“The rivers form great pools here—”
“What tackle have you?”
The reader must be spared the details of a conversation which now lasted for nearly an hour and a half, between two enthusiasts of the rod. Sir John was a bachelor and fishing for him was almost a religion: at any rate Methuen found that Who’s Who had been guilty of an error in describing his passion for the sport as a “hobby”. It was a good deal more than that. Together they explored almost every lake and river in Yugoslavia, crossing and recrossing the great wall-map to dwell, now upon the merits of the great trout of the Vrba river, now upon the difficulties of fishing some of the Slovene rivers. The old man listened with the greatest eagerness and delight to Methuen’s exposition of the fishing conditions in the country. “I shall put all this to good use one day,” said Sir John. “You say the Olive Dun is not much of a draw? I should have thought in the muddier ones, at the late springtime when the snow melts—”
“Not in my experience,” said Methuen who had lost his nervousness of this august figure by now and was delighted to find a fellow fisherman. The Ambassador now unlocked a compartment of his desk and took from it a book of flies whose beauty and ingenuity made Methuen envious. Some of these he had made himself, and he drank in Methuen’s enthusiastic praise with the delight of a schoolboy. The conversation now reverted to cases, and Methuen told his story of the fourteen-pounder which he had lost after a long battle on a tributary of the Spey. The Ambassador capped this with an experience of his own. Types of rod were discussed. The Ambassador rang for coffee, and over it they expanded their range to cover nearly the whole field of fishing.
“My goodness,” said Sir John, “how I regret this silly ban on travel. Methuen, if I let you go on this trip you must promise me to be careful. It’s not only the danger that worries me. I don’t want the authorities to have another excuse to protest to H.M.G. And yet: the whole thing is so foolhardy I shouldn’t really countenance it.”
“Well, the decision is yours, sir,” said Methuen.
The Ambassador walked up and down the room for a moment with his hands behind his back. “It isn’t really,” he said, and there was a touch of sadness in his voice. “I’ve been overruled by the F.S. I can’t disguise from you the fact that his decision is extremely galling. We Ambassadors are paramount chiefs in our territories. But I suppose that special considerations were at stake. Your personal safety is the Awkward Shop’s affair, of course. But I’d like you to give me your word, as an officer and a fisherman,” he smiled slowly, “that you will bear my preoccupations in mind, and won’t cause us any trouble on the diplomatic front.”
“Of course I will,” said Methuen.
Sir John pressed a bell and asked for a telephone number. “Carter,” he said, “come up and see me, please.” He added as an aside: “My dear Colonel. I am beginning to envy you,” but then some afterthought of the dangers and hazards of the trip must have crossed his mind for he shook his head and frowned. There was a tap at the door and Carter came in.
“Ah, Carter. I’m afraid Colonel Methuen has talked me into his scheme. It sounds a good deal more reasonable than it did at the beginning. I’ve changed my mind. He is going to follow Anson. Will you arrange the details for him and see that there are no slip-ups?”
“Yes, sir,” said Carter with a certain obvious astonishment. “I certainly will.”
“I can’t thank you enough, sir,” said Methuen, “and believe me I shall try not to cause any trouble.”
Sir John shook hands with warmth. “When you come back,” he said, “we must spend an evening together. It gets rather lonely, you know. I’ve no one on my staff who fishes. And by the way, if you would care to … I’d be honoured, Colonel …” and with a gesture which was almost shy he placed his cherished book of flies in Methuen’s hands.
In the corridor outside Methuen could not resist a chuckle at Carter’s look of blank amazement. “Is it really on?” said the young soldier with excitement. “What on earth have you done to His Excellency? He was dead against the trip when Dombey hinted at it.” Methuen sighed, and as they stepped into the lift he said: “He’s a fisherman.” Carter grinned. “I see.” Then he went on more seriously. “Frankly you know the assignment is a risky one. I’m not altogether convinced of your wisdom in going, sir. And I do hope that you won’t take it too lightly.” Methuen smiled at him. “Because I am taking a trout-rod?” he said. He was turning the book of flies over in his fingers, mentally selecting those which he thought might suit his purpose. Carter added once more, as if alarmed by these signs of abstraction. “I hope you won’t take it too lightly.”
“No,” said Methuen thoughtfully. “You need not worry on that score. I don’t make an uninsurable occupation more dangerous than it is by taking it lightly.”
Carter’s office was a long pleasant room with a certain austere bareness, due perhaps to the unpolished trestle tables which lined one wall. Here a huge sectional map of the country was laid out in pages. A celluloid grid and a magnifying-glass lay on it. Carter cleared his throat and sat down after fetching his guest a chair. “I expect you know as much as I do, sir,” he said. “Peter bunged himself off in the car with a light bed-roll, a fishing-rod, and a couple of tins of Spam. He was fully dressed when they brought him in; shot through the head at point-blank range. But he was also very badly bruised, perhaps from a fall. Oh! one or two other small items of gear have not yet reappeared: glasses, an oil compass. Frankly, anyone would pinch them off a body. But what is curious is that the only book he took with him was still in the pocket of his coat. Here it is.” He took a small volume of Serbian folk-songs out of his desk and passed it to Methuen. “He picked it up second-hand. As you will see from the names in the front it has been used by several schoolboys who are most probably responsible for the marginal comments.”
Methuen turned the ugly little book over in his hands. “Go on,” he said.
“Funny thing,” said Carter. “Probably has nothing to do with the case, but I found one passage which looked as if it might have been marked by Peter. Let me show you.” But he could not find it immediately. “It’s about white eagles. Now there is something else which is baffling. Peter did tell me that he was making some progress, and that he had discovered an underground Royalist opposition which called itself Society of the White Eagles. You know of course that the white eagle is the old Serbian Royalist emblem. But he wouldn’t tell me anything or write anything down until he had it all cleared up.”
“White eagles,” said Methuen reflectively. “May I keep this book awhile? I suppose you have no clue as to where he slept? Did he mention a cave? There is a network of caves along the gorges of the Studenitsa river which would make an excellent hide-out.”
“No. I gathered he slept in a forest. There were pine-needles stuck in his clothes. His wallet with some money and a few flies was also in his clothes when they brought him in.”
“Anything else that struck you?”
“Nothing at all. For once I think the authorities are telling the truth. I think they did find him. As to who shot him up — it’s anyone’s guess. He was unarmed.”
Methuen ruffled the pages of the little Serbian book and stared at the carpet for a moment, lost in thought.
“When is the next bag?” he said at last.