of our parties. To him you can give your source as you would to –'' she lowered her voice and spoke in Swedish, “to the Embassy itself.''

Boris nodded. He understood this much, though he could not have held a conversation with her in her own tongue. Soon after they were supplied with coffee and finished their meal discussing tennis. Margrethe was enthusiastic about the game. She played every evening at the local suburban club, she said. Actually it was the club-house that the internationalists borrowed for their weekly meetings. These had to be held late in the evenings at present because play went on so long with summer time. In the winter the meetings had begun at six.

“So you will come tomorrow, yes?''

“Tomorrow, is it?''

“Any objection?''

He made a play of looking at his diary where he knew the page was blank. Finally he agreed to keep the date, but he did not write it down, nor the address.

“I shall not forget,'' he said. Margrethe nodded. She had expected more opposition, if not an adamant refusal. His puny reluctance worried her. There must be something behind it, but she could not begin to think what that might be.

“We dress for this – party?'' Boris asked, when they met outside Mr. Sørensen's room, after making their separate ways back to the office.

“No, no. Anything you like. Informal. Some of the students have a very strange appearance. National costume. Then there is a Spanish group. They wear black, all black and they are very dark, black hair, black eyes and they play on guitars and sing in a harsh voice.''

“Holy Mother of God!'' said Boris, startled into a return to his devout youth.

The collection of mixed races at the tennis club house was not, however, intimidating, Boris decided, not even very exciting. He followed Margrethe about, being introduced to fellow humans of many different colours, builds, clothing and degrees of animation. The only language he heard was English.

For about an hour he chatted easily with a mixed group of Africans and Asiatics, during which time he noticed that Margrethe drifted away from him to a circle of her own compatriots. But when a murmur went round that the buffet had begun to operate, she appeared again at his side and he found himself eating a sagging sausage roll and drinking very weak coffee in a group exclusively Scandinavian. It was clear to him that the object of the exercise was near at end.

It was managed naturally, so smoothly that he discovered a new reason to admire his primrose-haired colleague. The man beside whom he had been standing for quite a quarter of an hour said, in answer to some casual remark about suburban tennis clubs, “But they are not only social meeting-places. The game is serious. There are even Olympic players who begin here.''

He turned, on an apparently sudden impulse, to Boris.

“I will show you one of the famous in her extreme youth. You like to see? Then come!'' There was not even a hint of command in the voice.

Boris followed and they walked through a side door into a small room with a large table at the centre, set round with chairs. The committee room, he saw at once. On its walls were hung groups of players going back to the years immediately after the Second World War. There were only two individual portraits: one of the robust, eminently successful-looking business-man and local councillor who had presented the club rooms to the club; the other of the famous woman player who had been nurtured there.

Boris went back to the door and pushed it wide open before rejoining his new acquaintance. They stood side by side admiring the player's stalwart build, her pleasant extroverted smile.

“You have given Margrethe some interesting facts,'' the man said, not altering the tone of his voice but speaking now in German. “Where do you get them from and what do you expect us to pay you for them?''

Boris frowned. The man was crude. After such a pleasant discreet approach his questions grated. This surprised Boris.

“Who are
you
, my friend?'' Boris asked, mildly, also in German. “Forgive me for asking, but Margrethe has given me to understand that formalities are now necessary.''

“How can I satisfy you if you refuse to satisfy us?''

Boris sighed.

“A difficult position indeed. But let me remind you of certain information I supplied that you have now proved to be correct.''

The man nodded and Boris said, “And again—''

He went on with his list. The other listened, unwilling at first, then with reluctant agreement.

“So'' said Boris, finally, “my source must be a good one. You agree?''

“For me,'' said the man, “it is altogether too good. But my masters are greedy men and will not take my advice. Will a bonus, as if from Sørensen's firm, satisfy you?''

He named an amount. Boris shook his head.

“Too much,'' he said. “I have not worked there long enough.''

He mentioned a sum less than half what he had been offered. The other looked at him curiously.

“You are totally unpredictable,'' he said. “So different from our expectations, based on our own people—''

“That you wonder if I am really the Sudenic you were led to believe in. If you will look in the picture of the tennis champion you will see on the veranda behind us two types who have no doubts about me and are very curious to know why you are with me.''

His Swedish companion was both startled and angry, but did not betray it. He merely asked who they were.

“My own countrymen,'' Boris answered. “Would you like to meet them?''

“I see I shall have to do so.''

Boris led him on to the veranda, turning off the light in the committee room as he did so.

“Good evening, General Constantin,'' he said, cordially. “So you, too, are internationally minded?''

The general did not look pleased, but he introduced the man who was with him and Boris invented a Swedish name for his own companion, who had not been named to him individually before. Margrethe had merely waved a hand round the group of Scandinavians, remarking, “My friends,'' and he himself had put his feet together and bowed and said, “Sudenic.''

“Meissner,'' the Swede corrected. Boris apologized.

“There was something of interest in there?'' asked Constantin with heavy innuendo.

“Why, yes,'' Boris answered. “The member of this club who became an Olympic Champion. Shall I show you?''

He moved back to the door of the committee room and switched on the light.

“You must excuse me,'' said Meissner, stiffly. “I must rejoin my friends. I have to drive them home.''

“Tell Margrethe I shall not be long,'' Boris said, with a smile.

He led the general and the latter's friend to the picture.

“Since when have you become intimate with the Swedish colony?'' asked the general, severely.

“I work at Sørensen's. His secretary, Miss Olsen, brought me here. She said I should become more international. I thought if I am to become British I should meet the Commonwealth. It is my first visit.''

“Meissner is a high-ranking official.''

“Really!''
Boris's exclamation held quite spontaneous surprise. He had not been deeply impressed by his vetting.

The general was not a stupid man. For that reason he found Boris's genuine ignorance exasperating.

“You should be more careful!'' he said, roughly. He knew his voice was blustering, regretted it, resented regretting it and growled angrily, “Why, man, you're not even naturalized yet!''

“No,'' said Boris. He looked squarely at the general. “My permit holds good for six months,'' he said. “I have already used four of them.''

There was a sudden stillness in the room. The general's companion had not uttered a word so far. Now he spoke.

“You will, of course, get it renewed?''

Boris laughed.

“Who would want to stop me?'' he said. Before either of the others could find an answer to this they heard the sound of dance music strike up in the main club room.

“A waltz,'' said Boris, gaily. “Now that is one dance I can manage.

It does not dislocate the spine or the hips. I must find Miss Olsen. Good night, gentlemen.''

General Constantin and his friend turned off the light in the committee room, walked down the veranda steps to the gravel path and, making their way round the club house, got into the general's car and drove away. It had not been a particularly rewarding expedition. In fact the general had an uncomfortable feeling that he had made a considerable fool of himself. This did not improve his report to his friends on Boris Sudenic's habits and probable activities.