structures of the night before. Kenton’s reactions to the methods employed by Colonel Robinson and his
aide
to secure the Sachs photographs had been emotional. Now, nearly twelve hours of sleep had left him wondering why on earth he had made such a lot of fuss. If they wanted the wretched photographs, let them have them. All that absurd fit of heroics had produced was a swollen lip and a bruised face. A nice mess he had landed himself in! The best thing he could do was to hand over the photographs as soon as possible and get back to Berlin.
He sat on the floor with his back to the wall below the shutters and considered his plight.
First and foremost, he badly needed a drink; water for preference, but anything else would do. He did not feel very hungry; but that was probably because he was so thirsty. His last meal had been off Sachs’ garlic sausage in the train. That seemed a long time ago. Sachs was now lying dead in the Hotel Josef. No, the police would have taken him away by now. He found it a little difficult to get the events of the past twenty-four hours into perspective. What curious business had he become involved in? Who had Sachs, or, rather Borovansky, been? The fact that his other name was Russian fitted in with his odd accent. It would appear, too, that he was working against the Russian Government; that was always assuming that the “Colonel” had been speaking the truth—a questionable assumption. Then there was that question of the Colonel’s “principals in London.” Who were they, and what “business” was the man transacting for them? Kenton felt that if he knew the answer to the first part of that question, the second part would be answered automatically. Principals in London who were in a position to influence newspaper proprietors sounded suspiciously like Big Business.
It was difficult, Kenton had found, to spend any length of time in the arena of foreign politics without perceiving that political ideologies had very little to do with the ebb and flow of international relations. It was the power of Business, not the deliberations of statesmen, that shaped the destinies of nations. The Foreign Ministers of the great powers might make the actual declarations of their Governments’ policies; but it was the Big Business men, the bankers and their dependents, the arms manufacturers, the oil companies, the big industrialists, who determined what those policies should be. Big Business asked the questions that it wanted to ask when and how it suited it. Big Business also provided the answers. Rome might declare herself sympathetic to a Hapsburg restoration; France might oppose it. A few months later the situation might be completely reversed. For those few members of the public who had long memories and were not sick to death of the whole incomprehensible farce there would always be many ingenious explanations of the
volte face
—many explanations, but not the correct one. For that one might have to inquire into banking transactions in London, Paris and New York with the eye of a chartered accountant, the brain of an economist, the tongue of a prosecuting attorney and the patience of Job. One would have, perhaps, to note an increase in the Hungarian bank rate, an “ear-marking” of gold in Amsterdam, and a restriction of credit facilities in the Middle-West of America. One would have to grope through the fog of technical mumbo-jumbo with which international business surrounds its operations and examine them in all their essential and ghastly simplicity. Then one would perhaps die of old age. The Big Business man was only one player in the game of international politics, but he was the player who made all the rules.
Kenton found a cigarette in his pocket and lit up. It looked as if Big Business was, in this case, interested ineither Bessarabia or Rumania. He drew at his cigarette and the end glowed in the darkness. He watched it thoughtfully. Somewhere and recently, he had heard something
aide
to secure the Sachs photographs had been emotional. Now, nearly twelve hours of sleep had left him wondering why on earth he had made such a lot of fuss. If they wanted the wretched photographs, let them have them. All that absurd fit of heroics had produced was a swollen lip and a bruised face. A nice mess he had landed himself in! The best thing he could do was to hand over the photographs as soon as possible and get back to Berlin.
He sat on the floor with his back to the wall below the shutters and considered his plight.
First and foremost, he badly needed a drink; water for preference, but anything else would do. He did not feel very hungry; but that was probably because he was so thirsty. His last meal had been off Sachs’ garlic sausage in the train. That seemed a long time ago. Sachs was now lying dead in the Hotel Josef. No, the police would have taken him away by now. He found it a little difficult to get the events of the past twenty-four hours into perspective. What curious business had he become involved in? Who had Sachs, or, rather Borovansky, been? The fact that his other name was Russian fitted in with his odd accent. It would appear, too, that he was working against the Russian Government; that was always assuming that the “Colonel” had been speaking the truth—a questionable assumption. Then there was that question of the Colonel’s “principals in London.” Who were they, and what “business” was the man transacting for them? Kenton felt that if he knew the answer to the first part of that question, the second part would be answered automatically. Principals in London who were in a position to influence newspaper proprietors sounded suspiciously like Big Business.
It was difficult, Kenton had found, to spend any length of time in the arena of foreign politics without perceiving that political ideologies had very little to do with the ebb and flow of international relations. It was the power of Business, not the deliberations of statesmen, that shaped the destinies of nations. The Foreign Ministers of the great powers might make the actual declarations of their Governments’ policies; but it was the Big Business men, the bankers and their dependents, the arms manufacturers, the oil companies, the big industrialists, who determined what those policies should be. Big Business asked the questions that it wanted to ask when and how it suited it. Big Business also provided the answers. Rome might declare herself sympathetic to a Hapsburg restoration; France might oppose it. A few months later the situation might be completely reversed. For those few members of the public who had long memories and were not sick to death of the whole incomprehensible farce there would always be many ingenious explanations of the
volte face
—many explanations, but not the correct one. For that one might have to inquire into banking transactions in London, Paris and New York with the eye of a chartered accountant, the brain of an economist, the tongue of a prosecuting attorney and the patience of Job. One would have, perhaps, to note an increase in the Hungarian bank rate, an “ear-marking” of gold in Amsterdam, and a restriction of credit facilities in the Middle-West of America. One would have to grope through the fog of technical mumbo-jumbo with which international business surrounds its operations and examine them in all their essential and ghastly simplicity. Then one would perhaps die of old age. The Big Business man was only one player in the game of international politics, but he was the player who made all the rules.
Kenton found a cigarette in his pocket and lit up. It looked as if Big Business was, in this case, interested ineither Bessarabia or Rumania. He drew at his cigarette and the end glowed in the darkness. He watched it thoughtfully. Somewhere and recently, he had heard something
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