“I don’t play games,” Knebel corrected him. “I just obey orders. Whether you do the same is between you and the Kommandant – and, of course, your career.”
Novak said something explosive in Slovenian, then controlled himself. “Then let me tell you what they’re plotting. They’ve got an aeroplane, probably at Venice by now. No.” He turned to Ranklin. “You tell him. Confess again.”
Ranklin felt he was losing track of whose side he was on, but it was too late now. “It’s expected to fly over Trieste tomorrow and perhaps fire a machine-gun-”
Knebel was shaking his head gently, and Novak snatched back the narrative. “They want to stir up the shipyard workers, delay the battleships, fill the streets with whizzing bullets – perhaps even assassinate the Kommandant!” That was desperation.
But it was no use: machine-guns are soldiers’ business, and nobody is more relentlessly soldierly than a fusspot staff officer. Knebel shook his head again. “I can assure you that there’s only one type of machine-gun light enough to be carried in an aeroplane and that isn’t even in production yet.”
Novak glared at Ranklin, who said nothing, then scrabbled through Pero’s report. “Yes, here, my own informer heard them talk of machine-guns-”
“Hauptmann, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but it is leading you beyond your depth.”
“But they’ve certainly got an aeroplane,” Novak growled mutinously. “And if that flies over tomorrow-”
“It would indeed be a violation of our laws. But answer me truly: do you really believe our Italian workers are going to start strikes and riots because they’ve seen an Italian aeroplane fly over? – with or without machine-guns?”
It was like asking Novak to pull out one of his own teeth. His big body writhed in the chair. But it came out at last: “No. But-”
“Then stop acting like an old lady whose candle’s blown out. And if an aeroplane comes, let us soldiers worry about it. So.” He stood up. “I’ve passed on the Kommandant’s orders: you’re to release the Count. And if you still want to charge this one, complete the proper forms and we’ll take him over. Now I’ve got the relief to worry about. Remember what I said about tidying the office – and open a window to get rid of this cigarette smoke. Good evening.”
Novak watched the door close, then raged morosely: “Someone’s trying to pull down his Empire on his head and he pisses his pants about cigarette smoke!”
But Ranklin was thinking about the gulf in attitude between the Slovenian policeman and the Austrian soldier. Perhaps here was Novak’s commitment. And perhaps that gulf was wide enough for him to slip through. “So what now?”
Novak clamped his jaw and said through his teeth: “At least I still have you. If I can do nothing else, I can see you rot your life out in a dungeon. A truly verminous one, this time. And if there aren’t enough vermin, I’ll bring you more on visiting day!”
Ranklin nodded. “Yes, but that won’t help tomorrow. What was he saying about a relief?”
Novak scowled. “For a spy, you don’t like working at your job, do you?” Then he whacked his hands on the table-top, spilling an ashtray. “Dear God! – that’s it! The changeover of regiments at the Caserma barracks. The old regiment gone and the new one wandering around looking for the piss-house and nobody with the key to the ammunition cupboard when the trouble starts! Only the Castle Guard here. That’s why your friends chose tomorrow. Nothing to do with Oberdan – not much, anyway.” He forced himself to calm down. “They’ve thought this out.”
“Only you don’t believe there’ll be any trouble.”
“They’ve planned so much, there must be more . . . And there’s still those machine-guns – unless that was one of the Count’s damned fantasies?”
“Oh no, Falcone got a couple in Britain, light enough to go in aeroplanes.” And Knebel had heard of the Lewis gun, too, he was remembering.
“Then what are they going to do with them?” Novak urged. “Come on, you’re supposed to be the spy.”
“I’m not supposed to be spying for you,” Ranklin pointed out. “However, if you let me go-”
“Ah! Yes! I knew it would come to that! Let a crawling, snivelling, contemptible wretch of a spy go free? Why should I? What could you do?”
“Get to Venice and try and stop it. Whatever it is.”
Novak opened his mouth, then closed it and looked what was probably, for him, reflective. Finally he sighed and shook his head. “No – perhaps the time for cleverness has gone by. After all these years, I’ve got the Count where I want him. And I can still keep both of you: if I hide you away as two drunk-and-disorderlies, d’you think the Commandante’s going to search every police station in the city? Then tomorrow, when your aeroplane does whatever it does, I’ll be the hero. The Count will hang, you’ll rot, and I’ll be promoted. Piss on the Empire and politics, it’s time for me to be a policeman again.”
“You could keep the Count and still let me go,” Ranklin suggested diffidently.
“Why?”
“Hauptmann Knebel heard me warning you about the plot.”
“You were confessing. That makes you a spy, it doesn’t let you off.”
“But to defend myself in court I shall have to drag in every silly detail . . . Now, I don’t blame you for sending assassins after Falcone, pretending to be from the Ujedinjenje. What else could you do? Mind,” he said reflectively, “I do think it was a mistake to give them that Royal Navy pistol, so easily traced back to Trieste. Still, I expect there’s no record of you taking it off the criminal who stole it.”
Novak was pop-eyed with astonishment. “You’re trying to blackmail me!”
“Blackmail?” Ranklin managed to look offended, but mostly because Novak had so easily seen what he was doing. “I’m trying to help you. We both want this thing stopped. And I’m even prepared to deny that you mentioned Falcone getting stabbed. It wasn’t in the newspapers, you see.” He smiled apologetically.
Novak thought briefly, then shrugged. “Policemen are supposed to know things.”
“I’m just defending myself, I don’t really want the Austrians suspecting a Slovene policeman’s been poking into international politics, assassinating Italian senators and so on.”
Novak sat back and sighed loudly. “I’m almost happy: my faith in your loathsomeness is restored. You really do want to see my career swimming in piss. But just remember one thing.” His forefinger stabbed the air. “I caught you. Whatever else you do with your despicable life, always remember I caught you.”
He opened a folder and took out a creased slip of paper. “But I had help, and that isn’t sporting, is it?” He held up an international cablegram.
It was actually sent from Trieste and addressed to Senator Falcone, c/o the Italian embassy, London. And in Italian, of course; Ranklin wrinkled his brow trying to read it.
“Perhaps your Italian is not so good as your German? I would be most happy to assist you.” Grinning broadly, Novak whisked the cablegram back and read: “ ‘Have met man calling self James Spencer who claims to have joined our syndicate’ – ach, how delicately he puts that! And you were telling me you had never heard of the Senator! ‘Is short, fat and fair’ – such poetry! – ‘Please confirm he is genuine.’ Oh, this confirms you’re genuine, all right: a genuine spy. Who foolishly trusted an amateur. Did he really think we would not read his cables because he is equivalent to a marquis? – or applied for Austrian citizenship? As another professional, I sympathise with you – just a little. This stays on your file.”
He tucked the cablegram away, then tossed a cloth bag across. It held Ranklin’s passport, wallet, pipe and so forth. “And should you ever think of coming back to Trieste, remember that file. It isn’t under Herr Spencer, but-” he leant suddenly across the desk and leered into Ranklin’s face; “-under Short and Fat. You can’t change that.”