Andrew Taylor – The Second Midnight (страница 18)

Michael showed Kendall out. When he got back to the sitting room, he found Dansey jabbing the coals with a poker.

‘I think I’ll take that drink now, Stanhope-Smith.’

Michael crossed to the sideboard. ‘What do you think of Kendall’s offer?’

‘I think we can get along quite well without the services of Captain Kendall or his wretched son. Even if he has been to St Paul’s. We may be moving on to a war footing but there are limits.’

Michael handed Dansey a small whisky and soda. ‘About the other son: shall I approach the Embassy through the FO or get on to SIS?’

‘Neither.’ Dansey finished his drink in a single swallow and wiped his moustache with his handkerchief. ‘Now I must be off. If necessary you can get hold of me through the PM’s office.’

‘But we can’t just abandon the boy.’

‘Why not? He’s of no importance. Kendall’s not going to make a fuss, especially if he thinks you might give him a job. Even if he did make a fuss, we could muzzle him with the Official Secrets Act.’

‘But we do have a moral obligation—’

‘Our moral obligations, as you choose to put it, lie elsewhere, Stanhope-Smith. Getting that boy out would be a purely sentimental gesture. I’m sorry, but the risk is unacceptable. The FO wouldn’t cooperate for a start: they’ve had to tread very carefully in Prague for the last fortnight. And I’ve no intention of compromising either SIS or Z. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Germans have already got the boy and his communist hosts under observation.’

‘We could send in a nursemaid to bring the boy out – an amateur like Kendall.’

Dansey picked up his hat and coat. ‘When I need your advice I shall ask for it. Don’t bother to come down: I’ll see myself out.’

When Dansey had gone, Michael kicked the sofa until the pain forced him to stop. He had known before that he was involved in a dirty business; but this was the first time that Dansey had rubbed his nose in it quite so hard.

For a moment he toyed with the idea of resignation. But that would rebound on his godfather’s head, especially at a time like this when the country was readying itself for war. Michael tried to ignore the thought that it would also be financial suicide: his rent was due tomorrow, on the first of the month; both his tailor and his wine merchant had presented him with extraordinarily large bills; and Betty Chandos was proving an expensive hobby.

But he had to do something – anything to prove to himself that he had not sold his soul entirely to Uncle Claude. He picked up the telephone and dialled the number of a house in Queen Anne’s Gate. He used the private line to the flat, rather than the switchboard number for the rest of the building. Dansey would be furious, but with luck he wouldn’t hear about it until it was too late.

‘May I speak to Admiral Sinclair? It’s Michael Stanhope-Smith.’

He breathed a sigh of relief when the secretary said his godfather was in. If he didn’t do it now, he suspected that he would never find the courage to try again.

‘Uncle? It’s Michael. I’ve found two possible new boys for you. I wonder if you could let them know downstairs.’

Five

The bullet, which was fired from above, punched into the crown of Dr Spiegel’s head at an oblique angle. The impact blew away the back of his skull.

Unable to move, Hugh gaped down at his tutor. Spiegel sprawled on the cobbles. What was left of his head pointed towards the Vltava which flowed, grey and swollen with the autumn rain, towards the Manes Bridge. Around his head was a red halo that grew larger every second. There were white splinters and grey islands in the blood.

It made it worse that there had been no intermediate state. One moment Spiegel had been hurrying Hugh away from the crowd outside the Clementinum; the next moment he simply wasn’t there. Nothing else had changed: the students were still shouting, ‘Germans go home!’ while the men in grey were on the outside of the crowd, methodically controlling the civilians’ movements, like dogs among sheep.

‘Halte! Komm doch her!’

A soldier in helmet and greatcoat clattered down the steps from the road to the embankment. He carried his rifle across his chest. Behind him there were three more shots and someone began to scream.

The scream unlocked Hugh’s muscles. He began to run in the direction of the Charles Bridge. The soldier shouted again but made no move to follow. After fifty yards, Hugh glanced back: the German was standing over Dr Spiegel, his arms flung wide and his body arched in a parody of a bow to his victim’s corpse.

Twenty yards later, Hugh realized what he had seen: the murderer was being sick.

He ran on to Narodni Street. The trams were still running and he was lucky enough to reach the stop just as a number seven came over the bridge. He sat by the exit, trying to control his breathing. It had become desperately important to look normal. He was Rudi Messner, a Czech-Hungarian boy who was blessed with a German surname and ancestry. He lived with his old Uncle Ludvik – who was fortunate enough to be half German – in Zizkov. Uncle Ludvik’s flat had been his home since his parents died in Budapest. He was going home.

It was only when the tram turned into Vaclavske Namesti that he realized that he no longer had a home. Within an hour or two the Gestapo would have identified Dr Spiegel and arrived at the flat. The Rudi Messner story and Hugh’s command of Czech were adequate for routine security checks but they would never stand up to the Gestapo.

Hugh got off at the next stop. The tram deposited him within a stone’s throw of the Petschek Palace, a bleak modern building that had once housed a bank. Now it was the headquarters of the Prague Gestapo.

The only place he could go to was Old Town Square; and the quickest route would lead him past the Petschek Palace, if he chose to go on foot. He rummaged through his pockets, finding a handful of small change. It would be wiser to save what little money he had for emergencies. He thrust his hands in his pockets and walked fast with his head down, like someone with somewhere to go.

In Old Town Square Madame Hase rented a narrow but immensely high house on the north side, near the monument to John Huss. Dr Spiegel had taken him there one afternoon in June, when his father’s money ran out. Madame Hase had told him that there was no more money and that it didn’t look as if his father would be coming back. He didn’t expect she would welcome him, but perhaps she might be prepared to help. If he didn’t find shelter for the night, the police would pick him up.

It was nearly five o’clock by the time he reached the square. There were soldiers and police on every corner. Two box-like armoured cars were parked with their engines still running outside the Old Town Hall.

Madame Hase’s front door was at the top of a small flight of steps. Hugh rang the bell and waited. He fixed his eyes on the doorknob, willing it to turn. At any moment someone might ask him for his papers.

Bolts rattled and the door swung back a few inches. Madame Hase herself peered through the gap; in June an elderly housekeeper had answered the door. She wore no make-up and looked much smaller; Hugh realized that for the first time he was seeing her without high heels.

‘What is it?’ Her eyes slid past him to the soldiers in the square. Then she saw who it was and the door began to close. ‘Go away,’ she muttered. ‘There is nothing for you here.’

In his desperation, Hugh acted without thinking. He jammed his foot over the threshold and pounded on the door.

Once again the door opened to the limit of its chain.

‘Don’t do that, for God’s sake.’ In her panic she spoke in Czech. ‘You’ll draw attention to us.’

Hugh had a flash of inspiration. ‘Then let me in. Or I’ll shout until someone comes to see what’s happening.’

Madame Hase’s face tightened with fear. ‘All right. Wait.’ She unlatched the chain and opened the door just widely enough for Hugh to slip inside. ‘Down the stairs. Quickly.’

He found himself in a basement kitchen which for an instant reminded him of Mrs Bunnings’ domain in Wilmot House. There were books and newspapers on the big scarred table. A tap dripped into the sink in the corner. A single armchair had been drawn up to the stove.

Madame Hase came in after him and closed the kitchen door behind her. He noticed that there were streaks of silver in the black hair.

‘Why aren’t you in England?’ she snapped.

‘After we saw you in the summer, Dr Spiegel took me to the Embassy. But the guards wouldn’t let me in because I didn’t have a passport. I came here on my father’s, you see.’

She sank into the armchair. ‘Where have you been all this time?’

‘At Dr Spiegel’s. There was nowhere else.’

‘The man always was a fool. Where is he now?’

‘He’s dead.’ Hugh clenched his hands behind his back. ‘A soldier shot him this afternoon. It was near the Clementinum – the students were protesting and we were trying to get away.’

Madame Hase nodded towards the radio. ‘It was on the news just now. The SS are pleased: it’s given them an excuse to shut down the universities and polytechnics.’