The Angry Mountain (3 page)

He was turning away when I stopped him. “Did you show this visitor up yourself?”

“Oh no,
pane
. He walk straight through the entrance and up the stairs. I know he is not a resident, so I follow him. It is expected of me.”

“Quite,” I said. “And you recognised this person?”

“Oh, yes,
pane
.” Then he smiled. “But, of course—no,
pane
. I do not recognise him any more now. I do not know to which room he go.” He smirked and with a little bow, turned and walked quickly out through the hotel entrance.

I went through into the breakfast room. After several cigarettes and innumerable cups of black coffee I had got no nearer a solution of the matter. The porter wasn't lying. I was certain of that. He had been far too sure of getting a fat tip. But if Tu
č
ek had come to see me so late at night, he must have had a reason, and an important one. Then why didn't he wake me?

The problem was with me all that morning. I took a couple of aspirins to clear my head and went out into the bright spring sunshine. The buds shone fat and sticky on the smoke-black chestnut trees across the road. Birds were singing above the rattle of the trams and girls were wearing summer frocks. I paid three calls during the morning and did some business. When I got back to the hotel I was
relieved to find that Mari
č
had rung me. I was to call and see him at three-thirty. I could deliver my message to Tu
č
ek then.

At the Tu
č
ek works I was escorted by one of the factory police to the main office block. Mari
č
had two of his technical experts with him. We discussed specifications. From a business point of view the meeting was successful. When the conference broke up, I remained seated. Mari
č
glanced at me through his thick glasses. He got rid of the others very quickly and then, when the door was shut, he turned to me and said in English, “You wish to see me alone, Mr. Farrell?”

“Well—” I hesitated. “I didn't think I should leave without saying good-bye to Mr. Tu
č
ek. You see, he and I were together—”

“Quite, quite.” Mari
č
nodded and sat down at his desk. He took off his glasses and wiped them. Then, when he'd clipped them on to his nose again, he looked across at me.

“But I do not think you can see him.” His fingers had closed on a sheet of paper and he slowly crumpled it into a ball.”

“Is he in conference?” I asked. “If so I will wait.”

He seemed about to say something. Then his small blue eyes retreated behind his glasses. “I do not think it will be any good waiting. But perhaps if you care to see his secretary—” His voice sounded vague and uncertain.

“Yes,” I said. “I'd like to see his secretary.”

He nodded and rang for his assistant. The sudden decisiveness of his movements suggested a sense of relief. His assistant came in and he instructed him to take me to Tu
č
ek's personal secretary. “Good-bye, Mr. Farrell.” He dropped the crumpled ball of paper into his waste-paper basket and shook my hand. His fingers were soft and damp in my grip.

His assistant took me down two flights of concrete stairs and along a passage that was full of the noise of typewriters. Then we passed through swing doors marked
Správa závodu
and we were in the administrative block where the sound of
our footsteps was lost in the deep pile of a carpeted corridor. It was the same corridor I'd walked down the previous day. We stopped at the door marked
Ludvik Novák, tajemnik
ř
editelství
. My guide knocked and I was shown into the office of Tu
č
ek's personal secretary. “Come in, Mr. Farrell.” He was the dapper little man with the uneasy smile I'd seen the day before. There was no warmth in his greeting. “You are back again very soon. Was your meeting with
pan
Mari
č
not satisfactory?”

“Perfectly,” I said.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“I would like to see Mr. Tu
č
ek before I go.”

“I am sorry. That is not possible.” He gave me a rubber-stamp smile.

“Then I'll wait until he's free,” I said.

“It is not possible for you to see
pan
Tu
č
ek to-day.” His eyes were quite blank.

I felt as though I were up against a stone wall. “You mean he's not here?” I asked.

“I have told you, Mr. Farrell. It is impossible for you to see him.” He crossed to the door and opened it. “I am sorry. We are very busy to-day.”

I thought of Maxwell's strange visit the previous night.
It's urgent, Dick—very, very urgent.
“Whether you are busy or not,” I said, “I wish to see Mr. Tu
č
ek. Will you please tell him.”

The man's eyes stared at me without blinking. “Why are you so anxious to see
pan
Tu
č
ek?” he asked.

“I was with him in the most critical days of our fight against the Germans,” I said. “I am not in the habit of leaving a town without saying good-bye to old friends.” I realised that I'd got to get under the cold official to the man beneath. “You are his personal secretary,” I said. “You must have fought against the Germans. Surely you can understand that I want to see him before I leave?”

For an instant his eyes had warmth and feeling. Then they
were quite blank again. “I am sorry. You cannot see
pan
Tu
č
ek to-day.”

There was no more I could do. He had opened the door. I went out. It was only after the door had closed behind me that I realised he had not called any one to escort me out of the works. I had begun to walk down the corridor before I realised this. I stopped and looked back. At the far end of the corridor was a big mahogany door. On it I saw—
Jan Tu
č
eky p
ř
edseda a vrchní
ř
editel.
I quietly retraced my steps and stopped outside the door. There was the sound of somebody moving inside. I turned the handle and walked in.

Then I stopped. Opposite me was a big, glass-fronted bookcase. The glass doors had been flung wide and books littered the floor. A man paused in the act of riffling through the pages of a gilt-bound tome. “What do you want?” He spoke in Czech and his voice was hard and authoritative. I glanced quickly towards the desk. Another man was seated in the chair Jan Tu
č
ek had occupied the previous day. The drawers had all been pulled out on to the floor. The carpet was littered with files. And from the midst of the pile the smiling face of Tu
č
ek's daughter looked up at me. The steel filing cabinets against the wall by the windows had also been rifled. “What do you want?” The man by the desk was also looking at me now. The sudden chill of panic crept along my spine. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I was looking for
pan
Novák.”

Fortunately my Czech is quite good. The two men looked at me suspiciously. Then the one at the desk said, “In the next office.”

I murmured apologies and shut the door quickly. I tried not to hurry as I walked back along the corridor. But every moment I expected to hear the sound of Tu
č
ek's door opening and a voice calling me to stop. But apparently they were not suspicious. Nevertheless, it was only after I'd passed through the swing doors and heard the sound of my feet on the concrete passage beyond, that the feeling of panic left me.

At the stairs I hesitated. If I left now, without knowing what had happened, Maxwell would think me scared. I hurried up the two flights of stairs and went into Mari
č
's department. “I think I left my gloves in
pan
Mari
č
's office,” I told his assistant. “Can I go in?” I didn't wait for him to answer, but walked straight through into Mari
č
's office. He was sitting at his desk, staring out of the window. He turned with an obvious start as I entered.

“Oh, it is you, Mr. Farrell.” The sudden panic drained out of his eyes, leaving them expressionless—as blank as Novák's eyes had been when I had asked to see Tu
č
ek. “Is there—something you wish to see me about?” His voice was nervous and he fidgeted with the ruler on his desk.

“Yes,” I said. I glanced towards the door and then lowered my voice. “What's happened to Jan Tu
č
ek?”

“I do not know what you mean.” His voice was wooden.

“Yes, you do,” I said.

He got up then, “Please go,” he said. He was very agitated. “My assistant—” His mouth drooped at the corners.

“I'll go as soon as you tell me what's happened to Tu
č
ek,” I said. “I've just been down to his office. There are two men there, searching it. There were files and books all over the floor.”

He sat down then and for a moment he said nothing. His body, hunched in the big arm-chair, seemed suddenly shrivelled and old. “Jan Tu
č
ek has been arrested,” he said slowly.

“Arrested?” I think I'd known it ever since I'd walked into his office. But to hear it put bluntly into words shook me.

“Why?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Why is any one arrested in Czechoslovakia to-day? He fought in England during the war. That alone is sufficient to make him suspect. Also he is an industrialist.” His voice was low and somehow fatalistic.
It was as though he saw in this the beginning of the end for himself.

“Is he in prison?” I asked.

He shook his head. “They do not go so far yet. That Is why they search his office. They look for evidence. For the moment he is confined to his house. Perhaps he will be released to-morrow. And then—perhaps not.” He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “This sort of thing hangs over all of us of the old Czechoslovakia. So many have disappeared already.”

“But what has he done? “I asked.

“I do not know.” He took off his glasses and began to polish them as though afraid of showing some emotion. There was a heavy, audible silence between us. At length he picked up a newspaper from under a pile of papers, peered at it and then held it out to me. “Column two,” he said. “The Rinkstein story.”

It was down-page, quite a small story headed: DIAMOND DEALER ARRESTED—RINKSTEIN ACCUSED OF ILLEGAL CURRENCY DEALS. “Who is Rinkstein?” I asked him.

“Isaac Rinkstein is one of the biggest jewellers in Prague.”

“What's his arrest got to do with Tu
č
ek?”

“Everything—nothing. I do not know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “All I know is he deal in diamonds and precious stones.”

“But he's been arrested for illegal currency operations,” I pointed out.

He smiled wryly. “That is the legal excuse. It is his dealings in precious stones that will interest the authorities, I think.” He bent the ruler between his two hands till I thought it must break. “I am very much afraid Rinkstein will talk.” He got up suddenly and took the paper away from me. “You must go now. I have talk too much already. Please repeat nothing—nothing, you understand?” He was looking at me and I saw he was frightened. “Sixteen years
I have been with the Tu
č
ek company.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Good-bye, Mr. Farrell.” His hand was cold and soft.

“I'll be back in Pilsen in about three months,” I said as he took me to the door. “I shall look forward to seeing you again then.”

His lips twisted in a thin smile. “I hope so,” he said. He opened the door and called to his assistant to get me a car. It was with a feeling of relief that I was swept through the factory gates and out into the streets of Pilsen. Black clouds were coming up from the west and as I got out at my hotel the first drops of rain fell on the dry pavements.

I phoned the airport and checked that my passage to Munich and through to Milan was fixed. Then I got my raincoat and hurried across the road to the bookshop on the corner. It was not quite five. I searched through the paper backs with my eye on the door. Five o'clock struck from a nearby church. There was no sign of Maxwell. I stayed on until the shop shut at five-thirty. But he didn't come. I bought several books and after waiting for a bit in the doorway, went back to the hotel. There was no message for me at the desk. I ordered tea to be sent up to my room and tried to finish off my report. But my mind could concentrate on nothing but Tu
č
ek's arrest. Also I was worried about Maxwell.

In the end I went down to the bar. For a while I tried to persuade myself that Tu
č
ek and Maxwell were nothing to do with me. But it was no good. What had happened filled me with a sense of helplessness. It made me want to get drunk again, so I went in to dinner. And after dinner I went out to a cinema where an old English film was showing. I got back shortly before eleven. There was no message for me and nobody had called to see me. I got a drink and took it up to my room. I stayed up, waiting for Maxwell. But he didn't come and when the church clock struck midnight I went to bed. It was a long time before I could get to sleep.
I kept on thinking of Jan Tu
č
ek, somewhere over on the other side of Pilsen under house arrest, and wondering what had become of Maxwell.

I was called at eight-thirty the following morning. The rain was beating in at the open window and the clouds were low and wind-blown. It looked like being a dirty trip over the Alps. But I didn't care about that. I was glad to be leaving Czechoslovakia. I knew I'd been on the fringe of a political whirlpool and it was good to know I was getting out before I was sucked down into it.

I had breakfast, paid my bill and got a
drožka
. The flight was scheduled for eleven-thirty. I paid one call on the way out to the airport and arrived well before eleven. I checked my bags and then went to the passenger clearing office. I handed my passport to the clerk. He looked at it, flicked over the pages and then nodded to a man standing near me. The man came forward. “
Pan
Farrell?”