“Except Cooler? And Winkler?”
“You really mustn’t turn policeman, old man.” They passed out of the car and he put his hand again on Martins’ elbow. “That was a joke, I know you won’t. Have you heard anything of old Bracer recently?”
“I had a card at Christmas.”
“Those were the days, old man. Those were the days. I’ve got to leave you here. We’ll see each other-some time. If you are in a jam, you can always get me at Kurtz’s.” He moved away and turning waved the hand he had had the tact not to offer: it was like the whole past moving off under a cloud. Martins suddenly called after him, “Don’t trust me, Harry,” but there was too great a distance now between them for the words to carry.
ANNA WAS AT the theatre,” Martins told me, “for the Sunday matinee. I had to see the whole thing through a second time. About a middle-aged pianist and an infatuated girl and an understanding-a terribly understanding-wife. Anna acted very badly-she wasn’t much of an actress at the best of times. I saw her afterwards in her dressing-room, but she was badly fussed. I think she thought I was going to make a serious pass at her all the time, and she didn’t want a pass. I told her Harry was alive-I thought she’d be glad and that I would hate to see how glad she was, but she sat in front of her make-up mirror and let the tears streak the grease paint and I wished after that she had been glad. She looked awful and I loved her. Then I told her about my interview with Harry, but she wasn’t really paying much attention because when I’d finished she said, I wish he was dead.’
“He deserves to be.”
“I mean he would be safe then-from everybody.”
I asked Martins, “Did you show her the photographs I gave you-of the children?”
“Yes. I thought it’s got to be kill or cure this time.
She’s got to get Harry out of her system. I propped the pictures up among the pots of grease. She couldn’t avoid seeing them. I said, ‘The police can’t arrest Harry unless they get him into this zone, and we’ve got to help!’
“She said, ‘I thought he was your friend.’ I said, ‘He was my friend.’ She said, ‘I’ll never help you to get Harry. I don’t want to see him again, I don’t want to hear his voice. I don’t want to be touched by him, but I won’t do a thing to harm him.’
“I felt bitter-I don’t know why, because after all I had done nothing for her. Even Harry had done more for her than I had. I said, ‘You want him still,’ as though I were accusing her of a crime. She said, ‘I don’t want him, but he’s in me. That’s a fact-not like friendship. Why, when I have a love dream, he’s always the man.’”
I prodded Martins on when he hesitated. “Yes?”
“Oh, I just got up and left her then. Now it’s your turn to work on me. What do you want me to do?”
“I want to act quickly. You see it was Harbin’s body in the coffin, so we can pick up Winkler and Cooler right away. Kurtz is out of our reach for the time being, and so is the driver. We’ll put in a formal request to the Russians for permission to arrest Kurtz and Lime: it makes our files tidy. If we are going to use you as our decoy, your message must go to Lime straight away-not after you’ve hung around in this zone for twenty-four hours. As I see it you were brought here for a grilling almost as soon as you got back into the Inner City: you heard then from me about Harbin: you put two and two together and you go and warn Cooler. We’ll let Cooler slip for the sake of the bigger game-we have no evidence he was in on the penicillin racket. He’ll escape into the second bezirk to Kurtz and Lime will know you’ve played the game. Three hours later you send a message that the police are after you: you are in hiding and must see him.”
“He won’t come.”
“I’m not so sure. We’ll choose our hiding place carefully-when he’ll think there’s a minimum of risk. It’s worth trying. It would appeal to his pride and his sense of humour if he could scoop you out. And it would stop your mouth.”
Martins said, “He never used to scoop me out-at school.” It was obvious that he had been reviewing the past with care and coming to conclusions.
“That wasn’t such serious trouble and there was no danger of your squealing.”
He said, “I told Harry not to trust me, but he didn’t hear.”
“Do you agree?”
He had given me back the photographs of the children and they lay on my desk: I could see him take a long look at them. “Yes,” he said, “I agree.”
ALL THE FIRST arrangements went to plan. We delayed arresting Winkler, who had returned from the second bezirk, until after Cooler had been warned. Martins enjoyed his short interview with Cooler. Cooler greeted him without embarrassment and with considerable patronage. “Why, Mr Martins, it’s good to see you. Sit down. I’m glad everything went off all right between you and Colonel Calloway. A very straight chap Calloway.”
“It didn’t,” Martins said.
“You don’t bear any ill will, I’m sure, about my letting him know about you seeing Koch. The way I figured it was this-if you were innocent you’d clear yourself right away, and if you were guilty, well, the fact that I liked you oughtn’t to stand in the way. A citizen has his duties.”
“Like giving false evidence at an inquest.”
Cooler said: “Oh, that old story. I’m afraid you are riled at me, Mr Martins. Look at it this way-you as a citizen, owing allegiance…”
“The police have dug up the body. They’ll be after you and Winkler. I want you to warn Harry…”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, yes, you do.” And it was obvious that he did. Martins left him abruptly. He wanted no more of that kindly tired humanitarian face.
It only remained then to bait the trap. After studying the map of the sewer system I came to the conclusion that a café anywhere near the main entrance of the great Sewer which was placed in what Martins had mistakenly called a newspaper kiosk would be the most likely spot to tempt Lime. He had only to rise once again through the ground, walk fifty yards, bring Martins back with him, and sink again into the obscurity of the sewers. He had no idea that this method of evasion was known to us: he probably knew that one patrol of the sewer police ended before midnight, and the next did not start till two, and so at midnight Martins sat in the little cold café in sight of the kiosk drinking coffee after coffee. I had lent him a revolver: I had men posted as close to the kiosk as I could, and the sewer police were ready when zero hour struck to close the manholes and start sweeping the sewers inwards from the edge of the city. But I intended if I could to catch him before he went underground again. It would save trouble-and risk to Martins. So there, as I say, in the café Martins sat.
The wind had risen again, but it had brought no snow: it came icily off the Danube and in the little grassy square by the café it whipped up the snow like the surf on top of a wave. There was no heating in the café and Martins sat warming each hand in turn on a cup of ersatz coffee-innumerable cups. There was usually one of my men in the café with him, but I changed them every twenty minutes or so irregularly. More than an hour passed: Martins had long given up hope and so had I, where I waited at the end of a phone several streets away, with a party of the sewer police ready to go down if it became necessary. We were luckier than Martins because we were warm in our great boots up to the thighs and our reefer jackets. One man had a small searchlight about half as big again as a car headlight strapped to his breast and another man carried a brace of Roman candles. The telephone rang. It was Martins. He said, “I’m perishing with cold. It’s a quarter past one. Is there any point in going on with this?”
“You shouldn’t telephone. You must stay in sight.”
“I’ve drunk seven cups of this filthy coffee. My stomach won’t stand much more.”