‘Reynolds,’ he whispered, the word coming awkwardly, with difficulty as they would to a Hungarian. ‘Michael Reynolds? I — -I do not know what you mean, comrade. What — what is wrong? Why are these guns — ? I swear I have done nothing, comrade, nothing! I swear it!’ His hands were clasped together now, wringing each other till the knuckles stood White, and the tremor in his voice was the quaver of fear.
The two guards that Reynolds could see wrinkled their heavy brows and stared at each other in slow, puzzled wonder, but not even a shadow of doubt touched the dark, amused eyes of the little Jew.
‘Amnesia,’ he said kindly. ‘The shock, my friend, that is why you forget your own name. A remarkable effort, none the less, and had I not known your identity beyond any doubt, I too — like my men here who do not yet know who you are — would have been more than halfway towards belief. The British Espionage Service do us a great compliment, they send us only their best. But, then, I would have expected nothing else but the best where the — ah — recovery, shall we say — of Professor Harold Jennings is concerned.’
Reynolds could feel the sickness deep down in his stomach, the bitter taste of despair in his mouth. God, this was even worse than he had feared, if they knew this, they knew everything, it was the end of everything. But the stupid, fearful expression remained on his face: it might have been pinned there. Then he shook himself, a person throwing off the dark terror of a nightmare, and looked wildly around him.
‘Let me go, let me go!’ His voice was high-pitched now, almost a scream. ‘I’ve done nothing, I tell you, nothing, nothing! I am a good Communist, I am a member of the party.’ His mouth was working uncontrollably in a strained face. ‘I am a citizen of Budapest, comrade, I have my papers, my membership cards! I will show you, I will show you!’ His hand was reaching up to go inside his coat, when he froze at a single word from the AVO officer, a soft-pitched word, but cold and dry and cutting like the lash of a whip.
‘Stop!’ Reynolds arrested his hand just at the lapels of his coat, then let it fail slowly to his side. The little Jew smiled.
‘A pity you will not live to retire from your country’s secret service, Captain Reynolds. A pity, indeed, that you ever joined it — I feel convinced that a notable Thespian has been thereby lost to the boards and the silver screen.’ He looked over Reynolds’ shoulder at a man standing by the garage door. ‘Coco, Captain Reynolds was about to produce a pistol or some such offensive weapon. Relieve him of the temptation.’
Reynolds heard the tread of heavy boots on the concrete floor behind him, then grunted in agony as a rifle butt smashed into the small of his back, just above the kidney. He swayed dizzily on his feet, and through the red haze of pain he could feel trained hands searching his clothes, could hear the little Jew’s apologetic murmur.
‘You must excuse Coco, Captain Reynolds. A singularly direct fellow in his approach to these matters, always the same. However, experience has taught him that a sample of what misbehaviour will inevitably bring, when he is searching a prisoner, is much more effective than even the direst threats.’ His voice changed subtly. ‘Ah, Exhibit A, and most interesting. A Belgian 6.35 automatic — and a silencer — neither of which is obtainable in this country. No doubt you found them lying in the streets. . . . And does anyone recognise this?’
Reynolds focused his eyes with difficulty. The AVO officer was tossing in his hand the blackjack Reynolds had taken from his assailant earlier in the evening.
‘I think so, I think I do, Colonel Hidas.’ The AVO man whom his superior called Coco moved into Reynolds’ line of sight — a mountain of a man, Reynolds could now see, six foot four if an inch, and built accordingly, with a broken-nosed, seamed and brutalised face — and took the blackjack, almost engulfing it in his huge, black-haired paw. ‘This is Herped’s, Colonel. Without a doubt. See, it has his initials on the base. My friend Herped. Where did you get this?’ he snarled at Reynolds.
‘I found it along with the gun,’ Reynolds said sullenly. ‘In a parcel, at the corner of Brody Sador Street and — ‘
He saw the blackjack whipping across, but too late to duck. It smashed him back against the wall, and he slipped down to the floor and pushed himself groggily to his feet. In the silence he could hear the blood from his smashed lips dripping on the floor, could feel teeth loose in the front of his mouth.
‘Now, now, Coco.’ Hidas spoke soothingly, reprovingly. ‘Give that back to me, Coco. Thank you. Captain Reynolds, you have only yourself to blame — we do not know yet whether Herped is Coco’s friend or was Coco’s friend: he was at death’s door when he was found in that tram shelter where you left him.’ He reached up and patted the shoulder of the scowling giant by his side. ‘Do not misjudge our friend here, Mr. Reynolds. He is not always thus, as you can judge from his name — not his own, but that of a famous clown and comic of whom you have doubtless heard. Coco can be most amusing, I assure you, and I have seen him convulsing his colleagues down in the Stalin Street cellars with the interesting variations in his — ah — techniques.’
Reynolds said nothing. The reference to the AVO torture-chambers, the free hand Colonel Hidas was allowing this sadistic brute were neither unconnected nor accidental. Hidas was feeling his way, shrewdly assessing Reynolds’ reaction and resistance to this line of approach. Hidas was interested only in certain results, to be achieved by the swiftest means, and if he became convinced that brutality and violence were a waste of time with a man like Reynolds, he would desist and seek out more subtle methods. Hidas looked a dangerous man, cunning and embittered, but there was no sadism that Reynolds could see in the dark, thin features. Hidas beckoned to one of his men.
‘Go to the bottom of the street — there’s a telephone there. Have a van come round here right away. They know where we are.’ He smiled at Reynolds. ‘We could not, unfortunately, park it outside the front door. Might have aroused your suspicions, eh, Captain Reynolds?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The van should be here in ten minutes, no more, but that ten minutes can be passed profitably. Captain Reynolds might be interested in writing — and signing — an account of his recent activities. Non-fiction, of course. Bring him inside.’
They brought him inside and stood him facing the desk while Hidas sat behind it and adjusted the lamp so that it shone strongly into Reynolds’ face from a distance of less than two feet.
‘We will sing, Captain Reynolds, then we will record the words of the song for a grateful posterity, or, at least, for the People’s Court. A fair trial awaits you. Equivocation, outright lies or even delay will serve you nothing. A speedy confirmation of what we already know may yet spare your life — we would prefer to dispense with what would inevitably become an international incident. And we know everything, Captain Reynolds, everything.’ He shook his head, a man remembering and wondering. ‘Who would have thought that your friend’ — he snapped his fingers — ‘I forget his name, the squat fellow with the shoulders like a barn door — would have had such a beautiful singing voice?’ He pulled a paper out from a drawer in front of him, and Reynolds could see that it was covered with writing. ‘A somewhat unsteady hand, understandable perhaps in the circumstances, but it will serve: I think the judge will have little difficulty in deciphering it.’
In spite of the deep-seated, tearing pain in his side and puffing agony of his smashed mouth, Reynolds felt a wave of elation wash over him and spat blood on the floor to conceal the expression on his face. He knew, now, that no one had talked, because the AVO had caught none of them. The nearest they had come to Jansci and his men, probably, was a glimpse some informer had had of Sandor working about the garage. . . . There were far too many things wrong with what Hidas had said. •
Sandor, Reynolds was sure, did not know enough to tell Hidas everything he wanted to know. They wouldn’t have started on Sandor anyway, not with the girl and Imre around. Nor was Hidas the man to forget the name of any person, especially a name that he had only that evening learned. Besides, the whole idea of Sandor talking under physical torture — there had been time for nothing else — was incomprehensible. Hidas, Reynolds reflected grimly, had never been crushed in Sandor’s grip and gazed into those gentle, implacable eyes from a range of six inches. Reynolds stared at the document on the table, then looked slowly around him. If they had tried to torture Sandor in that room, he doubted very much whether even the walls would be still standing.