Reynolds stared at the Count, only the years of professional training keeping his face expressionless, and wondered if there was any limit to this man’s effrontery. But in that same insolent audacity, Reynolds knew, the best hope of safety lay.
‘However, all that is no concern of yours,* the Count continued. ‘These are your instructions. A room for my friend here — let us call him, for the sake of convenience, say, Mr. Rakosi — the best you have, with a private bathroom, fire-escape, short-wave radio receiver, telephone, alarm clock, duplicates of all master-keys in the hotel and absolute privacy. No switchboard operator eavesdropping on Mr. Rakosi’s room telephone — as you are probably aware, my dear manager, we have devices that tell us instantly when a line is being monitored. No chambermaid, no floor waiters, no electricians, plumbers or any other tradesmen to go near his room. All meals will be taken up by yourself. Unless Mr. Rakosi chooses to show himself, he doesn’t exist. No one knows he exists, even you have never seen him, you haven’t even seen me. All that is clearly understood?’
‘Yes, of course, of course.’ The manager was grasping frantically,at this straw of a last chance. ‘Everything will be exactly as you say, comrade, exactly. You have my word.’ ‘You may yet live to mulct a few thousand more guests,’ the Count said contemptuously. ‘Warn that oaf of a porter not to talk, and show us this room immediately.’
Five minutes later they were alone. Reynolds’ room was not large, but comfortably furnished, complete with radio and telephone and a fire-escape conveniently placed outside the adjoining bathroom. The Count glanced round approvingly. ‘You’ll be comfortable here for a few days, two or three anyway. Not more, it’s too dangerous. The manager won’t talk, but you’ll always find some frightened fool or mercenary informer who will.’
‘And then?’
‘You’ll have to become somebody else. A few hours’ sleep then I go to see a friend of mine who specialises in such things.’ The Count thoughtfully rubbed a blue and bristly chin. ‘A German, I think will be best for you, preferably from the Ruhr — Dortmund, Essen or thereabouts. Much more convincing than your Austrian, I assure you. East-west contraband trade is becoming so big that the deals are now being handled by the principals themselves, and the Swiss and Austrian middlemen who used to handle these transactions are having a thin time of it. Very rare birds now, and hence an object of suspicion. You can be a supplier of, let us say, aluminium and copper goods. I’ll get you a book on it.’
‘These, of course, are banned goods?’
‘Naturally, my dear fellow. There, are hundreds of banned goods, absolutely proscribed by the governments of the west, but a Niagara of the stuff flows across the iron curtain every year — £100,000,000 worth, £200,000,000 — no one knows.’
‘Good lord!’ Reynolds was astonished, but recovered quickly. ‘And 111 contribute my quota to the flow?’
‘Easiest thing imaginable, my boy. Your stuff is sent to Hamburg or some other free port under false stencils and manifest: these are changed inside the factory and the stuff embarked on a Russian ship. Or, easier still, just send them across the border to France, break up, repack and send to Czechoslovakia — by the 1921 “in transit” agreement goods can be shipped from countries A to C clear across B without benefit of any customs examinations. Beautifully simple, is it not?’
‘It is,’ Reynolds admitted. ‘The governments concerned must be at their wits’ end.’
‘The governments!’ The Count laughed. ‘My dear Reynolds, when a nation’s economy booms, governments become afflicted with an irremediable myopia. Some time ago an outraged German citizen, a socialist leader by the name of, I think, Wehner — that’s it, Herbert Wehner — sent to the Bonn Government a list of six hundred firms — six hundred, my dear fellow! — actively engaged in contraband trade.’
‘And the result?’
‘Six hundred informants in six hundred factories sacked,’ the Count said succinctly. ‘Or so Wehner said, and no doubt he knew. Business is business, and profits are profits the world over. The Communists will welcome you with open arms, provided you have what they want. Ill see to that. You will become a representative, a partner, of some big metal firm in the Ruhr.’
‘An existing firm?*
‘But of course. No chances and what that firm doesn’t know won’t hurt them.’ The Count pulled a stainless steel hip flask from his pocket. ‘You will join me?’
‘Thank you, no.’ To Reynolds’ certain knowledge, the Count had drunk three-quarters of a bottle of brandy that night already, but its effects, outwardly at least, were negligible: the man’s tolerance to alcohol was phenomenal. In fact, Reynolds reflected, a phenomenal character in many ways, an enigma if ever he had known one. Normally a coldly humorous man with a quick, sardonic wit, the Count’s face, in its rare moments of repose, held a withdrawn remoteness, almost a sadness that was in sharp, baffling contrast to his normal self. Or, maybe his remote self was his normal self. . . .
‘Just as well.’ The Count fetched a glass from the bathroom, poured a drink and swallowed it in one gulp. ‘A purely medicinal precaution, you understand, and the less you have the more I have and thus the more adequately is my health safeguarded. … As I say, first thing this morning I fix your identity. Then 111 go to the Andrassy Ut and find out Where the Russian delegates to this conference are staying. The Three Crowns, probably — staffed by our people — but it may be elsewhere.’ He brought out paper and pencil and scribbled on it for a minute. ‘Here are the names and the addresses of seven or eight hotels — it’s bound to be one of these. Listed A-H, you observe. When I call you on the phone, 111 first of all address you by the wrong name. The first letter of that name will correspond to the hotel. You understand?’
Reynolds nodded.
‘I’ll also try to get you Jennings’ room number. That will be more difficult. I’ll reverse it on the phone — in the form of some financial quotations in connection with your export business.’ The Count put away his brandy flask and stood up. ‘And that, I’m afraid, is about all I can do for you, Mr. Reynolds. ‘The rest is up to you. I can’t possibly go near any hotel Where Jennings is staying, because our own men will be there watching them, and, besides, I expect to be on duty this coming afternoon and evening until ten o’clock at least. Even if I could approach him, it would be useless. Jennings would know me for a foreigner right away, and be instantly suspicious, and, apart from that, you are the only person who has seen his wife and can bring all the facts and necessary arguments to bear.’
‘You’ve already done more than enough,’ Reynolds assured him. ‘I’m alive, aren’t I? And I won’t leave this room till I hear from you?’
‘Not a step. Well, a little sleep, then on with the uniform and my daily stint of terrorising all and sundry.’ The Count smiled wryly. ‘You cannot imagine, Mr. Reynolds, what it feels like to be universally beloved. Au revoir.’
Reynolds wasted no time after the Count had gone. He felt desperately tired. He locked his room door, securing the key so that it could not be pushed clear from the outside, placed a chair-back under the handle as additional security, locked his room and bathroom windows, placed an assortment of glasses and other breakable articles on the window-sills — a most efficient burglar alarm, he had found from past experience — slipped his automatic under his pillow, undressed and climbed thankfully into bed.
For a minute or two only his thoughts wandered over the past few hours. He thought of the patient and gentle Jansci, a Jansci whose appearance and philosophies were at such wild variance with the almost incredible violence of his past, of the equally enigmatic Count, of Jansci’s daughter, so far only a pair of blue eyes and golden hair without any personality to go with them, of Sandor, as gentle in his own way as his master, and of Imre with the nervous shifting eyes.
He tried, too, to think of tomorrow — today, it was now — of his chances of meeting the old professor, of the best method of handling the interview, but he was far too tired really, his thoughts were no more than a kaleidoscope pattern without either form or coherence, and even that pattern blurred and faded swiftly into nothingness as he sank into the sleep of exhaustion.
The harsh jangling of the alarm clock roused him only four hours later. He woke with that dry, stale feeling of one who is only half-slept, but none the less he woke instantly, cutting off the alarm before it had rung for more than a couple of seconds. He rang down for coffee, put on his dressing-gown, lit a cigarette, collected the coffee pot at the door, locked it again and clamped the radio’s headphones to his ears.